The Cat Who Saw Red

8

For Qwilleran the day seemed interminable. He skipped lunch. At noon Rosemary stopped at his door with a ball of yarn; she had been tidying her knitting basket and thought the cats would enjoy some exercise with a ball of yarn. Qwilleran invited her to come in, but she was on her way to work. In the afternoon the sun disappeared behind a bank of gray clouds, and the cold light flooding through the huge studio window drenched the apartment in gloom. The cats felt the chill. Ignoring the yam, they crept behind the books in the bookcase and found a cozier place for their afternoon nap.

Qwilleran was thankful when the time came to leave for the Stilton Hotel. He needed a change of scene and a change of thought, and he was glad, somewhat, that he had invited the babbling Hixie Rice. On the way to the hotel he stopped at the office to open his mail, and a fleeting impulse sent him to the Fluxion library to pick up an old clip file on the River Road pottery. . . the Penniman Pottery, as it was originally known.

He met Hixie in the hotel lobby. It seemed to the newsman that she was exhibiting desperate gaiety with her cherry red suit and shrimp pink hat laden with straw carrots, turnips, and radishes.

"That's a tasty chapeau," Qwilleran remarked.

"Merci, monsieur." She fluttered her double set of I eyelashes. "I'm glad you like it."

"I didn't say that."

"Oh, you're a kidder!" Hixie gave him a playful shove. "I couldn't resist the straw legumes. You know me! . . . Do you speak French?"

"Only enough to keep out of trouble in Paris."

"I'm taking a Berlitz course. Say something in French."

"Camembert, Roquefort, Brie," said Qwilleran.

The annual Choose Cheese celebration was being hosted by the cheese industry in the hotel ballroom. The hundred or more guests, however, were patronizing the free bar and ignoring the long table of assorted cheeses.

"This is a typical press party," Qwilleran explained. "About six of the guests are members of the working press, and nobody knows who the others are or why they were invited."

He smoked his pipe and sampled a Danish cheese made with skim milk. Hixie sipped a Manhattan and sampled the Brie, Camembert, Cheshire, Edam, Gorgonzola, Gouda, Gruyere, Herkimer, Liederkranz, Mozzarella, Muenster, Parmesan, Port du Salut, and Roquefort.

"Is that all you're going to eat, for gosh sake?" she asked.

"I might take a little Roquefort home to Koko," Qwilleran said arid then added, "We had an unexpected visitor today — Miss Roop. I sense that she disapproves of cats. Koko didn't approve of her, either."

"Charlotte disapproves of everything," said Hixie. "Smoking, drinking, gambling, divorce, short skirts, shaggy dog stories, foreigners, motorcycles, movies with unhappy endings, politicians, gum-chewing, novels written after 1910, overtipping of waiters, and sex."

That kind always had a skeleton in the closet, Qwilleran thought. "Has there ever been any romance in her life?" he asked his well-informed companion.

"Who knows? I suspect she was secretly in love with Hash House Hashman. He's been dead for fifteen years, but she still talks about him all the time."

Qwilleran chewed his pipe stem thoughtfully. "Did you ever wonder what happened to Joy Graham's cat?"

Hixie shrugged. "Ran away, I suppose. Got picked up. Got run over by a bus. Fell in the river. Choose one of the above."

"Do you like pets?"

"If they don't cause trouble or tie you down too much. I bought myself a canary, but he seems to be a deaf-mute. That's just my luck. I'm a born loser."

Qwilleran sliced a wedge of Norwegian Gjetost and presented it to her on a cracker. "I suppose you know that Joy has disappeared."

"Yes, I heard she left him." For a moment Hixie's jovial expression changed to one Qwilleran could not identify, but her face quickly brightened again. "Try this Westphalian Sauermilch, mon ami. C'est formidable!"

Qwilleran obliged and remarked that it was a little immature. It had not quite achieved total putrefaction. He was determined, however, not to let her change the subject. "Did you ever see Joy throw a pot on the wheel?" he asked.

"No, but she almost threw a pot at my head once. I accidentally broke a dumb-looking pitcher she'd made, and after that I wasn't exactly welcome in the pottery."

