"For that I can wait," said Qwilleran.

"The table is set in the kitchen, and we can have a compote of fresh pineapple while we keep an eye on the broiler. I was fortunate enough to find a female pineapple at the market."

The critic was wearing silk trousers and a short Oriental coat tied with a sash around his remarkably thin midriff. There was a scent of lime peel. His thong sandals slapped as he led the way down a long hall to the kitchen.

The walls of the corridor were completely covered with tapestries, scrolls, and framed pictures. Qwilleran remarked about the quantity.

"Also quality," said Mountclemens, tapping a group of drawings as he walked past them. "Rembrandt… Holbein. Very fine… Millet."

The kitchen was large, with three tall narrow windows. Bamboo blinds kept the light subdued, but Qwilleran peered through them and saw an exterior stairway — evidently a fire escape — leading down to a brick-walled patio. In the alley beyond the high wall he could see the top of a station wagon.

"Is that your car?" he asked.

"That grotesquery," said Mountclemens with an implied shudder, "belongs to the junk dealer across the alley. If I kept a car, it would have some felicity of design — a Karmann Ghia, or a Citroen. As it is, I dissipate my fortune in taxicabs."

The kitchen had a mellow clutter of antiques, copper utensils, and clumps of dried vegetation.

"I dry my own herbs," Mountclemens explained. "Do you appreciate a little mint marinated with the pineapple? I think it gives the fruit another dimension. Pineapple can be a little too direct. I grow the mint in a pot on the windowsill — chiefly for Kao K'o Kung. His idea of a choice plaything is a bouquet of dried mint leaves tied in the toe of a sock. In a moment of rare wit we have named his toy Mintie Mouse. A rather free abstraction of a mouse, but that is the sort of thing that appeals to his artistic intellect."

Mountclemens was putting individual baking dishes into the oven one at a time, using his left hand.

"Where is Koko this morning?" Qwilleran asked.

"You should be able to feel his gaze. He is watching you from the top of the refrigerator — the only down, cushioned refrigerator west of the Hudson River. It is his bed. He refuses to sleep anywhere else."

The aroma of bacon, herbs, and coffee was beginning to swirl about the kitchen, and Koko — on a blue cushion that matched his eyes — raised his nose to sniff. So did Qwilleran.

He said, "What do you do about the cat when you go to New York?"

"Ah, that is the problem," said the critic. "He requires a certain amount of attention. Would it be an imposition if I asked you to prepare his meals while I am away? I'll be gone less than a week. He takes only two meals a day, and his diet is simple. There is raw beef in the refrigerator. You merely carve it in small pieces the size of a lima bean, put it in a pan with a little broth, and warm it gently. A dash of salt and a sprinkling of sage or thyme will be appreciated."

"Well — " said Qwilleran, spooning up the last of the minted pineapple juice. "To make it easier for you in the mornings, when you are headed for the office, he could have a slice of p?t‚ de la maison for breakfast instead of beef. It makes a welcome change for him. Would you like your coffee now or later?"

"Later," said Qwilleran. "No — I'll take it now."

"And then there is the matter of his commode." "What's that?"

"His commode. You'll find it in the bathroom. It needs very little attention. He is an immaculate cat. You will find the sand for the commode in the Chinese tea chest at the foot of the bathtub. Do you take sugar or cream?"

"Black."

"If the weather is not too inclement, he can take a little exercise in the patio, provided you accompany him. Normally he gets sufficient exercise by running up and down the front stairs. I leave my apartment door ajar for his comings and goings. To be on the safe side, I shall also give you a key. Is there anything I can do for you in New York?"

Qwilleran had just experienced the first forkful of chicken livers rolled in bacon and seasoned with a touch of basil, and he rolled his eyes gratefully heavenward. In doing so, he caught the gaze of Kao K'o Kung, perched on the refrigerator. The cat slowly and deliberately closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.

"I have a complaint," Qwilleran told Arch at the Press Club on Wednesday night.

"I know what it is. Your name was spelled with a U yesterday, but we caught it in the second edition. You know what's going to happen, don't you? The next time the typographers' union meets with management, the spelling of your name is going to be one of their grievances."

"I have another beef, too. I wasn't hired to be an orderly for your art critic, but that's what he seems to think. Do you know he's leaving town tonight?"

"I guessed as much," said Arch. "That last batch of tapes included enough copy for three columns."

"First I delivered those tapes for him. And then I picked up his ticket for the three o'clock plane this after, noon. And now I'm expected to do latrine duty for his cat!"

"Wait till Odd Bunsen hears this!" "Don't tell him! Nosy Bunsen will find out soon enough in his own devious way. I'm supposed to feed the cat twice a day, change his drinking water, and attend to his commode. Do you know what a commode is?"

"I can guess."

"It was new to me. I thought cats just ran out in the backyard."

"There's nothing in the Guild contract about reporters doing toidy service," Arch said. "Why didn't you decline?"

"Mountclemens didn't give me a chance. He's a sly operator! There I was, sitting in his kitchen, mesmerized by fresh pineapple, broiled chicken livers, and eggs in sour cream. It was female pineapple, what's more. What could I do?"

"You'll have to choose between pride and gluttony, that's all. Don't you like cats?"

"Sure, I like animals, and this cat is more human than a few people I could name. But he gives me the uncomfortable feeling that he knows more than I do — and he's not telling what it is."

Arch said, "We have cats around the house all the time. The kids bring them home. But none of them ever gave me an inferiority complex."

"Your kids never brought home a Siamese."

"You can stand it for three or four days. If it gets too much for you, we'll send a copyboy with a master's degree. He should be able to cope with a Siamese."

"Knock it off. Here comes Odd Bunsen," said Qwilleran.

Even before the photographer appeared, the cigar could be detected and the voice could be heard, complaining about the frigid temperature outside.

Odd tapped Qwilleran on the shoulder. "Are those cat hairs on your lapel, or have you been dating a blonde with a crew cut?"

Qwilleran combed his moustache with a swizzle stick.

Odd said, "I'm still on nights. Any of you guys want to eat with me? I've got an hour for dinner, if nobody blows up City Hall."

"I'll eat with you," said Qwilleran. They found a table and consulted the menu. Odd ordered Salisbury steak, complimented the waitress on the trimness of her waistline, and then said to Qwilleran, "Well, have you got old Monty figured out yet? If I went around insulting everybody the way he does, I'd get fired — or assigned to Society, what's worse. How does he get away with it?"

"Critic's license. Besides, newspapers like controversial writers."

"And where does he get all his money? I hear he lives pretty well. Travels a lot. Drives an expensive car. He doesn't do that on what the Flux pays him."

"Mountclemens doesn't drive," Qwilleran said.

"Sure, he does. I've seen him behind the wheel. I saw him this morning."

"He told me he didn't have a car. He rides taxis."