Cat Who Saw Red

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  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 a guy use a little psychology, if you know what I mean?”

  Qwilleran concentrated on lighting his pipe, as if it were 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,” Dan 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 snooping 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 all. 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 t
here’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.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Joy had hated and feared the river, and now Qwilleran was repelled by the black water beyond the window. Even Koko had shrunk from it when they explored the boardwalk. Two artists had drowned their long ago, more recently a small child, and now perhaps Joy, perhaps William. A fog was settling on the river. Boats hooted, and the foghorns at Plum Point was moaning a dirge.

  Qwilleran dialed the press room at police headquarters, and while he waited for the Fluxion night man to come on the line, he summed up his deductions. The Living Glaze was Joy’s creation; he had seen Dan copying formulas from her loose-leaf notebook into a ledger. That being true, everything else fell into place: Dan’s refusal to let her show her work prior to the exhibition; the broken ceramics in the river in shapes typical of Joy’s handiwork; the consensus among exhibition visitors that the glaze was too good for the clay forms beneath. Yet Dan was brazenly taking credit for the Living Glaze. Would he dare take credit if he knew Joy was alive?

  Lodge Kendall barked into the press room phone.

  “Sorry to bother you again, Lodge,” said Qwilleran. “Remember what I asked you about last week? I’m still interested in anything they find in the river. Where do bodies usually wash up? . . . How far is that? . . . How long does it take before they drift down to the island? It wouldn’t hurt to alert the police, although I have no definite proof at this time. How about bringing Lieutenant Hames to the Press Club tomorrow? . . . Fine! See what you can do. Better still, bring him to the Golden Lamb Chop, and I’ll buy . . . Yes, I am desperate!”

  Koko was still crouched on the desktop, watching the red thing suspiciously. The small blue planter had the same fantastic glaze, yet Koko ignored it.

  Cats can’t distinguish colors, Qwilleran remembered. Joy had told him so. There was something else about the red urn that bothered the small animal. On the other hand, the red library book also had offended Koko; twice he had pushed it from the bookshelf to the floor.

  Qwilleran found the red volume where he had wedged it between two larger books for security. It was quite a definitive book on ceramics, and Qwilleran settled down in his chair to browse through chapters on wedging clay, using the wheel, pulling a lip, beveling a foot, formulating a glaze, packing a kiln, firing a load. It ended with a chatty chapter on the history and legend of the ceramic art.

  Halfway through the last chapter Qwilleran felt nauseated. Then the blood rushed to his face, and he gripped the arms of the chair. In anger he jumped up, strode across the room, and swung the book at the red pottery urn, sweeping it off the desk. The cats fled in alarm as the urn shattered on the ceramic floor tiles.

  Still gripping the book, Qwilleran lunged out of the apartment and around the balcony to Number One. Robert Maus came to the door, tying the belt of a flannel robe.

  “Got to talk to you!” Qwilleran said abruptly.

  “Certainly. Certainly. Please come in. I presume you have heard the midnight newscast: a bomb scare at the Golden Lamb Chop . . . My dear fellow, are you ill? You are shaking!”

  “You’ve got a madman in the house!” Qwilleran blurted.

  “Sit down. Sit down. Calm yourself. Would you accept a glass of sherry?”

  Qwilleran shook his head impatiently.

  “Some black coffee?”

  “Dan has murdered his wife! I know it, I know it!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “And probably William, too. And I think Joy’s cat was the first victim. I think the cat was an experiment.”

  “One moment, I beg of you,” said Maus. “What is this incoherent outburst? Will you repeat it? Slowly, please. And kindly sit down.”

  Qwilleran sat down as if his knees had collapsed. “I’ll take that black coffee.”

  “It will require only a moment to filter a fresh cup.”

  The attorney stepped into his kitchenette, and Qwilleran gathered his thoughts. He was in better control when Maus returned with the coffee. He repeated his suspicions: “First, the Grahams’ cat disappeared; then Joy disappeared; then William. I say he has murdered them all. We’ve got to do something!”

  “This is a preposterous accusation! Where is your proof, if I may ask?”

  “There’s no tangible proof, but I know!” Qwilleran touched his mustache nervously; he thought it better not to mention Koko’s behavior. “In fact,” he said, “I’m going to see a homicide detective tomorrow.”

  Maus raised a hand. “One moment! Let us consider the consequences before you speak to the authorities.”

  “Consequences? You mean adverse publicity? I’m sorry, Maus, but publicity is inevitable now.”

  “But pray what brings you to the . . . monstrous conclusion that Graham has . . . has—”

  “Everything points to it. For years Joy has been outshining her husband. Now she formulates a spectacular glaze that will allow her to eclipse him completely. The man has a sizable ego. He desperately wants attention and acclaim. The solution is simple: Why not get rid of his wife, apply her glaze to his own pottery, and take the credit? The marriage is falling apart anyway. So why not? . . . I tell you it’s true! And once Joy was out of the way, Dan took the precaution of destroying all her pottery that carried the new glaze. We found t
he stuff—”

  “You must pardon me if I say,” the attorney interrupted, “that this . . . this wild scenario sounds like a figment of an overwrought imagination.”

  Qwilleran ignored the remark. “Meanwhile, Dan discovers that William suspects him, and so the houseboy must be silenced. You have to admit that William has been conspicuously absent.”

  The attorney stared in disbelief.

  “Furthermore,” the newsman went on, “Dan is preparing to leave the country. We’ve got to act fast!”

  “One question, if you please. Can you produce the prime evidence?”

  “The bodies? No one will ever find them. At first I thought he’d dumped them in the river. Then I found a sickening fact in a book—in this book.” Qwilleran shook the red volume at his incredulous listener. “In ancient China they used to throw the bodies of unwanted babies into the pottery kilns.”

  Maus made no move. He looked stunned.

  “Those kilns downstairs can heat up to twenty-three hundred degrees! I repeat: The bodies will never be found.”

  “Ghastly!” the attorney said in whisper.

  “You remember, Maus, that the tennis club complained about the smoke last weekend. And William knew something was wrong. Ordinarily pots take twenty-four hours for firing and twenty-four hours for cooling. If you speed it up, they explode! William told me Dan was firing too fast. The pottery door was locked, but William knew about the tiny window in Number Six, overlooking the kiln room . . . Do you know about the peephole?”

  Maus nodded.

  “And there’s another story in this book,” Qwilleran said. “It happened centuries ago in China. A barnyard animal wandered into a kiln while it was being loaded. The animal was cremated, and the clay pots emerged in a glorious shade of red!”