"I'm meeting some interesting personalities."
"The artists in this city have more personality than talent, I regret to say."
"This Cal Halapay is a hard one to figure out."
"He is a charlatan," said Mountclemens. "His paintings belong in advertisements for shampoo. His wife is decorative, if she keeps her mouth shut, but unfortunately she finds this an impossible feat. He also has a houseboy or protg — or whatever the charitable term may be — who has the insolence to want a retrospective exhibition of his life's work at the age of twenty-one. Have you met any other representatives of this city's remarkable art life?"
"Earl Lambreth. He seems to be —»
"There is a pathetic case. No talent whatever, but he hopes to reach the stars on his wife's apron strings. His one and only achievement has been to marry an artist. How he managed to win such an attractive woman is be, yond my imagination."
"She's good, looking, all right," Qwilleran agreed.
"And an excellent artist, although she needs to clean up her palette. She has done some studies of Kao K'o Kung, capturing all his mystery, magic, perversity, independence, playfulness, savagery, and loyalty — in one pair of eyes."
"I met Mrs. Lambreth at the Turp and Chisel last weekend: There was a party —»
"Are those aging adolescents still dressing up in fancy costumes?"
"It was a Valentine party. They all represented great lovers. First prize went to a woman sculptor called Butchy Bolton. You know her?"
"Yes," said the critic, "and good taste prevents me from making any comment whatever. I suppose Madame Duxbury was also there, dripping with sables and Gainsboroughs."
Qwilleran got out his pipe and took a long time lighting it. Then Kao K'o Kung walked into the room from the direction of the kitchen and performed his afterdinner ritual for all to admire. In studious concentration he darted his long pink tongue over his face. Next he licked his right paw well and used it to wash his right ear. Then he changed paws and repeated the identical process on the left: one pass over the whiskers, one pass over the cheekbone, twice over the eye, once over the brow, once over the ear, once over the back of the head.
Mountclemens said to Qwilleran, "You may feel complimented. When a cat washes up in front of you, he is admitting you into his world…. Where are you planning to live?"
"I want to find a furnished apartment as soon as possible — anything to get sprung from that plastic-coated hotel."
"I have a vacancy downstairs," said Mountclemens. "Small but adequate — and furnished rather well. It has a gas fireplace and some of my second-best Impressionists. The rent would be insignificant. My chief interest is to have the place occupied."
"Sounds good," said Qwilleran from the depths of his lounge chair, with memories of Caesar salad and lobster bisque still soothing him.
"I travel a great deal, viewing exhibitions and serving on art juries, and in this dubious neighborhood it is a good idea to have signs of life in the front apartment downstairs."
"I'd like to have a look at it." "Regardless of rumors that I am a monster," said Mountclemens in his most agreeable tone, "you will not find me a bad landlord. Everyone hates a critic, you know, and I imagine the gossips have described me as a sort of cultivated Beelzebub with artistic pretensions. I have few friends and, thankfully, no relatives, with the exception of a sister in Milwaukee who refuses to disown me. I am somewhat of a recluse."
Qwilleran made an understanding gesture with his pipe.
"A critic cannot afford to mix with artists," Mountclemens went on, "and when you hold yourself aloof, you invite jealousy and hatred. All my friends are here in this room, and I care for nothing else. My only ambition is to own works of art. I am never satisfied. Let me show you my latest acquisition. Did you know that Renoir painted window shades at one time in his career?" The critic leaned forward and lowered his voice, and a peculiar elation shone in his face. "I have two window shades painted by Renoir."
A shrill howl came from Kao K'o Kung, who was sitting in a tall, compact posture, gazing into the fire. It was a Siamese comment that Qwilleran could not translate. More than anything else it sounded like a portent.
6
On Thursday The Daily Fluxion published Qwilleran's first profile of an artist. His subject was Uncle Waldo, the elderly primitive and portrayer of livestock. Qwilleran had carefully avoided comment on the old man's artistic talent, building his story instead around the butcher's personal philosophy after a lifetime of selling chuck roasts to housewives in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.
