The Cat Who Saw Red

16

Qwilleran skipped breakfast Wednesday morning. He made a cup of instant coffee in his apartment and got an early start on the column about the Friendly Fatties. Koko was sitting on the desk, trying to help, rubbing his jaw on the button that changed margins, getting his tail caught in the cylinder when Qwilleran triple-spaced.

"At the Friendly Fatties' weekly dinner," the man was typing, "the Fun is more fun than the Food."

There was a knock at his door, and he found Robert Maus standing there, his round-shouldered posture looking less like a gracious bow and more like a haggard droop.

"May I violate the privacy of your sanctum sanctorum?" asked the attorney. "I have a matter of some moment, as it were, to discuss with you."

"Sure. Come in. I hear you've had an unscheduled trip out of the country. You look weary."

"Weary I am, but not, I must admit, as a result of the unexpected detour in my itinerary. The fact of the matter is . . . that I returned to find a situation resembling mild. . . chaos."

"Will you have a chair?"

"Thank you. Thank you indeed."

The cats were regarding the visitor solemnly from the dining table, where they sat at attention, shoulder to shoulder and motionless.

"It is safe to assume," said the attorney, "that these are the two celebrated feline gastronomes."

"Yes, the big one is Koko, and the other is Yum Yum. When did you get back?"

"Late last evening, only to be confronted by a series of complications, which I will endeavor to enumerate, if I may. Whereas, three hundred persons' have been invited to the opening of the pottery exhibition, and we are without a houseboy. Whereas, Mrs. Marron is suffering from allergic rhinitis. Whereas, the tennis club, our immediate neighbor to the west, has made a formal complaint about the issue of smoke from our chimneys. Whereas, the senior partner of Teahandle, Hansblow, Burris, Maus and Castle informs me that a major client has severed connections with our firm as a result of your column in yesterday's press."

"I'm sorry if — "

"The blame does not lie with you. However. . . permit me one more whereas. The esteemed Miss Roop has tendered a bill of complaint alleging scandalous conduct on the premises. . . One moment, I beg of you," Maus said when Qwilleran tried to interrupt. "It is well known to us all that the lady in question is a — you might say — bluenose. But it behooves us to humor the plaintiff for reasons best known to — "

"Never mind the preamble," Qwilleran said. "What's she objecting to?"

Maus cleared his throat and began: "To wit, one female tenant observed entering Number Six at a late hour en neglige. To wit, a second female tenant observed leaving Number Six at a late hour in a flagrant state of inebriation."

Qwilleran blew into his mustache. "I hope you don't think I'm going to dignify that gossip with an explanation."

"Explanations are neither requested nor expected — far from it," said Maus. "Let me, however, state my position. The firm with which I have the honor to be associated is of an extremely conservative bent. In the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and thirteen, a member of the firm was ousted from that august body — then known as Tea- handle, Teahandle and Whitbread — for the simple misdemeanor of drinking three cups of punch at a garden party. I find it imperative, therefore, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety in this house. Any hint of unconventional conduct, if it reached the ears of my colleagues, would embarrass the firm, to state it mildly, and would, in all probability, relieve me of my partnership. The mere fact that I am the proprietor of what is unfortunately called a boardinghouse. . . places me on the brink of . . . disgrace."

"It's my guess," said Qwilleran, "that there's more unconventional conduct in Maus Haus than you realize."

"Spare me the details at the moment. When the exigencies of this day have abated, I shall — "

The telephone rang. "Excuse me," said Qwilleran. He went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Yes. . . Yes, what can I do for you? . . . Overdrawn! What do you mean?" He opened a desk drawer and brought out his check- book, tucking the receiver between shoulder and ear while he found his current balance. "Seventeen-fifty! That's the wrong figure. I wrote a check for seven-fifty! Seven hundred and fifty dollars. . . I can't believe it.

What's the endorsement? . . . I see. . . Are both signatures quite legible? . . . To be authentic, the last name in the first endorsement should look like G-w-w-w . . . Well, then, it's a forgery. And somebody has tampered with the amount of the check. . . Thanks for calling me. I can track it down at this end. . . No, I don't think there'll be any problem. I'll get back to you."

Qwilleran turned to his visitor, but the attorney had slipped out, closing the door. The newsman sat down and studied his next move with circumspection.

