The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

8

When Qwilleran and Odd Bunsen drove away from the Lambreth house, they shivered in silence until the heater in Odd's car gave out the first promising puff.

Then Odd said, "The Lambreths seem to be doing all right at that art racket. Wish I could live like that. I'll bet that sofa was worth a thousand bucks. Who was that big bruiser?"

"Butchy Bolton. Teaches sculpture at Penniman School of Fine Art."

"She really thought she was running the show. Enjoying it, too."

Qwilleran agreed. "Butchy didn't strike me as being exactly grief-stricken over the loss of Earl Lambreth. I wonder where she fits into the picture. Friend of the family, I suppose."

"If you ask me," said Odd, "I don't think that doll Zoe was taking it too hard, either."

"She's a calm, intelligent woman," Qwilleran. said, "even if she is a doll. She's not the type to collapse."

"If my wife ever finds me lying in a pool of blood, I want her to collapse and collapse good! I don't want her running home and fixing her lipstick and putting on a sharp outfit to receive callers. Imagine a dame not remembering whether she telephoned her husband or not, and not remembering whether the gallery door was locked!"

"It was the shock. It leaves blanks in the memory. She'll remember tomorrow — or the next day. What did you think of the portrait she painted of her husband?"

"Perfect! He's a cold fish. I couldn't have taken a photograph that was any better."

Qwilleran said, "I used to think these modern artists painted drips and blots because they couldn't draw, but now I'm not so sure. Zoe is really talented."

"If she's so talented, why does she waste her time painting that modern garbage?"

"Probably because it sells. By the way, I'd like to meet out police reporter."

"Lodge Kendall? Haven't you met him yet? He's over at the Press Club just about every day for lunch."

"I'd like to have a talk with him."

"Want me to line it up for tomorrow?" Odd said.

"Okay…. Where are you headed now?"

"Back to the Lab."

"If it isn't out of your way, would you drop me at my apartment?"

"No sweat."

Qwilleran looked at his wristwatch in the glow from the instrument panel. "It's ten-thirty!" he said. "And I forgot to feed the cat."

"A-hah! A-hah!" said Odd. "I told you Monty wanted you for a cat-sitter." A few minutes later, when he turned the car into Blenheim Place, he said, "Doesn't this neighborhood scare the hell out of you? The characters you see on the streets!"

"They don't bother me," said Qwilleran.

"You wouldn't get me to live here! I'm a coward."

A folded newspaper lay on the porch of No. 26. Qwilleran picked it up, unlocked the front door, and closed it quickly behind him, glad to get in out of the cold. He rattled the door handle to make sure it was locked again — as Mountclemens had warned him to do.

Using a second key, he unlocked the inner vestibule door. And that's when he recoiled in black fright!

Out of the dark came a wild scream. Qwilleran's mind went blank. The hairs of his moustache stood on end. His heart pounded. Instinctively he gripped the newspaper like a club.

Then he realized the source of the scream. Koko was waiting for him. Koko was scolding him. Koko was hungry. Koko was furious.

Qwilleran leaned against the doorjamb and gasped. He loosened his tie.

"Never do that again!" he told the cat.

Koko was sitting on the table that was supported by golden lions, and he retorted with a torrent of abuse.

"All right! All right!" Qwilleran yelled at him. "I apologize. I forgot, that's all. Important business downtown."

Koko continued his tirade.

"Wait till I take my coat off, will you?"

Once Qwilleran started upstairs, the tumult ceased. The cat bounded ahead and led him into Mountclemens' apartment, which was in darkness. Qwilleran groped for a light switch. This delay irritated Koko, who commenced another vocal demonstration. Now the piercing cries had gravel-throated undertones signifying menace.

"I'm coming. I'm coming," said Qwilleran, following the cat down the long narrow hall to the kitchen. Koko led him directly to the refrigerator, where there was a chunk of beef waiting in a glass tray. It looked like a whole tenderloin.

Qwilleran put the meat on a built-in butcher's block and hunted for a sharp knife.

"Where does he keep his knives?" he said, pulling open one drawer after another.

Koko leaped lightly to the adjoining counter and nosed a knife rack, where five handsome blades hung point downward on a magnetized bar.

"Thanks," said Qwilleran. He started to carve the beef, marveling at the quality of the cutlery. Real chef's knives. They made meat-cutting a pleasure. How did Mountclemens say to cut the beef? The size of a kidney bean or the size of a navy bean? And how about the broth? He said to warm it in broth. Where was the broth?

The cat was sitting on the counter, supervising every move with what appeared to be an impatient scowl.

