The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Could Read Backward

  1

  Jim Qwilleran, whose name had confounded typesetters and proofreaders for two decades, arrived fifteen minutes early for his appointment with the man, aging editor of the Daily Fluxion.

  In the reception room he picked up a copy of the early edition and studied the front page. He read the weather prediction (unseasonably warm) and the circulation figures (427,463) and the publisher's slogan snobbishly printed in Latin (Fiat Flux).

  He read the lead story on a murder trial and the secondary lead on the gubernatorial race, in which he found two typographical errors. He noticed that the art museum had failed to get its million dollar grant, but he skipped the details. He bypassed another feature about a kitten trapped in a drainpipe, but he read everything else: Cop Nabs Hood in Gun Tiff. Probe Stripper Feud in Loop. Stocks Soar as Tax Talk Irks Dems.

  Qwilleran could hear familiar noises beyond a glass, paneled door-typewriters clattering, teletypes jigging, telephones screaming. At the sound his ample pepper and salt moustache bristled, and he smoothed it with his knuckles. Aching for a sight of the bustle and clutter that constituted the City Room before a deadline, he walked to the door for a squint through the glass.

  The sounds were authentic, but the scene — he discovered — was all wrong. The venetian blinds were straight. The desks were tidy and unscarred. Crumpled copy paper and slashed newspapers that should have been on the floor were collected in wire wastebaskets. As he contemplated the scene with dismay, an alien sound reached his ears — one that did not harmonize with the background music of any city rooms he had known. Then he noticed a copyboy feeding yellow pencils into a small moaning contraption. Qwilleran stared at the thing. An electric pencil sharpener! He had never thought it would come to this. It reminded him how long he had been out of touch. Another copyboy in tennis shoes bounced out of the City Room and said, "Mr. Qwilleran? You can come in now."

  Qwilleran followed him to the cubicle where a young managing editor was waiting with a sincere handshake and a sincere smile. "So you're Jim Qwilleran! I've heard a lot about you."

  Qwilleran wondered how much — and how bad. In the job resume he had mailed to the Daily Fluxion, his career traced a dubious curve: sports writer, police reporter, war correspondent, winner of the Publishers' Trophy, author of a book on urban crime. Then came a succession of short term jobs on smaller and smaller newspapers, followed by a long period of unemployment — or no jobs worth listing.

  The managing editor said, "I remember your coverage of the trial that won you the Publishers' Trophy. I was a cub reporter at the time and a great admirer of yours."

  By the man's age and schooled manner, Qwilleran recognized him as the new breed of editor — one of the precision, honed generation who approached newspapering as a science rather than a holy cause. Qwilleran had always worked for the other kind — the old fashioned nail, splitting crusaders.

  The editor was saying, "With your background you may be disappointed in our offer. All we have for you is a desk in the Feature Department, but we'd like you to take it until something turns up cityside."

  "And until I've proved I can stay on the job?" Qwilleran said, looking the man in the eye. He had been through a humbling experience; now the problem was to strike the right chord of humility and confidence.

  "That goes without saying. How are you getting along?"

  "So far, so good. The important thing is to get back on a newspaper. I wore out my welcome in several cities before I got smart. That's why I wanted to come here.

  "Strange town-lively paper — new challenge. I think I can make it work."

  "Sure you can!" said the editor, squaring his jaw. "And here's what we have in mind for you. We need an art writer."

  "An art writer!" Qwilleran winced and mentally com, posed a headline: Vet Newsman Put to Pasture.

  "Know anything about art?"

  Qwilleran was honest. He said, "I don't know the Venus de Milo from the Statue of Liberty."

  "You're exactly what we want! The less you know, the fresher your viewpoint. Art is booming in this town, and we need to give it more coverage. Our art critic writes a column twice a week, but we want an experienced newsman to scout stories about the artists themselves. There's plenty of material. These days, as you probably know, artists are more plentiful than cats and dogs."

  Qwilleran combed his moustache with his knuckles. The editor continued in a positive vein. "You'll report to the feature editor, but you can dig up your own assignments. We'll want you to get around on the beat, meet a lot of artists, shake a few hands, make friends for the paper.

