“I’ll take it,” he said and threw down a nickel, without noticing the expression that passed among them.
The youngest one served the soup in antique shaving mugs. “The Dragon just phoned,” she told Qwilleran. “She wants to see you this afternoon.” She seemed unduly pleased to give him the message.
“How did she know I was here?”
“Everybody knows everything on this street,” the redhead said.
“The Dragon has this place bugged,” the young one whispered.
“Ivy, don’t talk silly.”
The sisters continued the conversation in three-part harmony—Cluthra in her husky voice, Amberina with a musical intonation, and Ivrene piping grace notes from her perch. Eventually Qwilleran brought up the subject of Andy Glanz.
“He was a real guy!” the redhead said with lifted eyebrows, and her rasping voice showed a trace of tenderness.
“He had quite an intellect, I understand,” Qwilleran said.
“Cluthra wouldn’t know anything about that,” said the young one on the ladder. “She brings out the beast in men.”
“Ivy!” came the sharp reprimand.
“It’s true, isn’t it? You said so yourself.”
The brunette hastily remarked, “People don’t believe we’re sisters. The truth is, we had the same mother but different fathers.”
“Does this business support the three of you?”
“Heavens, no! I have a husband, and I do this just for fun. Ivy’s still in school—art school—and—”
“And Cluthra lives on her alimony,” chipped in the youngest, earning pointed glares from her elders.
“Business has been terrible this month,” said the brunette. “Sylvia’s the only one who’s doing any business around here.”
“Who’s Sylvia?” Qwilleran asked.
“A rich widow,” came the prompt reply from the top of the ladder.
“Sylvia sells camp,” the redhead explained.
“That’s not what you called it yesterday!” Ivy reminded her.
“Where’s her shop?” asked the newsman. “What’s her full name?”
“Sylvia Katzenhide. She calls her place Sorta Camp. It’s in the next block.”
“Cluthra calls her the Cat’s Backside,” Ivy said, ignoring the exasperated sighs from her sisters.
“If you go to see Sylvia, wear earmuffs,” the redhead advised.
“Sylvia’s quite a talker,” said the brunette.
“She’s got verbal diarrhea,” said the blonde.
“Ivy!”
“Well, that’s what you said!”
When Qwilleran left the Three Weird Sisters, he was walking with a light step. He had heard little Ivy say, as he walked out the door, “Isn’t he groovy?”
He preened his moustache, undecided whether to answer Mary Duckworth’s summons or visit the loquacious Sylvia Katzenhide. Mrs. McGuffey was also on his list, and sooner or later he would like to talk to the outspoken Ivy again—alone. She was a brat, but brats could be useful, and she was an engaging brat, as brats went.
On Zwinger Street a hostile sun had penetrated the winter haze—not to warm the hearts and frozen nosetips of Junktown residents, but to convert the lovely snow into a greasy slush for the skidding of cars and splashing of pedestrians, and Qwilleran’s mind went to Koko and Yum Yum—lucky cats, asleep on their cushions, warm and well-fed, with no weather to weather, no deadlines to meet, no decisions to make. It had been a long time since he had consulted Koko, and now he decided to give it a try.
There was a game they played with the unabridged dictionary. The cat dug his claws into the book, and Qwilleran opened to the page indicated, where the catchwords at the top of the columns usually offered some useful clue. Incredible? Yes. But it had worked in the past. A few months before, Qwilleran had been credited with finding a stolen jade collection, but the credit belonged chiefly to Koko and Noah Webster. Perhaps the time had come to play the game again.
He went home and unlocked his apartment door, but neither cat was anywhere in sight. Someone had been in the apartment, though. Qwilleran noticed a slight rearrangement and the addition of several useless gimcracks. The brass candlesticks on the mantel, which he liked, had gone, and in their place stood a pottery pig with a surly sneer.