At four o'clock that afternoon the Great Hall was flooded with diffused light from the skylight three stories overhead. It fell on the jewellike objects exhibited on pedestals in the center of the floor. In this dramatic light the Living Glaze was brilliant, magnetic, even hypnotic. Elsewhere in the hall the graceful shapes of Joy's thrown pots, bowls, vases, jars, and pitchers in subtle speckled grays and gray-greens, rough and smooth at the same time, like half-melted ice. Also on display were the brutal, primitive shapes of Dan's earlier slab pots in blackish browns and slate blues, decorated with globs of clay like burnt biscuits.

Under the balconies on both sides of the hall were long tables loaded with ice buckets, rented champagne glasses, and trays of hors d'oeuvres. The waiters were hurriedly enlisted students from the an school, awkward in white coats with sleeves too long or too short.

Qwilleran wandered through the hall and recognized the usual vernissage crowd: museum curators looking scholarly and aloof; gallery directors reserving their opinions; collectors gossiping among themselves; an teachers explaining the pots to one another; miscellaneous artists and craftsmen enjoying the free champagne; Jack Smith, the Fluxion an critic, looking like an undertaker with chronic gastritis; and one little old lady reporter from the Morning Rampage writing down what everyone was wearing.

And then there was Dan Graham, looking as seedy as ever, making a great show of modesty but bursting with vanity, his eyes eagerly fishing for compliments and his brow furrowing with concern whenever anyone asked him about Mrs. Graham.

"Helluva shame," he would say. "She's been working like a dog, and the little old gal was ready to crack up, so I sent her to Florida for some R-and-R. I don't want her to get sick. I don't want to lose her."

Qwilleran said to Graham, "The pottery racket must be booming, if you can afford a bash like this."

Dan gave a twisted smile. "Just got a swell commission from a restaurant in L.A., with a sizable advance, so I went out on a limb for the bubble-water. Maus kicked in the snick-snacks." He jerked his head at the refreshment table, where Mrs. Marron, red-nosed and sniffling, was replenishing the supply of crab puffs, ham fritters, cheese croquettes, cucumber sandwiches, stuffed mushrooms, tiny sausage rolls, and miniature shrimp quiches.

Then Qwilleran sought out Jack Smith. "What do you think of Dan's Living Glaze?"

"I hardly know what to say. He's done the impossible," said the critic, with an expression like cold marble. "How does he get that effect? How does he get that superb red? I saw some of his pots in a group show last winter, and I said they had the character and vitality of sewer crocks. He didn't like that, but it was true. He's come a long way since then. The merit, of course, is all in the glaze. In form they're appallingly pedestrian. Those slab pots! Made with a rolling pin. . . If only they had put his glaze on her pots: I'm going to suggest that in my review."

A young girl in owlish glasses was staring at Qwilleran, and he walked in her direction.

"Was it all right for me to come here, Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked shyly. "You told me to wait forty-eight hours."

"Any word from William?" She shook her head sadly.

"Did you check the bank account?"

"It hasn't been touched, except that the bank added twenty-six cents interest."

"Then you'd better notify the police. And try not to worry. Here, let me get you something to eat or drink. "

"No, thanks. I don't feel like it. I think I'll go home."

Qwilleran escorted her to the door and told her where to catch the River Road bus.

Returning, and wandering among the crowd, he was surprised to see the Penniman brothers. Tweedledurn and Tweedledee, as they were called by irreverent citizens, seldom attended anything below the status-level of a French Post-Impressionist show.

While the other guests accorded them the deference that their wealth and name warranted, the brothers stood quietly listening, neither smoking nor drinking, and wearing the baffled expression that was their normal look at art functions. They represented the money, not the brains, behind the Morning Rampage, Qwilleran had been told.

He edged into the circle surrounding them and deftly maneuvered them away from the fund-raisers, job-seekers, and apple-polishers by a method known only to veteran reporters. "How do you like the show?" he asked.

Basil Penniman, the one with a cast in his left eye, looked at his brother Bayley.

"Interesting," said Bayley, at length.

"Have you ever seen a glaze like that?"

It was Bayley's turn to toss the conversational ball to Basil, whom he regarded inquiringly.

"Very interesting," said Basil.