  Qwilleran silently composed another headline: Journalist Sinks to Role of Gladhander. But he needed the job. Necessity battled with conscience. "Well," he said, "I don't know —»

  "It will be a nice clean beat, and you'll meet some decent people for a change. You've probably had your fill of mobsters and con men."

  Qwilleran's twitching moustache was trying to say who-the-hell-wants-a-nice- clean-beat, but its owner maintained a diplomatic silence.

  The editor consulted his watch and stood up. "Why don't you go upstairs and talk it over with Arch Riker? He can —»

  "Arch Riker! What's he doing here?"

  "He's feature editor. Know him?"

  "We worked together in Chicago-years ago."

  "Good! He'll give you all the details. And I hope you decide to join the Flux." The editor extended his hand and smiled a measured smile.

  Qwilleran wandered out through the City Room again — past the rows of white shirts with sleeves at three, quarter mast, past the heads bent obliviously over typewriters, past the inevitable girl reporter. She was the only one who gave him an inquisitive look, and he stretched to his full six feet two, reined in the superfluous ten pounds that pushed at his belt buckle, and passed a preening hand over his head. Like his upper lip, it still boasted three black hairs for every one that was gray.

  Upstairs he found Arch Riker presiding over a roomful of desks, typewriters, and telephones — all in a single shade of pea green.

  "Pretty fancy, isn't it?" Arch said apologetically. "They call it Eye Ease Olive. Everybody has to be pampered these days. Personally, I think it looks bilious."

  The Feature Department was a small edition of the City Room — without the smolder of urgency. Serenity filled the room like a mist. Everyone seemed to be ten years older than the crew in the City Room, and Arch himself was plumper and balder than he used to be.

  "Jim, it's great to see you again," he said. "Do you still spell your name with that ridiculous W?"

  "It's a respectable Scottish spelling," Qwilleran protested.

  "And I see you haven't got rid of that overgrown moustache."

  "It's my only war souvenir." The knuckles smoothed it affectionately.

  "How's your wife, Jim?"

  "You mean my ex-wife?"

  "Oh, I didn't know. Sorry."

  "Let's skip that…. What's this job you've got for me?"

  "It's a snap. You can do a Sunday piece for us if you want to start today."

  "I haven't said I'll take the job yet."

  "You'll take it," Arch said. "It's just right for you."

  "Considering my recent reputation, you mean?"

  "Are you going to be touchy? Forget it. Quit needling yourself."

  Qwilleran parted his moustache thoughtfully. "I suppose I could give it a try. Want me to do a trial assignment?"

  "Anything you say."

  "Got any leads?"

  "Yes." Arch Riker drew
a pink sheet of paper from a tickler file. "How much did the boss tell you?"

  "He didn't tell me anything," Qwilleran said, "except that he wants human interest stuff on artists."

  "Well, he sent up a pink memo suggesting a story on a guy called Cal

  Halapay."

  "So?"

  "Here at the Flux we have a color code. A blue memo means For Your Information. Yellow means Casual Suggestion. But pink means Jump, Man, Jump."

  "What's so urgent about Cal Halapay?"

  "Under the circumstances it might be better if you didn't know the background. Just go out there cold, meet this Halapay person, and write something readable. You know all the tricks."

  "Where do I find him?"

  "Call his office, I suppose. He's a commercial artist and head of a successful agency, but he does oil paintings in his spare time. He paints pictures of kids. They're very popular. Kids with curly hair and rosy cheeks. They look apoplectic, but people seem to buy them…. Say, do you want lunch? We could go to the Press Club."

  Qwilleran's moustache sprang to attention. Once upon a time press clubs had been his life, his love, his hobby, his home, his inspiration.

  This one was across the street from the new police headquarters, in a sooty limestone fortress with barred windows that had once been the county jail. The stone steps, bowl-shaped with age, held the evidence of an unseasonable February thaw. In the lobby the ancient woodwork gleamed red under countless coats of varnish.