The appearance of the story revived interest in Uncle Waldo's pictures, and on Friday the unimportant gallery that handled his work sold all their dusty canvases of beef cattle and woolly lambs and urged the old man to resume painting. Readers wrote to the editor commending Qwilleran's handling of the story. And Uncle Waldo's grandson, the truck driver, went to the offices of the Daily Fluxion with a gift for Qwilleran — ten pounds of home, made sausage that the retired butcher had made in his basement.
Friday evening Qwilleran himself was accorded some attention at the Press Club as he distributed links of knackwurst. He met Arch Riker and Odd Bunsen at the bar and ordered his usual tomato juice.
Arch said, "You must be quite a connoisseur of that stuff."
Qwilleran ran the glass under his nose and considered the bouquet thoughtfully. "An unpretentious vintage," he said. "Nothing memorable, but it has a naive charm. Unfortunately the bouquet is masked by the smoke from Mr. Bunsen's cigar. I would guess the tomatoes came from — " (he took a sip and rolled it on his tongue) — "from Northern Illinois. Obviously a tomato patch near an irrigation ditch, getting the morning sun from the east and the afternoon sun from the west." He took another swallow. "My palate tells me the tomatoes were picked early in the day — on a Tuesday or Wednesday — by a farmhand wearing a Band-Aid. The Mercurochrome comes through in the aftertaste."
"You're in a good mood," said Arch.
"Yep," said Qwilleran. "I'm moving out of the plastic palace. I'm going to rent an apartment from Mountclemens."
Arch set his glass down with a thud of astonishment, and Odd Bunsen choked on cigar smoke.
"A furnished apartment on the first floor. Very comfortable. And the rent is only $50 a month."
"Fifty! What's the catch?" said Odd.
"No catch. He just doesn't want the house standing empty when he's out of town."
"There's gotta be a catch," Odd insisted. "Old Monty's too tightfisted to give anything away. Sure he doesn't expect you to be a cat-sitter when he's out of town?"
"Quit being a cynical press photographer," said Qwilleran. "Don't you know it's an outdated stereotype?"
Arch said, "Odd's right. When our messenger goes to pick up the tapes, Mountclemens sends him on all kinds of personal errands and never gives the kid a tip. Is it true he's got a houseful of valuable art?"
Qwilleran took a slow swallow of tomato juice. "He's got a lot of junk lying around, but who knows if it's worth anything?" He refrained from mentioning the Van Gogh. "The big attraction is the cat. He's got a Chinese name — something like Koko. Mountclemens says cats like to hear a repetition of syllables when they're being ad, dressed, and their ears are particularly receptive to palatal and velar sounds."
"Somebody's nuts," said Odd.
"This cat is a Siamese, and he's got a voice like an ambulance siren. Know anything about the Siamese? It's a breed of supercat — very intelligent. This one can read."
"Read?"
"He reads the newspaper headlines, but they have to be fresh off the press."
"What does this supercat think of my photographs?" Odd said.
"It's questionable whether cats can recognize pictorial images, according to Mountclemens, but he thinks a cat can sense the content of a picture. Koko prefers modem art to old masters. My theory is that the fresher paint gets through to his sense of smell. Same way with fresh ink on a newspaper."
"What's the ho
use like?" Arch asked.
"Old. Declining neighborhood. But Mountclemens cherishes his place like a holy relic. They're tearing down buildings all around him, but he says he won't give up his house. It's quite a place. Chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, high ceilings — all carved plaster."
"Dust-catchers," said Odd.
"Mountclemens lives upstairs, and the downstairs is made into two apartments. I'm taking the front one. The rear is vacant, too. It's a nice quiet place except when the cat lets out a shriek."
"How was the food on Wednesday night?"
"When you taste Mountclemens' cooking, you forgive him for talking like a character in a Noel Coward play. I don't see how he turns out such dishes with his handicap."
"You mean his hand?"
"Yes. What's wrong with it?"
"That's an artificial hand he wears," said Arch.
"No kidding! It looks real, except for a little stiffness."
"That's why he tapes his column. He doesn't type."
Qwilleran thought about it for a few moments. Then he said, "I feel sorry for Mountclemens, in a way. He lives like a hermit. He thinks a critic shouldn't mix with artists, and yet art is his chief interest — that and the preservation of an old house."
