"Well, now," said Qwilleran in his most soothing way, "put that episode out of your mind and relax. Wouldn't you like a more comfortable chair?"

"This is fine. I have a better command of myself when I sit up straight."

She was wearing a pale blue dress of fuzzy wool that made her look soft and fragile. Qwilleran tried not to stare at the provocative indentation just below her kneecap.

He said, "I find this a very comfortable apartment. My landlord has a knack for furnishing a place. How did you know I was staying here?"

"Oh… things get around in art circles."

"Apparently you've been to this house before."

"Mountclemens had us to dinner once or twice."

"You must know him better than most artists do."

"We've been fairly friendly. I did several studies of his cat. Did you notify him — about the —?"

"I haven't been able to find out where he stays in New York. Do you know his hotel?"

"It's near The Museum of Modem Art, but I can't remember the name." She was twisting the handle of her handbag that lay on her lap.

Qwilleran brought a plate from the kitchenette. "Would you care for some cookies?"

"No, thanks. I have to — count — calories — " Her voice trailed away.

He sensed her preoccupation and said, "Now what is it that you want to tell me?" With the other half of his mind he was taking Zoe's measurements and wondering why she worried about calories.

"I don't know how to begin."

"How about a cigarette? I'm forgetting my manners."

"I gave them up a few months ago."

"Mind if I light my pipe?"

Abruptly Zoe said, "I didn't tell the police everything."

"No?"

"It may have been wrong, but I couldn't bring myself to answer some of their questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"They asked if Earl had any enemies. How could I point a finger at someone and say he was an enemy? What would happen if I started naming people allover the city? Acquaintances… fellow club members… important people. I think that was a terrible thing to ask, don't you?"

"It was a necessary question. In fact," said Qwilleran, in a kind but firm way, "I'm going to ask you the same question. Did he have any enemies?"

"I'm afraid so. A lot of people disliked him…. Mr. Qwilleran, it's all right to talk confidentially to you, isn't it? I must confide in someone. I'm sure you're not one of those sneaky reporters who would —»

"Those characters are only in the movies," he assured her. His attitude was all sympathy and interest.

Zoe sighed heavily and began. "There's a lot of competition and jealousy in the art field. I don't know why it should be."

"That's true in all fields."

"It's worse among artists. Believe me!"

"Could you be more specific?"

"Well… the gallery directors, for example. The other galleries in town felt that Earl was luring their best artists away from them."

"Was he?"

Zoe bristled slightly. "Naturally, the artists wanted to be represented by the foremost gallery. As a result, Earl showed better work, and the Lambreth exhibitions got better reviews.

"And the jealousy increased."

Zoe nodded. "Besides, Earl often had to reject the work of second-rate artists, and that didn't win him,any friends! It made him a villain. An artist's ego is a precious thing. People like Cal Halapay and Franz Buchwalter — or Mrs. Buchwalter, to be exact — did a lot of talking about my husband at the club, and it wasn't nice. That's why Earl would never go to the Turp and Chisel."

"So far," said Qwilleran, "you've mentioned only out siders who were unfriendly. Was there anyone within the organization who didn't get along with your husband?"

Zoe hesitated. She looked apologetic. "Nobody really warmed up to him. He had an aloof manner. It was only a facade, but few people understood that."

"There's the possibility that the crime was committed by someone who had a key to the gallery or was willingly admitted to the premises."

"That's what Butchy said."

"Did anyone but you have a key?"

"N-no," said Zoe, groping in the depths of her hand, bag.

Qwilleran said, "Can I get you something?"

"Maybe I'll have a glass of water — with some ice. It's rather warm —»

He turned down the flame in the fireplace and brought Zoe a drink of ice water. "Tell me about your friend Butchy. I understand she's a sculptor."

"Yes. Welded metal," Zoe said in a bleak voice.

"You mean she uses a torch and all that? It might make a story. Lady welders are always good for some space — with a photograph of sparks flying."

Zoe nodded slowly as she considered the idea. "Yes, I wish you would write something about Butchy. It would do her a lot of good — psychologically. Not long ago she lost a $50,000 commission, and it was a damaging set, back. You see, she teaches at Penniman School, and the commission would have enhanced her prestige."

"How did she lose out?"

"Butchy was being considered to do the outdoor sculpture for a new shopping center. Then suddenly the com, mission was awarded to Ben Riggs, who shows at the Lambreth Gallery."

"Was the switch justified?"

"Oh, yes. Riggs is a much better artist. He works in clay and casts in bronze. But it was a blow to Butchy. I'd like to do something to help her. Would you write her up for the paper?"

"She's a good friend of yours?" Qwilleran was comparing the soft, attractive Zoe with the mannish character who had been guarding her on the night of the murder.

"Yes and no. We grew up together and went to art school at the same time, and Butchy was my best friend when we were both at the tomboy age. But Butchy never outgrew that stage. She was always big and husky for a girl, and she bluffed it off by acting boyish. I feel sorry for Butchy. We don't have much in common anymore — except old times."

"How did she happen to be at your house Wednesday night?"

"She was the only one I could think to call. After finding Earl and notifying the police, I was in a daze. I didn't know what to do. I needed someone, and so I called Butchy. She came right away and drove me home and said she'd stay with me for a few days. Now I can't get rid of her."

"How come?"

"She enjoys being my protector. She needs to feel needed. Butchy doesn't have many friends, and she has an annoying way of clutching at the few she has."

"What did your husband think of her?"

"He didn't like her at all. Earl wanted me to drop Butchy, but it's hard to break off with someone you've known all your life — especially when your paths are crossing all the time…. I don't know why I'm telling you these personal details. I must be boring you."

"Not at all. You're —»

"I needed to talk to someone who's disinterested and sympathetic. You're very easy to talk to. Is that typical of newspapermen?"

"We're good listeners."

"I feel much better now, thanks to you." Zoe leaned back in her chair and was silent, and a tenderness crept into her face.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache with the stem of his pipe and beamed inwardly. He said, "I'm glad I could —»

"Are you looking for material for your column?" Zoe interrupted, the radiance of her expression seeming inappropriate for the question.

"Of course, I'm always —»

"I'd like to tell you about Nino." She pronounced the name "Nine-oh."

"Who's Nino?" said Qwilleran, camouflaging a mild disappointment with a brisk tone.

"He's a Thingist. Some people call him a junk sculptor. He makes meaningful constructions out of junk and calls them Things."

"I saw them at the gallery. One was a piece of sewer pipe stuck with bicycle spokes."

Zoe gave him a luminous smile. "That's 'Thing #17. Isn't it eloquent? It affirms life while repudiating the pseudo-world around us. Weren't you gripped by its rebellious tensions?"