"We've got a colorful tribe at Maus Haus. What kind of guy is Max Sorrel?"

"A confirmed bachelor," Hixie groaned. "His only love affair is with that big fat restaurant . . . Poor Max! He's got the legendary heart of gold, and he doesn't deserve the trouble he's having."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Don't you know? He may lose his restaurant. He's even had to sell his boat! He has — or he did have — a gorgeous thirty-six-foot cruiser that he used to tie up behind Maus Haus."

"What's the problem?"

"You mean you haven't heard the rumors?" Qwilleran scowled and shook his head, professionally humiliated because rumors were circulating and he, a member of the Press Club, was in the dark. "People are saying all kinds of absurd things. Like, Max's head chef has a horrible disease. Like, a customer found something unspeakable in his soup. Sick jokes."

"Sounds like poison tongue campaign."

"It's rotten, because Max runs a meticulously clean restaurant. And yet the rumors have mushroomed, and the customers are staying away in droves."

"I thought the Golden Lamb Chop had a sophisticated clientele. They should know that the Board of Health — "

"Nobody believes the rumors, but cafe society and the gambling crowd won't patronize a spot that's being laughed at. And they've been Max's best customers."

"Does he have any idea how the thing started?"

She shook her head. "He's very well liked allover town. I told him he ought to get one of the papers to print a story about it, so he could deny everything publicly, but he said that would only attract more unwelcome attention. He's hoping it will blow over before he goes completely broke."

"It's slander, " Qwilleran said. "He's got a case if he can find out who's behind it."

"That's what Robert says, but Max can't trace a thing."

Qwilleran had considered inviting Hixie to dinner — even after all the cheese — but he changed his mind. He wanted to go to the Golden Lamb Chop, and he wanted to go alone. Taking her home in a taxi, he sensed her disappointment.

"Do you like baseball?" he asked. "I can get seats in the press box some weekend, if you'd like to go." He was being noble. If his friends in the press box saw him with this overweight, overdressed, overexpressive date, they'd never let him live it down.

"Sure, I like baseball. Especially the hot dogs."

"Any particular team you'd like to see?"

"Whoever's at the bottom of the league. I like to root for the underdog."

When Qwilleran returned to Number Six to give the cats some turkey with a garnish of Roquefort, he was greeted by a scene of incredible beauty. The apartment had been transformed into a work of art. The cats had found Rosemary's ball of gray yarn and had spun a web that enmeshed every article of furniture in the room. They had rolled the ball across the floor, tossed it over chairs, looped it around table legs, carried it up to the desk and around the typewriter and down again to the floor, hooking it in the jaws of the bear before repeating the same basic design with variations. Now the cats sat on the bookcase, as motionless as statuary, contemplating their creation.

Qwilleran had seen string sculpture at the museum that was less artful, and it was a shame to destroy it, but the crisscrossing strands made it impossible to move about the room. He found the end of the yam and rewound it — an athletic performance that took half an hour and burned off an ounce of his avoir-dupois. This time he put the ball of yawn away in the desk drawer. Then he went to dinner — alone

The Golden Lamb Chop occupied a prominent comer where State Street, River Road, and the expressway converged. The building was a nineteenth- century landmark, having been the depot for interurban trolleys before the automobile came on the scene. Now the interior had a golden glow, like money: gold damask on the walls, gold silk shades on the table lamps, ornate gilt frames on the oil paintings. The floor was thickly carpeted in a gold plush, spongy enough to turn an unwary ankle and uniquely patterned with a lamb chop motif in metallic gold threads.

At the door to the main dining room Qwilleran was greeted by Max Sorrel — hand on heart. His well-shaped head was freshly shaved; his dark suit and candy-striped shirt were crisp as cornflakes.

"You alone?" the restaurateur asked, flashing a professional smile with the minty fragrance of toothpaste and mouthwash. "Just hang your coat in the checkroom. We don't have a hatcheck girl tonight." He seated the newsman at a table near the entrance. "I want you to be the guest of the house. Understand?"

