Qwilleran groomed his moustache with his knuckles and tried to reflect calmly that curiosity and a keen sense of observation make a good news photographer.
When he arrived home that evening, the third note was waiting under his door. It was more to his liking:
"Mr. Q — Pls bkfst w me Wed 8:30 — GBM."
Wednesday morning Qwilleran went upstairs with the plane ticket and knocked on Mountclemens' door.
"Good morning, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, extending a thin white hand, his left. "I hope you are not in a hurry. I have a ramekin of eggs with herbs and sour cream, ready to put in the oven, if you can wait. And some chicken livers and bacon en brochette."
"For that I can wait," said Qwilleran.
"The table is set in the kitchen, and we can have a compote of fresh pineapple while we keep an eye on the broiler. I was fortunate enough to find a female pineapple at the market."
The critic was wearing silk trousers and a short Oriental coat tied with a sash around his remarkably thin midriff. There was a scent of lime peel. His thong sandals slapped as he led the way down a long hall to the kitchen.
The walls of the corridor were completely covered with tapestries, scrolls, and framed pictures. Qwilleran remarked about the quantity.
"Also quality," said Mountclemens, tapping a group of drawings as he walked past them. "Rembrandt… Holbein. Very fine… Millet."
The kitchen was large, with three tall narrow windows. Bamboo blinds kept the light subdued, but Qwilleran peered through them and saw an exterior stairway — evidently a fire escape — leading down to a brick-walled patio. In the alley beyond the high wall he could see the top of a station wagon.
"Is that your car?" he asked.
"That grotesquery," said Mountclemens with an implied shudder, "belongs to the junk dealer across the alley. If I kept a car, it would have some felicity of design — a Karmann Ghia, or a Citroen. As it is, I dissipate my fortune in taxicabs."
The kitchen had a mellow clutter of antiques, copper utensils, and clumps of dried vegetation.
"I dry my own herbs," Mountclemens explained. "Do you appreciate a little mint marinated with the pineapple? I think it gives the fruit another dimension. Pineapple can be a little too direct. I grow the mint in a pot on the windowsill — chiefly for Kao K'o Kung. His idea of a choice plaything is a bouquet of dried mint leaves tied in the toe of a sock. In a moment of rare wit we have named his toy Mintie Mouse. A rather free abstraction of a mouse, but that is the sort of thing that appeals to his artistic intellect."
Mountclemens was putting individual baking dishes into the oven one at a time, using his left hand.
"Where is Koko this morning?" Qwilleran asked.
"You should be able to feel his gaze. He is watching you from the top of the refrigerator — the only down, cushioned refrigerator west of the Hudson River. It is his bed. He refuses to sleep anywhere else."
The aroma of bacon, herbs, and coffee was beginning to swirl about the kitchen, and Koko — on a blue cushion that matched his eyes — raised his nose to sniff. So did Qwilleran.
He said, "What do you do about the cat when you go to New York?"
"Ah, that is the problem," said the critic. "He requires a certain amount of attention. Would it be an imposition if I asked you to prepare his meals while I am away? I'll be gone less than a week. He takes only two meals a day, and his diet is simple. There is raw beef in the refrigerator. You merely carve it in small pieces the size of a lima bean, put it in a pan with a little broth, and warm it gently. A dash of salt and a sprinkling of sage or thyme will be appreciated."
"Well — " said Qwilleran, spooning up the last of the minted pineapple juice. "To make it easier for you in the mornings, when you are headed for the office, he could have a slice of p?t de la maison for breakfast instead of beef. It makes a welcome change for him. Would you like your coffee now or later?"
"Later," said Qwilleran. "No — I'll take it now."
"And then there is the matter of his commode." "What's that?"
"His commode. You'll find it in the bathroom. It needs very little attention. He is an immaculate cat. You will find the sand for the commode in the Chinese tea chest at the foot of the bathtub. Do you take sugar or cream?"
"Black."
"If the weather is not too inclement, he can take a little exercise in the patio, provided you accompany him. Normally he gets sufficient exercise by running up and down the front stairs. I leave my apartment door ajar for his comings and goings. To be on the safe side, I shall also give you a key. Is there anything I can do for you in New York?"
