There was no reply at the table. Hixie opened her eyes wide and shook her head. Maus calmly went on chewing with the kind of concentration he always gave to the process.

It was characteristic of members of the legal profession never to show surprise, Qwilleran reminded himself. "Maybe it was the garage door that I heard," he suggested.

Maus said, "Mrs. Marron, kindly ask William to . . . lubricate the garage doors when he returns."

"By the way," said the newsman, pouring himself a cup of the excellent coffee, "I'd like to write a column on your cooking philosophy, Mr. Maus, if you're agreeable." He waited patiently for the attorney's response.

After a while it came, accompanied by a gracious nod. "I cannot, at this time, see any. . . objection."

"Perhaps you could have dinner with me tonight at the Toledo Tombs — as the guest of the Daily Fluxion."

At the mention of the epicurean restaurant Maus brightened noticeably. "By all means! We shall have their. . . eels in green sauce. They also prepare a superb veal dish with tarragon and Japanese mushrooms. You must allow me to order."

They set a time and place to meet, and Maus left for his office, carrying an attache case. Qwilleran had seen Mrs. Marron stock it with some small cartons, a thermos bottle, and a cold artichoke. Hixie left soon afterward, having finished a plate of bacon and French toast, swimming in melted butter and maple syrup and sprinkled with chopped pecans. Qwilleran remained alone, wondering about his landlord's black eye.

When Mrs. Marron came to the table to remove the plates, she said, "You should eat something, Mr. Qwilleran — something to stick to the ribs."

"There's too much sticking to my ribs already." The housekeeper lingered at the table, slowly piling dishes on a tray and slowly rearranging them. "Mr. Qwilleran," she said, "I heard something last night, and it wasn't the garage door."

"What time did you hear it?"

"It was after three o'clock. I know that much. My room is in the back, and I don't sleep very good lately, so I watched television in bed. I use the earphone, so I don't disturb anybody."

"Exactly what did you hear?"

"I thought it was tomcats scrapping down at the boat docks, but it could've been somebody screaming."

"I hope everyone in the house is all right," Qwilleran said. "Why don't you check on Mrs. Whiting and the Grahams?"

"Do you think I should?"

"Under the circumstances, Mrs. Marron, I think it would be advisable."

I'm beginning to sound like Robert Maus, he told himself as he sipped black coffee and waited for the housekeeper's return.

"Mrs. Whiting is all right; she's doing her exercises," Mrs. Marron reported. "But I couldn't get ahold of the Grahams. The door to the pottery is locked. I knocked three, four times, but nobody answered. If they're upstairs in their apartment, they can't hear."

"You don't have a key to the pottery?" He glanced at a key rack on the kitchen wall.

The housekeeper shook her head. "Those are only the apartment keys, so I can clean. Shall I go around the backyard and up the fire escape?"

"Let's try telephoning," Qwilleran suggested. "Do you know the Graham's number?"

"What shall I say to them?"

"I'll do the talking."

Mrs. Marron dialed a number on the kitchen phone and handed the receiver to Qwilleran. A man's voice answered.

"Mr. Graham? Good morning! This is Jim Qwilleran, your new neighbor. Is everything under control at your end of the building? We thought we smelled smoke. . . That's good. Just playing safe. By the way, you're missing a fine breakfast. Mrs. Marron is making French toast. . . Can't tempt you? Too bad. I really wanted to discuss the pottery operation. The Fluxion might run a feature story to tie in with your exhibition. . . You will? Good! I'll wait."

"Smoke?" said Mrs. Marron when Qwilleran had handed back the receiver. "I didn't smell any smoke." A few minutes later Dan Graham walked into the kitchen, looking thinner and more forlorn than ever. He dropped gracelessly into a chair and said he would have coffee and a roll, that's all.

Mrs. Marron said, "I can make some of those cornmeal johnnycakes you like."

"Just a roll."

"Or a stack of wheat cakes. It will only take a minute."

The potter scowled at her, and she went back to the sink and started stacking plates in the dishwasher.

Qwilleran resisted an impulse to ask the man about his wife. Instead he hinted at vast possibilities for free publicity, and Dan warmed up.

"The newspapers ought to print some more articles like that," he said, "instead of tearing us down all the time. Hell, they don't pan the new model cars or those stupid clothes they design in Paris. Why do they pick on artists? The papers hire some nincompoop as a critic and let him air his private beefs and chase people away from the exhibitions. A lot of people would like contemporary art if the local newspapers didn't keep telling them how bad it is. They should be explaining to the public how to appreciate what they see."

"I'll speak to our feature editor," Qwilleran said. "It's not my beat and I can't make the decision, but I'm sure Arch Riker will send a photographer over here. He'll probably want to take some shots of you and your wife, as well as your new pottery. A good human interest story might make a spread in the Sunday supplement. In color!"

Dan hung his head and looked deep into his coffee cup. "There's the hitch," he said finally. "I know you fellows on the paper like cheesecake and all that kind of stuff, but you'll have to settle for a broken-down he-potter with freckles." He said it with a twisted smile.

"Why? Doesn't Mrs. Graham like to be photographed? She's very attractive."

Dan glanced toward the sink, where Mrs. Marron was peeling apples, and lowered his voice. "The old girl's cleared out."

"She's what? She's left you?" Qwilleran had not expected anything to happen so soon, and yet he should have known that Joy would fly into action.

"Yes, she's decamped — vamoosed — flown the coop, if you know what I mean. It's not the first time, either." Again there was the brave one-sided smile, and Qwilleran realized — partly with pity and partly with scorn — that the grimace was an unconscious imitation of Joy's appealing mannerism.

"Once when we were in Florida," the potter went on, "she ran off. No explanation, no note, no nothing. She really left me standing on my ear that time, but she came back, and everything straightened out. Women don't know what they want. . . So I'll just sit tight like a bug in a rug and wait for her to have her fling and get over what's eating her. She'll be back, don't worry. Too bad she had to go right before the exhibition, that's all."

Qwilleran, who was seldom at a loss for words, hardly knew what to say. It was obvious he knew more than the husband about Joy's intentions. "When did you first realize she'd gone?" he asked, trying to appear sympathetic but not personally involved.

"Woke up this morning and couldn't find hide nor hair of the woman! Might as well tell you that we had a little argument last night, but I didn't think it was anything serious." Dan stroked his unshaven jaw thoughtfully and looked hurt and dejected.

Qwilleran noticed that the potter's right thumb was missing up to the first joint, and for a moment his loyalties were divided. A hand injury would be the worst thing that could happen to a potter; was that the reason for his declining success? He could also sympathize with a husband deserted by an ambitious wife; he had gone through the same humiliating experience.

"Did she take the car?" Qwilleran asked.

"No, she left it here. I'd be in a fix if she'd run off with the old jalopy. It's not much, but it gets me there and back."

"Then what did she use for transportation in the middle of the night?"