"Correction! Editor, delete the last two sentences." There was another pause. Then:

"Scrano's work is handled locally by the Lambreth Gallery, which will reopen soon, it has been announced. The gallery closed following the tragedy of February 25, and the art world mourns… correction, the local art world mourns… the passing of a respected and influential figure.

"The quality of Scrano's work has not wavered, despite age and illness. He combines the technique of an old master, the hubris of youth, the insight of a sage, the expressiveness…"

Koko sat on the desk, regarding the spinning tape with fascination and purring a rich throaty accompaniment.

"Recognize your old roommate?" asked Qwilleran with a note of sadness. He himself was affected by the sound of Mountclemens' last words, and he smoothed his moustache pensively.

As the tape rewound at high speed, Koko lowered his head and fervently rubbed his jaw against the edge of the machine.

Qwilleran said, "Who killed him, Koko? You're supposed to be able to sense things."

The cat sat tall on the desk, with forelegs close to his body, and stared at Qwilleran with wide eyes. The blue disappeared, and they were large black voids. He swayed slightly.

"Go ahead. Talk! You must know who killed him." Koko closed his eyes and uttered a tentative squeak. "You must have seen it happen! Tuesday night. Out the back window. Cats can see in the dark, can't they?"

The cat's ears waggled, one forward and one back, and he jumped to the floor. Qwilleran watched while he prowled about the room — aimlessly at first — looking under a chair here and a cabinet there, peering into the cold black fireplace, touching an electric cord with a wary paw. Then he thrust his head forward and down. He began to zigzag down the long hall to the kitchen, and Qwilleran followed.

At the bedroom door Koko gave a perfunctory sniff. At the threshold of the kitchen, he stopped and murmured something in his throat. Then he backtracked down the long hall to the tapestry that covered much of the wall space opposite the bedroom door. Woven into the tapestry was the scene of a royal hunting party, with horses, falcons, dogs, and small game. Dim light and the fading of age made the figures almost indistinguishable, but Koko showed pronounced interest in the rabbits and wildfowl that filled one corner of the design. Was it true, Qwilleran wondered, that cats could sense the content of a picture?

Koko touched it experimentally with his paw. He reared on his hind legs and waved his head from side to side like a cobra. Then dropping to all fours, he sniffed the lower edge of the tapestry where it grazed the floor.

Qwilleran said, "Is there something behind that thing?" He lifted one corner of the heavy hanging and saw nothing but plain wall. Yet Koko gave a joyous cry. Qwilleran raised the corner higher, and the cat pushed his way behind the tapestry, proclaiming his delight in positive tones.

"Wait a minute," Qwilleran went for the flashlight and shone a wedge of light between tapestry and wall. It revealed the edge of a doorframe, and that was where Koko was rubbing and sniffing and voicing his excitement.

Qwilleran followed, burrowing with some difficulty between the heavy textile and the wall, until he came to the bolted door. The catch slid open easily, and the door swung out over a narrow stairway. It made a sharp turn and descended to the floor below, where it was closed off by a second door. At one time this would have been the servants' stairs.

There was a light switch, but no light bulb responded. Qwilleran was not surprised. He descended with the aid of the flashlight — thoughtfully. If this led to the rear apartment — which the critic had claimed to use for storage — there was no telling what treasures might be found.

Koko had already scampered to the bottom and was waiting impatiently. Qwilleran picked him up and opened the door.

He found himself in a large old-fashioned kitchen with drawn window shades and the aroma of disuse. Yet the room was comfortably warm. It was more studio than kitchen. There was an easel, a table, a chair, and — against one wall — a cot. Many unframed canvases stood on the floor, face to the wall.

One door led to the patio. Another, toward the front of the house, opened into a dining room. Qwilleran ran the flashlight over a marble fireplace and an ornate built, in sideboard. Otherwise the room was bare.

Koko wriggled to get free, but there was dust every' where, and Qwilleran kept a tight hold on the cat while he turned his attention back to the kitchen.

One painting stood on the sink counter, propped against the cupboards above. It was a portrait of a steely, blue robot against a rusty-red background, disturbingly real and signed by the artist, O. Narx. There was a three, dimensional quality in the work, and the robot itself had the glint and texture of actual metal. It was covered with dust. Qwilleran had heard it said that old houses manufacture their own dust.

Alongside the back door a kitchen table, well crusted with dried paint of many colors, held a jar of brushes, a palette knife, and some twisted tubes. The easel stood near the window, and on it was another square-headed mechanical man in a menacing pose. The painting was unfinished, and a brushful of white paint splashed across the canvas had disfigured it.

Koko squirmed and squealed and made himself a troublesome armful, and Qwilleran said, "Let's get upstairs. There's nothing down here but dirt."

At the top, after bolting the door and groping his way out from under the tapestry, Qwilleran said, "False alarm, Koko. You're losing your knack. There were no clues down there."

Kao K'o Kung gave him a withering look, then turned his back and licked himself extensively.

Friday morning Qwilleran sat at his typewriter and stared at the row of keys that spelled q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p. He hated that word qwertyuiop; it meant that he was stymied, that he should be writing brilliant copy, and that he hadn't an idea in his head.

It was three days since he had found the body of Mountclemens sprawled in the patio. It was four days since Nino had fallen to his death. It was nine days since the murder of Earl Lambreth.

Qwilleran's moustache was twitching and sending him signals. It kept suggesting that the three deaths were connected. One person had killed the art dealer, pushed Nino off the scaffolding, and knifed Mountclemens. And yet — to spoil his argument — there was the possibility that Mountclemens had committed the first murder.

The telephone on his desk rang three times before it won his attention.

Lodge Kendall was on the line, saying, "Thought you'd like to know what Homicide found out at the airline."

"Huh? Oh, yes. What did they find out?"

"The alibi holds. The passenger list indicates Mountclemens was on that afternoon flight."

"Did it depart on time?"

"Right on schedule. Did you know the airline puts passenger lists on microfilm and keeps them for three years?"

"No. I mean — yes. That is — thanks for filling me in." So Mountclemens had an alibi, and Qwilleran had some support for his new theory. Only one person, he told himself, had a motive in all three crimes and the strength to plunge a blade into a man and the opportunity to push Nino to his death. Only Butchy Bolton. And yet it was all too neat, too pat. Qwilleran was reluctant to trust his suspicions.

He went back to his typewriter. He looked at the blank sheet of paper waiting expectantly. He looked at the ten green typewriter keys: qwertyuiop.

Butchy, he was aware, had a serious grudge against Earl Lambreth. She thought he had cheated her out of a lucrative commission and considerable prestige. Further, more, Lambreth was encouraging his wife to drop Butchy. Grievances like these could build up in the imagination of a woman who had a personality problem and was given to violent fits of temper. With Lambreth out of the way, she might reason, Zoe would again be her "best friend" as in the old days. But there was another obstacle in Butchy's way: Zoe was showing inordinate interest in Nino. If Nino were to meet with a fatal accident, Zoe might have more time and enthusiasm for her girlhood friend.