The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

9

It had been a long time since Qwilleran had entertained a woman in his apartment, and he waked Saturday morning with a mild case of stage fright. He swallowed a cup of instant coffee, gnawed on a stale doughnut, and wondered if he should serve Zoe something to eat or drink. Coffee seemed suitable under the circumstances. Coffee and what? Doughnuts would look frivolous; why, he couldn't explain. Cake? Too pretentious. Cookies?

There was a grocery in the neighborhood that specialized in beer, cheap wine, and gummy white bread. Dubiously Qwilleran inspected their packaged cookies, but the ingredients listed in small type (artificial flavoring, emulsifier, glycerine, lecithin and invert syrup) dampened his interest.

He inquired for a bakery and walked six blocks through February slush to a shop where the merchandise appeared edible. Vetoing petit fours (too fancy) and oatmeal cookies (too hearty), he settled on chocolate chip cookies and bought two pounds.

There was an old-fashioned percolator in his kitchenette, but how it operated was a mystery to him. Zoe would have to accept instant coffee. He wondered if she used sugar and cream. Back he went to the grocery store for a pound of sugar, a half pint of coffee cream, and some paper napkins. By that time it was noon, and a reluctant February sun began slanting into the apartment, exposing dust on the tables, lint on the rug, and cat hair on the sofa. Qwilleran dusted with paper napkins, then hurried upstairs to Mountclemens' apartment to hunt for a vacuum cleaner. He found one in a broom closet in the kitchen.

One o'clock came, and he was ready — except for cigarettes. He had forgotten cigarettes. He rushed out to the drugstore and bought something long, mild, and unfiltered. After debating about the filter, he decided Zoe was not one to compromise.

At one-thirty he lighted the gas logs in the fireplace and sat down to wait.

Zoe arrived promptly at four. Qwilleran saw a lovely woman in a soft brown fur coat step from a taxi, look up and down the street, and hurry up to the portico. He was there to meet her.

"Thank you so much for letting me come," she said in a low-pitched, breathless voice. "Butchy has been watching me like a hawk, and I had to sneak out of the house I shouldn't complain. At a time like this you need a friend like Butchy." She dropped her brown alligator handbag. "I'm sorry. I'm very much upset."

"Just take it easy," said Qwilleran, "and gather yourself together. Would a cup of coffee feel good?"

"I'd better not have coffee," she said. "It makes me nervous, and I'm jumpy enough as it is." She gave Qwilleran her coat and took a seat in a straight, backed pull-up chair, crossing her knees attractively. "Do you mind if we close the door?"

"Not at all, although there's no one else in the house."

"I had an uneasy feeling I was being followed. I took a cab to the Arcade Building, then walked through and picked up another one at the other entrance. Do you think they might have someone following me? The police, I mean."

"I don't see why they should. What gave you that idea?"

"They came to the house yesterday. Two of them. Two detectives. They were perfect gentlemen, but some of their questions were upsetting, as if they were trying to trap me. Do you suppose they suspect me?"

"Not really, but they have to cover every possibility."

"Butchy was there, of course, and she was quite antagonistic toward the detectives. It didn't look good at all. She's so protective, you know. All together, it was a terrible experience."

"What did they say when they left?"

"They thanked me for my cooperation and said they might want to talk to me again. After that I telephoned you — while Butchy was down in the basement. I didn't want her to know."

"Why not?"

"Well… because she's so sure she can handle every' thing herself in this — this crisis. And also because of what I'm going to tell you…. You don't suppose the police would be watching my movements, do you? Maybe I shouldn't have come here."

"Why shouldn't you come here, Mrs. Lambreth? I'm a friend of the family. I'm professionally connected with the art field. And I'm going to help you with details concerning the gallery. How does that sound?"

She smiled bleakly. "I'm beginning to feel like a criminal. One has to be so careful in talking to the police. If you use the wrong word or put the wrong inflection in your voice, they pounce on it."

"Well, now," said Qwilleran in his most soothing way, "put that episode out of your mind and relax. Wouldn't you like a more comfortable chair?"