  "We can eat in the bar," Arch said, "or we can go upstairs to the dining room. They've got tablecloths up there."

  "Let's eat down here," Qwilleran said.

  It was dim and noisy in the bar. Conversation was high-key, with confidential undertones. Qwilleran knew it well. It meant that rumors were circulating, campaigns were being launched, and cases were getting solved unofficially over a beer and a hamburger.

  They found two empty stools at the bar and were confronted by a bartender wearing a red vest and a conspiratorial smile that brimmed with inside information. Qwilleran recalled that some of his best story tips had come from Press Club bartenders.

  "Scotch and water," Arch ordered.

  Qwilleran said, "Double tomato juice on the rocks."

  "Tom-tom on the rocks," said the bartender. "You want a squeeze of lime and a shot of Worcestershire?"

  "No, thanks."

  "That's the way I fix it for my friend the mayor when he comes in here." There was more of the authoritative smile.

  "No, thanks."

  "How about a drop of Tabasco to give it a bite?"

  "No, just pour it straight."

  The bartender's mouth turned down at the comers, and Arch said to him, "This is Jim Qwilleran, a new staffer. He doesn't realize you're an artist…. Jim, this is Bruno. He gives his drinks a lot of personal expression."

  Behind Qwilleran an earsplitting voice said, "I'll take less expression and a bigger shot of liquor. Hey, Bruno, make me a martini, and leave out the garbage. No olive, lemon twist, anchovy, or pickled unborn tomato."

  Qwilleran turned and faced a cigar clamped between grinning teeth, its size vastly out of proportion to the slender young man who smoked it. The black cord hanging from his breast pocket was obviously attached to a light meter. He was noisy. He was cocky. He was enjoying himself. Qwilleran liked him.

  "This clown," Arch said to Qwilleran,

  "is Odd Bunsen from the Photo Lab…. Odd, this is Jim Qwilleran, old friend of mine. We hope he's joining the Flux staff."

  The photographer extended a quick hand. "Jim, glad to meet you. Care for a cigar?"

  "I use a pipe. Thanks just the same."

  Odd studied Qwilleran's luxuriant moustache with interest. "That shrubbery's getting out of hand. Aren't you afraid of brush fires?"

  Arch said to Qwilleran, "The black string hanging out of Mr. Bunsen's pocket is what we use to tie his head on. But he's a useful man. He has more information than the reference library. Maybe he can fill you in on Cal Halapay."

  "Sure," said the photographer. "What do you want to know? He's got a sharp- looking wife, 34-22-32."

  "Who is this Halapay, anyway?" Qwilleran asked.

  Odd Bunsen consulted his cigar smoke briefly. "Commercial artist. Runs a big ad agency. Personally worth a few million. Lives in Lost Lake Hills. Beautiful house, big studio where he paints, two swimming pools. Two, did you get that? With water being so scarce, he probably fills one with bourbon."

  "Any family?"

  "Two or three kids. Gorgeous wife. Halapay owns an island in the Caribbean and a ranch in Oregon and a couple of private planes. Everything money can buy. And he's not tight with his dough. He's a good joe."

  "What about these pictures he paints?"

  "Sharp! Real sharp," said Odd. "I've got one hanging in my living room. After I photographed Halapay's wife at a charity ball last fall, he gave me a painting. Couple of kids with curly hair…. Well, I've got to go and eat now. There's a one o'clock assignment on the board."

  Arch drained his drink and said to Qwilleran, "Talk to Halapay and size up the photo possibilities, and then we'll try to assign Odd Bunsen. He's our best man. Maybe he could try some color shots. It wouldn't hurt to do this layout in color."

  "That pink memo has you straining a bit, hasn't it?"

  Qwilleran said. "What's the connection between Halapay and the Daily Fluxion?"

  "I'm having another drink," Arch said. "Want another tomato juice?"

  Qwilleran let the question drop, but he said, "Just give me one straight answer, Arch. Why are they offering me this art beat? Me, of all people."

  "Because that's the way newspapers do things. They assign baseball experts as drama critics and church news writers to the nightclub beat. You know that as well as I do."

