The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

11

Monday morning Qwilleran telephoned the director of the Penniman School and asked permission to interview a member of the faculty. The director was pleased. In the man's manner Qwilleran recognized the ringing bells and flashing lights that always accompanied the anticipation of free publicity.

At one o'clock the newsman appeared at the school and was directed to the welding studio — a separate building at the rear, the ivy, covered carriage house of the former Penniman estate. Inside, the studio had a mean look. It bristled with the sharp edges and thorny points of welded metal sculpture; whether the pieces were finished or unfinished, Qwilleran could not tell. Everything seemed designed to puncture flesh and tear clothing. Around the walls were gas cylinders, lengths of rubber hose, and fire extinguishers.

Butchy Bolton, formidable in coveralls and ludicrous in her tightly waved hair, was sitting alone, eating lunch from a paper sack.

"Have a sandwich," she said with a gruffness that failed to conceal her pleasure at being interviewed for the paper. "Ham on rye." She cleared a space on an asbestos, topped workbench, pushing aside wrenches, clamps, pliers, and broken bricks, and she poured Qwilleran a cup of coffee strong as tar.

He ate and drank, although he had lunched well a half hour before. He knew the advantages of chewing during an interview; casual conversation replaced formal questions and answers.

They talked about their favorite restaurants and the best way to bake a ham. From there they went to diets and exercise. That led to oxyacetylene welding. While Qwilleran ate a large red apple, Butchy put on skullcap, goggles, and leather gloves and showed how to puddle a metal bar and lay an even bead.

"The first semester we're lucky if we can teach the kids not to set themselves on fire," she said.

Qwilleran said, "Why do you weld metal instead of carving wood or modeling clay?"

Butchy looked at him fiercely, and it was not clear to Qwilleran whether she was going to hit him with a welding rod or whether she was thinking of a trenchant reply. "You must have been talking to that fellow Mountclemens," she said.

"No. I'm just curious. For my own education I want to know."

Butchy kicked a workbench with one of her high-laced boots. "Off the record, it's faster and cheaper," she said. "But for the paper you can say that it's something that belongs to the twentieth century. We've discovered a new sculptor's tool. Fire!"

"I suppose it appeals mostly to men."

"Nope. Some little bitty girls take the course."

"Was Nino, the junk sculptor, one of your students?"

Butchy looked back over her shoulder as if searching for a place to spit. "He was in my class, but I couldn't teach him anything."

"I understand he's considered somewhat of a genius."

"Some people think he's a genius. I think he's a phony.

How he ever got accepted by Lambreth Gallery is hard to figure."

"Mrs. Lambreth thinks highly of his work."

Butchy exhaled loudly through her nose and said nothing.

"Did Earl Lambreth share her enthusiasm?"

"Maybe so. I don't know. Earl Lambreth was no expert. He just conned a lot of people into thinking he was an expert — if you'll pardon me for slandering the dead."

"From what I hear," said Qwilleran, "quite a few people agree with you."

"Of course they agree with me. I'm right! Earl Lambreth was a phony, like Nino. They made a great pair, trying to outphony each other." She grinned wickedly. "Of course, everybody knows how Lambreth operated."

"How do you mean?"

"No price labels. No catalog — except on big one-man shows. It was part of the so-called prestige image. If a customer liked a piece of art, Lambreth could quote any figure the traffic would bear. And when the artist got his percentage, he had no proof of the actual selling price."

"You think there was some juggling going on?"

"Of course there was. And Lambreth got away with it because most artists are fools. Nino was the only one who accused Lambreth of rooking him. It takes a phony to know a phony."

Smugly, Butchy patted the tight waves on her head. Qwilleran went back to the office and wrote a requisition to the Photo Department for a close-up of a lady welder at work. He also typed a rough draft of the interview — minus references to Lambreth and Nino — and put it aside to ripen. He felt pleased with himself. He felt he was on the trail of something. Next he would visit the art museum to check out the missing Florentine dagger, and after dinner he would attend the Happening. For a Monday, this was turning out to be an interesting day.

The art museum assaulted Qwilleran with its Monday afternoon quiet. In the lobby he picked up a catalog of the Florentine Collection and learned that most of it had been the generous gift of the Duxbury family. Percy Duxbury was museum commissioner. His wife was president of the fundraising group.

At the checkroom, where Qwilleran left his hat and coat, he asked Tom LaBlanc's girl where to find the Florentine Collection.

She pointed dreamily to the far end of the corridor. "But why do you want to waste your time there?"

"I've never seen it, that's why. Is that a good reason?" He used an amiable, bantering tone.

She looked at him through a few strands of long hair that had fallen over one eye. "There's a loan exhibit of Swedish contemporary silver that's much more stimulating."

"Okay. I'll see both."

