When the door opened, the trousered woman who stood there — arms folded belligerently, feet planted solidly on the threshold — looked familiar to Qwilleran. She was tall and husky. Her soft face was set in a stem expression.

"Yes?" she said defiantly.

"I'm a friend of Mrs. Lambreth," said Qwilleran. "I wonder if I could see her and offer my assistance. Jim Qwilleran's the name. This is Mr. Bunsen."

"You're from the paper. She's not going to see any reporters tonight."

"This isn't an official visit. We were on our way home and thought there might be something we could do. Aren't you Miss Bolton?"

Inside the house a low, tired voice called, "Who is it, Butchy?"

"Qwilleran and another man from the Fluxion."

"It's all right. Ask them in."

The newsmen stepped into a room furnished in stark contemporary style. The furnishings were few, but fine, and there — leaning against a doorjamb — was Zoe Lambreth wearing purple silk trousers and a lavender blouse and looking gaunt and bewildered.

Butchy said, "She should be lying down and resting."

Zoe said, "I'm all right. I'm too keyed up to do any resting."

"She wouldn't take a sedative."

"Will you gentlemen sit down?" Zoe said.

Qwilleran's face reflected the sympathetic understanding for which he was famous. Even his moustache contributed to the expression of grave concern. He said, "I don't need to tell you my feelings. Even though our acquaintance was short, I feel a personal loss."

"It's terrible. Just terrible." Zoe sat on the extreme edge of the sofa, with her hands folded on her knees.

"I visited the gallery last week, as you suggested."

"I know. Earl told me."

"It's impossible to imagine what a shock this must have been."

Butchy interrupted. "I don't think she should be talking about it."

"Butchy, I've got to talk about it," said Zoe, "or I'll go crazy." She looked at Qwilleran with the full brown eyes that he remembered so well from their first meeting, and now they reminded him of the eyes in Zoe's own paintings at the gallery.

He said, "Was it your custom to go to the gallery after it was closed?"

"Quite the contrary. I seldom went there at any time. It looks unprofessional for an artist to hang around the gallery that handles her work. Especially in our case — husband and wife. It would look too folksy!"

"The gallery impressed me as very sophisticated," Qwilleran said. "Very suitable for the financial district."

Butchy said, with a frank show of pride, "That was Zoe's idea."

"Mrs. Lambreth, what caused you to go to the gallery tonight?"

"I was there twice. The first time was just before closing time. I had been shopping all afternoon and stopped in to see if Earl wanted to stay downtown for dinner. He said he couldn't leave until seven o'clock or later."

"What time was it when you were talking to him?"

"The front door was still open, so it must have been before five-thirty."

"Did he explain why he couldn't leave the gallery?"

"He had to work on the books — for a tax deadline or something — so I went home. But I was tired and didn't feel like cooking."

Butchy said, "She's been working night and day, getting ready for a one-man show."

"So I decided to have a bath and change clothes," Zoe went on, "and go back downtown at seven o'clock and drag Earl away from his books."

"Did you telephone him to say you were returning to the gallery?"

"I think so. Or maybe I didn't. I can't remember. I thought about phoning, but in the rush of getting dressed, I don't know whether I called or not…. You know how it is. You do things automatically — without thinking. Sometimes I can't remember whether I've brushed my teeth, and I have to look at the toothbrush to see if it's wet.

"When did you arrive at the gallery the second time?"

"Just about seven o'clock, I think. Earl had taken the car in for repairs, so I called a taxi and had the driver take me to the alley entrance of the gallery. I have a key for the back door — just in case of emergency."

"It was locked?"

"That's another thing I don't remember. It should have been locked. I put my key in the lock and turned the door handle without thinking much about it. The door opened, and I went in."

"Did you notice anything amiss on the ground floor?"

"No. The lights were out. I went right up the spiral staircase. As soon as I walked into the workroom, I sensed something wrong. It was deadly quiet. I was almost afraid to go into the office." She was remembering it painfully. "But I did. First I saw — papers and everything allover the floor. And then — " She put her face in her hands, and there was silence in the room.

After a while Qwilleran said gently, "Would you like me to notify Mountclemens in New York? I know he thought highly of you both."

"If you wish."

"Have the funeral plans been made?"

Butchy said, "There won't be a funeral. Zoe doesn't approve of funerals."

Qwilleran stood up. "We'll be going now, but please let me know — Mrs. Lambreth — if there's anything I can do. Sometimes it helps just to talk."

Butchy said, "I'm here. I'm looking after her." Qwilleran thought the woman sounded possessive. He said, "Just one more thing, Mrs. Lambreth. Do you have a good photograph of your husband?"

"No. Just a portrait I painted last year. It's in my studio. Butchy will show you. I think I'll go upstairs."

She walked from the room without further ceremony, and Butchy led the newsmen to the studio at the rear of the house.

There on the wall was Earl Lambreth — cold, haughty, supercilious-painted without love.

"Perfect likeness," said Butchy with pride. "She really captured his personality."

Almost inaudible was the click of Odd Bunsen's camera.

When Qwilleran and Odd Bunsen drove away from the Lambreth house, they shivered in silence until the heater in Odd's car gave out the first promising puff.

Then Odd said, "The Lambreths seem to be doing all right at that art racket. Wish I could live like that. I'll bet that sofa was worth a thousand bucks. Who was that big bruiser?"

"Butchy Bolton. Teaches sculpture at Penniman School of Fine Art."

"She really thought she was running the show. Enjoying it, too."

Qwilleran agreed. "Butchy didn't strike me as being exactly grief-stricken over the loss of Earl Lambreth. I wonder where she fits into the picture. Friend of the family, I suppose."

"If you ask me," said Odd, "I don't think that doll Zoe was taking it too hard, either."

"She's a calm, intelligent woman," Qwilleran. said, "even if she is a doll. She's not the type to collapse."

"If my wife ever finds me lying in a pool of blood, I want her to collapse and collapse good! I don't want her running home and fixing her lipstick and putting on a sharp outfit to receive callers. Imagine a dame not remembering whether she telephoned her husband or not, and not remembering whether the gallery door was locked!"

"It was the shock. It leaves blanks in the memory. She'll remember tomorrow — or the next day. What did you think of the portrait she painted of her husband?"

"Perfect! He's a cold fish. I couldn't have taken a photograph that was any better."

Qwilleran said, "I used to think these modern artists painted drips and blots because they couldn't draw, but now I'm not so sure. Zoe is really talented."

"If she's so talented, why does she waste her time painting that modern garbage?"

"Probably because it sells. By the way, I'd like to meet out police reporter."

"Lodge Kendall? Haven't you met him yet? He's over at the Press Club just about every day for lunch."

"I'd like to have a talk with him."

"Want me to line it up for tomorrow?" Odd said.