Qwilleran said, "How about eating it raw, old man? Since it's so late —»

Koko gargled a low note in his throat, which Qwilleran assumed was acquiescence. In a cupboard he found a plate — white porcelain with a wide gold band. He arranged the meat on it — attractively, he thought — and placed it on the floor alongside a ceramic water bowl decorated with the word «cat» in three languages.

Koko jumped to the floor with a grunt, walked to the plate, and examined the beef. Then he looked up at Qwilleran with incredulity displayed in the tilt of his ears.

"Go ahead. Eat," said Qwilleran. "Enjoy it in good health."

Koko lowered his head once more. He sniffed. He touched the beef with his paw and gave a perceptible shudder. He shook his paw fastidiously and walked away, his tail pointed stiffly toward the North Star.

Later, after Qwilleran had found some thin gravy in the refrigerator and prepared the meal properly, Kao K'o Kung consented to dine.

The newsman related the experience at the Press Club the following noon when he had lunch with Arch Riker and Lodge Kendall.

"But this morning I acquitted myself admirably," said Qwilleran. "Koko got me up at six, thirty by yelling outside my door, and I went up and prepared breakfast to his satisfaction. I think he's going to let me keep the job until Mountclemens comes home."

The police reporter was young, tense, earnest, literal, and unsmiling. He said, "Do you mean to say you let a cat boss you around?"

"Actually, I feel sorry for him. Poor little rich cat! Nothing but tenderloin and p?te de la maison. I wish I could catch him a mouse."

Arch explained to Kendall, "You see, this is a Siamese, descended from an Egyptian god. It not only communicates and runs the show; it reads newspaper headlines. A cat that can read is obviously superior to a newspaperman who can't catch mice."

Qwilleran said, "He flies, too. When he wants to get to the top of a seven-foot bookcase, he just puts his ears back and zooms up like a jet. No wings. He's got some kind of aerodynamic principle that ordinary cats don't have."

Kendall regarded the two older men with wonder and suspicion.

"After Koko got me up at six-thirty," said Qwilleran, "I started thinking about the Lambreth murder. Any developments, Lodge?"

"Nothing released this morning."

"Have they reached any conclusions about the vandalism?"

"Not that I've heard."

"Well, I observed something last night that looks interesting. All four items that were damaged were portrayals of the female figure, more or less unclothed. Did the police notice that?"

"I don't know," said the police reporter. "I'll mention it at Headquarters."

"It isn't easy to spot. The stuff is pretty abstract, and a casual glance wouldn't tell anything."

"Then the vandal must have been someone who digs modem art," said Kendall. "Some kind of nut who hated his mother."

"That narrows it down," said Arch. Qwilleran was in his element — on the fringe of the police beat where he had learned the newspaper craft. His face had a glow. Even his moustache looked happy.

Three corned beef sandwiches came to the table with a plastic squeeze bottle, and the newsmen concentrated on applying mustard, each in his fashion: Arch squirting it on the rye bread in concentric circles, Kendall limning a precise zigzag, and Qwilleran squeezing out a reckless abstraction.

After a while Kendall said to him, "Know much about Lambreth?"

"I just met him once. He was sort of a stuffed shirt."

"Was the gallery successful?"

"Hard to say. It was sumptuously furnished, but that doesn't prove anything. Some of the paintings were priced in five figures, although I wouldn't give you five cents for them. I imagine investors were buying this kind of art; that's why Lambreth set up shop in the financial district."

"Maybe some sucker thought he'd been taken and got into a fatal argument with the dealer."

"That doesn't fit in with the nature of the vandalism." Arch said, "Do you think the choice of weapon indicates anything?"

…"It was a chisel from the workbench," said Kendall.

"Either the killer seized on that in a moment of passion, or he knew in advance it would be there for the purpose.

"Who was employed in the workroom?"

"I don't think anyone was employed," said Qwilleran. "I suspect Lambreth made the frames himself-in spite of the fancy front he put on for customers. When I was there, I noticed definite evidence of work in progress — but no workman. And when I asked who made the frames, he gave me an evasive answer. Then I noticed that his hands were grimy — you know, stained and battered as if he did manual labor."

"Then maybe the gallery wasn't too successful, and he was cutting comers."

"On the other hand, he was living in a good neighborhood, and his house appeared to be furnished expensively.

Kendall said, "I wonder if Lambreth admitted the killer to the premises after hours. Or did the killer let himself in the back way — with a key?"

"I'm sure it was someone Lambreth knew," Qwilleran said, "and I think the evidence of a struggle was rigged after the murder."

"How do you figure that?"

"From the position of the body. Lambreth seemed to have gone down between his swivel chair and his desk, as if he had been sitting there when the murderer took him by surprise. He wouldn't engage in a brawl and then go and sit at his desk, waiting to be polished off."

"Well, let the police solve it," said Arch. "We've got work to do."

