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4

The first issue of Gracious Abodes went to press too smoothly. Arch Riker said it was a bad omen. There were no ad cancellations, the copy dummied in perfectly, cutlines spaced out evenly, and the proofs were so clean it was eerie.

The magazine reached the public Saturday night, sandwiched between several pounds of Sunday paper. On the cover was an exclusive Muggy Swamp residence in bright Parsley Green and Mushroom White. The editorial pages were liberally layered with advertisements for mattresses and automatic washers. And on page two was a picture of the Gracious Abodes editor with drooping moustache and expressionless eyes — the mug shot from his police press card.

On Sunday morning David Lyke telephoned Qwilleran at his apartment. "You did a beautiful job of writing," said the decorator in his chesty voice, "and thanks for the overstuffed credit line. But where did they get that picture of you? It makes you look like a basset hound." For the newsman it was a gratifying day, with friends calling constantly to offer congratulations. Later it rained, but he went out and bought himself a good dinner at a seafood restaurant, and in the evening he beat the cat at the word game, 20 to 4. Koko clawed up easy catchwords like block and blood, police and politely It was almost as if the cat had a premonition; by Monday morning Gracious Abodes was involved with the law.

The telephone jolted Qwilleran awake at an early hour. He groped for his wristwatch on the bedside table. The hands, after he had blinked enough to see them, said six thirty. With sleep in his bones he shuffled stiffly to the desk.

"Hello?" he said dryly.

"Qwill! This is Harold!" There was a chilling urgency in the managing editor's voice that paralyzed Qwilleran's vocal cords for a moment. "Is this Qwilleran?" shouted the editor.

The newsman made a squeaking reply. "Speaking." "Have you heard the news? Did they call you?" The editor's words had the sound of calamity.

"No! What's wrong?" Qwilleran was awake now.

"The police just phoned me here at home. Our cover story — the Tait house — it's been burglarized!" "What!… What did they get?" "Jade! A half million dollars' worth, at a rough guess. And that's not the worst. Mrs. Tait is dead…. Qwill! Are you there? Did you hear me?" "I heard you," Qwilleran said in a hollow voice, as he lowered himself slowly into a chair. "I can't believe it." "It's a tragedy per se, and our involvement makes it even worse." "Murder?" "No, thank God! It wasn't quite as bad as that. Apparently she had a heart attack." "She was a sick woman. I suppose she heard the intruders, and — " "The police want to talk to you and Odd Bunsen as soon as possible," said the editor. "They want to get your fingerprints." "They want our fingerprints? They want to question us?" "Just routine. They said it will help them sort out the prints they find in the house. When were you there to take pictures?" "Monday. Just a week ago." Then Qwilleran said what they were both thinking. "The publicity isn't going to do the magazine any good." "It could ruin it! What have you got lined up for next Sunday?" "An old stable converted into a home. It belongs to a used-car dealer who likes to see his name in the paper. I've found a lot of good houses, but the owners don't want us to use their names and addresses — for one reason or another." "And now they've got another reason," said the editor. "And a damn good one!" Qwilleran slowly hung up and gazed into space, weighing the bad news. There had been no interference from Koko during this particular telephone conversation. The cat was huddled under the dresser, watching the newsman intently, as if he sensed the gravity of the situation.

Qwilleran alerted Bunsen at his home in Happy View Woods, and within two hours the two newsmen were at Police Headquarters, telling their stories.

One of the detectives said, "What's your newspaper trying to do? Publish blueprints for burglary?" The newsmen told how they had gone about photographing the interior of the house in Muggy Swamp and how Tait had produced a key and supervised the opening of the jade cases. The told how he had wanted the rarest items to be photographed.

"Who else was there when you were taking pictures?" "Tait's decorator, David Lyke… and the houseboy, Paolo… and I caught a glimpse of a servant in the kitchen," said Qwilleran.

"Did you have any contact with the houseboy?" "Oh, sure," said Bunsen. "He worked with me for three hours, helping with the lights and moving furniture. A good kid! I slipped him a couple of bucks." After the brief interrogation Qwilleran asked the detectives some prying questions, which they ignored. It was not his beat, and they knew it.

On the way out of Headquarters, Bunsen said: "Glad that's over! For a while I was afraid they suspected us." "Our profession is above suspicion," said Qwilleran. "You never hear of a newsman turning to crime. Doctors bludgeon their wives, lawyers shoot their partners, and bankers abscond with the assets. But journalists just go to the Press Club and drown their criminal inclinations. When Qwilleran reached his office, his first move was to telephone the studio of tyke and Starkweather. The rumbling voice of David tyke came quickly on the line.

"Heard the news?" Qwilleran asked in tones of gloom.

"Got it on my car radio, on the way downtown," said Lyke. "It's a rough deal for you people." "But what about Tait? He must be going out of his mind! You know how he feels about those jades!" "You can bet they're heavily insured, and now he can have the fun of collecting allover again." The decorator's lack of sympathy surprised Qwilleran.

"Yes, but losing his wife!" "That was inevitable. Anything could have caused her death at any moment — bad news on the stock market, a gunfight on television! And she was a miserable woman," said Lyke. "She'd been in that wheelchair for years, and all that time she made her husband and everyone else walk a tightrope…. No, don't waste any tears over Mrs. Tait's demise.

