"I have what they call a monochromatic color scheme," said the bartender. "I've got Chartreuse carpet, Chartreuse walls, Chartreuse drapes, and a Chartreuse sofa." "Very suitable for a member of your profession," said Qwilleran, "but allow me to correct you on one small detail.

We never call draperies drapes."

Before going to the cocktail party at David Lyke's apartment, Qwilleran went home to change clothes and give the cat a slice of corned beef he had bought at the delicatessen.

Koko greeted him by flying around the room in a catly expression of joy — over chairs, under tables, around lamps, up to the top of the bookshelves, down to the floor with a thud and a grunt — making sharp turns in midair at sixty miles an hour. Lamps teetered. Ashtrays spun around. The limp curtains rippled in the breeze. Then Koko leaped on the dictionary

and scratched for all he was worth-with his rear end up, his front end down, his tail pointed skyward, like a toboggan slide with a flag on top. He scratched industriously, stopped to look at Qwilleran, and scratched again.

"No time for games," Qwilleran said. "I'm going out. Cocktail party. Maybe I'll bring you home an olive." He put on a pair of pants that had just come from the cleaner, unpinned a newly purchased shirt, and looked for his new tie. He found it draped over the arm of the sofa. There was a hole in it, center front, and Qwilleran groaned. That left only one plaid tie in good condition. He whipped it off the doorknob where it hung and tied it around his neck, grumbling to himself. Meanwhile, Koko sat on the dictionary, hopefully preparing for a game.

"No game tonight," Qwilleran told him again. "You eat your corned beef and then have a nice long nap." The newsman set out for the party with three- fold anticipation. He hoped to make some useful contacts; he was curious about the fashionable and expensive Villa Verandah; and he was looking forward to seeing David Lyke again. He liked the man's irreverent attitude. Lyke was not what Qwilleran had expected a decorator to be. Lyke was neither precious nor a snob, and he wore his spectacular good looks with a casual grace.

The Villa Verandah, a recent addition to the cityscape, was an eighteen-story building curved around a landscaped park, each apartment with a balcony. Qwilleran found his host's apartment alive with the sound of bright chatter, clinking glasses, and music from hidden loudspeakers.

In a pleasant rumbling voice Lyke said: "Is this your first visit to the Villa Verandah? We call this building the Architects' Revenge. The balconies are designed to be too sunny, too windy, and too dirty. The cinders that hurtle through my living room are capable of putting out an eyeball. But it's a good address. Some of the best people live in this building, several of them blind in one eye." He opened a sliding glass door in the glass wall and showed Qwilleran the balcony, where metal furniture stood ankle-deep in water and the wind made ripples on the surface.

"The balconies become wading pools for three days after every rain," he said. "When there's a high wind, the railings vibrate and play' Ave Maria' by the hour. And notice our unique view — a panorama of ninety-two other balconies." The apartment itself had a warmly livable atmosphere. Everywhere there were lighted candles, books in good leather bindings, plants of the exotic type, paintings in important frames, and heaps of pillows. A small fountain in one corner was busy splashing. And the wallpaper was the most sumptuous Qwilleran had ever seen — like silver straw with a tracery of peacocks.

The predominant note was Oriental. He noticed an Oriental screen, some bowlegged black tables, and a Chinese rug in the dining room. Some large pieces of Far Eastern sculpture stood in a bed of pebbles, lighted by concealed spotlights.

Qwilleran said to Lyke, "We should photograph this." "I was going to suggest something else in this building," said the decorator. "I did Harry Noyton's apartment — just a pied-…-terre that he uses for business entertaining, but it's tastefully done in wall-to-wall money. And the colors are smart — in a ghastly way. I've used Eggplant, Spinach, and Overripe Melon." "Who is Harry Noyton?" Qwilleran asked.

"The name sounds familiar." "You must have heard of him. He's the most vocal 'silent partner' in town. Harry owns the ballpark, a couple of hotels, and probably the City Hall." "I'd like to meet him." "You will. He's dropping in tonight. I'd really like to see you publish Harry's country house in Lost Lake Hills — all artsy-craftsy contemporary — but there's an awkward situation in the family at the moment, and it might not be advisable..

