“You don’t know Siamese! When they start flying around, you think you’ve been hit by a Caribbean hurricane.”
“Now that you have an apartment, you ought to buy the Mackintosh coat of arms. It would be perfect over your fireplace. Would you like to take it home on approval?”
“It’s rather heavy to be lugging back and forth. In fact,” Qwilleran said, “I was surprised to see you handle it with so much ease this morning.”
“I’m strong. In this business you have to be strong.”
“What do you do for recreation? Lift weights?”
She gave a small laugh. “I read about antiques, attend antiques lectures, and go to exhibits at the historical museum.”
“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”
She looked at him engagingly. “There’s something mystic about antiques. It’s more than intrinsic value or beauty or age. An object that has been owned and cherished by other human beings for centuries develops a personality of its own that reaches out to you. It’s like an old friend. Do you understand? I wish I could make people understand.”
“You explain it very well, Miss Duckworth.”
“Mary,” she said.
“Mary, then. But if you feel so strongly about antiques, why don’t you want to share your interest with our readers? Why don’t you let me quote you?”
She hesitated. “I’ll tell you why,” she said suddenly. “It’s because of my family. They don’t approve of what I’m doing, living on Zwinger Street and peddling—junk!”
“What’s their objection?”
“Father is a banker, and bankers are rather stuffy. He’s also English. The combination is deadly. He subsidizes my business venture on condition that I don’t embarrass the family. That’s why I must decline any publicity.”
She refilled Qwilleran’s coffee cup and poured herself another Scotch.
In a teasing tone he said, “Do you always serve your guests coffee while you drink pedigreed Scotch?”
“Only when they are total abstainers,” she replied with a smug smile.
“How did you know I’m on the wagon?”
She buried her nose in her glass for a few seconds. “Because I called my father this afternoon and had him check your credentials. I found out that you’ve been a crime reporter in New York, Los Angeles, and elsewhere, and that you once wrote an important book on urban crime, and that you’ve won any number of national journalism awards.” She folded her arms and looked triumphant.
Warily Qwilleran said, “What else did you find out?”
“That you had some lean years as a result of an unhappy marriage and a case of alcoholism, but you made a successful recovery, and the Daily Fluxion employed you last February, and you have been doing splendidly ever since.”
Qwilleran flushed. He was used to prying into the lives of others; it was disconcerting to have his own secrets exposed. “I should be flattered that you’re interested,” he said with chagrin. “Who is your father? What’s his bank?”
The girl was enjoying her moment of oneupmanship. She was also enjoying her drink. She slid down in her chair and crossed her long legs. “Can I trust you?”
“Like a tombstone.”
“He’s Percival Duxbury. Midwest National.”
“Duxbury! Then Duckworth isn’t your real name?”
“It’s a name I’ve taken for professional purposes.”
Qwilleran’s hopes for Christmas Eve soared; a Duxbury would make an impressive date at the Press Club. They immediately crashed; a Duxbury would probably never accept the invitation.
“A Duxbury in Junktown!” he said softly. “That would really make headlines.”
“You promised,” she reminded him, snapping out of her casual pose.
“I’ll keep my promise,” he said. “But tell me: why are you doing business on Zwinger Street? A nice shop like this belongs downtown—or in Lost Lake Hills.”
“I fell in love,” she said with a helpless gesture. “I fell in love with these wonderful old houses. They have so much character and such potential for restoration. At first I was attracted to the idea of a proud old neighborhood resisting modernization, but after I had been here for a few months, I fell in love with the people.”
“The antique dealers?”
“Not exactly. The dealers are dedicated and plucky, and I admire them—with certain reservations—but I’m talking about the people on the street. My heart goes out to them—the working class, the old people, the lonely ones, foreigners, illiterates, even the shady characters. Are you shocked?”
“No. Surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I think I know what you mean. They’re earthy; they get to you.”
“They’re genuine, and they’re unabashed individualists. They have made my former life seem so superficial and useless. I wish I could do something for the neighborhood, but I don’t know what it would be. I have no money of my own, and Father made me promise not to mix.”
Qwilleran regarded her with a wishful wonder that she misinterpreted.
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I think I’ll find us something to eat.”
When she returned with crackers and caviar and smoked salmon, he said, “You were going to tell me about Andy Glanz. What kind of man was he? How did the junkers feel about him?”
The Scotch had relaxed her. She put her head back, gazed at the ceiling and collected her thoughts, her posture and trousered legs jarringly out of tune with the prim eighteenth century room.
“Andy did a great deal for Junktown,” she began, “because of his scholarly approach to antiques. He gave talks to women’s clubs. He convinced the museum curators and the serious collectors to venture into Zwinger Street.”
“Could I call him the major-domo of Junktown?”
“I’d avoid saying that, if I were you. C.C. Cobb considers himself the neighborhood leader. He opened the first shop and promoted the idea of Junktown.”
“How would you describe Andy as to character?”
“Honest—scrupulously honest! Most of us have a little larceny in our hearts, but not Andy! And he had a great sense of responsibility. I saw him make a citizen’s arrest one night. We were driving past an abandoned house in the reclamation area, and we saw a light inside. Andy went in and caught a man stripping the plumbing fixtures.”