"This is not for publication, is it?" asked Bayley, suddenly on guard.

"No, an isn't my beat anymore," said Qwilleran. "I just happen to live here. Wasn't it your father who built the place?"

The brothers nodded cautiously.

"This old building must have some fascinating secrets to tell," Qwilleran ventured. There was no reply, but he observed a faint stirring of reaction. "Before Mrs. Graham left town, she lent me some documents dealing with the early days of the pottery. I haven't read them yet, but I imagine they might make good story material. Our readers enjoy anything of a historical nature, especially if there's human interest involved."

Basil looked at Bayley in alarm.

Bayley turned pink. "You can't print anything without permission."

"Mrs. Graham promised the papers to us," said Basil.

"They're family property," his brother echoed.

"We can take legal action to get them."

"Say, what's in those papers?" Qwilleran asked in a bantering tone. "It must be pretty hot stuff! Maybe it's a better story than I thought."

"You print that," said Bayley, his flush deepening to crimson, "and we'll — we'll — "

"Sue," Basil contributed hesitantly.

"We'll sue the Fluxion. That's yellow journalism, that's what it is!" Bayley was now quite purple.

Basil touched his brother's arm. "Be careful. You know what the doctor told you."

"Sorry if I alarmed you," Qwilleran said. "It was all in jest."

"Come," said Basil to Bayley, and they left the hall quickly.

Qwilleran was preening his mustache with wicked satisfaction when he spotted a tall, gaunt, gray-haired woman moving across the hall with halting step. "Inga Berry!" he exclaimed. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."

"Why, I was expecting a much younger man," she said. "Your voice on the phone had so much enthusiasm and — innocence, if you'll pardon the expression."

"Thank you, I think," he replied. "May I get you some champagne?"

"Why not? We'll take a quick look at the dirty old pots and then sit down somewhere and have a nice chat. . . Oh, my! Oh my!" She had caught sight of the Living Glaze. She walked as quickly as she could toward the radiant display, leaning on her furled umbrella. "This is — this is better than I expected!"

"Do you approve?"

"They make me feel like going home and smashing all my own work." She drank her champagne rather fast. "One criticism: It's a shame to waste this magnificent glaze on rolled clay."

"That's what our critic said."

"He's right — for once in his life. You can tell him I said so." She stopped and started across the hall. "Is that Charlotte Roop? Haven't seen her for forty years. Everybody ages but me."

"How about another glass of champagne?"

Miss Berry looked around critically. "Is that all they've got?"

"I have some scotch and bourbon in Number Six, if you'd care to come up," Qwilleran suggested.

"Hot dog!"

"I know you potters have to drink because of the dust."

"You scalawag!" She poked him with the umbrella. "Where did you hear that? You know too much."

She ascended the stairs slowly, favoring one knee, and when the door of Number Six was thrown open, she entered as if in a dream. "My, this brings back memories. Oh, the parties we used to give here! We were devils! . . . Hello, cats. . . Now where's this secret window you told me about?"

Qwilleran uncovered the peephole, and Miss Berry squinted through it.

"Yes," she nodded. "Penniman probably had this window cut for surveillance."

"What would he be spying on?"

"It's a long story." She sat down, groaning a little. "Arthritis," she explained. "Thank God it's in my nether joints. If it happened to my hands, I'd cut my throat. A potter's hands are his fortune. His finest tool is his thumb. . . Thank you. You're a gentleman and a scholar." She accepted a glass of bourbon. "My, this was a busy place in the old days. The pottery was humming. We had easel painters in the studios, and one weaver, and a metalsmith. Penniman had a favorite — a beautiful girl but a mediocre potter. Then along came a young sculptor, and he and the girl fell in love. He was as handsome as the dickens. They tried to keep their affair a secret, but Papa Penniman found out, and soon after that. . . well, they found the young man's body in the river. . . I'm telling you this because you're not like those other reporters. It's all ancient history now. You must be a new boy in town."

Qwilleran nodded. "Do you think his drowning was an accident, or suicide, or murder?"

Miss Berry hesitated. "The official verdict was suicide, but some of us — you won't write anything about this, will you? — some of us had our suspicions. When the reporters started hounding us, we all played dumb. We knew which side our bread was buttered on!"

