"He's gone! Koko's gone!"

A twelve-foot nylon cord was tied to the handle of the balcony door. At the end of it was a blue leather harness buckled in the last notch, with the belt and the collar making a figure eight on the concrete floor.

"Somebody stole that cool cat," said the photographer from his position of authority in the green wing chair.

"Don't kid around," Qwilleran snapped at him. "This worries me. I'm going to call the manager." "Wait a minute," said Bunsen, hauling himself out of the chair. "Let's have a good look outside." The two men went to the balcony. They were met by a burst of high wind, and Bunsen had to steady himself.

Qwilleran peered at the adjoining balconies. "It's only about five feet between railings. Koko could jump across, I guess." Bunsen had other ideas. He looked down at the landscaped court, fifteen stories below.

Qwilleran shuddered. "Cats don't fall from railed balconies," he said, without conviction.

"Maybe the wind blew him over." "Don't be silly." They gazed blankly around the curve of the building. The wind, whistling through the balcony railings, produced vibrating chords like organ music in a weird key.

Bunsen said, "Anybody around here hate cats?" "I don't think so. I don't know. That is, I haven't — " Qwilleran was staring across the court, squinting through the darkness. The facade of the south wing was a checkerboard of light and shadow, with many of the apartments in darkness and others with a dull glow filtering through drawn draperies. But one apartment was partially exposed to view.

Qwilleran pointed. "Do you see what I see? Look at that window over there-the one where the curtains are open." "That's David Lyke's place!" "I know it is. And his TV is turned on. And look who's sitting on top of it, keeping warm." The doors of a Chinese lacquer cabinet were open, and the TV screen could be seen, shimmering with abstract images. On top, in a neat bundle, sat Koko, his light breast distinct against the dark lacquer and his brown mask and ears silhouetted against the silvery wall.

"I'm going to phone Dave and see what this is all about," said Qwilleran.

He dialed the switchboard, asked for Lyke's apartment, and waited a long time before he was convinced no one was home.

"No answer," he told Bunsen. "What now?" "I don't know. Do you suppose Koko got lonesome and decided to go visiting?" "He wanted some more of that curried chicken." "He must have hopped from balcony to balcony — all the way around. Crazy cat! Lyke must have let him in and then gone out himself. He said he had a date." "What are you going to do?" Bunsen said.

"Leave him there till morning, that's all." "I can get him back." "What? How could you get him back? He couldn't hear you with the door closed over there, and even if he could, how would he open the sliding door?" "Want to bet I can't get him back?" The photographer leaped up on the side railing of the balcony and teetered there, clutching the corner post.

"No!" yelled Qwilleran. "Get down from there!" He was afraid to make a sudden move toward the man balancing on the narrow toprail. He approached Bunsen slowly, holding his breath.

"No sweat!" the photographer called out, as he leaped across the five-foot gap and grabbed the post of the next balcony. "Anything a cat can do, Odd Bunsen can do better!" "Come back! You're out of your mind!… No, stay there! Don't try it again!" "Odd Bunsen to the rescue!" yelled the photographer, as he ran the length of the balcony and negotiated the leap to the next one. But first he plucked a yellow mum from the neighbor's window box and clenched it in his teeth.

Qwilleran sat down and covered his face with his hands.

"Ya hoo!" Bunsen crowed. "Ya hoo!" His war cries grew fainter, drowned by the whistling wind as he progressed from railing to railing around the inside curve of the Villa Verandah. Here and there a resident opened a door and looked out, without seeing the acrobatic feat being performed in the darkness.

"Ya hoo!" came a distant cry.

Qwilleran thought of the three double martinis and the two — no, three — brandies that Bunsen had consumed. He thought of the photographer's wife and six children, and his blood chilled.

There was a triumphant shout across the court, and Bunsen was waving from Lyke's balcony. He tried the sliding door; it opened. He signaled his success and then stepped into the silvery-gray living room. At his entrance Koko jumped down from his perch and scampered away.

I hope, Qwilleran told himself, that nincompoop has sense enough to bring Koko back by land and not by air.

From where the newsman stood, he could no longer see Bunsen or the cat, so he went indoors and waited for the errant pair to return. While waiting, he made two cups of instant coffee and put some cheese and crackers on a plate.

The wait was much too long, he soon decided. He went to the corridor and listened and looked down its carpeted curve. There was no sign of life — only mechanical noises from the elevator shaft and the frantic sounds of a distant TV.

He returned to the balcony and scanned the south wing. There was no activity to be seen in Lyke's apartment, except for the busy images on the TV screen.

Qwilleran gulped a cup of coffee and paced the floor. Finally he went to the telephone and asked the operator to try Lyke's apartment again. The line was busy.

"What's that drunken fool doing?" "Pardon?" said the operator.

Returning once more to the balcony, Qwilleran stared across the court in exasperation. When his telephone rang, he jumped and sprinted for it.

"Qwill," said Bunsen's voice, several tones lower than it had been all evening. "We've got trouble over here." "Koko? What's happened?" "The cat's okay, but your decorator friend has had it." "What do you mean?" "Looks as if Lyke's dead." "No!…No!" "He's cold, and he's white, and there's an ugly spot on the rug. I've called the police, and I've called the paper.

Would you go down to the car and get my camera?" "I gave you the car keys." "I put them in my raincoat pocket, and I dropped my raincoat in your front hall. I think I'd I better stay here with the body." "You sound sober all of a sudden," Qwilleran said.

"I sobered up in a hurry when I saw this." By the time Qwilleran arrived at Lyke's apartment with Bunsen's camera, the officers from the police cruiser were there. Qwilleran scanned the living room. It was just as they had photographed it in the afternoon, except that the TV in the Chinese cabinet was yakking senselessly and there was a yellow mum on the carpet, where Bunsen had dropped it.

"As soon as I came through the door," Bunsen said to Qwilleran, "Koko led me into the bedroom." The body was on the bedroom floor, wrapped in a gray silk dressing gown. One finger wore a large star sapphire that Qwilleran had not seen before. The face was no longer handsome. It had lost the wit and animation that made it attractive. All that was left was a supercilious mask.

Qwilleran glanced about the room. The tiger skin had been removed from the bed, neatly folded, and laid on a bench. Everything else was in perfect order. The bed showed no indication of having been occupied.

Bunsen was hopping around the room looking for camera angles. "I just want to get one picture," he told the officers. "I won't disturb anything." To Qwilleran he said, "It's hard to get an interesting shot. The Picture Desk won't run gory stuff any more. They get complaints from the P.T.A., little old ladies, the American Legion, the D.A.R., vegetarians — " "What did you do with Koko?" Qwilleran said.

"He's around here somewhere. Probably destroying the evidence." Qwilleran found Koko in the dining room, sitting under the table as if nothing had happened. He had assumed his noncommittal pose, gathered in a comfortable bundle on the gold-and-blue Chinese rug, looking neither curious nor concerned nor guilty nor grieved.