He called the cats by name and got no answer. He searched the apartment, opening all doors and drawers. He got down on his knees at the fireplace and looked up the chimney. It was an unlikely possibility, but one could never tell about cats!
While he was posed on all fours with his head in the fireplace and his neck twisted in an awkward position, Qwilleran sensed movement in the room behind him. He withdrew his head just in time to see the missing pair walk nonchalantly across the carpet, Koko a few paces ahead of Yum Yum as usual. They had come from nowhere, as cats have a way of doing, holding aloft their exclamatory tails. This unpredictable pair could walk on little cat feet, silent as fog, or they could thump across the floor like clodhoppers.
“You rascals!” Qwilleran said.
“Yow?” said Koko with an interrogative inflection that seemed to imply, “Were you calling us? What’s for lunch?”
“I searched all over! Where the devil were you hiding?”
They had come, it seemed, from the direction of the bathroom. They were blinking. Their eyes were intensely blue. And Yum Yum was carrying a toothbrush in her tiny V-shaped jaws. She dropped it in front of him.
“Good girl! Where did you find it?”
She looked at him with eyes bright, crossed, and uncomprehending.
“Did you find it under the tub, sweetheart?”
Yum Yum sat down and looked pleased with herself, and Qwilleran stroked her tiny head without noticing the faraway expression in Koko’s slanted eyes.
“Come on, Koko, old boy!” he said. “Let’s play the game.” He slapped the cover of the dictionary—the starting signal—and Koko hopped on the big book and industriously sharpened his claws on its tattered binding. Then he hopped down and went to the window to watch pigeons.
“The game! Remember the game? Play the game!” Qwilleran urged, opening the book and demonstrating the procedure with his fingernails. Koko ignored the invitation; he was too busy observing the action outdoors.
The newsman grabbed him about the middle and placed him on the open pages. “Now dig, you little monkey!” But Koko stood there with his back rigidly arched and gave Qwilleran a look that could only be described as insulting.
“All right, skip it!” the man said with disappointment. “You’re not the cat you used to be. Go back to your lousy pigeons,” and Koko returned his attention to the yard below where Ben Nicholas was scattering crusts of bread.
Qwilleran left the apartment to continue his rounds, and as he went downstairs, Iris Cobb came flying out of the Junkery.
“Are you having fun in Junktown?” she asked gaily.
“I’m unearthing some interesting information,” he replied, “and I’m beginning to wonder why the police never investigated Andy’s death. Didn’t the detectives ever come around asking questions?”
She was shaking her head vaguely when a man’s gruff voice from within the shop shouted, “I’ll tell you why they didn’t. Junktown’s a slum, and who cares what happens in a slum?”
Mrs. Cobb explained in a low voice, “My husband is rabid on the subject. He’s always feuding with City Hall. Of course, he’s probably right. The police would be glad to label it an accident and close the case. They can’t be bothered with Junktown.” Then her expression perked up; she had the face of a woman who relishes gossip. “Why were you asking about the detectives? Do you have any suspicions?”
“Nothing definite, but it was almost too freakish to dismiss as an accident.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe there was something going on that nobody knows about.” She shivered. “The idea gives me goosebumps . . . . By the way, I sold the brass candlesticks from your apartment, but I’ve given you a Sussex pig—ve
ry rare. The head comes off, and you can drink out of it.”
“Thanks,” said Qwilleran.
He started down the front steps and halted abruptly. That toothbrush that Yum Yum had brought him! It had a blue handle, and the handle of his old toothbrush, he seemed to recall, was green . . . . Or was it?
NINE
Qwilleran walked to The Blue Dragon with a long stride, remembering the vulnerable Mary of the night before, but he was greeted by another Mary—the original one—aloof and inscrutable in her Japanese kimono. She was alone in the shop. She sat in her carved teakwood chair, as tall and straight as the wisp of smoke ascending from her cigarette.
“I got your message,” he said, somewhat dismayed at the chilly reception. “You did say you wanted to see me, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I am very much disturbed.” She laid down the long cigarette holder and faced him formally.