"No, this is on the Daily Fluxion. Let them pay for it."

"We'll argue about that later. Mind if I join you — in between seating customers? We're not very busy on weeknights, and I've given my maitre d' a little vacation."

The proprietor took a seat where he could keep a hopeful eye on the entrance. Thirty empty tables stood waiting in their gold tablecloths, with gold napkins folded precisely and tucked into the amber goblets.

"How many can you seat?" Qwilleran asked.

"Two hundred, counting the private dining room upstairs. What'll you have to drink?"

"Just tomato juice."

Sorrel called a waiter. There was only one of them in evidence. "One tomato juice and one rye and soda, Charlie, and get me a clean glass, will you?" He handed over a goblet on which a drop of detergent had left a spot. "If there's anything I can't stand," he told Qwilleran, "it's spots on the glassware. What'll you have to eat? I recommend the rack of lamb."

"Sounds good," Qwilleran said, "but I may have to take some of it home in a doggie bag. I'm on a diet."

"What for a first course? Vichyssoise? Herring in sour cream?"

"Better make it a half-grapefruit."

Qwilleran started to light his pipe, and Sorrel pushed an amber glass ashtray toward him, after examining it for blemishes. "Know how we clean ashtrays here?" he said. "With wet tea bags. It's the best way. . . Excuse me a moment."

A couple had entered the empty dining room, looking bewildered, as if they had come on the wrong night.

"You don't have a reservation?" Sorrel asked them with a frown. He hesitated. He consulted a ledger. He did some crossing out and some writing in. Finally — with a convincing show of magnanimity and a buttery smile for the lady — he consented to give them a table, seating them in a large front window in full view of passing traffic. He explained to them that the regular crowd was late because of the ball game, as he removed from their table a gold tent-card that said "Reserved."

When the grapefruit was served, Sorrel watched Qwilleran spoon it out of the rind. "You unhappy about something?" he asked the newsman. Qwilleran gave him a questioning frown. "I can tell by the way you eat your grapefruit. You're going around it counterclockwise. Did you ever watch people eat grapefruit? The happy ones eat clockwise."

"Curious theory."

"Do you secretly wiggle your toes inside your shoes when you eat something good?"

"I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to know."

"I can tell a lot about people by watching them eat — how they break their rolls, spoon their soup, cut their meat — even the way they chew."

"How do you size up the motley crew at Maus Haus?" Qwilleran asked.

"Interesting bunch. Hixie — she's got a lot of ginger, but she's getting panicky. She wants to get married in the worst way. Rosemary — she looks like a perfect lady, but don't be too sure. William — there's something weasely about that boy. He's not on the up-and-up. I can tell by the way he holds his fork. How do you size him up?"

"He's okay. Strikes me as an amusing kid, with a lot of healthy curiosity."

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you this," Sorrel confided, "because I don't want to stir up trouble, but I saw him letting himself into your apartment last night around eight o'clock, and he was looking kind of sneaky. Did you authorize him to go into your apartment?"

"How did you happen to see him?" Qwilleran wanted to know. "I thought you worked every night."

"Well, we had an accident in the kitchen, and some cocktail sauce got splashed on my shirt. I rushed home to change. . . Excuse me."

The restaurateur jumped up to seat a party of four, obviously tourists, while Qwilleran said to himself, Wouldn't a fastidious guy like Sorrel keep an extra shirt on hand at his place of business?

When the lamb was served, looking like the Rock of Gibraltar, Qwilleran remarked, "Do you know Joy Graham has left her husband?"

"No! When did that happen?"

"Early yesterday morning."

"Is she getting a divorce?"

"I don't know. She left no explanation, according to Dan. Just disappeared."

"I'm not surprised," Sorrel said. "I wouldn't blame her for unloading that ape. She's got a lot on the ball." His eyes glowed with appreciation. "I'm not strongly in favor of marriage myself. There are better ways to live. People marry, divorce, marry, divorce. It's not respectable."

"Did you ever watch her work with clay?"