"You suspected. . . Popsie?"

Miss Berry looked startled. "Popsie! How did you — ? Well, never mind. The poor girl jumped in the river soon after. She was pregnant."

"You should have done something about it."

The potter shrugged. "What could we do? Old Mr. Penniman was a wealthy man. His money did a lot of good for the city. And we had no proof. . . He's dead now. Charlotte Roop — that woman I saw downstairs — was his secretary at the time of the drownings. She used to come to our parties, but she was a fifth wheel. We were a wild bunch. The kids today think they've invented free love, but they should have been around when we were young! My, it's nice to be seventy-five and done with all that nonsense. . . Hello, cats," she said again.

The cats were staring at her from their blue cushion — Koko as if he understood every word, and Yum Yum as if she had never seen a human before.

Qwilleran asked, "Why did Charlotte Roop hang around, if she didn't fit in?" He was casually lighting his pipe.

"Well, the gossips said she had a crush on her boss, and she was jealous of his beautiful paramour." Miss Berry lowered her voice. "We always thought it was Charlotte who tattled to Penniman about the affair that was going on behind his back."

"What gave you that impression?"

"Just putting two and two together. After the tragedy, Charlotte had a nervous collapse and quit her job. I lost track of her then. And if somebody didn't tip him off, why would Penniman have cut that peephole in the wall?" She leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward the newsman. "It was just before the tragedy that Penniman commissioned Herb Stock to paint that Egyptian-style mural in the kiln room. Now I can guess why!" Miss Berry sipped her drink and mused about the past. "Penniman was very generous with commissions, but you didn't dare cross him! You couldn't print any of this in your paper, of course."

"Not unless we wanted to start a newspaper war," Qwilleran said. It always amazed him how carelessly people spoke their minds to the press, and how surprised and indignant they were when they found themselves quoted in print.

The telephone rang.

Qwilleran picked up the receiver and said, "Hello? . . . Yes, did Odd Bunsen tell you what we want? . . . You did? Quick work! What did you find? . . . Wine bottles! Anything else? . . . What of broken crockery? . . . All of it?. Wow!. . . . Would you say the broken stuff was once a part of round or square pieces? . . . I see. You've been a great help. How much do I owe you? . . . Well, that's kind of you. Hope it wasn't too cold down there . . . Let me know if I can do anything for you."

Qwilleran offered to take Miss Berry to dinner, but she said she had other plans. As he accompanied her to the door he asked casually, "By the way, what happens if you heat up a kiln too fast?"

"You lose a month's work! The pots explode! It's the most heartbreaking fireworks you ever heard — pop! pop! pop! — one after the other, and it's too late to do anything about it."

Qwilleran was glad Miss Berry had other plans. He wanted to dine alone, to think. First he telephoned Dan Graham's loft and invited the potter in for a drink after dinner. To celebrate, he said. Then he went to Joe Pike's Seafood Hut.

It was a frustrating situation. Qwilleran had all kinds of curious notions that a crime had been committed but no proof — except the forged endorsement on a altered check. Added to the baffling evidence now was the frogman's report. According to his description of the "crockery" found in the river, Dan had dumped a load of broken pots. They were round pots! Joy's work, not his own. And the bright blues and greens described by the diver were the Living Glaze. Even in the muddy water, the diver said, the fragments glowed.

As Qwilleran sipped the green turtle soup, he feared that the situation was hopeless. With the baked clams he began to take heart. Halfway through the red snapper he hit upon an idea, and the salad brought him to a decision. He would take the bold step — a confrontation with Dan — and hope to expose the potter's hand. The manner of approach was the crucial factor. He was sure he could handle it.

Dan arrived at Number Six about nine o'clock, glowing with the day's success. Patting his stomach, he said, "You missed a good supper downstairs. Pork chops and some kind of mashed potatoes. I don't go for the fancy grub that Maus cooks, but the housekeeper can put on an honest-to-gosh feed when she wants to. I'm a meat-and-potatoes man myself. How about you?"

"I can eat anything," Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he rattled ice cubes. "What do you like with your bourbon?"

"Just a little ginger ale." Dan made himself at home in the big chair. "My first wife was a humdinger of a cook."

"You were married before you met Joy?"

"Yep. It didn't work out. But she sure could cook! That woman could make chicken taste like roast beef!"