“What’s the trouble?”
“I used poor judgment last night. I am afraid,” she said in her precise way, “that I talked too much.”
“You were delightful company. I enjoyed every minute.”
“That’s not what I mean. I should never have revealed my family situation.”
“You have nothing to be afraid of. I gave you my word.”
“I should have remembered the trick your Jack Jaunti played on my father, but unfortunately the Scotch I was drinking—”
“You were completely relaxed. It was good for you. Believe me, I would never take advantage of your confidence.”
Mary Duckworth gave him a penetrating look. There was something about the man’s moustache that convinced people of his sincerity. Other moustaches might be villainous or supercilious or pathetic, but the outcropping on Qwilleran’s upper lip inspired trust.
Mary took a deep breath and softened slightly. “I believe you. Against my will I believe you. It’s merely that—”
“Now may I sit down?”
“I’m sorry. How rude of me. Please make yourself comfortable. May I offer you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve just had soup at The Three Weird Sisters.”
“Clam chowder, I suppose,” said Mary with a slight curl of the lip. “The shop always reminds me of a fish market.”
“It was very good chowder.”
“Canned, of course.”
Qwilleran sensed rivalry and was inwardly pleased. “Any bad dreams last night?” he asked.
“No. For the first time in months I was able to sleep well. You were quite right. I needed to talk to someone.” She paused and looked in his eyes warmly, and her words were heartfelt. “I’m grateful, Qwill.”
“Now that you’re feeling better,” he said, “would you do something for me? Just to satisfy my curiosity?”
“What do you want?” She was momentarily wary.
“Would you give me a few more details about the night of the accident? It’s not morbid interest, I assure you. Purely intellectual curiosity.”
She bit her lip. “What else can I tell you? I’ve given you the whole story.”
“Would you draw me a diagram of the room where you discovered the body?” He handed her a ball-point pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket—the folded sheet of newsprint that was his standard equipment. Then he knocked his pipe on an ashtray and went through the process of filling and lighting.
Mary gave him a skeptical glance and started to sketch slowly. “It was in the workroom—at the rear of Andy’s shop. The back door is here,” she said. “To the right is a long workbench with pigeonholes and hangers for tools. Around the edge of the room Andy had furniture or other items, waiting to be glued or refinished or polished.”
“Including chandeliers?”
“They were hanging overhead—perhaps a dozen of them. Lighting fixtures were Andy’s specialty.”
“And where was the stepladder?”
“In the middle of the room there was a cleared space—about fifteen feet across. The stepladder was off to one side of this area.” She marked the spot with an X. “And the crystal chandelier was on the floor nearby—completely demolished.”
“To the right or left of the ladder?”
“To the right.” She made another X.
“And the position of the body?”
“Just to the left of the stepladder.”
“Face down?”
She nodded.
Qwilleran drew long and slowly on his pipe. “Was Andy right-handed or left-handed?”
Mary stiffened with suspicion. “Are you sure the newspaper didn’t send you to pry into this incident?”
“The Fluxion couldn’t care less. All my paper wants is an entertaining series on the antiquing scene. I guess I spent too many years on the crime beat. I’ve got a compulsion to check everything out.”
The girl studied his sober gaze and the downcurve of the ample moustache, and her voice became tender. “You miss your former work, don’t you, Qwill? I suppose antiques seem rather mild after the excitement you’ve been accustomed to.”
“It’s an assignment,” he said with a shrug. “A newsman covers the story without weighing the psychic rewards.”
Her eyes flickered downward. “Andy was right-handed,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Does it make any difference?”
Qwilleran studied her sketch. “The stepladder was here . . . and the broken chandelier was over here. And the finial, where he fell, was . . . to the left of the ladder?”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of the floor? That was a strange place for a lethal object like that.”
“Well, it was—toward the edge of the open space—with the other items that had been pushed back around the walls.”