.. Now, come and meet some of the guests. Starkweather is here — with his lovely wife, who is getting to be a middle- aged sot, but I can't say that I blame her." Lyke's partner was sitting quietly at one end of the sofa, but Mrs. Starkweather was circulating diligently. There was a frantic gaiety in her aging face, and her costume was a desperate shade of pink. She clung to Lyke in an amorous way when he introduced Qwilleran.

"I'm in love with David," she told the newsman, waving a cocktail glass in a wide arc. "Isn't he just too overwhelming? Those eyes! And that sexy voice!" "Easy, sweetheart," said Lyke. "Do you want your husband to shoot me?" He turned to Qwilleran. "This is one of the hazards of the profession. We're so lovable." After Lyke disengaged himself from Mrs. Stark- weather's grip, she clung to Qwilleran's arm and went on prattling.

"Decorators give marvelous parties! There are always lots of men! And the food is always so good. David has a marvelous caterer. But the drinks are too potent." She giggled. "Do you know many decorators? They're lots of fun. They dress so well and they dance so well. My husband isn't really a decorator. He used to be in the wholesale carpet business. He handles the money at LandS. David is the one with talent. I adore David!" Most of the guests were decorators, Qwilleran discovered. All the men were handsome, the majority of them young.

The women were less so, but what they lacked in beauty and youth they made up in vivacity and impressive clothes.

Everyone had an easy charm. They complimented Qwilleran on his new magazine, the luxuriance of his moustache, and the fragrance of his pipe tobacco.

Conversation flitted from one subject to another: travel, fashion, rare wine, ballet, and the dubious abilities of other decorators. Repeatedly, the name of Jacques Boulanger came up and was dismissed with disapproval.

No one, Qwilleran noticed, was disposed to discuss the November election or the major-league pennant race or the situation in Asia. And none of the guests seemed disturbed by the news of the Tait theft. They were merely amused that it should have happened to a client of David's.

One young man of fastidious appearance approached Qwilleran and introduced himself as Bob Orax. He had an oval aristocratic face with elevated eyebrows.

"Ordinarily," he told the newsman, "I don't follow crime news, but my family knew the Taits, and I was fascinated by the item in today's paper. I had no idea Georgie had amassed so much jade. He and Siggy haven't entertained for years!

Mother went to school with Siggy in Switzerland, you know." "No, I didn't know." "Siggy's family had more brains than influence, Mother says. They were all scientists and architects. And it was rather a coup when Siggy married a rich American. Georgie had hair in those days, according to Mother." "How did the Taits make their money?" Qwilleran asked.

"In a rather quaint and charming way. Georgie's grandfather made a mint — an absolute mint — manufacturing buggy whips. But Mother says Georgie himself has never had a taste for business. Monkey business, perhaps, but nothing that you can put in the bank." "Tait was devoted to his jade collection," said Qwilleran. "I felt very bad about the theft." "That," said Orax loftily, "is what happens when you hire cheap help. When Father was alive, he always insisted on English butlers and Irish maids. My family had money at one time. Now we get by on our connections. And I have a little shop on River Street that helps to keep the wolf from the door." "I'd like to call on you some day," said Qwilleran. "I'm in the market for story material." "Frankly, I doubt whether your readers are quite ready for me," said the decorator. "I specialize in Planned Ugliness, and the idea is rather advanced for the average taste. But do come! You might find it entertaining." "By the way, who is this Jacques Boulanger I keep hearing about?" "Boulanger?" The Orax eyebrows elevated a trifle higher. "He does work for the Duxburies, the Pennimans, and all the other old families in Muggy Swamp." "He must be good." "In our business," said the decorator, "success is not always an indication of excellence…. Bless you! You have no drink! May I get you something from the bar?" It was not the bar that interested Qwilleran. It was the buffet. It was laden with caviar, shrimp, a rarebit in a chafing dish, marinated mushrooms, stuffed artichoke hearts, and savory meatballs in a dill sauce. As he loaded his plate for the third time, he glanced into the kitchen and saw the large stainless-steel warming oven of a professional caterer. A smiling Oriental caught his eye and nodded encouragement, and Qwilleran signaled a compliment in the man's direction.