"You won't have time. The museum closes in an hour," she said. "The Swedish stuff is real cool, and this is the last week it will be here."

For a checkroom attendant she was taking more than routine interest in directing him, Qwilleran thought, and his professional suspicion started wigwagging to him. He went to the Florentine Room.

The Duxbury gift was a hodgepodge of paintings, tapestries, bronze reliefs, marble statues, manuscripts, and small silver and gold objects in glass cases. Some were displayed behind sliding glass doors fitted with tiny, almost invisible locks; others stood on pedestals under glass domes that seemed permanently affixed.

Qwilleran ran his finger down the catalog page and found the item that interested him: a gold dagger, eight inches long, elaborately chased, sixteenth century, attributed to Benvenuto Cellini. In the glass cases — among the salt cellars and chalices and religious statues — it was not to be seen.

Qwilleran went to the director's office and asked for Mr. Farhar. A middle-aged secretary with a timid manner told him that Mr. Farhar was out. Could Mr. Smith be of assistance? Mr. Smith was chief curator.

Smith was sitting at a table covered with small jade objects, one of which he was putting under a magnifying glass. He was a handsome dark-haired man with a sallow skin and eyes that were green like the jade. Qwilleran remembered him as Humbert Humbert, Lolita's escort at the Valentine Ball. The man had a slyness in his eyes, and it was easy to suspect that he might be misbehaving in some unspeakable way. Furthermore, his first name was John: anyone called John Smith would arouse doubts in the most trusting nature.

Qwilleran said to him, "I understand there is a valuable item missing from the Florentine Room."

"Where did you hear that?"

"It was a tip that came to the paper. I don't know its source."

"The rumor is unfounded. I'm sorry you've wasted a trip. If you're looking for story material, however, you could write about this private collection of jade that has just been given to the museum by one of our commissioners."

"Thank you. I'll be glad to do that," said Qwilleran, "but at some future date. Today I'm interested in Florentine art. I'm looking particularly for a chased gold dagger attributed to Cellini, and I can't seem to find it."

Smith made a deprecating gesture. "The catalog is overly optimistic. Very little of Cellini's work has come down to us, but the Duxburys like to think they bought a Cellini, and so we humor them."

"It's the dagger itself I want to see, regardless of who made it," said Qwilleran. "Would you be good enough to come with me and point it out?"

The curator leaned back in his chair and threw his arms up. "All right. Have it your way. The dagger is temporarily misplaced, but we don't want any publicity on it. It might touch off a wave of thefts. Such things happen, you know." He had not offered the newsman a chair.

"How much is it worth?"

"We prefer not to state."

"This is a city museum," said Qwilleran, "and the public has a right to be told about this. It might lead to its recovery. Have you notified the police?"

"If we notified the police and called the newspapers every time some small object happened to be misplaced, we would be a major nuisance."

"When did you first notice it was missing?"

Smith hesitated. "It was reported by one of the guards a week ago."

"And you've done nothing about it?"

"A routine report was placed on Mr. Farhar's desk, but — as you know — he is leaving us and has many other things on his mind."

"What time of day did the guard notice its absence?"

"In the morning when he made his first inventory check."

"How often does he check?"

"Several times a day."

"And was the dagger in the case when he made the previous check?"

"Yes."

"When was that?"

"The evening before, at closing time."

"So it disappeared during the night."

"It would seem so." John Smith was being tight-lipped and reluctant.

"Was there any evidence that someone had broken into the museum or had been locked up in the place all night?"

"None."

Qwilleran was warming up. "In other words, it could have been an inside job. How was it removed from the case? Was the case broken?"

"No. The vitrine had been properly removed and replaced."

"What's a vitrine?"

"The glass dome that protects the objects on a pedestal."

"There were other objects under the same dome, were there?"

"Yes."

"But they were not touched."

"That's right."

"How do you remove one of those domes? I looked at them, and I couldn't figure it out."

"It fits down over the pedestal, secured by a molding attached with concealed screws."

"In other words," said Qwilleran, "you'd have to know the trick in order to get the thing apart. The dagger must have been taken by somebody in the know — after hours, when the museum was closed. Wouldn't you say it looks like an inside job?"

"I dislike your reference to an inside job, Mr. Qwilleran," said the curator. "You newspapermen can be extremely obnoxious, as this museum has discovered — to its sorrow. I forbid you to print anything about this incident without permission from Mr. Farhar."

"You don't tell a newspaper what to print and what not to print," said Qwilleran, keeping his temper in check.

"If this item appears," Smith said, "we will have to conclude that the Daily Fluxion is an irresponsible, sensational press. First, you may be spreading a false alarm. Second, you may encourage an epidemic of thefts. Third, you may impede the recovery of the dagger if it has actually been stolen."