"What did he say about the local art situation?" Arch asked.
"It's a funny thing. He didn't say much about art. We talked mostly about cats."
"See? What did I tell you?" said Odd. "Monty's lining you up for part-time cat-sitting. And don't expect a tip!"
The unseasonable weather, warm for February, ended that week. The temperature plunged, and Qwilleran bought a heavy pepper-and-salt tweed overcoat with his first full salary check.
For most of the weekend he stayed home, enjoying his new apartment. It had a living room with bed alcove, a kitchenette, and what Mountclemens would call ambiance. Qwilleran called it lots of junk. Still, he liked the effect. It was homey, and the chairs were comfortable, and there were gas logs in the fireplace. The picture over the mantel, according to the landlord, was one of Monet's less successful works.
Qwilleran's only complaint was the dim lighting. Light bulbs of low wattage seemed to be one of Mountclemens' economies. Qwilleran went shopping on Saturday morning and picked up some 75's and l00's.
He had a book from the library on how to understand modem art, and on Saturday afternoon he was coping with Dadaism in chapter nine, and chewing on a pipeful of unlighted tobacco, when an imperative wail sounded outside his door. Although it was clearly the voice of a Siamese cat, the cry was divided into syllables with well-placed emphasis, as if the command were "Let me in!"
Qwilleran found himself obeying the order punctually. He opened the door, and there stood Kao K'o Kung.
For the first time Qwilleran saw the critic's cat in bright daylight, which streamed through the beveled glass windows of the hall. The light emphasized the luster of the pale fur, the richness of the dark brown face and ears, the uncanny blue of the eyes. Long brown legs, straight and slender, were deflected at the ends to make dainty feet, and the bold whiskers glinted with the prismatic colors of the rainbow. The angle of his ears, which he wore like a crown, accounted for his regal demeanor.
Kao K'o Kung was no ordinary cat, and Qwilleran hardly knew how to address him. Sahib? Your Highness? On impulse he decided to treat the cat as an equal, so he merely said, "Won't you come in?" and stood aside, unaware that he was making a slight bow.
Kao K'o Kung advanced to the threshold and surveyed the apartment carefully before accepting the invitation. This took some time. Then he stalked haughtily across the red carpet and made a routine inspection of the fireplace, the ashtray, the remains of some cheese and crackers on the table, Qwilleran's corduroy coat hanging on the back of a chair, the book on modem art, and an unidentified and almost invisible spot on the carpet. Finally satisfied with everything, he selected a place in the middle of the floor — at a carefully computed distance from the gas fire — and stretched out in a leonine pose.
"Can I get you something?" Qwilleran inquired.
The cat made no reply but looked at his host with a squeezing of the eyes that seemed to denote contentment.
"Koko, you're a very fine fellow," said Qwilleran. "Make yourself comfortable. Do you mind if I finish my reaing?"
Kao K'o Kung stayed half an hour, and Qwilleran relished the picture they made — a man, a pipe, a book, an expensive looking cat — and he was disappointed when his guest arose, stretched, uttered a sharp adieu, and went upstairs to his own apartment.
Qwilleran spent the rest of the weekend anticipating his Monday lunch date with Sandra Halapay. He was circumventing the problem of interviewing her husband by writing a profile of Cal Halapay through the eyes of his family and friends." Sandy was going to steer him to the right people, and she had promised to bring candid snapshots of her husband teaching the children to ski, feeding turkeys on the Oregon farm, and training a Kerry blue to sit up.
All day Sunday Qwilleran felt that his moustache was transmitting messages to him — or perhaps it merely needed clipping. Just the same, its owner sensed that the coming week would be significant. Whether significantly good or significantly bad, the informed source did not reveal.
Monday morning arrived, and with it came an unexpected communication from upstairs.
Qwilleran was dressing and selecting a tie that Sandy might approve (a navy and green wool tartan, made in Scotland) when he first noticed the folded paper on the floor, half pushed under the door.
He picked it up. The handwriting was poor — like a child's scrawl — and the message was terse and abbreviated:
"Mr. Q — Pls del tapes to A.R. Save mess a trip — GBM."