“That’s illegal, I assume.”
“Condemned houses are city property. Yes, it’s technically illegal. Anyone else would have looked the other way, but Andy was never afraid to get involved.”
Qwilleran shifted his position on the stiff sofa. “Did the other dealers share your admiration for Andy’s integrity?”
“Yes-s-s . . . and no,” Mary said. “There’s always jealousy among dealers, even though they appear to be the best of friends.”
“Did Andy have any other friends I could interview?”
“There’s Mrs. McGuffey. She’s a retired schoolteacher, and Andy helped her start her antique shop. He was magnanimous in many ways.”
“Where would I find the lady?”
“At The Piggin, Noggin and Firkin in the next block.”
“Did Andy get along with Cobb?”
She drew a deep breath. “Andy was a diplomat. He knew how to handle C.C.”
“Mrs. Cobb was evidently very fond of Andy.”
“All women adored him. Men were not so enthusiastic, perhaps. It usually happens that way, doesn’t it?”
“How about Ben Nicholas? Did they hit it off?”
“Their relations were amicable, although Andy thought Ben spent too much time at The Lion’s Tail.”
“Is Ben a heavy drinker?”
“He likes his brandy, but he never gets out of line. He used to be an actor. Every city has one antique dealer who used to be on the stage and one who makes it a point to be obnoxious.”
“What do you know about the blond fellow on crutches?”
“Russell Patch used to work for Andy, and they were great friends. Then suddenly they parted company, a
nd Russ opened his own shop. I’m not sure what caused the rift.”
“But you were Andy’s closest friend?” Qwilleran asked with a searching look.
Abruptly Mary Duckworth stood up and wandered around the room hunting for her cigarette holder. She found it and sat on the sofa and let Qwilleran offer her a light. After one deep inhalation she laid the cigarette down and curled up as if in pain, hugging her knees. “I miss Andy so much,” she whispered.
Qwilleran had a desire to reach out and comfort her, but he restrained himself. He said, “You’ve had a shock, and you’ve been living with your grief. You shouldn’t bottle it up. Why don’t you tell me about it? I mean, everything that happened on that night. It might do you some good.”
The warmth of his tone brought a wetness to her dark eyes. After a while she said, “The terrible thing is that we quarreled on our last evening together. I was feeling peevish. Andy had . . . done something . . . that irritated me. He was trying to make amends, but I kept goading him during dinner.”
“Where did you have dinner?”
“Here. I made beef Bordelaise, and it was a failure. The beef was tough, and we had this personal argument, and at nine o’clock he went back to his shop. He said someone was coming to look at a light fixture. Some woman from the suburbs was bringing her husband to look at a chandelier.”
“Did he say he would return?”
“No. He was rather cool when he left. But after he’d gone, I felt miserable, and I decided to go to his shop and apologize. That’s when I found him—”
“Was his shop open?”
“The back door was unlocked. I went in the back way—from the alley. Don’t ask me to describe what I saw!”
“What did you do?”
“I don’t remember. Iris says I ran to the mansion, and C.C. called the police. She says she brought me home and put me to bed. I don’t remember.”
Intent on their conversation, neither of them heard the low growl in the kitchen—at first no more than a rattle in the dog’s throat.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” Mary said.
“It’s good to get it off your mind.”
“You won’t mention it, will you?”
“I won’t mention it.”
Mary sighed deeply and was quiet, while Qwilleran smoked his pipe and admired her large dark-rimmed eyes. They had mellowed during the evening, and now they were beautiful.
“You were right,” she said. “I feel better now. For weeks after it happened, I had a horrible dream, night after night. It was so vivid that I began to think it was true. I almost lost my mind! I thought—”
It was then that the dog barked—in a voice full of alarm.
“Something’s wrong,” Mary said, jumping to her feet, and her eyes widened to their unblinking stare.
“Let me go and see” Qwilleran said.
Hepplewhite was barking at the rear window.
“There’s a police car at the end of the alley,” the newsman said. “You stay here. I’ll see what it’s all about. Is there a rear exit?”
He went down the narrow back stairs and out through a walled garden, but the gate to the alley was padlocked, and he had to return for a key.
By the time he reached the scene, the morgue wagon had arrived, and the revolving roof lights on the two police vehicles made blue flashes across the snow and the faces of a few onlookers and a figure lying on the ground.
Qwilleran stepped up to one of the officers and said, “I’m from the Daily Fluxion. What’s happened here?”
“Routine lush,” said the man in uniform with a smirk. “Drank too much antifreeze.”
“Know who he is?”
“Oh, sure. He’s got a pocketful of credit cards and a diamond-studded platinum ID bracelet.”
Qwilleran moved closer as the body was loaded on a stretcher, and he saw the man’s coat. He had seen that coat before.
Mary was waiting for him in the walled garden, and although she was warmly wrapped, she was shaking. “Wh-what was the matter?”
“Just a drunk,” he told her. “You’d better get indoors before you catch cold. You’re shivering.”
They went upstairs, and Qwilleran prescribed hot drinks for both of them.
