"I'm no asset to the game," Qwilleran mumbled. "Hey, do you really read all this heavy stuff?" The houseboy had picked up a volume of Toynbee that Qwilleran had bought for a dime at a flea market. "All I ever read is whodunits. . . Jeez! What's that?"

An earsplitting shriek came from the bathroom.

"One of the cats. Their litter pan is in the car, too, and a sack of gravel. Better bring those up first."

"Mind if I take a look at them?" William moved toward the bathroom.

"Let's wait till everything's moved in," Qwilleran said with a touch of impatience. "They might dart out into the hall. They're edgy in a strange place."

"It must be great — working for a newspaper. Do you cover murder trials?"

"Not anymore. That's not my beat."

"What do you do, then?"

Qwilleran was half irritated, half amused. The houseboy's curiosity and persistence reminded him of his own early days as a copyboy. "Look, I'll tell you the story of my life tomorrow," he said. "First let's get my things moved in. Then I'd like to visit the pottery."

"They don't like visitors," William said. "Not when they're working. Of course, if you don't mind getting thrown out on your ear. . ."

Qwilleran did not see Joy until dinnertime. The meal was served at a big round table in a corner of the kitchen, because there were only six sitting down to dinner. Robert Maus was absent, and Miss Roop and Max Sorrel were on duty at their restaurants.

The room was heady with aromas: roast beef, cheese, logs burning in the fireplace, and Joy's spicy perfume. She looked more appealing than ever, having rouged her cheeks and darkened her eyelids.

Qwilleran merely sampled the corn chowder, ate half of his portion of roast beef and broccoli parmigiana, declined a Parker House roll, and ignored a glob of mush flecked with green.

"Everything's good," he assured Mrs. Marron, who had prepared the meal, "but I'm trying to lose weight."

Rosemary, the quiet one, glanced at the untouched glob on Qwilleran's salad plate. "You should eat the bulgur. It's highly nutritious."

"Do you cook, Mr. Qwilleran?" Hixie asked.

"Only a few gourmet dishes for my cats."

The conversation at the table was lagging; the Grahams were moody, and William was eating as if he might never have another meal. Qwilleran tried to entertain the group with tales about Koko and Yum Yum. "They can smell through the refrigerator door," he said. "If there's lobster in there, they won't eat chicken, and if there's chicken, they won't eat beef. Salmon has to be a nationally advertised brand; don't ask me how they know. In the morning Koko rings for his breakfast; he steps on the tabulator key of the typewriter, which jerks the carriage and rings the bell. One of these days I think he'll learn to type."

With Joy in the audience he was feeling at his best, and yet the more he talked, the more he sensed her melancholy.

Finally she said, "I had a cat, but he disappeared a couple of weeks ago. I miss him terribly. His name was Raku."

Her husband spoke for the first time that evening. "Somebody probably stole the Blimp. That's what I called him. The Blimp." He looked pleased with himself.

"What kind of cat?" Qwilleran asked Joy. "Did you let him go out?"

"No, but cats have a way of sneaking out. He was a big smoky brown longhair."

Her husband said, "People steal cats and sell them to labs for experiments."

Joy gritted her teeth. "For God's sake, Dan, must you bring that subject up again?"

"It's getting to be big business," he said. "Kitnapping." Dan looked hopefully around the table for appreciation of his bon mot.

"That's not funny!" Joy had put down her fork and was sitting with clenched fists. "It's not funny at all."

Qwilleran turned to her husband. "By the way, I'd like to have a tour of the pottery when you have time."

"Not before the exhibition," said the potter, shaking his head gravely.

"Why not?" his wife snapped.

"Cripes, you know it's nerve-racking to have some- body around when you're working." To Qwilleran he said, "Can't afford any interruptions. Busy as a one-armed paperhanger with the itch, if you know what I mean."

Joy turned to Qwilleran, her voice icy. "Anytime you want to see the pottery, let me know. I'd love to show you my latest work." She shot a venomous glance at her husband.

To cover the embarrassed silence that followed, the newsman addressed Graham again. "You were telling me you didn't like the Fluxion critic. What's your complaint?"

"He doesn't know beans about pottery, if you know what I mean."

"He was a museum curator before he started writing for us."

Graham snorted. "Doesn't mean a thing. He may know Flemish painting and African sculpture, but what he doesn't know about contemporary pots would fill a book, if you know what I mean. When I had my last one-man show in L.A., the leading critic said my textures were a treat for the eye and a thrill for the fingertips. And I quote."

Joy said to Qwilleran with a disdainful edge to her voice, "Dan put a couple of old pots in a group show when we first came here, and your critic was unkind."

"I don't expect a critic to be kind," her husband said, his Adam's apple moving rapidly. "I expect him to know his business."

William spoke up. "He calls 'em the way he sees 'em. That's all any critic can do. I think he's pretty perceptive."

"Oh, William, shut up," Joy snapped. "You don't know anything about pots either."

"I beg your pardon!" said the houseboy with mock indignation.

"Anyone who gets the cones mixed up and puts cracked biscuit shelves away with the good ones is a lousy potter," she said curtly.

"Well, Dan told me to — "

"Don't listen to Dan. He's as sloppy as you are. What do they teach you at Penniman An School? How to make paper flowers?"

Qwilleran had never seen that side of Joy's nature. She had been moody as a girl but never sharp-tongued.

Hixie said to the houseboy in a bantering tone, "Don't let it burn you, Willie dear. Your personal charm makes up for your stupidity."

"Gee, thanks."

"This bickering," Rosemary murmured, "is not very good for the digestion."

"Don't blame it on me," said William. "She started it."

Dan stood up and threw his napkin on the table. "I've had it up to the ears! Lost my appetite." He strode away from the table.

"The big baby!" his wife muttered. "I noticed he finished his apple pie before he made his temperamental exit."

"I don't blame him," said Hixie. "You were picking on him."

"Why don't you mind your own business and concentrate on stuffing your face, dear? You do it so well!"

"See?" Hixie said, batting her eyelids. "The skinny ones always have miserable dispositions."

"Really!" Rosemary protested in her gentle voice. "Do we have to talk like this in front of Mr. Qwilleran?"

Joy put her face in her hands. "I'm sorry, Jim. My nerves are tied in knots. I've been. . . working too hard. Excuse me." She left the table hurriedly.

The meal ended with stilted scraps of conversation. Hixie talked about the cookbook she was writing. Rosemary extolled the healthful properties of blackstrap molasses. William wondered who had won the ball game in Milwaukee.

After dinner Qwilleran called Arch Riker at home, using the public telephone in the foyer. "I've sure walked into something at Maus Haus," he said, speaking in a low voice. "The tenants are all one big scrappy family, and Joy is definitely upset. She says she's overworked, but it looks like domestic trouble to me. I wish I could get her away for a visit with you and Rosie. It might do her some good."

"Don't take any chances until you know the score," Riker warned him. "If it's marital trouble, she might be using you."

"She wouldn't do that. Poor kid! I still think of her as twenty years old."