"Me? No, sir! I've never set foot in that pottery. I took one look at all the dust and mud, and I knew that wasn't for me." His expression changed from one of distaste to one of approval. "So the little cabbage got the hell out, did she? Good for her!"

"It mystifies me why she'd depart in the middle of the night — in a violent rainstorm," Qwilleran said.

"Sure you don't want a baked potato with sour cream and chives?" his host urged.

"Thanks, no . . . And another mystery," Qwilleran went on, "is what happened to her cat. He was a neutered longhair, and they don't go roaming the courtryside in search of adventure; they sit around like sofa pillows. Do you have any ideas about what happened to that cat?"

Sorrel turned the color of borscht, and the veins in his temples seemed ready to burst.

"What's the matter?" Qwilleran asked in alarm. "Are you all right?"

The restaurateur mopped his brow with a gold napkin and lowered his voice. "I thought for a minute you were riding me — about that ugly story that's going around town." He gave the newsman a wary glance. "You haven't heard?"

Qwilleran shook his head.

"I'm being persecuted. A lot of dirty rumors are drifting around, and I don't mind telling you they're hurting my business. This place should be three-quarters full on Thursday night. Look at it! Six customers!"

"What kind of rumors?"

Sorrel winced. "That I use cat meat in the twelve-ounce chopped sirloin — and all that kind of rot. I could tell you worse, only it would spoil your dinner. Why don't they say I've got a gambling den in the back room? Why don't they say I keep girls upstairs? That I could take! But they're getting me where it hurts. Me! The guy who's known for keeping the cleanest kitchen in the city!"

"Any idea who could be circulating these rumors?" Qwilleran asked. "What would their motive be?"

Sorrel shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody seems to know. But it looks like a plot — especially after what happened Tuesday night."

"What happened?"

"My kitchen caught fire in the middle of the night. The police called me, and I came back downtown. It had to be arson. I don't leave grease around. I don't use any inflammable cleaners. . . Let me tell you: If anything happened to this place I'd crack up! I love this restaurant! The drapes cost forty dollars a yard. The carpet was custom-woven. Where did you ever see a carpet with a lamb chop design?"

Qwilleran had to admit the floor-covering was unusual. "Does anyone have a grudge against you — personally?"

"Me? I've got a million friends. Ask anybody. I couldn't think of an enemy if you paid me."

"How about your employees? Have you fired anyone who might be out for revenge?"

"No, I've always treated my people right, and they like me. Ask anyone of them. Ask Charlie." The waiter was bringing the coffee. "Charlie, do I treat you right? Tell this man — he's from the newspaper. Do I treat everyone right?"

"Yes, sir," said Charlie in a flat voice.

C Qwilleran declined Sorrel's offer of a dessert from the cart, which offered rum cream pie, banana Bavarian, pecan caramel custard, strawberry shortcake, and chocolate mousse, and he left the restaurant with the rest of his lamb wrapped in aluminum foil. He crossed River Road to hail a westbound taxi, but a bus came along and he climbed aboard.

It was one of the slow evening buses, and the leisurely speed and the drone of the engine were conducive to meditation. . . Why were women attracted to men with shiny bald heads? Max Sorrel was obviously attractive to the opposite sex. Had he incurred the enmity of a jealous rival? A jealous husband? . . . Had there been something between Joy and Max? If Dan resented it, would he have the wit to conduct a successful smear campaign against the Golden Lamb Chop? . . . Max had seemed surprised to learn of Joy's disappearance, but he was a good actor. He might have been lying. . . And how about the departure of Max's convertible at three in the morning? The restaurant fire would account for that — if the story of the fire happened to be true. Qwilleran made a mental note to verify it . . . As for William's surreptitious visit to Number Six, Qwilleran was not unduly concerned. The key rack in the kitchen was readily accessible, and the houseboy had probably wanted to see the cats. William had a healthy curiosity — a virtue, from a newsman's point of view. He also had brash nerve and a glib tongue and an easygoing personality. Qwilleran and Riker had been the same way when they were in their twenties, before their exuberance was curbed by disappointments and compromises and the old newsman's realization that there is never anything really new.