Qwilleran served Dan his drink, poured ginger ale for himself, and made a cordial toast to the success of the potter's exhibition. Then he looked around for the cats; he always noted their reaction to visitors, and often he was influenced by their attitudes. The cats had retired behind the books on the bookshelf. He could see three inches of tail curling around a volume of English history, but it was not a tail in repose. The tip lifted in regular rhythm, tapping the shelf lightly. It meant Koko was listening. Qwilleran knew the tail belonged to Koko; Yum Yum's tail had a kink in the tip.

After Dan had quoted with relish all the compliments he had received at the champagne party, Qwilleran made a wry face and said, "I don't know whether to believe you or not."

"Whatcha say?"

"Sometimes I think you're the world's champion liar." Qwilleran used his most genial tone. "I think you're pulling my leg half the time."

"What do you mean?" Dan clearly did not know whether to grin or scowl.

"Just for example, you told me you threw the switch when Joy's hair caught in the wheel, and you saved her life. But you know and I know she never used the electric wheel. I think you just wanted to play the big hero. Come on, now. Confess!" Qwilleran's eyes were gently mocking.

"No, you've got me all wrong! Cripes! The kick-wheel was on the blink that night, and she was rushing to finish some pots for the next firing, so she used the power wheel. There's no law against that, is there?"

"And then you told Bunsen and me there were rats in the basement; we all know that Maus had the exterminator in last month. What is this guff you're handing me?"

"Well, I'll tell you," Dan said, relaxing as he came to the conclusion that the newsman was ribbing him. "You fellows were off the track. You were trying too hard to squeeze a story out of that broken-down clay room. The real story was the Living Glaze. Am I right? No use wasting your time on stuff that isn't interesting. I know how valuable your time is. I just wanted to get you into the kiln room, that's all. Can't guy use a little psychology, if you know what I mean?"

Qwilleran concentrated on lighting his pipe, as if it ere his primary concern. "All right" — puff, puff — I'll buy that" — puff, puff — "but how about that cock-and-bull story that Joy is in Miami for" — puff, puff — "rest and relaxation? She hates Florida."

"I know she's always saying that, but dammit, that's where she went. This guy Hamilton is down there. I think she traipsed off to see him. They had a little thing going, you know. Joy's no saint, if you know what I mean."

"Then why didn't you ship her clothes" — puff, puff — "the way she asked? How come you burned them?" Qwilleran examined his pipe critically. There's something wrong with this tobacco." To himself he said, Watch it, Qwill. You're on thin ice.

"So help me, they were some rags she didn't want," an said. "You can burn cloth in a kiln to give the pots a special hazy effect. You can pull all kinds of tricks by controlling the burning gases. . . How did you know, anyway?" Dan's eyes grew steely for a moment.

"You know how reporters are, Dan. We're always looping around. Occupational disease," the newsman explained amiably. "Have some cheese? It's good Roquefort."

"No, I'm stuffed. Man, you nag just like my wife. You're like a dog with a bone."

"Don't let it burn you. I'm playing games, that's alI. Shall I refill your glass?" Qwilleran poured Dan another drink. "Okay, try this on for size: You said you weren't taking a trip, but according to the grapevine you're heading for Paris."

"Well, I'll be jiggered! You're a nosy bugger." Dan scratched his cheek. "I suppose that nutty Hixie's been blabbing. I had to tell her something to get her off my neck. That kid's man-hungry, I'm telling you."

"But are you really planning to leave? I have a friend who might take over the pottery if you're giving it up."

"Just between you and me and the gatepost," the potter said, lowering his voice, "I can't warm up to this neck of the woods. I'd go back to California if I could break my contract with Maus, but I don't want to spill the beans till I know for sure."

"Is that why you broke all those pots and dumped them in the river?"

Dan's mouth fell open. "What?"

"All those blue and green pots. You can see them down there, shining right through the mud. Must be the Living Glaze."

"Oh, those!" Dan took a long swallow of bourbon and ginger ale. "Those were rejects. When I got the notion for the new glaze, I tried it out on some bisque that had sagged in the kiln. Those pots were early experiments. No point in keeping them."

"Why'd you dump them in the river?"

