Crew members rushed to save it. The planks of the scaffold rattled.

"Look out!"

There was a scream from the girl in the rope sling.

The crowd scattered. The Thing fell with a crash. And with it a body plunged to the concrete floor.

Two news items rated headlines in the Tuesday morning edition of the Daily Fluxion.

A valuable gold dagger, attributed to Cellini, had disappeared from the art museum. Although its absence had been noted by a guard more than a week ago, the matter was not reported to the police until a Fluxion reporter discovered that the rare treasure was missing from the Florentine Room. Museum officials gave no satisfactory explanation for the delay.

The other item reported a fatal accident. "An artist plunged to death Monday night at the Penniman School of Fine Art during an audience-participation program called a Happening. He was a sculptor known professionally as Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Five, whose real name was Joseph Hibber.

"Hibber was perched on a high scaffold in the darkened room when unruly activity on the floor below caused a near-accident to one of the mammoth props in the show.

"Eyewitnesses reported that Hibber attempted to save the object from falling on the spectators. In the effort he apparently lost his footing, falling 26 feet to a concrete floor.

"Mrs. Sadie Buchwalter, wife of Franz Buchwalter, a faculty member, was injured by a flying doorknob when the object crashed. Her condition was described as satisfactory.

"Some 300 students, faculty members and art patrons attending the benefit event witnessed the accident."

Qwilleran threw the newspaper on the bar at the Press Club that afternoon, when Arch Riker met him for a five, thirty pick-me-up.

"Plunged to his death," said Qwilleran, "or was pushed."

"You've got a criminous mind," said Arch. "Isn't one murder on your beat enough to keep you happy?"

"You don't know what I know."

"Let's have it. Who was this character?"

"A beatnik who happened to like Zoe Lambreth. And she was pretty fond of him, although you'd find this hard to believe if you could see the guy — a nature boy straight from the city dump."

"You never know about women," said Arch. "And yet I've got to admit the boy had possibilities."

"So who pushed him?"

"Well, there's this woman sculptor, Butchy Bolton, who seemed to resent him. I think Butchy was jealous of this beatnik's friendship with Zoe and jealous of him professionally. He enjoyed more critical success than she did. Butchy also had a crush on Zoe."

"Oh, one of those!"

"Zoe was trying to brush her off-subtly — but Butchy is as subtle as a bulldog. And here's an interesting point: both Butchy and Nino, the deceased, had serious grudges against Zoe's husband. Suppose one of them killed Earl Lambreth did Butchy consider Nino a competitor for Zoe's attention and push him off the scaffold last night? The whole crew rushed out on those flimsy boards to stop the Thing from crashing. Butchy would have had a beautiful opportunity."

"You seem to know more than the police."

"I don't have any answers. Just questions. And here's another one: Who stole the painting of a ballet dancer from Earl Lambreth's office? Last weekend I suddenly remembered it was missing on the night of the murder. I told Zoe, and she reported it to the police."

"You've been a busy boy. No wonder you haven't finished that profile on Halapay."

"And one more question: Who stole the dagger at the t museum? And why are they being so cagey about it?"

"Do you have any more yarns?" asked Arch. "Or can I go home to my wife and kiddies?"

"Go home. You're a lousy audience. Here comes a couple of guys who'll be interested."

Odd Bunsen and Lodge Kendall were walking through the bar single file.

"Hey, Jim," said Odd, "did you write that piece about the missing dagger at the museum?"

"Yeah."

"They've found it. I went up and got some shots of it.

The Picture Desk thought people would like to see what the thing looked like — after all the hullabaloo you stirred up."

"Where'd they find it?"

"In the safe in the Education Department. One of the instructors was writing a piece on Florentine art for some magazine, and he took the dagger out of the case to examine. Then he went off to a convention somewhere and parked it in the safe."

"Oh," said Qwilleran. His moustache drooped.

"Well, that solves one of your problems," Arch told him. He turned to the police reporter. "Anything new in the Lambreth case?"

"A major clue just fizzled out," said Kendall. "The police found a valuable painting that Lambreth's wife said was missing."

"Where'd they find it?" Qwilleran demanded.

"In the stock room of the gallery, filed under G."

"Oh," said Qwilleran.

Arch slapped him on the back. "As a detective, Jim, you're a great art writer. Why don't you bear down on the Halapay profile and leave crime to the police? I'm going home."

Arch left the Press Club, and Odd Bunsen and Lodge Kendall drifted away, and Qwilleran sat alone, peering unhappily into his tomato juice.

Bruno, wiping the bar, said with his wise smile, "You want another Bloody Mary without vodka, lime, Worcestershire, or Tabasco?"

"No," snapped Qwilleran.

The bartender lingered. He tidied up the bar. He gave Qwilleran another paper napkin. Finally he said, "Would you like to see a couple of my presidential portraits?"

Qwilleran glowered at him.

"I've finished Van Buren," said Bruno, "and I've got him and John Quincy Adams here under the bar."

"Not tonight. I'm not in the mood."

"I don't know anybody else who makes collage portraits out of whiskey labels," Bruno persisted.

"Look, I don't care if you make mosaic portraits out of used olive pits! I don't want to look at them tonight!"

"You're beginning to sound like Mountclemens," said Bruno.

"I've changed my mind about that drink," said Qwilleran. "I'll take one. Make it a Scotch — straight."

Bruno shrugged and began filling the order in slow motion.

"And snap it up," said Qwilleran.

Over the loudspeaker came a muffled voice that he did not hear.

"Mr. Qwilleran," said Bruno. "I think they're paging you."

Qwilleran listened, wiped his moustache, and in bad humor went to the telephone.

A soft voice said, "Mr. Qwilleran, I hope I'm not intruding, but I wonder if you have any plans for dinner tonight?"

"No, I haven't, he said shifting gears.

"Would you come out and have dinner with me at the house? I'm feeling blue, and it would help if I could talk with someone who is understanding. I promise not to dwell on my troubles. We'll talk about pleasant things."

"I'll grab a cab and be right there."

On the way out of the Press Club, Qwilleran threw Bruno a dollar. "Drink the Scotch yourself," he said.

When Qwilleran returned home from Zoe's house sometime after midnight, he was in a congenial mood. The night was bitter cold, and yet he felt warm. He gave a quarter to a frozen-looking panhandler shuffling down Blenheim Place, and he whistled a tune as he unlocked the outer door of No. 26.

Even before he inserted the second key in the inner door, he could hear a wail from Koko in the hall.

"Ha! Fair-weather friend," he said to the cat. "You snubbed me yesterday. Don't expect a game of Sparrow tonight, old fellow."

Koko was sitting on the bottom step in a tall posture. No prancing. No ankle-rubbing. He was strictly business. He spoke again urgently.

Qwilleran looked at his watch. The cat should have been asleep at this hour, curled on the refrigerator cushion in Mountclemens' apartment. But there he was, wide awake and speaking in long, loud terms. It was not the complaining whine he used when dinner was slightly delayed, nor the scolding tone he assumed when dinner was unforgivably late. It was a cry of desperation.