Qwilleran had just experienced the first forkful of chicken livers rolled in bacon and seasoned with a touch of basil, and he rolled his eyes gratefully heavenward. In doing so, he caught the gaze of Kao K'o Kung, perched on the refrigerator. The cat slowly and deliberately closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.
"I have a complaint," Qwilleran told Arch at the Press Club on Wednesday night.
7
"I know what it is. Your name was spelled with a U yesterday, but we caught it in the second edition. You know what's going to happen, don't you? The next time the typographers' union meets with management, the spelling of your name is going to be one of their grievances."
"I have another beef, too. I wasn't hired to be an orderly for your art critic, but that's what he seems to think. Do you know he's leaving town tonight?"
"I guessed as much," said Arch. "That last batch of tapes included enough copy for three columns."
"First I delivered those tapes for him. And then I picked up his ticket for the three o'clock plane this after, noon. And now I'm expected to do latrine duty for his cat!"
"Wait till Odd Bunsen hears this!" "Don't tell him! Nosy Bunsen will find out soon enough in his own devious way. I'm supposed to feed the cat twice a day, change his drinking water, and attend to his commode. Do you know what a commode is?"
"I can guess."
"It was new to me. I thought cats just ran out in the backyard."
"There's nothing in the Guild contract about reporters doing toidy service," Arch said. "Why didn't you decline?"
"Mountclemens didn't give me a chance. He's a sly operator! There I was, sitting in his kitchen, mesmerized by fresh pineapple, broiled chicken livers, and eggs in sour cream. It was female pineapple, what's more. What could I do?"
"You'll have to choose between pride and gluttony, that's all. Don't you like cats?"
"Sure, I like animals, and this cat is more human than a few people I could name. But he gives me the uncomfortable feeling that he knows more than I do — and he's not telling what it is."
Arch said, "We have cats around the house all the time. The kids bring them home. But none of them ever gave me an inferiority complex."
"Your kids never brought home a Siamese."
"You can stand it for three or four days. If it gets too much for you, we'll send a copyboy with a master's degree. He should be able to cope with a Siamese."
"Knock it off. Here comes Odd Bunsen," said Qwilleran.
Even before the photographer appeared, the cigar could be detected and the voice could be heard, complaining about the frigid temperature outside.
Odd tapped Qwilleran on the shoulder. "Are those cat hairs on your lapel, or have you been dating a blonde with a crew cut?"
Qwilleran combed his moustache with a swizzle stick.
Odd said, "I'm still on nights. Any of you guys want to eat with me? I've got an hour for dinner, if nobody blows up City Hall."
"I'll eat with you," said Qwilleran. They found a table and consulted the menu. Odd ordered Salisbury steak, complimented the waitress on the trimness of her waistline, and then said to Qwilleran, "Well, have you got old Monty figured out yet? If I went around insulting everybody the way he does, I'd get fired — or assigned to Society, what's worse. How does he get away with it?"
"Critic's license. Besides, newspapers like controversial writers."
"And where does he get all his money? I hear he lives pretty well. Travels a lot. Drives an expensive car. He doesn't do that on what the Flux pays him."
"Mountclemens doesn't drive," Qwilleran said.
"Sure, he does. I've seen him behind the wheel. I saw him this morning."
"He told me he didn't have a car. He rides taxis."
"Maybe he doesn't own one, but he drives one some, times."
"How do you suppose he manages?"
"No sweat. Automatic transmission. Didn't you ever do any one-arm driving? You must be a lousy lover. I used to drive with one arm, shift gears, and eat a hot dog all at the same time."
"I've got a few questions, too," Qwilleran said. "Are the local artists as bad as Mountclemens says? Or is he as phony as the artists think? Mountclemens says Halapay is a charlatan. Halapay says Zoe Lambreth's paintings are a hoax. Zoe says Sandy Halapay is uninformed. Sandy says Mountclemens is irresponsible. Mountclemens says Farhar is incompetent. Farhar says Mountclemens knows nothing about art. Mountclemens says Earl Lambreth is pathetic. Lambreth says Mountclemens is a monument of taste, truth, and integrity. So… who's on first?"