"Are you kidding? To save a little dough, man. The city charges by the bushel for collecting rubbish, and Maus — that old pinch-penny — makes me pay for my own trash removal."

"But why in the middle of the night?"

Dan shrugged. "Day or night, I don't know the difference. Before a show you work twenty-four hours a day. When you're firing, you check the kiln every couple of hours around the clock. . . Say, what are you? Some kind of policeman?"

"Old habit of mine," Qwilleran said; the ice was getting thinner. "When I see something that doesn't add up, I have to check it out. . . such as . . . when I write a check for seven hundred and fifty dollars and someone ups it a thousand dollars." He regarded the potter calmly but steadily.

"What do you mean?"

"That check I gave Joy, so she could take a vacation. You cashed it. You should know what I mean." Qwilleran loosened his tie.

"Sure, I cashed it," Dan said, "but it was made out for seventeen-fifty. Joy left in a hurry, I guess, and forgot to take it with her. She'd forget her head it if wasn't fastened on. She called me from Miami and said she'd left a check for seventeen hundred and fifty dollars in the loft, and I should endorse it for her and wire her half of the money. She told me to use the rest for a big swing-ding for the opening."

"This afternoon you told me the champagne party was financed by the Los Angeles deal."

Dan looked apologetic. "Didn't want you to know she'd handed me half of your dough. Didn't want to rile you up . . . Are you sure you didn't make out that check for seventeen fifty? How could anybody add a thousand bucks to a check?"

"Easy," Qwilleran said. "Put a one in front of the numeral and add teen to the end of the word seven."

"Well, that's what she did, then, because it sure as hell wasn't me. I told you she's no saint. If you'd been married to her for fifteen years, you'd find out." Dan shifted impatiently in his chair. "Jeez! You're an ornery cuss. If I wasn't so good-natured, I'd punch you in the kisser. But just to prove there's no hard feelings, I'm going to give you a present." He pushed himself out of the deep chair. "I'll be right back, and if you want to sweeten my drink while I'm gone, that's okay with me."

That was when Qwilleran felt a tremor of uncertainty. That check he had given Joy — he had written it without his glasses and in a state of emotion. Perhaps he had made a mistake himself. He paced the floor, waiting for Dan's return.

"Koko, what are you hiding for?" he mumbled in the direction of the bookcase. "Get out here and give me some moral support!"

There was no reply, but the length of brown tail that was visible slapped the shelf vehemently.

Shortly Dan returned with two pieces of pottery: a large square urn with a footed base and a small rectangular planter. The large piece was in the rare red glaze.

"Here!" he said, shoving them across the desk. "I appreciate what you're doing for me at the paper. You said you liked red, so the big one's for you. Give the blue one to the photographer. He was a good egg. See that he gets me some copies of the pictures, will you? . . . Well, here — take 'em — don't be bashful."

Qwilleran shook his head. "We can't accept those. They're too valuable." The red pots in the exhibition, he remembered, had been priced in four figures.

"Don't be a stuffed shirt," Dan said. "Take the damn things. I sold all the rest of the Living Glaze; People gobbled them up! I've got a stack of checks that would make you cross-eyed. Don't worry; I'll make up that thousand bucks. Just see that I get some good space in the paper."

Dan left the apartment, and Qwilleran felt his face growing hot. The confrontation had settled none of his doubts. Either he was on the wrong track entirely, or Dan was a fast-talking con man. The potter's seedy appearance was deceiving; he was slick — too slick.

There was a grunt from the bookshelves, and a cat backed into view — first the sleek brown tail, then the dark fawn haunches, the lighter body, and the brown head. Koko gave an electric shudder that combed, brushed, and smoothed his fur in one efficient operation.

"I thought I had everything figured out," Qwilleran said to him, "but now I'm not so sure."

Koko made no comment but jumped from the bookcase to the desk chair and then to the desktop. He paused, warily, before beginning to stalk the red urn. With his body low and his tail stiffened, he approached it with breathless stealth, as if it were a living thing. Cautiously he passed his nose over its surface, his whiskers angling sharply upward. His nose wrinkled, and he bared his teeth. He sniffed again, and a growl came from his throat, starting like a distant moan and ending in a hair-raising screech.

"Both of us can't be wrong," Qwilleran said. "That man is lying about everything, and Joy is dead."