  Qwilleran nodded and stroked his moustache sadly. Then he said, "What about this art critic you have on the staff? If I take the job, do I work with him? Or her, as the case may be."

  "It's a guy," Arch told him. "He writes critical reviews, and you'll be doing straight reporting and personality stories. I don't think there'll be any conflict."

  "Does he work in our department?"

  "No, he never comes to the office. He does his column at home, puts it on tape, and sends it down by messenger once or twice a week. We have to transcribe it. It's a fat nuisance."

  "What keeps him away? Doesn't he like pea green?"

  "Don't ask me. That's his arrangement with the front office. He has a neat contract with the Flux."

  "What's the fellow like?"

  "Aloof. Opinionated. Hard to get along with."

  "That's nice. Is he young or old?"

  "In between. He lives alone — with a cat, if you can picture that! A lot of people think the cat writes the column, and they may be right."

  "Is his stuff any good?"

  "He thinks so. And the brass evidently thinks so." Arch shifted around on the bars tool while he weighed his next remark. "There's a rumor that the Flux has the guy heavily insured."

  "What's so valuable about an art critic?"

  "This one's got that certain magic that newspapers love; he's controversial! His column pulls hundreds of letters a week. No, thousands!"

  "What kind of letters?"

  "Angry ones. Sugary ones. Hysterical ones. The arty readers hate his guts; the others think he's the greatest, and they get to brawling among themselves. He manages to keep the whole city stirred up. Do you know what our last survey showed? The art page has a bigger readership than the sports section! Now you know and I know that's an unnatural situation."

  "You must have a lot of art buffs in this town," Qwilleran said.

  "You don't have to like art to enjoy our art column; you just have to like blood."

  "But what do they fight about?"

  "You'll find out."

  "I can understand controversy in sports and politics, but art is art, isn't it?"

  "That's what I used to think," said Arch. "When I took over the featur
e desk, I had this simpleminded notion that art was something precious — for beautiful people who had beautiful thoughts. Man, did I lose that dream in a hurry! Art has gone democratic. In this town it's the greatest fad since canasta, and anybody can play. People buy paintings instead of swimming pools."

  Qwilleran chewed the ice in his tomato juice and pondered the mysteries of this beat the Daily Fluxion was offering him. "By the way," he said, "what's the critic's name?"

  "George Bonifield Mountclemens."

  "Say that again, please?"

  "George Bonifield Mountclemens — the Third!"

  "That's a stickful! Does he use all three names like that?"

  "All three names, all nine syllables, all twenty seven letters plus the numerals! Twice a week we try to fit his byline into a standard column width. It can't be done, except sideways. And he doesn't permit any abbreviations, hyphens, contractions, or amputations!"

  Qwilleran gave Arch a close look. "You don't like him much, do you?"

  Arch shrugged. "I can take him or leave him. Actually I never see the guy. I just see the artists who come to the office wanting to punch him in the teeth."

  "George Bonifield Mountclemens III!" Qwilleran shook his head in amazement.

  "Even his name infuriates some of our readers," Arch said. "They want to know who does he think he is."

  "Keep talking. I'm beginning to like this job. The boss said it was a nice wholesome beat, and I was afraid I'd be working with a bunch of saints."

  "Don't let him kid you. All the artists in this town hate each other, and all the art-lovers take sides. Then everybody plays rough. It's like football only dirtier. Name calling, back-biting, double-crossing — " Arch slid off his barstool. "Come on, let's get a corned beef sandwich."

  The blood of several old war-horses that flowed through Qwilleran's veins began to chum a little faster. His moustache almost smiled. "Okay, I'll take it," he said. "I'll take the job."

  2

  It was Qwilleran's first day on the job at the Daily Fluxion. He moved into one of the pea-green desks in the Feature Department and got himself a supply of yellow pencils. He noticed that the pea- green telephone was stenciled with an official reminder: Be Nice to People. He tried the pea-green typewriter by poking out, "The time of many murders is after midnight." Then he telephoned the Fluxion garage to request a staff car for the