"To tell you the truth… no," said Qwilleran, a trifle peevishly. "It looked like a piece of sewer pipe and some bicycle spokes."

Zoe gave him a sweet look in which reproach mingled with pity. "Your eye isn't tuned to contemporary expression as yet, but you'll develop appreciation in time."

Qwilleran squirmed and scowled down at his moustache.

Enthusiastically Zoe went on. "Nino is my prot‚g‚, more or less. I discovered him. This city has some talented artists, but I can honestly say that Nino has more than talent. He has genius. You should visit his studio." She leaned forward eagerly. "Would you like to meet Nino? I'm sure he'd make good material for a story."

"What's his full name?"

"Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Three," she said. "Or maybe it's Five. I can never remember the last digit. We call him Nino for short."

"You mean he has a number instead of a name?"

"Nino is a disaffiliate," she explained. "He doesn't subscribe to the conventions of ordinary society."

"He wears a beard, of course."

"Yes, he does. How did you know? He even speaks a language of his own, but we don't expect conformity of a genius, do we? Using a number instead of a name is part of his Protest. I think only his mother and the Social Security people know his real name."

Qwilleran stared at her. "Where does this character hang out?"

"He lives and works in an alley garage at Twelfth and Somers, behind an iron foundry. His studio may shock you."

"I don't think I shock easily."

"I mean you may be disturbed by his collection of Found Objects."

"Junk?"

"It isn't all junk. He has a few very fine things. Heaven knows where he gets them. But mostly it's junk — beautiful junk. Nino's talent for alley-picking amounts to a divine gift. If you go to see him, try to understand the nature of his artistic vision. He sees beauty where others see only trash and filth."

Qwilleran studied Zoe with fascination — her quiet animation, her obvious conviction. He didn't understand what she was talking about, but he enjoyed being under her spell.

"I think you'll like Nino," she went on. "He is elemental and real — and sad, in a way. Or perhaps you and I are the sad ones, conducting ourselves according to a prescribed pattern. It's like following the steps of a dance composed by a dictatorial dancing master. The dance of life should be created from moment to moment with individuality and spontaneity."

Qwilleran roused himself from a rapt stare and said, "May I ask you a personal question? Why do you paint such incomprehensible things when you have the ability to make real pictures of real things?"

Zoe gazed at him sweetly again. "You are so na‹ve, Mr. Qwilleran, but you are honest, and that is refreshing. Real pictures of real things can be done by a camera. I paint in the exploratory spirit of today. We don't have all the answers and we know it. Sometimes I'm bewildered by my own creations, but they are my artistic response to life as I see it today. True art is always an expression of its time."

"I see." He wanted to be convinced, but he wasn't sure that Zoe had succeeded.

"Someday we must discuss this subject at great length." There was an unaccountable yearning in her expression.

"I'd enjoy that," he said softly.

A self-conscious silence loomed between them. Qwilleran breached it by offering her a cigarette.

"I've given them up," she reminded him.

"Cookie? They're chocolate chip."

"No, thanks." She sighed.

He pointed to the Monet over the fireplace. "What do you think of that? It came with the apartment."

"If it were a good one, Mountclemens wouldn't squander it on a tenant," she said with an abrupt edge to her voice, and her quick change of mood astonished Qwilleran.

"But it has a nice frame," he said. "Who makes the frames at the Lambreth Gallery?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. People have remarked about their fine workmanship." It was a lie but the kina of lie that always elicited confidences.

"Oh… Well, I might as well tell you. It was Earl. He made all the frames himself, although he never wanted it known. It would have destroyed the prestige image of the gallery."

"He was a hard worker — making frames, keeping the books, tending shop."

"Yes. The last time I saw him alive he was complaining about the work load."

"Why didn't he hire help?"

Zoe shrugged and shook her head.

It was an unsatisfactory answer, but Qwilleran let it pass. He said, "Have you remembered anything that might help the investigation? Anything your husband said when you were there before five-thirty?"

"Nothing of any importance. Earl showed me some graphics that — had just come in, and I told him — " She stopped abruptly. "Yes, there was a phone call —»

"Anything unusual about that?"

"I wasn't listening particularly, but there was something Earl said — now I can remember it — that doesn't make sense. It was about the station wagon."

"Did your husband have a wagon?"

"Every dealer has to have one. I hate them."

"What did he say about the wagon?"

"I wasn't paying too much attention, but I heard something about putting paintings in the station wagon for delivery. Earl said the wagon was in the alley; in fact, he repeated it rather emphatically. That's why it comes to mind…. I didn't think of it at the time, but now it seems strange."

"Why does it strike you as strange?"

"Our car was at the repair shop, having a tune-up. It's still there. I never picked it up. Earl had dropped it off at the.garage that morning. And yet he was insisting — on the telephone — that it was in the alley, as if the other party was giving him an argument."

"Do you know who was on the line?" Qwilleran asked.

"No. It sounded like long distance. You know how people shout when it's long distance. Even when it's a perfectly good connection they think they have to pitch their voices higher."

"Maybe your husband was telling a little white lie — for business reasons.

"I don't know."

"Or maybe he was referring to some other dealer's station wagon."

"I really don't know."

"You didn't see anything parked in the alley?"

"No. I went in the front door and left the same way. And when I went back at seven o'clock, there was no car of any kind in the alley. Do you think the phone call has any bearing on what happened?"

"It wouldn't hurt to tell the police about it. Try to remember as much as you can." Zoe lapsed into a reverie.

"By the way," Qwilleran said, "does Mountclemens have a car?"

"No," she murmured.

Qwilleran took a long time to refill his pipe, tapping it noisily on the ashtray. As if in answer to his signal, there was a prolonged, desolate wail outside the apartment door.

"That's Koko," said Qwilleran. "He objects to being excluded. Mind if he comes in?"

"Oh, I adore Kao K'o Kung!"

Qwilleran opened the door, and the cat — after his usual reconnaissance — walked in, his tail moving from side to side in graceful arabesques. He had been sleeping and had not yet limbered his muscles. Now he arched his back in a taut curve, after which he extended two forward legs in a luxurious stretch. He concluded by making a long leg to the rear.

Zoe said, "He limbers up like a dancer."

"You want to see him dance?" said Qwilleran. He folded a piece of paper and tied it to a string. In anticipation Koko took a few small steps to the left and a few to the right, then rose on his hind feet as the bauble started to swing. He was all grace and rhythm, dancing on his pointes, leaping, executing incredible acrobatic feats in midair, landing lightly, and leaping again, higher than before.

Zoe said, "I've never seen him perform like that. Such elevation! He's a real Nijinsky."

"Mountclemens stresses intellectual pursuits," Qwilleran said, "and this cat has spent too much time on the bookshelves. I hope to broaden his range of interests. He needs more athletics."