Only three times in his twenty-five years of newspapering had he heard anyone decline to be mentioned in print, and all three had been fugitives — from the law, from blackmail, from a nagging wife. But here was something incomprehensible: the operator of a business enterprise refusing publicity. Free publicity.

"All the other shops seem to be closed," he said.

"They should open at eleven, but antique dealers are seldom punctual." Qwilleran looked around aimlessly and said, "How much for the blue dragon in the window?" "It's not for sale." She moved the cigarette holder to her lips and drew on it exquisitely. "Are you interested in Oriental porcelains? I have a blue and white stemmed cup from the Hsuan Te period." "No, I'm just digging for stories. Know anything about the auction sale down at the corner?" She coughed on the cigarette smoke, and for the first time her poise wavered. "It's at one thirty today," she said.

"I know. I saw the sign. Who was this dealer who was killed?" Her voice dropped to a lower pitch. "Andrew Glanz. A highly respected authority on antiques." "When did it happen?" "The sixteenth of October." "Was it a holdup? I don't remember reading about a murder in Junktown, and I usually follow the crime news carefully." "What makes you think it was-murder?" she said with a wary glint in her unblinking eyes.

"I heard someone say — and in this kind of neighborhood, you know…" "He was killed in an accident." "Traffic accident?" "He fell from a ladder." She crushed her cigarette. "I would rather not talk about it. It was too — too — " "He was a friend of yours?" Qwilleran asked in the sympathetic tone that had won him the confidence of maidens and murderers in the past.

"Yes. But, if you don't mind, Mr.- Mr. — " "Qwilleran." "The name is Irish?" She was deliberately changing the subject.

"No, Scottish. Spelled with a Qw. And your name?" "Duckworth." "Miss or Mrs.?" She drew a deep breath. "Miss…. I have quite a few antiques from Scotland in the other room. Would you like to see them?" She rose and led the way. She was tall and slender, and the kimono, a long shaft of blue, moved with silky grace among the mahogany sideboards and walnut tables.

"These andirons are Scottish," she said, "and so is this brass salver. Do you like brass? Most men like brass." Qwilleran was squinting at something leaning against the wall in a far cornet. "What's that?" he demanded. He pointed to a wrought-iron coat of arms, a yard in diameter. It was a shield surrounded by three snarling cats.

"An ornament from an iron gate, I think. It may have come from the arch over the gate of a castle." "It's the Mackintosh coat of arms!" said Qwilleran. "I know the inscription: Touch not the catt bot a glove. My mother was a Mackintosh." He patted his moustache with satisfaction.

"You ought to buy it," Miss Duckworth said.

"What would I do with it? I don't even have an apartment. How much is it?" "I've been asking two hundred dollars, but if you like it, you can have it for one hundred twenty-five dollars. That's actually what I paid for it." She lifted the weighty piece out from the wall to show it off to better advantage. "You'll never find a better buy, and you can always sell it for what you paid — or more. That's the nice thing about antiques. It would be wonderful over a fireplace — against a chimney wall. See, it has remnants of a lovely old red and blue decoration. As she warmed to her sales talk, she grew animated and her dark-rimmed eyes glistened. Qwilleran began to feel mellow. He began to regard this blue-white porcelain creature as a possible prospect for Christmas Eve at the Press Club.

"I'll think about it," he said, turning away from the coat of arms with reluctance. "Meanwhile, I'm going to cover the auction this afternoon. Do you happen to know where I could get a picture of Andrew Glanz to use with my story?" Her reserved manner returned. "What — what kind of story are you going to write?" "I'll just describe the auction and give suitable recognition to the deceased." She hesitated, glancing at the ceiling. "If it's true what you say. Miss Duckworth-that he was a highly respected authority — " "I have a few pictures in my apartment upstairs. Would you like to look at them?" She unhooked the velvet rope that barred the stairs. "Let me go first and restrain the dog." At the top of the stairs a large German police dog was waiting with unfriendly growl and quivering jaws. Miss, Duckworth penned him in another room and then led the; newsman down a long hallway, its walls covered with framed photographs. Qwilleran thought he recognized some rather important people in those frames. Of the deceased dealer there were three pictures: Glanz on a lecture platform, Glanz with the director of the historical museum, and then a studio portrait — a photograph of a young man with a square jaw, firm mouth, and intelligent eyes — a good face, an honest face.

Qwilleran glanced at Miss Duckworth, who was clasping and unclasping her hands, and said, "May I borrow this studio shot? I'll have it copied and return it." She nodded sadly.

"You have a beautiful apartment," he said, glancing into a living room that was all gold velvet, blue silk, and polished wood. "I had no idea there was anything like this in Junktown." "I wish other responsible people would buy some of the old houses and preserve them," she said. "So far the only ones who have shown any inclination to do so are the Cobbs. They have the mansion on this block. Antiques on the first floor and apartments upstairs." "Apartments? Do you know if they have one for rent?" "Yes," the girl said, lowering her eyes. "There's one vacant in the rear." "I might inquire about it. I need a place to live." "Mrs. Cobb is a very pleasant woman. Don't let her husband upset you." "I don't upset easily. What's wrong with her husband?" Miss Duckworth turned her attention to the downstairs hall. Customers had walked into the house and were chattering and exclaiming. "You go down," she instructed Qwilleran, "and I'll let the dog out of the kitchen before I follow you." Downstairs two women were wandering among the treasures — women with the air and facial characteristics of suburban housewives; the newsman had met hundreds of them at flower shows and amateur art exhibits. But the garb of these women was out of character. One wore a man's leather trench coat and a woolly mop of a hat studded with seashells, while the other was bundled up in an Eskimo parka over black-and-white checkerboard trousers stuffed into hunting boots with plaid laces.

"Oh, what a lovely shop," said the parka.

"Oh, she's got some old Steuben," said the trench coat. "Oh, Freda, look at this decanter! My grandmother had one just like it. Wonder what she wants for it." "She's high, but she has good things. Don't act too enthusiastic, and she'll come down a few dollars," the trench coat advised, adding in a low voice, "Did you know she was Andy's girl friend?" "You mean — Andy, the one who…?" The trench coat nodded. "You know how he was killed, don't you?" The other one shuddered and made a grimace of distaste. "Here she comes." As Miss Duckworth glided into the room — looking cool, poised, fragile as bone china — Qwilleran went to the rear. of the shop to have one more look at the Mackintosh coat of arms. It was massive and crudely made. He felt a need to touch it, and his flesh tingled as his hand made contact with the iron. Then he hefted it-with an involuntary grunt. It felt like a hundred-pound weight.

And yet, he remembered afterwards, the delicate Miss Duckworth had lifted it with apparent ease.