As the men left the lunch table, the bartender beckoned to Qwilleran. "I read about the Lambreth murder," he said and paused significantly before adding, "I know that gallery."

"You do? What do you know about it?"

"Lambreth was a crook."

"What makes you think so?"

Bruno gave a hasty glance up and down the bar. "I know a lot of painters and sculptors, and anyone of them can tell you how Lambreth operated. He'd sell something for $800 and give the artist a measly $150."

"You think one of your pals wiped him out?"

Bruno was suitably indignant. "I wasn't saying anything like that. I just thought you'd like to know what kind of a guy he was."

"Well, thanks."

"And his wife isn't much better." "What do you mean by that?"

The bartender picked up a towel and wiped the bar where it didn't need wiping. "Everybody knows she's been playing around. You've got to hand it to her, though. She tiddley-winks where it'll do the most good."

"Like where?"

"Like upstairs over where you live. I understand it's quite a cozy apartment up there." Bruno stopped wiping the bar and gave Qwilleran a significant look. "She goes up there to paint the cat!"

Qwilleran shrugged a no-comment and started to leave.

Bruno called him back. "Something else, too, Mr. Qwilleran," he said. "I heard about some funny business at the museum. There's a valuable art object missing, and they're hushing it up."

"Why would they hush it up?"

"Who knows? A lot of funny things go on at that place."

"What's missing?"

" A dagger — from the Florentine Room! This friend of mine — he's a guard at the museum — he discovered the dagger was missing and reported it, but nobody wants to do anything about it. I thought it might be a scoop for you.

"Thanks. I'll look into it," said Qwilleran. Some of his best tips had come from Press Club bartenders. Also some of the worst.

On the way out of the building he stopped in the lobby where the ladies of the press were running a benefit sale of secondhand books. For a half, dollar he picked up a copy of Keeping Your Pet Happy. He also bought A Study of Crests and Troughs in American Business from 1800 to 1850 for a dime.

Back at the office he telephoned the Lambreth home.

Butchy answered and said no, Zoe couldn't come to the phone… yes, she had managed to get some sleep… no, there was nothing Qwilleran could do.

He finished his afternoon's work and went home with his coat collar turned up against the snow that had started to fall. He thought he would feed the cat, go out and grab a hamburger somewhere, and then wander over to the art museum to look at the Florentine Room. It was Thursday, and the museum was open late.

When he arrived at No. 26, shaking the snow from his shoulders and stamping his feet, he found Koko waiting for him. The cat greeted him in the front hall — not with a noisy bill of complaints this time but an appreciative squeak. The way his whiskers tilted upward gave him a pleasant look of expectancy. The newsman felt flattered.

"Hello, old fellow," he said. "Did you have an eventful day?"

From Koko's noncommittal murmur, Qwilleran decided the cat's day had been somewhat less interesting than his own. He started upstairs to carve the tenderloin — or whatever one called the cut of beef that Mountclemens supplied for catfood — and noted that Koko did not bound ahead of him. Instead the cat was dogging his heels and getting between his ankles as he climbed the stairs.

"What are you trying to do? Trip me?" Qwilleran said. He prepared the beef according to official instructions, placed the dish on the floor, and sat down to watch Koko eat. He was beginning to appreciate the fine points of Siamese design — the elegant proportions of the body, the undulating muscles beneath the fine coat, and the exquisite shading of the fur from off-white to pale fawn to the darkest of velvety browns. Qwilleran decided it was the finest shade of brown he had ever seen.

To his surprise, the cat showed no interest in food. He wanted to rub ankles and utter plaintive high-pitched mews.

"What's the matter with you?" said Qwilleran. "You're a hard one to figure out."

The cat looked up with a beseeching expression in his blue eyes, purred loudly, and raised one paw to Qwilleran's knee.

"Koko, I'll bet you're lonesome. You're used to having someone. around all day. Are you feeling neglected?"

He lifted the willing bundle of warm fur to his shoulder, and Koko purred in his ear with a rasping undertone that denoted extreme satisfaction.

"I think I'll stay home tonight," Qwilleran told the cat. "Weather's bad. Snow's getting deep. Left my rubbers at the office.

Scrounging for something to eat, he helped himself to a slice of Koko's p?t‚ de la maison. It was the best meat loaf he had ever tasted. Koko sensed that this was a party and began to race from one end of the apartment to the other. He seemed to be flying low over the carpet, his feet moving but never touching the floor — up over the desk in a single leap, then from chair to bookshelf to table to another chair to cabinet top — all with bewildering speed. Qwilleran began to realize why there were no table lamps in the apartment.