"I'll leave that up to my editor," said Qwilleran. "By the way, do you move up the ladder when Farhar leaves?"

"His successor has not yet been announced," Smith said, and his sallow skin turned the color of parchment.

Qwilleran went to dinner at the Artist and Model, a snug cellar hideaway favored by the culture crowd. The background music was classical, the menu was French, and the walls were hung with works of art. They were totally unviewable in the cultivated gloom of the basement, and even the food — small portions served on brown earthenware — was difficult for the fork to find.

It was an atmosphere for conversation and handholding, rather than eating, and Qwilleran allowed himself a moment of self-pity when he realized he was the only one dining alone. He thought, Better to be at home sharing a slice of meat loaf with Koko and having a fast game of Sparrow. Then he remembered dolefully that Koko had deserted him.

He ordered ragout de boeuf Bordelaise and entertained himself by brooding over the golden dagger. The Smith person had been furtive. He had admittedly lied at the beginning of the interview. Even the girl in the check, room had tried to deter Qwilleran from visiting the Florentine Room. Who was covering up for whom?

If the dagger had been stolen, why had the thief selected this particular memento of Renaissance Italy? Why steal a weapon? Why not a goblet or bowl? It was hardly the kind of trinket that a petty thief could peddle for a meal ticket, and professional jewel thieves — big operators — would have made a bigger haul. Someone had coveted that dagger, Qwilleran told himself, because it was gold, or because it was beautiful.

It was a poetic thought, and Qwilleran blamed it on the romantic mood of the restaurant. Then he let his thoughts drift pleasantly to Zoe. He wondered how long it would be before he could conventionally invite her out to dinner. A widow who didn't believe in funerals and who wore purple silk trousers as mourning attire apparently did not cling to convention.

All around him couples were chattering and laughing. Repeatedly one female voice rose in a trill of laughter.

There was no doubt about that voice. It belonged to Sandy Halapay. She had evidently found a dinner date to amuse her while her husband was in Denmark.

When Qwilleran left the restaurant, he stole a glance at Sandy's table and at the dark head bending toward her. It was John Smith.

Qwilleran plunged his hands in his overcoat pockets and walked the few blocks to Penniman School, his mind flitting from the Cellini dagger to the sly-eyed John Smith — to the conniving Sandy — to Cal Halapay in Denmark — to Tom, the Halapay's surly houseboy — to Tom's girl in the museum checkroom — and back to the dagger.

This mental merry-go-round gave Qwilleran a mild vertigo, and he tried to shake the subject out of his mind. After all, it was none of his business. Neither was the murder of Earl Lambreth. Let the police solve it.

At Penniman School, Qwilleran found other mysteries to confound him. The Happening was a roomful of people, things, sounds, and smells that seemed to have no purpose, no plan, and no point.

The school was lavishly endowed (Mrs. Duxbury had been a Penniman before her marriage), and among its facilities was an impressive sculpture studio. It had been de, scribed in one of Mountclemens' columns as "big as a barn and artistically productive as a haystack." This sculpture studio was the scene of the Happening, to attend which students paid a dollar and the general public paid three. Proceeds were earmarked for the scholarship fund.

When Qwilleran arrived, the vast room was dark except for a number of spotlights that played on the walls. These shafts and puddles of light revealed a north wall of opaque glass and a lofty ceiling spanned by exposed girders. There was also a network of temporary scaffolding overhead.

Below, on the concrete floor, persons of all ages stood in clusters or promenaded among the stacks of huge empty cartons that transformed the room into a maze. These cardboard towers, painted in gaudy colors and piled precariously high, threatened to topple at the slightest instigation.

Other threats dangled from the scaffolding. A sword hung from an invisible thread. There were bunches of green balloons, red apples tied by the stems, and yellow plastic pails filled with nobody-knew-what. A garden hose dribbled in desultory fashion. Suspended in a rope sling was a nude woman with long green hair who sprayed cheap perfume from an insecticide gun. And in the center of the scaffold, presiding over the Happening like an evil god, was "Thing #36" with its spinning eyes. Something had been added, Qwilleran noted; the Thing now wore a crown of doorknobs, Nino's symbol of death.

Soon the whines and bleeps of electronic music filled the room, and the spotlights began to move in coordination with the sound, racing dizzily across the ceiling or lingering on upturned faces.

In one passage of light Qwilleran recognized Mr. and Mrs. Franz Buchwalter, whose normal dress was not unlike the peasant costumes they had worn to the Valentine Ball. The Buchwalters immediately recognized his moustache.

"When does the Happening start?" he asked them.

"It has started," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"You mean this is it? This is all there is?"

"Other things will Happen as the evening progresses," she said.

"What are you supposed to do?"

"You can stand around and let them Happen," she said, "or you can cause things to Happen, depending on your philosophy of life. I shall probably shove some of those cartons around; Franz will just wait until they fall on him."

