He opened the window to inspect the ledge. He moved the desk and gave a jump, hoisting himself across the high sill. Leaning far out, teetering across the sill, he could see the entire length of the ledge as it passed under the high windows of the kiln room and the large window of a room beyond, probably the Grahams' loft apartment. But when he tried to wriggle back into the apartment, the window seemed to have shrunk. Inside the room his legs kicked ineffectually, while the bulk of his weight was outside.

Koko, fascinated by the spectacle of half a man where there should have been a whole one, leaped to the desk and howled.

"Don't yell at me! Call for help!" Qwilleran shouted over his shoulder, but Koko only came closer and howled in the vicinity of Qwilleran's hip pocket.

"What are you doing up there?" came a woman's voice from below. Hixie was on her way to the garage.

"I'm stuck, dammit! Come up and give me a toehold."

He continued to teeter on the fulcrum of the sill while Hixie ran indoors, ran upstairs to Number Six, ran downstairs to get the key from the kitchen, and ran upstairs again. After a few minutes of pulling, pushing, bracing, squeezing, and grunting — with Hixie squealing and the cats yowling — Qwilleran was dislodged. He thanked her gruffly.

"Would you like to go to a meeting with me tomorrow night?" she asked. "It's the dinner meeting of the Friendly Fatties. . . Nothing personal, of course," she added.

Qwilleran mumbled that he might consider it.

"So this is the famous Siamese pussycat," she said on her way out. "Bon jour, Koko."

"Yaeioux," said Koko, replying in French.

Qwilleran went to his office to write a routine piece about the cake-baking contest for the second edition and to get a confirmation on his photo requisition. The assignment was on the board for five o'clock, earmarked for Bunsen, and Qwilleran telephoned Dan Graham to alert him.

"Swell! That's swell!" said Dan. "Didn't think you'd be able to swing it. That's a real break. Don't mind telling you I appreciate it. I'd like to do something for you. How about a bottle? Do you like bourbon? What does your photographer drink?"

"Forget the payola," Qwilleran said. "The story may never get in the paper. All we can do is write it and shoot the pictures and pray a lot." And then he added, "Just remembered, I have some friends on the Miami papers, including an art critic who might like to meet Joy while she's there. Could you give me her address?"

"In Miami? I don't know. She didn't know where she'd be holing up."

"How are you mailing her summer clothes, then?"

"To General Delivery," said Dan.

Qwilleran waited in the office for the first edition. He wanted to see how they were handling his new column. Prandial Musings appeared in thumb position on the op-ed page — a good spot! — with a photograph of the mustached author looking grimly pleased.

"Who thought of the name for my column?" he grumbled to Arch Riker. "It sounds like gastric burbulance. Ninety percent of our readers won't know what it means."

"Make that ninety-eight percent," said Arch.

"It sounds as if the byline should be Addison and Steele."

"The boss wanted something dignified," the feature editor explained. "Would you rather call it Swill with Qwill? That title did cross my mind. . . How was your weekend?"

"Not bad. Not bad at all. The cats gave me a helluva scare when I got home, but it turned out all right."

"Any news from Joy?"

Qwilleran related Dan's story about the alleged postcard and Joy's alleged plans to go to Miami. "And we've had another disappearance," he said. "Now the houseboy has vanished."

He went to his desk and telephoned the Penniman Art School. William, who should have been in freehand drawing that hour, was absent, according to the registrar's office. The newsman then looked up Vitello in the phone book and called the only one listed; it was a tea-leaf reading salon and the proprietor had never heard of William. Blowing into his mustache, as he did when his course was not clear, Qwilleran ambled out of the office. He was passing the receptionist's desk when a girl who was waiting there touched his sleeve.

"Are you Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked. "I recognized you from your picture. I'm a friend of William Vitello. May I talk to you?" She was a serious young girl, wearing serious glasses and unflattering clothes. The ragbag look, Qwilleran thought. She's an art student, he decided.

"Sure," he said. "Let's sit down over here." He led the way into one of the cubicles where reporters patiently listened to the irate readers, petitioners, publicity-seekers, and certifiable cranks who daily swarmed into the Fluxion editorial offices. "Have you seen William lately?" he asked the girl.

"No. That's what I wanted to talk about," she said. "We had a date Saturday night, but he never showed up. Never even called. Sunday I phoned Maus Haus, and he wasn't there. Some woman answered the phone, but she wasn't very coherent. Today he's not in school."

"Did you get in touch with his mother?"

"She hasn't heard from him since he took her a birthday present Friday night. I don't know what I should do. I thought of you because William talked about you a lot. What do you think I should do?"

"William is impetuous. He might have decided to take a trip somewhere."

"He wouldn't go without telling me, Mr. Qwilleran. We've very close. We even have a joint bank account."

The newsman propped one elbow on the arm of the chair and combed his mustache with his fingertips. "Did he ever discuss the situation at Maus Haus?"

"Oh, he's always talking about that weird place. He says it's full of characters."

"Did he ever mention Dan Graham?"

The girl nodded, giving Qwilleran a glance from the comer of her eye.

"Anything you want to tell me is confidential," he assured her.

"Well, I really didn't take him seriously. He said he was spying on Mr. Graham. He said he was going to dig up some dirt. I thought he was just kidding, or showing off. Billy likes to read spy stories, and he gets ideas."

"Do you know what kind of irregularity he suspected? Was it a morals situation?"

"You mean — like sex?" The girl bit her thumbnail as she considered that possibility. "Well, maybe. But the main story had something to do with the way Mr. Graham was running the pottery. Something fishy was going on in the pottery, Billy said."

"When did he last mention this?"

"Friday night. He phoned me after he had dinner with you."

"Did he mention any specific detail about the pottery operation? Think hard."

The girl frowned. "Only that. . . he said he thought Mr. Graham was going to blow a whole load of pots."

"Destroy them?"

"Billy said he was firing the kiln wrong and the whole load would blow. He couldn't understand it, because Mr. Graham is supposed to be a good fireman. . . I'm not much help, am I?"

"I'll be able to answer that later," Qwilleran told her. "Wait another forty-eight hours, and if William doesn't turn up, you'd better notify Missing Persons, or have his mother do it. And another thing: You might check your joint bank account for sizable withdrawals."

"Yes, I'll do that, Mr. Qwilleran. Thank you so much, Mr. Qwilleran." Her wide eyes were magnified through the lenses of her glasses. "Only. . . all we've got in the bank is eighteen dollars."