“Had you seen it there before?”
“Not exactly in that location. The finial, like everything else, moved about frequently. The day before the accident it was on the workbench. Andy was polishing the brass ball.”
“Was it generally known that he owned the finial?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone assured him he had bought a white elephant. Andy quipped that some fun-type suburbanite would think it was a fun thing for serving pretzels.”
“How did he acquire it in the first place? The auctioneer said it came from an old house that had been torn down.”
“Andy bought it from Russell Patch. Russ is a great scrounger. In fact, that’s how he fractured his leg. He and Cobb were stripping an empty house, and Russ slipped off the roof.”
“Let me get this straight,” Qwilleran said. “Andy didn’t believe in scrounging, and yet he was willing to buy from scroungers? Technically that finial was hot merchandise.”
Mary’s shrug was half apology for Andy and half rebuke for Qwilleran.
He smoked his pipe in silence and wondered about this girl who was disarmingly candid one moment and wary the next—lithe as a willow and strong as an oak—masquerading under an assumed name—absolutely sure of certain details and completely blank about others—alternately compassionate and aloof.
After a while he said, “Are you perfectly satisfied that Andy’s death was accidental?”
There was no response from the girl—merely an unfathomable stare.
“It might have been suicide.”
“No!”
“It might have been attempted robbery.”
“Why don’t you leave well enough alone?” Mary said, fixing Qwilleran with her wide-eyed gaze. “If rumors start circulating, Junktown is bound to suffer. Do you realize this is the only neighborhood in town that’s been able to keep down crime? Customers still feel safe here, and I want to keep it that way.” Then her tone turned bitter. “I’m a fool, of course, for thinking we have a future. The city wants to tear all of this down and build sterile high-rise apartments. Meanwhile, we’re designated as a slum, and the banks refuse to lend money to property owners for improvements.”
“How about your father?” Qwilleran asked. “Does he subscribe to this official policy?”
“He conside
rs it entirely reasonable. You see, no one thinks of Junktown as a community of living people—merely a column of statistics. If they would ring doorbells, they would find respectable foreign families, old couples with no desire to move to the suburbs, small businessmen like Mr. Lombardo—all nationalities, all races, all ages, all types—including a certain trashy element that does no harm. That’s the way a city should be—one big hearty stew. But politicians have an à la carte mentality. They refuse to mix the onions and carrots with the tenderloin tips.”
“Has anyone tried to fight it?”
“C.C. has made a few attempts, but what can one man accomplish?”
“With your name and your influence, Mary, you could get something done.”
“Dad would never hear of it! Not for a minute! Do you know how I am classified at the Licensing Bureau? As a junk dealer! The newspapers would have a field day with that item . . . . Do you see that Chippendale chair near the fireplace? It’s priced two thousand dollars! But I’m licensed as a Class C junk dealer.”
“Someone should organize this whole community,” Qwilleran said.
“You’re undoubtedly right. Junktown has no voice at City Hall.” She walked to the bay window. “Look at those refuse receptacles! In every other part of town the rubbish is collected in the rear, but Junktown’s alleys are too narrow for the comfort of the city’s ‘disposal engineers,’ and they require us to put those ugly containers on the sidewalk. Thursday is collection day; this is Saturday, and the rubbish is still there.”
“The weather has fouled everything up,” Qwilleran said.
“You talk like a bureaucrat. Excuses! That’s all we hear.”
Qwilleran had followed her to the window. The street was indeed a sorry sight. “Are you sure Junktown has a low crime rate?” he asked.
“The antique dealers never have any trouble. And I’m not afraid to go out at night, because there are always people of one sort or another walking up and down the street. Some of my rich customers in the suburbs are afraid to drive into their own garages!”
The newsman looked at Mary with new respect. Abruptly he said, “Are you free for dinner tonight, by any chance?”
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards, Ate Danish Modern, Turned on and Off Page 8