He too wandered around — at a more leisurely rate. He opened a door in the long narrow hall and found a bedroom with a four-poster bed that had red velvet side curtains and a canopy. In the bathroom he found a green flask labeled Essence of Lime; he took a sniff and recognized the scent. In the living room he strolled with his hands in his pants pockets, enjoying a close inspection of Mountclemens' treasures; engraved brass labels on the picture frames said Hals, Gauguin, Eakins.

So this was a love nest, according to Bruno. Qwilleran had to agree it was well equipped for the purpose: dim lights, soft music, candles, wine, big loungy chairs — everything to induce a mellow mood.

And now Earl Lambreth was dead! Qwilleran blew through his moustache as he considered the possibilities. It was not difficult to visualize Mountclemens as a wife, stealer. The critic had a suave charm that would appeal to any woman he chose to impress — and an authority that would never take no for an answer. Wife-stealer, yes. Murderer, no. Mountclemens was too elegant, too fastidious for that.

Eventually Qwilleran returned to his own apartment, followed by a genial Koko. For the cat's amusement, Qwilleran tied a wad of folded paper to a length of string and dangled it. At nine o'clock the final edition of the Daily Fluxion was delivered, and Koko perused the head, lines. When the newsman finally settled down in an easy chair with a book, the cat took possession of his lap, the silky fur testifying to a state of contentment. It was with apparent reluctance that Koko took leave at mid, night and went upstairs to his cushion on top of the refrigerator.

Qwilleran described his evening of cat-sitting the next day when he stopped at Arch Riker's desk to pick up his paycheck.

Arch said, "How are you hitting it off with the critic's cat?"

"Koko was lonesome last night, so I stayed home and entertained him. We played Sparrow."

"Is this some parlor game I'm not familiar with?"

"It's something we invented — like tennis, with one player and no net," said Qwilleran. "I make a sparrow out of paper and tie it to a piece of string. Then I swing it back and forth while Koko bats it with his paw. He's got a substantial backhand, I want you to know. Every time he connects, he gets one point. If he strikes and misses, that's a point for me. Twenty-one points is game. I'm keeping a running score. After five games last night it was Koko 108 and Qwilleran 92."

"I'm betting on the cat all the way," said Arch. He reached for a sheet of pink paper. "I know that cat consumes a lot of your time, attention, and physical strength, but I wish you'd give me some action on that Halapay profile. Another pink memo came up this morning."

"I'll be all set as soon as I have one more meeting with Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran.

Returning to his desk, he called Sandy and suggested lunch the following Wednesday.

"Let's make it for dinner," she suggested. "Cal is in Denmark, and I'm all alone. I'd love to go to dinner where there's a dance band. You're such a wonderful dancer." Her laughter left the sincerity of her compliment in doubt.

Be Nice to People said the slogan on his telephone, and he replied, "Sandy, I'd enjoy that very much — but not next week. I'll be working nights." The telephone said nothing about lying to people. "Let's just have lunch on Wednesday and discuss your husband's charities and civic activities. They've given me a firm deadline on this profile."

"All right," she said. "I'll pick you up, and we'll drive out somewhere. We'll have scads to talk about. I want to hear all about the Lambreth murder."

"I'm afraid I don't know much about it."

"Why, I think it's all perfectly obvious."

"What's obvious?"

"That it's a family affair." Weighted pause. "You know what was going on, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"Well, I wouldn't want to discuss it on the phone," she said. "See you Wednesday at noon."

Qwilleran spent the morning finishing up odds and ends. He wrote a short humorous piece about a local graphics artist who had switched to watercolors after dropping a hundred-pound lithograph stone on his foot. Then he did an inspirational story about a prizewinning textile weaver who was also a high-school math teacher, author of two published novels, licensed pilot, cellist, and mother of ten. Next he considered the talented poodle who paw-painted pictures. The poodle was having a show at the humane society shelter.

Just as Qwilleran was visualizing the headline (One-Dog Exhibition of Poodle Doodles), the telephone on the desk rang. He answered, and a low, breathy voice gave him a ripple of pleasure.

"This is Zoe Lambreth, Mr. Qwilleran. I must speak softly. Can you hear me?"

"Yes. Is anything wrong?"

"I need to talk with you — in person — if you can spare the time. Not here. Downtown."

"Would the Press Club be all right?"

"Is there some place more private? I'd like to talk confidentially."

"Would you mind coming to my apartment?"

"That would be better. You live in Mountclemens' building, don't you?"

"No. 26 Blenheim Place."

"I know where it is."

"How about tomorrow afternoon? Take a taxi. It isn't a nice neighborhood."

"Tomorrow. Thank you so much. I need your advice. I must hang up now."

There was an abrupt click, and the voice was gone. Qwilleran's moustache virtually danced. Widow of Slain Art Dealer Reveals Story to Flux Reporter.