"All of the vandalized art depicted the female figure," said Qwilleran.

R-r-rip went the letter knife. "A nice sense of discipline," said the critic. "I begin to suspect a jealous mistress."

"Did you ever have reason to suspect Earl Lambreth of unethical business dealings?"

"My dear man," said Mountclemens, "any good art dealer has the qualifications to make an outstanding jewel thief. Earl Lambreth chose to divert his talents into more orthodox channels, but beyond that I am not in a position to say. You newspapermen are all alike. Once you get your teeth into a piece of news, you must worry it to death…. Another cup of tea?"

The critic poured from the silver teapot and then returned to the attack on his mail. "Here is an invitation that might interest you," he said. "Have you ever been unfortunate enough to attend a Happening?" He tossed a magenta-colored announcement card to Qwilleran.

"No. What's a Happening?"

"An evening of utter boredom, perpetrated by artists and inflicted on a public that is gullible enough to pay ad, mission. However, the invitation will admit you without charge, and you might find it a subject for a column. You might even be mildly amused. I advise you to wear old clothes."

The Happening had a name. It was called Heavy Heavy Hangs Over Your Head, and it was scheduled for the following evening at the Penniman School of Fine Art. Qwilleran said he would attend.

Before the newsman left Mountclemens' apartment, Koko graced the occasion with a moment of his time. The cat appeared from behind the Oriental screen, looked at Qwilleran with a casual glance, yawned widely, and left the room.

Monday morning Qwilleran telephoned the director of the Penniman School and asked permission to interview a member of the faculty. The director was pleased. In the man's manner Qwilleran recognized the ringing bells and flashing lights that always accompanied the anticipation of free publicity.

At one o'clock the newsman appeared at the school and was directed to the welding studio — a separate building at the rear, the ivy, covered carriage house of the former Penniman estate. Inside, the studio had a mean look. It bristled with the sharp edges and thorny points of welded metal sculpture; whether the pieces were finished or unfinished, Qwilleran could not tell. Everything seemed designed to puncture flesh and tear clothing. Around the walls were gas cylinders, lengths of rubber hose, and fire extinguishers.

Butchy Bolton, formidable in coveralls and ludicrous in her tightly waved hair, was sitting alone, eating lunch from a paper sack.

"Have a sandwich," she said with a gruffness that failed to conceal her pleasure at being interviewed for the paper. "Ham on rye." She cleared a space on an asbestos, topped workbench, pushing aside wrenches, clamps, pliers, and broken bricks, and she poured Qwilleran a cup of coffee strong as tar.

He ate and drank, although he had lunched well a half hour before. He knew the advantages of chewing during an interview; casual conversation replaced formal questions and answers.

They talked about their favorite restaurants and the best way to bake a ham. From there they went to diets and exercise. That led to oxyacetylene welding. While Qwilleran ate a large red apple, Butchy put on skullcap, goggles, and leather gloves and showed how to puddle a metal bar and lay an even bead.

"The first semester we're lucky if we can teach the kids not to set themselves on fire," she said.

Qwilleran said, "Why do you weld metal instead of carving wood or modeling clay?"

Butchy looked at him fiercely, and it was not clear to Qwilleran whether she was going to hit him with a welding rod or whether she was thinking of a trenchant reply. "You must have been talking to that fellow Mountclemens," she said.

"No. I'm just curious. For my own education I want to know."

Butchy kicked a workbench with one of her high-laced boots. "Off the record, it's faster and cheaper," she said. "But for the paper you can say that it's something that belongs to the twentieth century. We've discovered a new sculptor's tool. Fire!"

"I suppose it appeals mostly to men."

"Nope. Some little bitty girls take the course."

"Was Nino, the junk sculptor, one of your students?"

Butchy looked back over her shoulder as if searching for a place to spit. "He was in my class, but I couldn't teach him anything."

"I understand he's considered somewhat of a genius."

"Some people think he's a genius. I think he's a phony.

How he ever got accepted by Lambreth Gallery is hard to figure."

"Mrs. Lambreth thinks highly of his work."

Butchy exhaled loudly through her nose and said nothing.

"Did Earl Lambreth share her enthusiasm?"

"Maybe so. I don't know. Earl Lambreth was no expert. He just conned a lot of people into thinking he was an expert — if you'll pardon me for slandering the dead."

"From what I hear," said Qwilleran, "quite a few people agree with you."

"Of course they agree with me. I'm right! Earl Lambreth was a phony, like Nino. They made a great pair, trying to outphony each other." She grinned wickedly. "Of course, everybody knows how Lambreth operated."

"How do you mean?"

"No price labels. No catalog — except on big one-man shows. It was part of the so-called prestige image. If a customer liked a piece of art, Lambreth could quote any figure the traffic would bear. And when the artist got his percentage, he had no proof of the actual selling price."

"You think there was some juggling going on?"

"Of course there was. And Lambreth got away with it because most artists are fools. Nino was the only one who accused Lambreth of rooking him. It takes a phony to know a phony."

Smugly, Butchy patted the tight waves on her head. Qwilleran went back to the office and wrote a requisition to the Photo Department for a close-up of a lady welder at work. He also typed a rough draft of the interview — minus references to Lambreth and Nino — and put it aside to ripen. He felt pleased with himself. He felt he was on the trail of something. Next he would visit the art museum to check out the missing Florentine dagger, and after dinner he would attend the Happening. For a Monday, this was turning out to be an interesting day.

The art museum assaulted Qwilleran with its Monday afternoon quiet. In the lobby he picked up a catalog of the Florentine Collection and learned that most of it had been the generous gift of the Duxbury family. Percy Duxbury was museum commissioner. His wife was president of the fundraising group.

At the checkroom, where Qwilleran left his hat and coat, he asked Tom LaBlanc's girl where to find the Florentine Collection.

She pointed dreamily to the far end of the corridor. "But why do you want to waste your time there?"

"I've never seen it, that's why. Is that a good reason?" He used an amiable, bantering tone.

She looked at him through a few strands of long hair that had fallen over one eye. "There's a loan exhibit of Swedish contemporary silver that's much more stimulating."

"Okay. I'll see both."

"You won't have time. The museum closes in an hour," she said. "The Swedish stuff is real cool, and this is the last week it will be here."

For a checkroom attendant she was taking more than routine interest in directing him, Qwilleran thought, and his professional suspicion started wigwagging to him. He went to the Florentine Room.

The Duxbury gift was a hodgepodge of paintings, tapestries, bronze reliefs, marble statues, manuscripts, and small silver and gold objects in glass cases. Some were displayed behind sliding glass doors fitted with tiny, almost invisible locks; others stood on pedestals under glass domes that seemed permanently affixed.