On Zwinger Street a hostile sun had penetrated the winter haze — not to warm the hearts and frozen nosetips of Junktown residents, but to convert the lovely snow into a greasy slush for the skidding of cars and splashing of pedestrians, and Qwilleran's mind went to Koko and Yum Yum — lucky cats, asleep on their cushions, warm and well-fed, with no weather to weather, no deadlines to meet, no decisions to make. It had been a long time since he had consulted Koko, and now he decided to give it a try.

There was a game they played with the unabridged dictionary. The cat dug his claws into the book, and Qwilleran opened to the page indicated, where the catchwords at the top of the columns usually offered some useful clue.

Incredible? Yes. But it had worked in the past. A few months before, Qwilleran had been credited with finding a stolen jade collection, but the credit belonged chiefly to Koko and Noah Webster. Perhaps the time had come to play the game again.

He went home and unlocked his apartment door, but neither cat was anywhere in sight. Someone had been in the apartment, though. Qwilleran noticed a slight rearrangement and the addition of several useless gimcracks. The brass candlesticks on the mantel, which he liked, had gone, and in their place stood a pottery pig with a surly sneer.

He called the cats by name and got no answer. He searched the apartment, opening all doors and drawers. He got down on his knees at the fireplace and looked up the chimney. It was an unlikely possibility, but one could never tell about cats!

While he was posed on all fours with his head in the fireplace and his neck twisted in an awkward position, Qwilleran sensed movement in the room behind him. He withdrew his head just in time to see the missing pair walk nonchalantly across the carpet, Koko a few paces ahead of Yum Yum as usual. They had come from nowhere, as cats have a way of doing, holding aloft their exclamatory tails. This unpredictable pair could walk on little cat feet, silent as fog, or they could thump across the floor like clodhoppers.

"You rascals!" Qwilleran said.

"Yow?" said Koko with an interrogative inflection that seemed to imply, "Were you calling us? What's for lunch?" "I searched allover! Where the devil were you hiding?" They had come, it seemed, from the direction of the bathroom. They were blinking. Their eyes were intensely blue. And Yum Yum was carrying a toothbrush in her tiny V-shaped jaws. She dropped it in front of him.

"Good girl! Where did you find it?" She looked at him with eyes bright, crossed, and uncomprehending.

"Did you find it under the tub, sweetheart?" Yum Yum sat down and looked pleased with herself, and Qwilleran stroked her tiny head without noticing the far- away expression in Koko's slanted eyes.

"Come on, Koko, old boy!" he said. "Let's play the game." He slapped the cover of the dictionary — the starting signal — and Koko hopped on the big book and industriously sharpened his claws on its tattered binding. Then he hopped down and went to the window to watch pigeons.

"The game! Remember the game? Play the game!" Qwilleran urged, opening the book and demonstrating the procedure with his fingernails. Koko ignored the invitation; he was too busy observing the action outdoors.

The newsman grabbed him about the middle and placed him on the open pages. "Now dig, you little monkey!" But Koko stood there with his back rigidly arched and gave Qwilleran a look that could only be described as insulting.

"All right, skip it!" the man said with disappointment. "You're not the cat you used to be. Go back to your lousy pigeons," and Koko returned his attention to the yard below where Ben Nicholas was scattering crusts of bread.

Qwilleran left the apartment to continue his rounds, and as he went downstairs, Iris Cobb came flying out of the Junkery.

"Are you having fun in Junktown?" she asked gaily. "I'm unearthing some interesting information," he replied, "and I'm beginning to wonder why the police never investigated Andy's death. Didn't the detectives ever come around asking questions?" She was shaking her head vaguely when a man's gruff voice from within the shop shouted, "I'll tell you why they didn't. Junktown's a slum, and who cares what happens in a slum?" Mrs. Cobb explained in a low voice, "My husband is rabid on the subject. He's always feuding with City Hall. Of course, he's probably right. The police would be glad to label it an accident and close the case. They can't be bothered with Junktown." Then her expression perked up; she had the face of a woman who relishes gossip. "Why were you asking about the detectives! Do you have any suspicions?" "Nothing definite, but it was almost too freakish to dismiss as an accident." "Maybe you're right. Maybe there was something going on that nobody knows about." She shivered. "The idea gives me goosebumps…. By the way, I sold the brass candlesticks from your apartment, but I've given you a Sussex pig — very rare. The head comes off, and you can drink out of it." "Thanks," said Qwilleran.

He started down the front steps and halted abruptly. That toothbrush that Yum Yum had brought him! It had a blue handle, and the handle of his old toothbrush, he seemed to recall, was green…. Or was it?

9

Qwilleran walked to The Blue Dragon with a long stride, remembering the vulnerable Mary of the night before, but he was greeted by another Mary — the original one — aloof and inscrutable in her Japanese kimono. She was alone in the shop. She sat in her carved teakwood chair, as tall and straight as the wisp of smoke ascending from her cigarette.

"I got your message," he said, somewhat dismayed at the chilly reception. "You did say you wanted to see me, didn't you?" "Yes. I am very much disturbed." She laid down the long cigarette holder and faced him formally.

"What's the trouble?" "I used poor judgment last night. I am afraid," she said in her precise way, "that I talked too much." "You were delightful company. I enjoyed every minute." "That's not what I mean. I should never have revealed my family situation." "You have nothing to be afraid of. I gave you my word." "I should have remembered the trick your Jack Jaunti played on my father, but unfortunately the Scotch I was drinking — " "You were completely relaxed. It was good for you. Believe me, I would never take advantage of your confidence." Mary Duckworth gave him a penetrating look. There was something about the man's moustache that convinced people of his sincerity. Other moustaches might be villainous or supercilious or pathetic, but the outcropping on Qwilleran's upper lip inspired trust.

Mary took a deep breath and softened slightly. "I believe you. Against my will I believe you. It's merely that — " "Now may I sit down?" "I'm sorry. How rude of me. Please make yourself comfortable. May I offer you a cup of coffee?" "No, thanks. I've just had soup at The Three Weird Sisters." "Clam chowder, I suppose," said Mary with a slight curl of the lip. "Their shop always reminds me of a fish market." "It was very good chowder." "Canned, of course." Qwilleran sensed rivalry and was inwardly pleased. "Any bad dreams last night?" he asked.

"No. For the first time in months I was able to sleep well. You were quite right. I needed to talk to someone." She paused and looked in his eyes warmly, and her words i were heartfelt. "I'm grateful, Qwill." "Now that you're feeling better," he said, "would you do something for me? Just to satisfy my curiosity?" "What do you want?" She was momentarily wary.

"Would you give me a few more details about the night of the accident? It's not morbid interest, I assure you.

Purely intellectual curiosity." She bit her lip. "What else can I tell you? I've given you the whole story." "Would you draw me a diagram of the room where you discovered the body?" He handed her a ball-point pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket — the folded sheet of newsprint that was his standard equipment. Then he knocked his pipe on an ashtray and went through the process of filling and lighting.