Qwilleran slowly turned away from the peephole. He had recognized the rags.
SIXTEEN
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 négligé 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 Teahandle, 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 checkbook, 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 art 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; art teachers explaining the pots to one another; miscellaneous artists and craftsmen enjoying the free champagne; Jack Smith, the Fluxion art 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.
&n
bsp; “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. Tweedledum 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, art 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 kind 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.
Cat Who Saw Red Page 16