"This is fine. I have a better command of myself when I sit up straight."

She was wearing a pale blue dress of fuzzy wool that made her look soft and fragile. Qwilleran tried not to stare at the provocative indentation just below her kneecap.

He said, "I find this a very comfortable apartment. My landlord has a knack for furnishing a place. How did you know I was staying here?"

"Oh… things get around in art circles."

"Apparently you've been to this house before."

"Mountclemens had us to dinner once or twice."

"You must know him better than most artists do."

"We've been fairly friendly. I did several studies of his cat. Did you notify him — about the —?"

"I haven't been able to find out where he stays in New York. Do you know his hotel?"

"It's near The Museum of Modem Art, but I can't remember the name." She was twisting the handle of her handbag that lay on her lap.

Qwilleran brought a plate from the kitchenette. "Would you care for some cookies?"

"No, thanks. I have to — count — calories — " Her voice trailed away.

He sensed her preoccupation and said, "Now what is it that you want to tell me?" With the other half of his mind he was taking Zoe's measurements and wondering why she worried about calories.

"I don't know how to begin."

"How about a cigarette? I'm forgetting my manners."

"I gave them up a few months ago."

"Mind if I light my pipe?"

Abruptly Zoe said, "I didn't tell the police everything."

"No?"

"It may have been wrong, but I couldn't bring myself to answer some of their questions."

"What kind of questions?"

"They asked if Earl had any enemies. How could I point a finger at someone and say he was an enemy? What would happen if I started naming people allover the city? Acquaintances… fellow club members… important people. I think that was a terrible thing to ask, don't you?"

"It was a necessary question. In fact," said Qwilleran, in a kind but firm way, "I'm going to ask you the same question. Did he have any enemies?"

"I'm afraid so. A lot of people disliked him…. Mr. Qwilleran, it's all right to talk confidentially to you, isn't it? I must confide in someone. I'm sure you're not one of those sneaky reporters who would —»

"Those characters are only in the movies," he assured her. His attitude was all sympathy and interest.

Zoe sighed heavily and began. "There's a lot of competition and jealousy in the art field. I don't know why it should be."

"That's true in all fields."

"It's worse among artists. Believe me!"

"Could you be more specific?"

"Well… the gallery directors, for example. The other galleries in town felt that Earl was luring their best artists away from them."

"Was he?"

Zoe bristled slightly. "Naturally, the artists wanted to be represented by the foremost gallery. As a result, Earl showed better work, and the Lambreth exhibitions got better reviews.

"And the jealousy increased."

Zoe nodded. "Besides, Earl often had to reject the work of second-rate artists, and that didn't win him,any friends! It made him a villain. An artist's ego is a precious thing. People like Cal Halapay and Franz Buchwalter — or Mrs. Buchwalter, to be exact — did a lot of talking about my husband at the club, and it wasn't nice. That's why Earl would never go to the Turp and Chisel."

"So far," said Qwilleran, "you've mentioned only out siders who were unfriendly. Was there anyone within the organization who didn't get along with your husband?"

Zoe hesitated. She looked apologetic. "Nobody really warmed up to him. He had an aloof manner. It was only a facade, but few people understood that."

"There's the possibility that the crime was committed by someone who had a key to the gallery or was willingly admitted to the premises."

"That's what Butchy said."

"Did anyone but you have a key?"

"N-no," said Zoe, groping in the depths of her hand, bag.

Qwilleran said, "Can I get you something?"

"Maybe I'll have a glass of water — with some ice. It's rather warm —»

He turned down the flame in the fireplace and brought Zoe a drink of ice water. "Tell me about your friend Butchy. I understand she's a sculptor."

"Yes. Welded metal," Zoe said in a bleak voice.

"You mean she uses a torch and all that? It might make a story. Lady welders are always good for some space — with a photograph of sparks flying."

Zoe nodded slowly as she considered the idea. "Yes, I wish you would write something about Butchy. It would do her a lot of good — psychologically. Not long ago she lost a $50,000 commission, and it was a damaging set, back. You see, she teaches at Penniman School, and the commission would have enhanced her prestige."

