Qwilleran ran his finger down the catalog page and found the item that interested him: a gold dagger, eight inches long, elaborately chased, sixteenth century, attributed to Benvenuto Cellini. In the glass cases — among the salt cellars and chalices and religious statues — it was not to be seen.

Qwilleran went to the director's office and asked for Mr. Farhar. A middle-aged secretary with a timid manner told him that Mr. Farhar was out. Could Mr. Smith be of assistance? Mr. Smith was chief curator.

Smith was sitting at a table covered with small jade objects, one of which he was putting under a magnifying glass. He was a handsome dark-haired man with a sallow skin and eyes that were green like the jade. Qwilleran remembered him as Humbert Humbert, Lolita's escort at the Valentine Ball. The man had a slyness in his eyes, and it was easy to suspect that he might be misbehaving in some unspeakable way. Furthermore, his first name was John: anyone called John Smith would arouse doubts in the most trusting nature.

Qwilleran said to him, "I understand there is a valuable item missing from the Florentine Room."

"Where did you hear that?"

"It was a tip that came to the paper. I don't know its source."

"The rumor is unfounded. I'm sorry you've wasted a trip. If you're looking for story material, however, you could write about this private collection of jade that has just been given to the museum by one of our commissioners."

"Thank you. I'll be glad to do that," said Qwilleran, "but at some future date. Today I'm interested in Florentine art. I'm looking particularly for a chased gold dagger attributed to Cellini, and I can't seem to find it."

Smith made a deprecating gesture. "The catalog is overly optimistic. Very little of Cellini's work has come down to us, but the Duxburys like to think they bought a Cellini, and so we humor them."

"It's the dagger itself I want to see, regardless of who made it," said Qwilleran. "Would you be good enough to come with me and point it out?"

The curator leaned back in his chair and threw his arms up. "All right. Have it your way. The dagger is temporarily misplaced, but we don't want any publicity on it. It might touch off a wave of thefts. Such things happen, you know." He had not offered the newsman a chair.

"How much is it worth?"

"We prefer not to state."

"This is a city museum," said Qwilleran, "and the public has a right to be told about this. It might lead to its recovery. Have you notified the police?"

"If we notified the police and called the newspapers every time some small object happened to be misplaced, we would be a major nuisance."

"When did you first notice it was missing?"

Smith hesitated. "It was reported by one of the guards a week ago."

"And you've done nothing about it?"

"A routine report was placed on Mr. Farhar's desk, but — as you know — he is leaving us and has many other things on his mind."

"What time of day did the guard notice its absence?"

"In the morning when he made his first inventory check."

"How often does he check?"

"Several times a day."

"And was the dagger in the case when he made the previous check?"

"Yes."

"When was that?"

"The evening before, at closing time."

"So it disappeared during the night."

"It would seem so." John Smith was being tight-lipped and reluctant.

"Was there any evidence that someone had broken into the museum or had been locked up in the place all night?"

"None."

Qwilleran was warming up. "In other words, it could have been an inside job. How was it removed from the case? Was the case broken?"

"No. The vitrine had been properly removed and replaced."

"What's a vitrine?"

"The glass dome that protects the objects on a pedestal."

"There were other objects under the same dome, were there?"

"Yes."

"But they were not touched."

"That's right."

"How do you remove one of those domes? I looked at them, and I couldn't figure it out."

"It fits down over the pedestal, secured by a molding attached with concealed screws."

"In other words," said Qwilleran, "you'd have to know the trick in order to get the thing apart. The dagger must have been taken by somebody in the know — after hours, when the museum was closed. Wouldn't you say it looks like an inside job?"

"I dislike your reference to an inside job, Mr. Qwilleran," said the curator. "You newspapermen can be extremely obnoxious, as this museum has discovered — to its sorrow. I forbid you to print anything about this incident without permission from Mr. Farhar."

"You don't tell a newspaper what to print and what not to print," said Qwilleran, keeping his temper in check.

"If this item appears," Smith said, "we will have to conclude that the Daily Fluxion is an irresponsible, sensational press. First, you may be spreading a false alarm. Second, you may encourage an epidemic of thefts. Third, you may impede the recovery of the dagger if it has actually been stolen."

"I'll leave that up to my editor," said Qwilleran. "By the way, do you move up the ladder when Farhar leaves?"

"His successor has not yet been announced," Smith said, and his sallow skin turned the color of parchment.

Qwilleran went to dinner at the Artist and Model, a snug cellar hideaway favored by the culture crowd. The background music was classical, the menu was French, and the walls were hung with works of art. They were totally unviewable in the cultivated gloom of the basement, and even the food — small portions served on brown earthenware — was difficult for the fork to find.

It was an atmosphere for conversation and handholding, rather than eating, and Qwilleran allowed himself a moment of self-pity when he realized he was the only one dining alone. He thought, Better to be at home sharing a slice of meat loaf with Koko and having a fast game of Sparrow. Then he remembered dolefully that Koko had deserted him.

He ordered ragout de boeuf Bordelaise and entertained himself by brooding over the golden dagger. The Smith person had been furtive. He had admittedly lied at the beginning of the interview. Even the girl in the check, room had tried to deter Qwilleran from visiting the Florentine Room. Who was covering up for whom?

If the dagger had been stolen, why had the thief selected this particular memento of Renaissance Italy? Why steal a weapon? Why not a goblet or bowl? It was hardly the kind of trinket that a petty thief could peddle for a meal ticket, and professional jewel thieves — big operators — would have made a bigger haul. Someone had coveted that dagger, Qwilleran told himself, because it was gold, or because it was beautiful.

It was a poetic thought, and Qwilleran blamed it on the romantic mood of the restaurant. Then he let his thoughts drift pleasantly to Zoe. He wondered how long it would be before he could conventionally invite her out to dinner. A widow who didn't believe in funerals and who wore purple silk trousers as mourning attire apparently did not cling to convention.

All around him couples were chattering and laughing. Repeatedly one female voice rose in a trill of laughter.

There was no doubt about that voice. It belonged to Sandy Halapay. She had evidently found a dinner date to amuse her while her husband was in Denmark.

When Qwilleran left the restaurant, he stole a glance at Sandy's table and at the dark head bending toward her. It was John Smith.

Qwilleran plunged his hands in his overcoat pockets and walked the few blocks to Penniman School, his mind flitting from the Cellini dagger to the sly-eyed John Smith — to the conniving Sandy — to Cal Halapay in Denmark — to Tom, the Halapay's surly houseboy — to Tom's girl in the museum checkroom — and back to the dagger.

This mental merry-go-round gave Qwilleran a mild vertigo, and he tried to shake the subject out of his mind. After all, it was none of his business. Neither was the murder of Earl Lambreth. Let the police solve it.