Qwilleran had not seen his landlord since Friday evening. At that time he had moved his two suitcases from the "hotel to the apartment and had paid a month's rent. A vague hope that Mountclemens would invite him to Sunday breakfast — perhaps eggs Benedict or a chicken liver omelet — had evaporated. It appeared that only the cat was going to be sociable.
After deciphering the note, Qwilleran opened the door and found the reels of tape waiting for him on the hall floor. He delivered them to Arch Riker, but he thought the request strange — and unnecessary. The Dispatch Room at the Fluxion had a benchful of messengers who sat around pitching pennies most of the time.
Arch said, "Making any headway with the Halapay profile?"
"I'm taking Mrs. Halapay to lunch today. Will the Flux be willing to pick up the check?"
"Sure, they'll go for a couple of bucks."
"Where's a good place to take her? Somewhere special."
"Why don't you ask the Hungry Photographers? They're always getting people to buy lunch on expense accounts."
In the Photo Lab Qwilleran found six pairs of feet propped on desks, tables, wastebaskets, and filing cabinets — waiting for assignments, or waiting for prints to come off the dryer, or waiting for the dark room buzzer.
Qwilleran said, "Where's a good place to take someone to lunch for an interview?"
"Who's paying?"
"The Flux."
"Sitting Bull's Chop House," the photographers said in unison.
"The chopped sirloin weighs a pound," said one. "The cheese cake's four inches thick."
"They have a double lamb chop as big as my shoe." It sounded good to Qwilleran.
Sitting Bull's Chop House was located in the packing, house district, and a characteristic odor seeped into the dining room to compete with the cigar smoke.
"Oh, what a fun place," Sandy Halapay squealed. "How clever of you to bring me here. So many men! I adore men."
The men adored Sandy, too. Her red hat topped with a proud black rooster tail was the center of attention. She ordered oysters, which the chop house could not supply, so she contented herself with champagne. But with each sip her laughter grew more shrill, rebounding from the antiseptic white tile walls of the restaurant, and the enthusiasm of her audience dwindled.
"Jim, dear, you mus
t fly down to the Caribbean with me when Cal goes to Europe next week. I'll have the plane all to myself. Wouldn't it be fun?"
But she had forgotten to bring the information Qwilleran needed, and the snapshots of her husband were unusable. The lamb chop was indeed as big as a photographer's shoe and as flavorful. The waitresses, uniformed like registered nurses, were more efficient than cordial.
The luncheon was not a success. Back in the office that afternoon, Qwilleran had to listen to telephone complaints about Mountclemens' review in Sunday's paper. The critic had called a watercolorist a frustrated interior decorator, and the watercolorist's friends and relatives were calling to castigate the Daily Fluxion and cancel their subscriptions.
All together, Monday was not a halcyon day for Qwilleran. At the end of the tedious afternoon he fled to the Press Club for dinner, and Bruno, setting up a tomato juice, said, "I hear you've moved in with Mountclemens."
"I've rented one of his vacant apartments," Qwilleran snapped. "Anything wrong with that?"
"Not until he starts pushing you around, I guess." Then Odd Bunsen stopped long enough to give the newsman an informed grin and say, "I hear old Monty's got you running errands for him already."
When Qwilleran returned home to 26 Blenheim Place, he was in no mood for what he found. There was another note under his door.
"Mr. Q," it read, "Apprec pick up plane ticket — reserv Wed 3 P.M. NY — chg my acct — GBM."
Qwilleran's moustache bristled. It was true that the airline office was across the street from the Daily Fluxion Building, and picking up a plane ticket was a small favor for his landlord to ask in return for a good dinner. What irked him was the abruptness of the request. Or was it an order? Did Mountclemens think he was Qwilleran's boss?
Tomorrow was Tuesday. The plane reservation was for Wednesday. There was no time to make an issue of it, so Qwilleran grumbled to himself and picked up the ticket the following morning on his way to work.
Later in the day Odd Bunsen met him on the elevator and said, "Going away somewhere?"
"No. Why?"
"Saw you going into the airline office. Thought you were skipping town." He added a taunting grin. "Don't tell me you're running errands for Monty again!"
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Page 6