"How did she lose out?"

"Butchy was being considered to do the outdoor sculpture for a new shopping center. Then suddenly the com, mission was awarded to Ben Riggs, who shows at the Lambreth Gallery."

"Was the switch justified?"

"Oh, yes. Riggs is a much better artist. He works in clay and casts in bronze. But it was a blow to Butchy. I'd like to do something to help her. Would you write her up for the paper?"

"She's a good friend of yours?" Qwilleran was comparing the soft, attractive Zoe with the mannish character who had been guarding her on the night of the murder.

"Yes and no. We grew up together and went to art school at the same time, and Butchy was my best friend when we were both at the tomboy age. But Butchy never outgrew that stage. She was always big and husky for a girl, and she bluffed it off by acting boyish. I feel sorry for Butchy. We don't have much in common anymore — except old times."

"How did she happen to be at your house Wednesday night?"

"She was the only one I could think to call. After finding Earl and notifying the police, I was in a daze. I didn't know what to do. I needed someone, and so I called Butchy. She came right away and drove me home and said she'd stay with me for a few days. Now I can't get rid of her."

"How come?"

"She enjoys being my protector. She needs to feel needed. Butchy doesn't have many friends, and she has an annoying way of clutching at the few she has."

"What did your husband think of her?"

"He didn't like her at all. Earl wanted me to drop Butchy, but it's hard to break off with someone you've known all your life — especially when your paths are crossing all the time…. I don't know why I'm telling you these personal details. I must be boring you."

"Not at all. You're —»

"I needed to talk to someone who's disinterested and sympathetic. You're very easy to talk to. Is that typical of newspapermen?"

"We're good listeners."

"I feel much better now, thanks to you." Zoe leaned back in her chair and was silent, and a tenderness crept into her face.

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache with the stem of his pipe and beamed inwardly. He said, "I'm glad I could —»

"Are you looking for material for your column?" Zoe interrupted, the radiance of her expression seeming inappropriate for the question.

"Of course, I'm always —»

"I'd like to tell you about Nino." She pronounced the name "Nine-oh."

"Who's Nino?" said Qwilleran, camouflaging a mild disappointment with a brisk tone.

"He's a Thingist. Some people call him a junk sculptor. He makes meaningful constructions out of junk and calls them Things."

"I saw them at the gallery. One was a piece of sewer pipe stuck with bicycle spokes."

Zoe gave him a luminous smile. "That's 'Thing #17. Isn't it eloquent? It affirms life while repudiating the pseudo-world around us. Weren't you gripped by its rebellious tensions?"

"To tell you the truth… no," said Qwilleran, a trifle peevishly. "It looked like a piece of sewer pipe and some bicycle spokes."

Zoe gave him a sweet look in which reproach mingled with pity. "Your eye isn't tuned to contemporary expression as yet, but you'll develop appreciation in time."

Qwilleran squirmed and scowled down at his moustache.

Enthusiastically Zoe went on. "Nino is my prot‚g‚, more or less. I discovered him. This city has some talented artists, but I can honestly say that Nino has more than talent. He has genius. You should visit his studio." She leaned forward eagerly. "Would you like to meet Nino? I'm sure he'd make good material for a story."

"What's his full name?"

"Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Three," she said. "Or maybe it's Five. I can never remember the last digit. We call him Nino for short."

"You mean he has a number instead of a name?"

"Nino is a disaffiliate," she explained. "He doesn't subscribe to the conventions of ordinary society."

"He wears a beard, of course."

"Yes, he does. How did you know? He even speaks a language of his own, but we don't expect conformity of a genius, do we? Using a number instead of a name is part of his Protest. I think only his mother and the Social Security people know his real name."

Qwilleran stared at her. "Where does this character hang out?"

"He lives and works in an alley garage at Twelfth and Somers, behind an iron foundry. His studio may shock you."

"I don't think I shock easily."