"Listen!" said Odd. "I think they're paging me."
The voice mumbling over the public-address system could hardly be heard above the hubbub in the bar.
"Yep, that's for me," the photographer said. "Somebody must have blown up the City Hall."
He went to the telephone, and Qwilleran pondered the complexities of the art beat.
When Odd Bunsen returned from the telephone booth, he was taut with excitement.
Qwilleran thought, A press photographer for fifteen years, and he still lights up when there's a three-alarm fire.
"I've got news for you," said Odd, leaning over the table and keeping his voice down.
"What is it?"
"Trouble on your beat."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Homicide! I'm on my way to the Lambreth Gallery."
"The Lambreth!" Qwilleran stood up fast enough to knock over his chair. "Who is it?… Not Zoe!"
"No. Her husband."
"Know what happened?"
"They said he was stabbed. Want to come with me? I told the desk you were here, and they said it would be good if you could cover it. Kendall's out on a story, and both leg men are busy."
"Okay, I'll go."
"Better phone them back and say so. I've got my car outside."
When Qwilleran and Bunsen arrived in front of the Lambreth Gallery, there was an unwarranted calm in the street. The financial district was normally deserted after five-thirty, and even a murder had failed to draw much of a crowd. A sharp wind whipped down the canyon created by nearby office buildings, and only a few shivering stragglers stood about on the sidewalk, but they soon moved on. A loneliness filled the street. Isolated voices sounded unreasonably loud.
The newsmen identified themselves to the patrolman at the door. Inside, the expensive art and plush furnishings made an unlikely background for the assortment of uninvited guests. A police photographer was taking pictures of some paintings that had been viciously slashed. Bunsen pointed out the precinct inspector and Hames, a detective from the Homicide Bureau. Hames nodded at them and jerked a thumb upstairs.
The newsmen started up the spiral staircase at the rear and then backed away to let a fingerprint man come down. He was talking to himself. He was saying, "How can they get a stretcher down this thing? They'll have to take him out the window."
Upstairs a sharp voice was saying, "Come on, you fellows. You can take care of that downstairs. Let's thin out."
"That's Wojcik from Homicide," said Bunsen. "No fooling around with him."
The framing shop was approximately as Qwilleran remembered it — except for the men with badges, cameras, and notebooks. A patrolman stood in the doorway to Lambreth's office, facing out. Over his shoulder Qwilleran could see that the office had been fairly well wrecked. The body lay on the floor near the desk.
He got Wojcik's attention and flipped open a small notebook. "Murderer known?"
"No," said the detective.
"Victim: Earl Lambreth, director of the gallery?" "Right."
"Method?"
"Stabbed with a tool from the workbench. A sharp chisel."
"Where?"
"Throat. A very wet job."
"Body discovered where?"
"In his office."
"By whom?"
"Victim's wife, Zoe."
Qwilleran took a second to gulp and grimace.
"That's spelled Z-o-e," said the detective. "I know. Any sign of a struggle?"
"Office practically turned upside down."
"What about the vandalism in the gallery?"
"Several pictures damaged. A statue broken. You can see that downstairs."
"What time did it happen?"
"The electric clock-knocked off the desk-stopped at six-fifteen."
"The gallery was closed at that time."
"Right."
"Any evidence of forcible breaking and entering?"
"No."
"Then the murderer could have been someone who had legitimate access to the place."
"Could be. We found the front door locked. The alley door may or may not have been locked when Mrs. Lambreth arrived."
"Anything stolen?"
"Not immediately apparent." Wojcik started to move away. That's all. You've got the story."
"One more question. Any suspects?"
"No."
Downstairs, while Bunsen scrambled around taking pictures, Qwilleran studied the nature of the vandalism. Two oil paintings had been ripped diagonally by a sharp instrument. A framed picture lay on the floor with its glass broken, as if a heel had been put through it. A reddish clay sculpture appeared to have been bounced off a marble-top table; there were scattered fragments.