"I'll just wait until they fall on me," said Franz.

As more people arrived, the crowd was being forced to circulate. Some were passionately serious; some were amused; others were masking discomfiture with bravado.

"What is your opinion of all this?" Qwilleran asked the Buchwalters, as the three of them rambled through the maze.

"We find it an interesting demonstration of creativity and development of a theme," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "The event must have form, movement, a dominant point of interest, variety, unity — all the elements of good design. If you look for these qualities, it adds to the enjoyment."

Franz nodded in agreement. "Adds to the enjoyment."

"The crew is mounting the scaffold," said his wife, "so the Happenings will accelerate now."

In the flashes of half, light provided by the moving spotlights, Qwilleran saw three figures climbing the lad, der. There was the big figure of Butchy Bolton in coveralls, followed by Tom LaBlanc, and then Nino, no less unkempt than before.

"The young man with a beard," said Mrs. Buchwalter, "is a rather successful alumnus of the school, and the other is a student. Miss Bolton you probably know. She teaches here. It was her idea to have that goggle, eyed Thing reigning over the Happening. Frankly, we were surprised, knowing how she feels about junk sculpture. Perhaps she was making a point. People worship junk today."

Qwilleran turned to Franz. "You teach here at Penniman, don't you?"

"Yes, he does," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "He teaches watercolor."

Qwilleran said, "I see you're having a show at the Westside Gallery, Mr. Buchwalter. Is it a success?"

"He's sold almost everything," said the artist's wife, "in spite of that remarkable review by George Bonifield Mountclemens. Your critic was unable to interpret the symbolism of Franz's work. When my husband paints sailboats, he is actually portraying the yearning of the soul to escape, white-winged, into a tomorrow of purest blue. Mountclemens used a clever device to conceal his lack of comprehension. We found it most amusing."

"Most amusing," said the artist. "Then you're not offended by that kind of review?"

"No. The man has his limitations, as we all do. And we understand his problem. We are most sympathetic," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"What problem do you mean?"

"Mountclemens is a frustrated artist. Of course, you know he wears a prosthetic hand — remarkably realistic — actually made by a sculptor in Michigan. It satisfies his vanity, but he is no longer able to paint."

"I didn't know he had been an artist," Qwilleran said.

"How did he lose his hand?"

"No one seems to know. It happened before he came here. Obviously the loss has warped his personality. But we must learn to live with his eccentricities. He is here to stay. Nothing, we understand, could uproot him from that Victorian house of his —»

A series of squeals interrupted Mrs. Buchwalter. The garden hose suspended overhead had suddenly doused a number of spectators.

Qwilleran said, "The Lambreth murder was shocking news. Do you have any theories?"

"We don't allow our minds to dwell on that sort of thing," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"We don't dwell on it," said her husband.

Now laughter filled the studio as the crew released a bale of chicken feathers and an electric fan sent them swirling like snow.

"It seems like good clean fun," Qwilleran commented. He changed his mind a moment later when a noxious wave of hydrogen sulfide was released by the crew.

"It's all symbolic," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "You don't have to agree with the fatalistic premise, but you must admit they are thinking and expressing themselves."

Shots rang out. There were shouts, followed by a small riot among the spectators. The crew on the scaffold had punctured the green balloons, showering favors on the crowd below.

Qwilleran said, "I hope they're not planning to drop that sword of Damocles."

"Nothing really dangerous ever happens at a Happening," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

"No, nothing dangerous," said Mr. Buchwalter.

The crowd was milling about the floor, and the towers of cartons were beginning to topple. A shower of confetti descended from above. Then a volley of rubber balls, dumped from one of the yellow plastic buckets. Then -

"Blood!" shrieked a woman's voice. Qwilleran knew that scream, and he rammed his way through the crowd to reach her side.

Sandy Halapay's face dripped red. Her hands were red. She stood there helplessly while John Smith tenderly dabbed at it with his handkerchief. She was laughing. It was ketchup.

Qwilleran went back to the Buchwalters. "It's getting kind of wild," he said. The crowd had started throwing the rubber balls at the crewmen on the scaffold.

The rubber balls flew through the air, hit the scaffolding, bounced back, ricocheted off innocent skulls, and were thrown again by jeering spectators. The music screeched and blatted. Spotlights swooped in giddy arcs.

"Get the monster!" someone yelled, and a hail of balls pelted the Thing with spinning eyes.

"No!" shouted Nino. "Stop!"

Seen in flashes of light, the Thing rocked on its perch. "Stop!"

Crew members rushed to save it. The planks of the scaffold rattled.

"Look out!"

There was a scream from the girl in the rope sling.

The crowd scattered. The Thing fell with a crash. And with it a body plunged to the concrete floor.