"I mean you may be disturbed by his collection of Found Objects."

"Junk?"

"It isn't all junk. He has a few very fine things. Heaven knows where he gets them. But mostly it's junk — beautiful junk. Nino's talent for alley-picking amounts to a divine gift. If you go to see him, try to understand the nature of his artistic vision. He sees beauty where others see only trash and filth."

Qwilleran studied Zoe with fascination — her quiet animation, her obvious conviction. He didn't understand what she was talking about, but he enjoyed being under her spell.

"I think you'll like Nino," she went on. "He is elemental and real — and sad, in a way. Or perhaps you and I are the sad ones, conducting ourselves according to a prescribed pattern. It's like following the steps of a dance composed by a dictatorial dancing master. The dance of life should be created from moment to moment with individuality and spontaneity."

Qwilleran roused himself from a rapt stare and said, "May I ask you a personal question? Why do you paint such incomprehensible things when you have the ability to make real pictures of real things?"

Zoe gazed at him sweetly again. "You are so na‹ve, Mr. Qwilleran, but you are honest, and that is refreshing. Real pictures of real things can be done by a camera. I paint in the exploratory spirit of today. We don't have all the answers and we know it. Sometimes I'm bewildered by my own creations, but they are my artistic response to life as I see it today. True art is always an expression of its time."

"I see." He wanted to be convinced, but he wasn't sure that Zoe had succeeded.

"Someday we must discuss this subject at great length." There was an unaccountable yearning in her expression.

"I'd enjoy that," he said softly.

A self-conscious silence loomed between them. Qwilleran breached it by offering her a cigarette.

"I've given them up," she reminded him.

"Cookie? They're chocolate chip."

"No, thanks." She sighed.

He pointed to the Monet over the fireplace. "What do you think of that? It came with the apartment."

"If it were a good one, Mountclemens wouldn't squander it on a tenant," she said with an abrupt edge to her voice, and her quick change of mood astonished Qwilleran.

"But it has a nice frame," he said. "Who makes the frames at the Lambreth Gallery?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. People have remarked about their fine workmanship." It was a lie but the kina of lie that always elicited confidences.

"Oh… Well, I might as well tell you. It was Earl. He made all the frames himself, although he never wanted it known. It would have destroyed the prestige image of the gallery."

"He was a hard worker — making frames, keeping the books, tending shop."

"Yes. The last time I saw him alive he was complaining about the work load."

"Why didn't he hire help?"

Zoe shrugged and shook her head.

It was an unsatisfactory answer, but Qwilleran let it pass. He said, "Have you remembered anything that might help the investigation? Anything your husband said when you were there before five-thirty?"

"Nothing of any importance. Earl showed me some graphics that — had just come in, and I told him — " She stopped abruptly. "Yes, there was a phone call —»

"Anything unusual about that?"

"I wasn't listening particularly, but there was something Earl said — now I can remember it — that doesn't make sense. It was about the station wagon."

"Did your husband have a wagon?"

"Every dealer has to have one. I hate them."

"What did he say about the wagon?"

"I wasn't paying too much attention, but I heard something about putting paintings in the station wagon for delivery. Earl said the wagon was in the alley; in fact, he repeated it rather emphatically. That's why it comes to mind…. I didn't think of it at the time, but now it seems strange."

"Why does it strike you as strange?"

"Our car was at the repair shop, having a tune-up. It's still there. I never picked it up. Earl had dropped it off at the.garage that morning. And yet he was insisting — on the telephone — that it was in the alley, as if the other party was giving him an argument."

"Do you know who was on the line?" Qwilleran asked.

"No. It sounded like long distance. You know how people shout when it's long distance. Even when it's a perfectly good connection they think they have to pitch their voices higher."

"Maybe your husband was telling a little white lie — for business reasons.

"I don't know."

"Or maybe he was referring to some other dealer's station wagon."

"I really don't know."

"You didn't see anything parked in the alley?"

"No. I went in the front door and left the same way. And when I went back at seven o'clock, there was no car of any kind in the alley. Do you think the phone call has any bearing on what happened?"