Paintings by Zoe Lambreth and Scrano — the only two names that registered with Qwilleran — were unharmed.
He remembered the sculpture from his previous visit. The elongated shape with random swellings had apparently been a woman's figure. Its label, still affixed to the empty pedestal, said "Eve by B. H. Riggs — terra cotta."
The watercolor on the floor was one Qwilleran had not noticed the week before. It resembled a jigsaw puzzle of many colors — just a pleasing pattern. It was titled "Interior," and the artist's name was Mary Ore. The label called it a gouache.
Then Qwilleran examined the two oils. Both were composed of wavy vertical stripes of color, applied on a white background with a wide brush. The colors were violent-red, purple, orange, pink-and the paintings seemed to vibrate like a plucked string. Qwilleran wondered who would buy these nerve, racking works of art. He preferred his second-rate Monet.
Stepping closer to check the labels, he noted that one was "Beach Scene #3 by Milton Ore — oil," while the other was "Beach Scene #2" by the same artist. In a way the titles were a help in appreciating the pictures. They began to remind Qwilleran of shimmering heat waves rising from hot sand.
He said to Bunsen, "Look at these two pictures. Would you say they were beach scenes?"
"I'd say the artist was drunk," said Odd.
Qwilleran moved back a few paces and squinted at the two oils. Suddenly he saw a crowd of standing figures. He had been looking at the red, orange, and purple stripes, and he should have been seeing the white voids between them. The vertical stripes of white suggested the contours of female bodies — abstract but recognizable.
He thought, Women's figures in those white stripes… a woman's torso in the broken clay. Let's have another look at the watercolor.
When he knew what he was searching for, it was not hard to find. In the jagged wedges of color that made up the pattern of Mary Ore's work, he could distinguish a window, a chair, a bed — on which reclined a human figure. Female.
He said to Odd Bunsen, "I'd like to go out to the Lambreth house and see if Zoe will talk to me. Also, she might have a photograph of the deceased. Shall we check wi
th the desk?"
After phoning the details to a rewrite man and getting a go-ahead from the City Desk, Qwilleran folded himself into Odd Bunsen's cramped two-seater, and they drove to 3434 Sampler Street.
The Lambreth home was a contemporary town house in a new neighborhood — self-consciously well designed — that had replaced a former slum. The newsmen rang the doorbell and waited. Draperies were drawn to cover the large windows, but it could be seen that lights were burning in every room, upstairs and downstairs. They rang the bell again.
When the door opened, the trousered woman who stood there — arms folded belligerently, feet planted solidly on the threshold — looked familiar to Qwilleran. She was tall and husky. Her soft face was set in a stem expression.
"Yes?" she said defiantly.
"I'm a friend of Mrs. Lambreth," said Qwilleran. "I wonder if I could see her and offer my assistance. Jim Qwilleran's the name. This is Mr. Bunsen."
"You're from the paper. She's not going to see any reporters tonight."
"This isn't an official visit. We were on our way home and thought there might be something we could do. Aren't you Miss Bolton?"
Inside the house a low, tired voice called, "Who is it, Butchy?"
"Qwilleran and another man from the Fluxion."
"It's all right. Ask them in."
The newsmen stepped into a room furnished in stark contemporary style. The furnishings were few, but fine, and there — leaning against a doorjamb — was Zoe Lambreth wearing purple silk trousers and a lavender blouse and looking gaunt and bewildered.
Butchy said, "She should be lying down and resting."
Zoe said, "I'm all right. I'm too keyed up to do any resting."
"She wouldn't take a sedative."
"Will you gentlemen sit down?" Zoe said.
Qwilleran's face reflected the sympathetic understanding for which he was famous. Even his moustache contributed to the expression of grave concern. He said, "I don't need to tell you my feelings. Even though our acquaintance was short, I feel a personal loss."
"It's terrible. Just terrible." Zoe sat on the extreme edge of the sofa, with her hands folded on her knees.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Page 7
