"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 k
now 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."
17
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 com eon 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 ledge. That being true, everything else fell into lace: 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.
The Cat Who Saw Red Page 16