As Mary warmed her hands on her coffee cup, he studied her face. “You were telling me—just before the dog barked—about your recurrent dream.”
She shuddered. “It was a nightmare! I suppose I was feeling guilty because I had been unpleasant to Andy.”
“What did you dream?”
“I dreamed . . . I kept dreaming that I had pushed Andy to his death on that finial!”
Qwilleran paused before making his comment. “There may be an element of fact in your dream.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have a hunch that Andy’s death was not an accidental fall from a ladder.” As he said it, he again felt the telltale prickling in his moustache.
Mary became defensive. “The police called it an accident.”
“Did they investigate? Did they come to see you? They must have inquired who found the body.”
She shook her head.
“Did they interview people in the neighborhood?”
“It was not necessary. It was obviously a mishap. Where did you get the idea that it might have been . . . anything else?”
“One of your talkative neighbors—this morning—”
“Nonsense.”
“I assumed he must have some reason for calling it murder.”
“Just an irresponsible remark. Why would anyone say such a thing?”
“I don’t know.” Then Qwilleran watched Mary’s eyes grow wide as he added, “But by a strange coincidence, the man who told me is now on his way to the morgue.”
Whether it was that statement or the startling sound of the telephone bell, he could not tell, but Mary froze in her chair. It rang several times.
“Want me to answer?” Qwilleran offered, glancing at his watch.
She hesitated, then nodded slowly.
He found the phone in the library across the hall. “Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Hello? . . . They hung up,” he reported when he returned to the living room. Then noticing Mary’s pallor, he asked, “Have you had this kind of call before? Have you been getting crank calls? Is that why you stay up late?”
“No, I’ve always been a night owl,” she said, shaking off her trance. “My friends know it, and someone was probably phoning to—discuss the late movie on TV. They often do that. Whoever it was undoubtedly hung up because of hearing a man’s voice. It would appear that I had company, or it might have seemed to be a wrong number.”
She talked too fast and explained too much. Qwilleran was unconvinced.
SEVEN
Qwilleran went home through snow that was ankle-deep, its hush accentuating the isolated sounds of the night: a blast of jukebox music from The Lion’s Tail, the whine of an electric motor somewhere, the idle bark of a dog. But first he stopped at the all-night drugstore on the corner and telephoned the Fluxion’s night man in the Press Room at Police Headquarters and asked him to check two Dead on Arrivals from the Junktown area.
“One came in tonight and one October sixteenth,” Qwilleran said. “Call me back at this number, will you?”
While he was waiting, he ordered a ham sandwich and considered the evidence. The death of the man in a horse-blanket coat might have no significance, but the fear in Mary’s eyes was real and incontrovertible, and her emphatic insistence that Andy’s death was an accident left plenty of room for conjecture. If it was murder, there had to be motive, and Qwilleran had an increasing curiosity about the young man of superior integrity who made citizen’s arrests. He knew the type. On the surface they looked good, but they could be troublemakers.
The phone call came in from the police reporter. “That October DOA was filed as accidental death,” he said, “but I couldn’t get any dope on the other one. Why don’t you try again in the morning?”
Qwillera
n went home, tiptoed up the protesting stairs of the Cobb mansion, unlocked his door with the big key, and searched for the cats. They were asleep on their blue cushion on top of the refrigerator, curled together in a single mound of fur with one nose, one tail and three ears. One eye opened and looked at him, and Qwilleran could not resist stroking the pair. Their fur was incredibly silky when they were relaxed, and it always appeared darker when they were asleep.
Soon after, he settled in his own bed, hoping that his mates at the Press Club never found out he was sleeping in a swan boat.
It was then that he heard the odd sound—like soft moaning. It was the purring of cats, but louder. It was the cooing of pigeons, but more guttural. It had a mechanical regularity, and it seemed to be coming from the partition behind his bed—the wall that was papered with book leaves. He listened—keenly at fist, then drowsily, and the monotony of the sound soon lulled him to sleep.
He slept well that first night in the Cobb mansion, dreaming pleasantly of the Mackintosh coat of arms with its three snarling cats and its weathered blues and reds. His pleasurable dreams were always in color; others were in sepia, like old-time rotogravure.
On Saturday morning, as he began to emerge from slumber, he felt a great weight pressing on his chest. In the first stages of waking, before his eyes were open and before his mind was clear, he had a vision of the iron coat of arms, crushing him, pinning him to the bed. He struggled to regain his senses, and as he succeeded in opening his eyelids, he found himself staring into two violet-blue eyes, slightly crossed. Little Yum Yum was sitting on his chest in a compact and featherweight bundle. He took a deep breath of relief, and the heaving of his chest pleased her. She purred. She reached out one velvety paw and touched his moustache tenderly. She used the stubble on his chin to scratch the top of her head.
Then, from somewhere overhead, came an imperious command. Koko was sitting on the tail of the swan, making pronouncements in a loud voice. Either he was ordering breakfast, or he was deploring Yum Yum’s familiarity with the man of the house. Koko seemed to have strong ideas about priorities.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Ate Danish Modern, Turned on and Off Page 6
