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The young lady with the ravishing face and figure walked into the office carrying a golden tray. On it were delicate teacups, slices of lemon, a golden teapot.

"This is my niece, Verna," said the decorator.

"Hi!" she said to Qwilleran. "Ready for your fix? Lemon or sugar?" There was no trace of a French accent. She was very American and very young, but she poured from the vermeil teapot with aristocratic grace.

Qwilleran said to Baker, "Who did the decorating in Muggy Swamp before you arrived on the scene?" The decorator gave a twisted smile. "Eh bien, it was Lyke and Starkweather." He waited for Qwilleran's reaction, but the newsman was a veteran at hiding reactions behind his ample moustache.

"You mean you walked away with all their customers?" "C'est la vie. Decorating clients are fickle. They are also sheep, especially in Muggy Swamp." Baker was frank, so Qwilleran decided to be blunt. "How come you didn't get the G. Verning Tait account?" The decorator looked at his niece, and she looked at him. Then Jack Baker smiled an ingratiating smile. "There was some strong feeling in the Tait family," he said, speaking carefully. "Pour-tant, David Lyke did a good job. I would never have used that striped wallpaper in the foyer, and the lamps were out of scale, but David tried hard." His expression changed to sorrow, real or feigned. "And now I've lost my best competition. Without competition, where are the kicks in this game?" "I'm thinking of writing a profile on David Lyke," said Qwilleran. "As a competitor of his, could you make a statement?" "Quotable?" asked Baker with a sly look. "How long had you know Lyke?" "From way back. When we were both on the other side of the tracks. Before his name was Lyke." "He changed his name?" "It was unpronounceable and unspellable. Dave decided that Lyke would be more likable." "Did you two get along?" "Tiens! We were buddies in high school — a couple of esthetes in a jungle of seven-foot basketball players and teen-age goons. Secretly I felt superior to Dave because I had parents, and he was an orphan. Then I came out of college and found myself working for him-measuring windows and drilling screwholes in the woodwork so David Lyke could sell $5,000 drapery jobs and get invited to society debuts in Muggy Swamp. While I'd been grinding my brain at school and washing dishes for my keep, he'd been making it on personality and bleached hair and — who knows what else. It rankled, man; it rankled!" Qwilleran puffed on his pipe and looked sympathetic.

"Dites donc, I got my revenge," Baker smiled broadly. "I came back from Paris and walked away with his Muggy Swamp clientele. And to rub it in, I moved into the same building where he lived, but in a more expensive apartment on a higher floor." "You live at the Villa Verandah? So do I." "Sixteenth floor, south." "Fifteenth floor, north." "Alors, we're a couple of status-seekers," said Baker.

Qwilleran had one more question. "As a competitor of David's, and a former friend, and a neighbor, do you have any educated guesses as to the motive for his murder?" The decorator shrugged. "Qui sait? He was a ruthless man — in his private life as well as in business." "I thought he was the most," said Verna. "Vraiment, ch‚rie, he had a beautiful facade, but he'd cut your throat behind your back, as the saying goes." Qwilleran said, "I've never met anyone with more personal magnetism." "Eh bien!" Baker set his jaw, and looked grim. "Well, I'll probably see you around the mausoleum," said the newsman, as he rose to leave.

"Come up to the sixteenth floor and refuel some evening," the decorator said. "My wife's a real swinger in the kitchen." Qwilleran went back to the office to check proofs, and he found a message to see the managing editor at once.

Percy was in a less than genial mood. "Qwill," he said abruptly, "I know you were not enthusiastic about taking the Gracious Abodes assignment, and I think I was wrong in pressing it on you." "What do you mean?" "I'm not blaming you for the succession of mishaps per se, but it does seem that the magazine has been accident- prone." "I didn't like the idea at the beginning," said Qwilleran, "but I'm strong for it now. It's an interesting beat." "That thing last night," said Percy, shaking his head. "That murder! Why does everything happen on your beat?

Sometimes there are psychological reasons for what we call a jinx. Perhaps we should relieve you of the assignment.

Anderson is retiring October first…." "Anderson!" Qwilleran said with undisguised horror! "The church editor?" "Perhaps you could handle church news, and Gracious Abodes could be turned over to the Women's Department, where it belonged in the first place." Qwilleran's moustache reared up. "If you'd let me dig into these crimes, Harold, the way I suggested, I think I could unearth some clues. There are forces working against us! I happen to know, for example, that the Police Widows' Fund got a sizable donation from the owners of the Morning Rampage around the same time the Vice Squad raided the Allison house." Percy looked weary. "They're getting one from us, too. Every September both papers make a donation." "All right, then. Maybe it wasn't a payoff, but I'll bet the timing wasn't accidental. And I suspect a plot — in the Muggy Swamp incident, too." "On what do you base your suspicions?" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "I can't reveal my source at this time, but with further investigation — " The editor slapped his hand on the desk with finality. "Let's leave it the way I've suggested, I Qwill. You put next Sunday's magazine to bed, and then let Fran Unger take over." "Wait! Give me one more week before you make a decision. I promise there'll be a surprising development." "We've had nothing but surprising developments for the last fifteen days." Qwilleran did not reply, and he did not move away from Percy's desk. He just stared the editor in the eye and waited for an affirmative — a trick he had learned from Koko.

"All right. One more week," said the editor. "And let's hope no one plants a bomb in the Press Room." Qwilleran went back to the Feature Department with hope and doubt battling for position. He dialed the Fluxion's extension at Police Headquarters and talked to Lodge Kendall. "Any news on the murder?" "Not a thing," said the police reporter.

"They're going through Lyke's address book. It's an extensive list." "Did they get any interesting fingerprints?" "Not only fingerprints, but pawprints!" "Let me know if anything breaks," Qwilleran said. "Just between you and me, my job may depend on it." At six o'clock, as Qwilleran was leaving for dinner, he ran into Odd Bunsen at the elevator.