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Somewhat dazed, I said, “Thank you, sir. You have been having trouble with your eyes?”

“No, but I broke my glasses a couple weeks ago,” Mr. Plotkin jabbered on. “Found Dr. Boardman, my oculist, away on vacation. So I dug up an old pair lying around here and like an idiot thought I could make do with glasses prescribed twenty-odd years ago! Result: severe eyestrain and the optical illusion of seeing the birds. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must call Dr. Boardman. Phone’s in the bedroom.”

Off to the bedroom scurried Mr. Plotkin. I made a more moderate scurry to take possession of the twenty-dollar bill. Replacing the nothingness in my wallet with the respectable sum of twenty smackers, a distinction said wallet seldom enjoyed, I thought I might as well eager-beaver a final small chore for old Plotkin. In deference to his acrophobia.

So I crossed the room, got up on the soda, reached for the prints above it. Some quick hocus-pocus and the Dreadnaught now proudly sailed nowhere in the Number One position, with the sleigh scene back in Number Two. There, everybody happy!

I brushed dust off my hands, turned to step down from the couch, and did another double-take. Dust? From handling framed prints cleaned by Mrs. Yurka just this morning? I swung back to the wall. Yes, each print bore a clearly visible film of dust. A new, dramatic development, and one that completely negated my original theory.

Suspicion of skulduggery now suggested another theory. The prints couldn’t have changed positions if someone hadn’t fiddled with them. But not for cleaning purposes. Why else, then? Obviously, there was need for a barren wall — to concoct the spectacle of painted birds above the sofa.

Which, of course, next focused my attention on the wall itself. Almost immediately I saw a series of tiny holes, spaced an inch apart, running completely around the edge of the wall. Thumbtacks must have made those holes. And then I spotted a lone ivory-colored thumbtack near the lower-right corner. A small fragment of something seemed to be trapped, beneath it. On closer examination I was able to identify it as a Bit of transparent plastic.

Well! I released the breath I was holding, got down off the couch. Bernie, old boy, I thought, this is a sinister business. Put it through the good old analytical deducer. There’s Mr. Plotkin. A bit of a nut, to begin with. Also a timid, easily scared little guy with a bum ticker. Phantom Painter knows that. So P.P. sneaks in here, removes the prints, tacks on. a sheet of plastic bearing caricatures of venomous-looking birds. Then he hides somewhere, and waits. Hoping Mr. Plotkin will walk in, recoil in horror at the sight of the birds, and collapse with a fatal heart attack.

However, old Plotkin’s bum ticker survives the initial shock. Only palpitations, which quiet down when he escapes into the fresh air. Disappointed but undaunted, Phantom. Painter plays his more subtle ace in the hole. Removes the plastic sheets, hangs the prints back on the wall, and skid-doodles out of the apartment: When Mr. Plotkin returns, no birds above the sofa! Naturally, he decides he’s gone mad. Rather than face a life in a padded cell, he cuts his throat. With his Samurai sword.

Yes, sir, a truly diabolical scheme, and one that would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for me, plus the fact that the Phantom Painter had made the error of replacing the prints in the wrong order.

With Mr. Plotkin still yakking on the phone, I looked around for a likely place where the Phantom Painter might have lurked in waiting. In case he left some clue there. One possibility suggested itself when I saw, beyond the open door of the bathroom, the circular hood of an old-fashioned shower curtain draping into the tub. Anyone hiding inside the shower curtain, peering through the entry slit, would have clear vision of the entrance door and much of the living room.

I went into the bathroom, separated the slit in the curtain, looked down. Jackpot! There were scuff marks and at least one clearly visible imprint of a heel on the otherwise immaculate bottom of the tub. The Phantom Painter’s hiding place. And, of course, the final, conclusive evidence I needed.

Brother, there was lots of frenzied activity up in the cerebral region as I returned to the living room. I mean, I was going round and round. Especially when I realized that I now had still another terrific problem challenging me. Dared I risk alerting a man with a bad heart — who’d already suffered a severe shock — that evil forces were conspiring to drive him to madness and suicide?

If I threw that at him, old Plotkin might well give up the ghost. And there I’d be, standing over a corpse, eligible for an effusive thank-you note from the would-be killer. Possibly, even criminally liable somehow. A situation of utmost delicacy.

As I brooded how I might cope with it, Mr. Plotkin emerged from the bedroom. He looked almost chipper now, the zombie-grayness gone, a pinkish glow even in his oversized ears. Living example, I thought that ignorance can be bliss.

“Dr. Boardman will see me right away,” he reported. “Thanks again, Halper. And now I must run along.”

I mumbled, “Yes, of course,” and trailed him to the door. With an inner voice pounding, You just can’t let him go that way, Bernie — a man’s life and sanity are in jeopardy. The Phantom Painter will strike again. Old Plotkin must be warned. In a subtle manner. Think, Bernie.

An idea came along as we were descending the stairs and I said, “Mr. Plotkin, are you fond of detective stories?”

“I enjoy one now and then,” he answered. “Why?”

“Oh, it has occurred to me,” I went on casually, “that your experience might have the makings of a mystery story. Suppose — just as a literary exercise, mind you — suppose someone who knows you’ve a heart condition dreams up a gimmick that tricks you into thinking you see painted birds above the sofa. An enemy of yours?”

Mr. Plotkin smiled and said, “An amusing idea, Halper. But I’m afraid I can’t qualify as your potential victim. One, there’s nothing wrong with my heart. Two, I’ve no enemies.” He lifted his arm and yelled, “Taxi!”

The cruising cab swung to the curb. Mr. Plotkin got in, waved a cheery farewell. And off he went, leaving a baffled, frustrated character on the sidewalk. Yours truly. I knock my brains out to unearth a fiendish plot and, seemingly, there’s no reason for it. Total absence of motive.

It called for agonizing reappraisal. Which I tried as I walked on. Nearing Sheridan Square I paused in front of an art supplies shop, my attention attracted by a few paintings in the window. And then it occurred to me: could the Phantom Painter be a Greenwich Village artist? A local product? So I went on in, to face a frowsy old babe knitting a canary-colored scarf.

“Good afternoon, Ma’m,” I said. “Would you, perchance, be doing business with — or know socially — an artist who paints on plastic tropical birds called toucans?”

“Perchance I do,” she answered without even interrupting the click of her needles. “Emil Yurka. Basement studio on Cornelia Street. What about him?”

I pretended a coughing spell to conceal the fact that this double-barreled jackpot had almost sent me sailing out my shoes. A Mrs. Yurka was Plotkin’s cleaning woman! Presently, regaining control, I explained, “Oh, a fellow student in my art class claimed he saw a wall thus decorated in a private home. Intrigued, I thought I’d check.”

“Yes, it might have been one of Yurka’s poor man’s murals,” she said. “Stretched plastic. No need to prepare the wall. Transparency supposed to give you choice of background colors. If you want my frank opinion, I think it’s damn foolishness.”