“And how will that come about?”

I’d already thought of this. “Well, if I can figure out who did it, I suppose I could pass the word.”

“So you’re trying to learn the identity of the killer.”

“I’m just trying to get through the days one at a time,” I said, “but I’ll admit I’m keeping my eyes and ears open.”

“When you find the killer, you’ll find the painting.”

“It’s not when, it’s if. And even so, I may or may not find the painting at the same time.”

“When you do, I want it.”

“Well-”

“It’s rightfully mine. You must realize that. And I mean to have it.”

“You just expect me to hand it over to you?”

“That would be the smartest thing you could do.”

I stared at this delicate creature. “Good grief,” I said. “Was that a threat?”

She didn’t draw her eyes away, and what big eyes they were. “I would have killed Onderdonk,” she said, “to get that painting.”

“You’re really obsessed.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Listen, this may strike you as a wild idea, but have you ever thought about therapy? Obsessions just keep the focus off our real problems, you know, and if you could have the obsession lifted-”

“When I have my hands on my painting, the obsession will be lifted.”

“I see.”

“I could be a good friend to you, Mr. Rhodenbarr. Or I could be a dangerous enemy.”

“Suppose I did get the painting,” I said carefully.

“Does that mean you already have it?”

“No, it means what I just said. Suppose I get it. How do I get hold of you?”

She hesitated for a moment, then opened her bag and took out a fine-line felt-tip pen and an envelope. She held the envelope upside-down and tore off a piece of its flap, returned the rest of the envelope to her purse, and wrote a telephone number on the scrap. Then she hesitated for another beat and wrote E. Peters beneath the number.

“There,” she said, setting the slip on the counter beside the open art book. She capped her pen, put it back in her purse, and seemed about to say something when the door opened and the tinkling of bells announced a visitor.

The visitor in turn announced herself. It was Carolyn, and she said, “Hey, Bern, I got another phone call and I thought-” Then Elspeth Peters turned to face Carolyn, and the two women looked at each other for a moment, and then Elspeth Peters walked past her and on out the door.

“Don’t fall in love with her,” I told Carolyn. “She’s already in the grip of an obsession.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The way you stared at her. I figured you were falling in love, or perhaps in lust. Which is understandable, but-”

“I thought I recognized her.”

“Oh?”

“I thought for a minute she was Alison.”

“Oh,” I said. “Was she?”

“No, of course not. I’d have said hello if she was.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Why, Bern?”

“Because she said her name was Elspeth Peters, and I don’t believe her. And she’s tied into the Mondrian business.”

“So? Alison’s not, remember? Alison’s tied into me.”

“Right.”

“There’s a strong resemblance, but that’s all it is, a resemblance. How’s she tied in?”

“She thinks she’s the painting’s rightful owner.”

“Maybe she stole the cat.”

“Not that painting. Onderdonk’s painting.”

“Oh,” she said. “There’s too many paintings, you know that?”

“There’s too much of everything. You just had a phone call, you started to say. From the Nazi?”

“Right.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been Peters. She was here with me.”

“Right.”

“What did she want?”

“Well, she sort of put my mind at rest,” Carolyn said. “She said the cat was alive and well and nothing bad would happen to him as long as I cooperated. She said I didn’t have to worry about them cutting off an ear or a foot or anything, that the bit with the whiskers was to show they meant business but they wouldn’t hurt him or anything. And she said she knew the painting was going to be difficult to get but she was sure we could do it if we put our minds to it.”

“It sounds as though she was trying to comfort you.”

“Well, it worked, Bern. I feel a lot better about the cat. I still don’t know if I’m ever gonna see him again, but I’m not crazy the way I was. Talking with Alison about it last night helped a lot, and now the phone call. Just so I know nothing terrible’s gonna happen to the cat-”

I barely heard the door, but I did look up and see him, and as he approached I sshhhed Carolyn, and she broke off in the middle of a sentence and turned to see why I was interrupting her.

“Shit,” she said. “Hello, Ray.”

“Hello, yourself,” said the best cop money can buy. “You know, you find out who your friends are in this business. Here’s a couple of people I know for years, and all I gotta do is walk in the room and one says sshhh and the other says shit. What’s gonna happen to the cat, Carolyn?”

“Nothing,” she said. Years ago she’d heard somewhere that the best defense is a good offense, and she’d never forgotten it. “The real question is what’s gonna happen to Bernie if his so-called old friends keep arresting him every time he turns around. You ever hear of police harassment, Ray?”

“Just be grateful I never heard of police brutality, Carolyn. Whyntcha take a hike, huh? Stretch your legs. They could use it.”

“If you’re gonna do short jokes, Ray, I’ll do asshole jokes, and where’ll that leave you?”

“Jesus, Bern,” he said. “Can’t you get her to act like a lady?”

“I’ve been working at it. What do you want, Ray?”

“About three minutes of conversation. Private conversation. If she wants to stick around, I suppose we could go in your back room.”

“No, I’ll go,” Carolyn said. “I gotta use the bathroom anyway.”

“Now that you mention it, so do I. No, you go ahead, Carolyn. Bernie an’ I’ll talk, so you take your time in there.” He waited until she had left the room, then laid a hand on the art book that Elspeth Peters had left on my counter. It was closed now, no longer open to the Mondrian reproduction. “Pictures,” he said. “Right?”

“Very good, Ray.”

“Like the one you lifted from Onderdonk’s place?”

“What are you talking about?”

“A guy named Mondrian,” he said, except he pronounced it Moon-drain. “Used to hang over the fireplace and covered by $350,000 insurance.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“It is, isn’t it? Far as they can tell so far, that’s the only thing that was stolen. Pretty good-sized paintin’, white background, black lines crisscrossin’, a little color here an’ there.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“Oh? No kiddin’.”

“When I appraised his library. It was hanging over the fireplace.” I thought for a moment. “I think he said something about sending it out for framing.”

“Yeah, it needed a new frame.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ll tell you how it is, Bernie. The picture frame from the Moondrain was in the closet with Onderdonk’s body, all broken into pieces. There was the aluminum frame, pulled apart, and there was what they call the stretcher that the canvas is attached to, except it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t? It wasn’t what?”

“Attached. Somebody cut the paintin’ off the stretcher, but there was enough left so that a guy from the insurance company only had to take one look to know it was the Moondrain. To me it didn’t look like much. Just about an inch-wide strip of canvas all the way around, white with black dashes here and there like Morse code, and I think one strip of red. My guess is you rolled it and wore it out of the buildin’ under your clothes.”

“I never touched it.”

“Uh-huh. You musta been in some kind of rush to cut it out of the frame instead of takin’ the time to unfasten the staples. That way you coulda got the whole canvas. I don’t figure you killed him, Bern. I been thinkin’ about that, and I don’t think you did it.”