You've got enough to worry about. How do you think it will affect Gracious Abodes?" "I'm afraid people will be scared to have their homes published." "Don't worry. I'll see that you get material," Lyke said. "The profession needs a magazine like yours. Why don't you come to my apartment for cocktails this evening? I'll have a few decorators on tap." "Good idea! Where do you live?" "At the Villa Verandah. That's the new apartment house that looks like a bent waffle." Just as Qwilleran hung up, a copyboy threw a newspaper on his desk. It was the Metro edition of the Morning Rampage. The Fluxion's competitor had played up the Tait incident on the front page, and there were pointed references to a detailed description of the jade collection, which appeared in another newspaper on the eve of the burglary." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache vigorously with his knuckles and went to the City Room to see the managing editor, but Percy was in conference with the publisher and the business manager.

Moodily, Qwilleran sat at his desk and stared at his typewriter. He should have been working. He should have been shooting for the next deadline, but something was bothering him. It was the timing of the burglary.

The magazine had been distributed Saturday evening. It was some time during the following night — late Sunday or early Monday — that the burglary occurred. Within a matter of twenty-four short hours, Qwilleran figured, someone had to (a) read the description of the jades and (b) dream up the idea of stealing them and (c) make elaborate preparations for a rather complex maneuver. They had to devise a plan of entering the house without disturbing family or servants, work out a method of silent access to the ingeniously designed glass-covered niches, arrange for fairly careful packing of the loot, provide a means of transporting it from the house, and schedule all this so as to elude the private police. Undoubtedly Muggy Swamp had private police patrolling the community.

There had been very little time for research, Qwilleran reflected. It would require a remarkably efficient organization to carry out the operation successfully… unless the thieves were acquainted with the Tait house or had advance knowledge of the jade story. And if that was the case, had they deliberately timed the burglary to make Gracious Abodes look bad?

As Qwilleran pondered the possibilities, the first edition of the Monday Fluxion came off the presses, and the copyboy whizzed through the Feature Department, tossing a paper on each desk.

The Tait incident was discreetly buried on page four, and it bore an astounding headline. Qwilleran read the six short paragraphs in six gulps. The by-line was Lodge Kendall's; he was the Fluxion's regular man at Police Headquarters.

There was no reference to the Gracious Abodes story. The estimated value of the stolen jades was omitted. And there was an incredible statement from the Police Department. Qwilleran read it with a frown, then grabbed his coat and headed for the Press Club.

The Press Club occupied a soot-covered lime- stone fortress that had once been the county jail. The windows were narrow and barred, and mangy pigeons roosted among the blackened turrets. Inside, the old wood-paneled walls had the lingering aroma of a nineteenth-century penal institution, but the worst feature was the noise. Voices swooped across the domed ceiling, collided with other voices, and bounced back, multiplying into a deafening roar. To the newsmen this was heaven.

Today the cocktail bar on the main floor resounded with discussion and speculation on the happening in Muggy Swamp. Jewel thefts were crimes that civilized newsmen could enjoy with relish and good conscience. They appealed to the intellect, and as a rule nobody got hurt.

Qwilleran found Odd Bunsen at that end of the bar traditionally reserved for Fluxion staffers. He joined him and ordered a double shot of tomato juice on the rocks.

"Did you read it?" he asked the photographer.

"I read it," said Bunsen. "They're nuts." They talked in subdued tones. At the opposite end of the mahogany bar the voices of Morning Rampage staffers suggested undisguised jubilation. Qwilleran glanced with annoyance at the rival crew.

"Who's that guy down there in the light suit — the one with the loud laugh?" he demanded.

"He works in their Circulation Department," Bunsen said. "He played softball against us this summer, and take my word for it — he's a creep." "He irritates me. A woman is dead, and he's crowing about it." "Here comes Kendall," said the photographer. "Let's see what he thinks about the police theory." The police reporter — young, earnest, and happy in his work — was careful to exhibit a professional air of boredom.

Qwilleran beckoned him to the bar, and said, "Do you believe that stuff you wrote this morning?" "As far as the police are concerned," said Kendall, "it's an open-and-shut case. It had nothing to do with your publication of the Tait house. It had to be an inside job. Somebody had to know his way around." "I know," said Qwilleran. "That's what I figured. But I don't like their choice of suspect. I don't believe the houseboy did it." "Then how do you explain his disappearance? If Paolo didn't swing with the jades and take off for Mexico, where is he?" Bunsen said: "Paolo doesn't fit the picture. He was a nice kid — quiet and shy — very anxious to help. He's not the type." "You photographers think you're great judges of character," Kendall said. "Well, you're wrong! According to Tait, the boy was lazy, sly, and deceitful. On several occasions Tait threatened to fire him, but Mrs. Tait always came to Paolo's defense. And because of her physical condition, her husband was afraid to cross her." Bunsen and Qwilleran exchanged incredulous glances, and Kendall wandered away to speak to a group of TV men.

For a while Qwilleran toyed with the jade but- ton that Tait had given him. He kept it in his pocket with his loose change. Finally he said to Bunsen, "I called David Lyke this morning." "How's he taking it?" "He didn't seem vitally upset. He said the jades were insured and Mrs. Tait was a miserable creature who made her husband's life one long hell." "I'll buy that. She was a witch-and-a-half. What did he think about Paolo being mixed up in it?" "At the time I talked to Lyke, that hadn't been announced. " Bruno, the Press Club bartender, was hovering in the vicinity, waiting for the signal.

"No more," Qwilleran told him. "I've got to eat and get back to work." "I saw your magazine yesterday," the bartender said. "It gave me and my wife a lot of decorating ideas. We're looking forward to the next issue." "After what happened in Muggy Swamp, you may never see a next issue," Qwilleran said. "Nobody will want to have his house published." Bruno gave the newsman a patronizing smile. "Maybe I can help you. If you're hard up for material, you can photograph my house. We did it ourselves." "What kind of place have you got?" Qwilleran waited warily for the answer. Bruno was known as the poor man's Leonardo da Vinci. His talents were many, but slender.

"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."


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