Wrapped in his thoughts, Qwilleran rode a mile beyond Maus Haus and had to wait for another slow bus traveling in the opposite direction.

When he finally arrived home, he found some changes in the Great Hall. The long dining table and the high-backed chairs had been moved aside, and the area was dotted with pedestals of various heights. In the center of the room a few railroad ties had been arranged on the floor to form a large square, and Dan Graham was down on hands and knees filling the square with pebbles. Alone in the vast hall, pushing the pebbles this way and that as if their placement mattered profoundly, he made a sad picture of insignificance, Qwilleran thought.

"How's it going, Mr. Graham?" he asked.

"Slow," said the potter. "It's not much fun doing the setup alone." He stood up and massaged his back, while viewing the pebbles critically. "My best pieces will be displayed on pedestals in this square. I'm gonna surprise this city, you can betcha boots."

"How soon are we going to see the new pots?"

"Maybe Monday or Tuesday. I've got some sweet patooties cooling in the kiln right now. Did you talk to anybody at the paper?"

"Everything is under control. Don't worry about it," Qwilleran said, although he had forgotten to tell Riker about anything but Joy's disappearance. "Any news from your wife?"

"Nope. Not a word. But it wouldn't surprise me if she came back in time for the hoopla on Wednesday. We sent out three hundred invitations last week. Should be a swell party. I'm shooting the works — bubble water, horses' duvvers, the right stuff, if you know what I mean. The critics better come, that's all I've got to say. . . Here, let me show you something." Graham reached around to his hip pocket and once more brought forth the yellowed clipping about his past glories.

When Qwilleran went upstairs to Number Six, he found the cats waiting for him, with anticipation in the cock of their ears.

"Koko, where is that guy getting the money to buy champagne for three hundred guests," Qwilleran asked him.

The cat's eyes were like large black cherries in the lamplight — expressionless, yet holding all the answers to all the questions ever asked. Qwilleran arranged his coat over the back of a chair and whipped off his tie. Yum Yum watched the tie with bright, hopeful eyes. He usually switched it through the air for her to jump at and catch, but tonight he was too preoccupied to play. Instead he sat in the big chair, put on his glasses, and opened the packet of clippings from the Fluxion library.

Robert Maus had not exaggerated. Every five years the Fluxion had resurrected the story of the mysteri- ous deaths at the pottery, most likely to embarrass the Morning Rampage. The rival newspaper was still financed by the Penniman family. It had been old Hugh Penniman who built the strange art center and hobnobbed with its arty residents.

The stories, written in the old-fashioned Sunday supplement style, related how "a handsome young sculptor" by the name of Mortimer Mellon had fallen in love with "the lovely Helen Maude Hake," a lady potter. She, alas, happened to be the "protegee" of Hugh Penniman, "the well-known philanthropist." Following a "wild party" at the pottery, the body of the "lovelorn sculptor" was found in the river, and a verdict of accidental death was pronounced by the coroner. Not satisfied with the disposition of the case, reporters from the Fluxion attempted to interview other artists at the pottery, but the "slovenly Bohemians" showed "an insolent lack of cooperation." Soon afterward the episode came to "its final tragic end" when "the lovely Helen" took her own life, following Mortimer "to a watery grave." She left a suicide note that was never made public.

Just as Qwilleran finished reading, he heard a thud at the opposite end of the room, and he turned to see a book with a red cover lying open and facedown on the floor. With a softer thump Koko landed on the floor beside it and started nosing it across the slippery tile floor.

"Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded. It was a library book-an old one, none too solid in the spine. "The librarian will have you shot! Bad cat!" Qwilleran repeated.

As he scowled his displeasure, he saw Koko slowly arch his back and flatten his ears. The cat's brown tail stiffened, and he began to step around the book in a strange long-legged dance. He circled the book once, twice, three times, and Qwilleran felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. Once before, in an icy courtyard, he had seen Koko perform that ritual. Once before, the cat had walked around and around and around, and the thing he circled was a body.

Now it was a book he was circling — an old red book titled The Ancient Art of Potting. The silence was broken only by the mournful sound of a boat whistle on the river.