"Some people think he's a highly qualified authority."

"Some people think down is up." Then Bruno smiled wisely. "Just wait till he starts gunning for you, Mr. Qwilleran. As soon as Mountclemens finds out you're snooping around on his beat — " The bartender pulled an imaginary trigger.

"You seem to know a lot about the art situation here in town."

"Sure. I'm an artist myself. I do collage. I'd like you to look at it sometime and give me a critical opinion."

"I've just had this job two days," Qwilleran told him. "I don't even know what collage is."

Bruno gave him a patronizing smile. "It's a form of art. I soak labels off whiskey bottles, cut them in little pieces, and paste them up to make presidential portraits. I'm working on Van Buren now. It would make a terrific one-man show." His expression changed to a chummy one.

"Maybe you could help me line up a gallery. Do you think you could, like, pull a few strings?"

Qwilleran said, "I don't know if there's much acceptance for presidential portraits made out of whiskey labels, but I'll ask around Now how about the usual — on the rocks?"

"One of these days," said the bartender, "you'll get hives from all this tomato juice."

When Arch Riker arrived at the bar, he found the art writer chewing his moustache. Arch said, "How did everything go this morning?"

"Fine," said Qwilleran. "At first I was slightly confused about the difference between good art and bad art, but now I'm completely confused." He took a swallow of tomato juice. "However, I've reached a conclusion about George Bonifield Mountclemens III."

"Let's have it."

"He's a fake."

"What do you mean?"

"He doesn't exist. He's a legend, an invention, a concept, a corporation, a gleam in the publisher's eye."

Arch said, "Who do you think writes all that copy we print under his sesquipedalian byline?"

"A committee of ghost writers. A committee of three. Probably a Mr. George, a Mr. Bonifield, and a Mr. Mountclemens. No one man could cause so much trouble, or be so hated, or have such an ambiguous image."

"You just don't know about critics, that's all. You're used to cops and robbers."

"I have an alternate theory, if you don't buy my first one."

"What's that?"

"It's a phenomenon of the electronics age. The art column is turned out by a battery of computers in Rochester, New York."

"What did Bruno put in your tomato juice?" Arch said.

"Well, I'm telling you one thing: I won't believe George Bonifield Mountclemens until I see him."

"All right. How about tomorrow or Wednesday? He's been out of town, but he's back now. We'll line up an appointment for you."

"Let's make it for lunch — here. We can eat upstairs — off a tablecloth."

Arch shook his head. "He won't come to the Press Club. He never comes downtown. You'll probably have to go to his apartment."

"Okay, line it up," said Qwilleran, "and maybe I'll take Bruno's advice and rent a bulletproof vest."

Qwilleran spent Tuesday morning at the Board of Education Building, viewing an exhibition of school children's art. He hoped to write something tenderly humorous about the crayoned sailboats floating in the sky, the purple houses with green chimneys, the blue horses that looked like sheep, and the cats-cats- cats.

After his venture into the uncomplicated world of juvenile art, Qwilleran returned to the office in a state of contented detachment. His arrival in the Feature Department caused an unnatural silence. Typewriters stopped chattering. Heads that had been bent over proofs were suddenly raised. Even the green telephones were respectfully quiet.

Arch said, "We've got news for you, Jim. We called Mountclemens to make an appointment for you, and he wants you to go tomorrow night. To dinner!"

"Huh?"

"Aren't you going to faint? The rest of the department did."

"I can see the headline now," said Qwilleran. "Critic Poisons Reporter's Soup."

"He's supposed to be a great cook," Arch said. "A real gourmet. If you're lucky, he'll postpone the arsenic until dessert. Here's his address."

At six o'clock Wednesday night Qwilleran took a cab to 26 Blenheim Place. The address was in an old section of town, once a fashionable neighborhood of stately homes. Most of them had become cheap rooming houses or quarters for odd business enterprises. There was a mender of antique porcelain, for example; Qwilleran guessed he was a bookie. Next door was an old coin shop, probably a front for a dope ring. As for the

manufacturer of burlesque costumes, there was no doubt in Qwilleran's mind as to the real nature of that establishment.

In the midst of it all, one proud and plucky town house was making a last stand. It had a respectable residential air. It was tall for its width and primly Victorian, even to the ornamental iron fence. This was No. 26.

Qwilleran dodged a pair of neighborhood drunks careening down the sidewalk and walked up the stone steps to the small portico, where three mailboxes indicated the building had been made into apartments.

He smoothed his moustache, which was lively with curiosity and anticipation, and rang the bell. A buzzer unlocked the front door, and he walked into a tile- floored vestibule. Before him was another door, also locked — until a buzzer of another tone released it.

Qwilleran stepped into a palatial but dimly lighted entrance hall that enveloped him with its furnishings. He was aware of large gilt picture frames, mirrors, statuary, a table supported by gold lions, a carved bench like a church pew. Red carpet covered the hall floor and the stairway, and from the top of the flight came a voice with a finely honed edge:

"Come right up, Mr. Qwilleran."

The man at the top of the stairs was excessively tall and elegantly slender. Mountclemens wore a dark red velvet jacket, and his face impressed the newsman as poetic; perhaps it was the way the thin hair was combed down on the high forehead. A fragrance of lime peel surrounded him.

"Apologies for the moat-and-drawbridge arrangement downstairs," said the critic. "In this neighborhood one takes no chances."

He gave Qwilleran a left-handed handshake and ushered him into a living room unlike anything the newsman had ever seen. It was crowded and shadowy. The only illumination came from a flagging blaze in the fireplace and from hidden spotlights beamed on works of art.

Qwilleran's eye itemized marble busts, Chinese vases, many gilded picture frames, a bronze warrior, and some crumbling wood carvings of angels. One wall of the high-ceilinged room was covered with a tapestry having life, size figures of medieval damsels. Over the fireplace was a painting that any moviegoer would recognize as a Van Gogh.

"You seem impressed by my little collection, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, "or appalled by my eclectic taste…. Here, let me take your coat."

"It's a pocket-size museum," said Qwilleran in awe.

"It is my life, Mr. Qwilleran. And I admit — quite without modesty — that it succeeds in having a certain ambiance."

Hardly an inch of dark red wall remained uncovered. The fireplace was flanked by well-stocked bookshelves. Other walls were stacked to the ceiling with paintings.

Even the red carpet, which had a luminosity of its own, was crowded — with oversize chairs, tables, pedestals, a desk, and a lighted cabinet filled with small carvings.

"Let me pour you an aperitif," said Mountclemens, "and then you can collapse into an easy chair and prop your feet up. I avoid serving anything stronger than sherry or Dubonnet before dinner, because I am rather proud of my culinary skill, and I prefer not to paralyze your taste buds."

"I can't have alcohol," said Qwilleran, "so my taste buds are always in first-class condition."