"It wouldn't hurt to tell the police about it. Try to remember as much as you can." Zoe lapsed into a reverie.

"By the way," Qwilleran said, "does Mountclemens have a car?"

"No," she murmured.

Qwilleran took a long time to refill his pipe, tapping it noisily on the ashtray. As if in answer to his signal, there was a prolonged, desolate wail outside the apartment door.

"That's Koko," said Qwilleran. "He objects to being excluded. Mind if he comes in?"

"Oh, I adore Kao K'o Kung!"

Qwilleran opened the door, and the cat — after his usual reconnaissance — walked in, his tail moving from side to side in graceful arabesques. He had been sleeping and had not yet limbered his muscles. Now he arched his back in a taut curve, after which he extended two forward legs in a luxurious stretch. He concluded by making a long leg to the rear.

Zoe said, "He limbers up like a dancer."

"You want to see him dance?" said Qwilleran. He folded a piece of paper and tied it to a string. In anticipation Koko took a few small steps to the left and a few to the right, then rose on his hind feet as the bauble started to swing. He was all grace and rhythm, dancing on his pointes, leaping, executing incredible acrobatic feats in midair, landing lightly, and leaping again, higher than before.

Zoe said, "I've never seen him perform like that. Such elevation! He's a real Nijinsky."

"Mountclemens stresses intellectual pursuits," Qwilleran said, "and this cat has spent too much time on the bookshelves. I hope to broaden his range of interests. He needs more athletics."

"I'd like to make some sketches." She dived into her handbag. "He does a grand battement just like a ballet dancer."

A ballet dancer. A ballet dancer. The words brought a picture to Qwilleran's mind: a cluttered office, a painting hung crookedly on the wall. The second time he had seen that office, over a patrolman's shoulder, there was a body on the floor. And where was the painting? Qwilleran could not remember seeing the ballet dancer.

He said to Zoe, "There was a painting of a ballet dancer at the Lambreth Gallery —»

"Earl's famous Ghirotto," she said as she sketched rapidly on a pad. "It was only half of the original canvas, you know. It was his one great ambition to find the other half. It would have made him rich, he thought."

Qwilleran was alerted. "How rich?"

"If the two halves were joined and properly restored, the painting would probably be worth $150,000."

The newsman blew astonishment through his moustache.

"There's a monkey on the other half, she said, "Ghirotto painted ballerinas or monkeys during his celebrated Vibrato period, but only once did he paint both dancer and monkey in the same composition. It was a unique piece — a collector's dream. After the war it was shipped to a New York dealer and damaged in transit — ripped down the middle. Because of the way the picture was composed, the importer was able to frame the two halves and sell them separately. Earl bought the half with the dancer and hoped to trace the half with the monkey."

Qwilleran said. "Do you suppose the owner of the monkey has been trying to trace the ballet dancer?"

"Could be. Earl's half is the valuable one; it has the artist's signature." As she talked, her pencil skimmed over the paper, and her glance darted between sketch pad and performing cat.

"Did many people know about the Ghirotto?"

"Oh, it was quite a conversation piece. Several people wanted to buy the ballerina — just on speculation. Earl could have sold it and made a nice little profit, but he was holding out for his dream of $150,000. He never gave up hope of finding the monkey."

Qwilleran proceeded circumspectly. "Did you see the ballerina on the night of the crime?"

Zoe laid down her pencil and pad. "I'm afraid I didn't see much of anything — that night."

"I was there, snooping around," Qwilleran said, "and I'm pretty sure the painting was gone."

"Gone!"

"It had been hanging over the desk on my previous visit, and now I remember — the night the police were there — that wall was vacant."

"What should I do?"

"Better tell the police. It looks as if the painting's been stolen. Tell them about the phone call, too. When you get home, call the Homicide Bureau. Do you remember the detectives' names? Hames and Wojcik."

Zoe clapped both hands to her face in dismay. "Honestly, I had forgotten all about that Ghirotto!"