The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "I visited the gallery last week, as you suggested."

  "I know. Earl told me."

  "It's impossible to imagine what a shock this must have been."

  Butchy interrupted. "I don't think she should be talking about it."

  "Butchy, I've got to talk about it," said Zoe, "or I'll go crazy." She looked at Qwilleran with the full brown eyes that he remembered so well from their first meeting, and now they reminded him of the eyes in Zoe's own paintings at the gallery.

  He said, "Was it your custom to go to the gallery after it was closed?"

  "Quite the contrary. I seldom went there at any time. It looks unprofessional for an artist to hang around the gallery that handles her work. Especially in our case — husband and wife. It would look too folksy!"

  "The gallery impressed me as very sophisticated," Qwilleran said. "Very suitable for the financial district."

  Butchy said, with a frank show of pride, "That was Zoe's idea."

  "Mrs. Lambreth, what caused you to go to the gallery tonight?"

  "I was there twice. The first time was just before closing time. I had been shopping all afternoon and stopped in to see if Earl wanted to stay downtown for dinner. He said he couldn't leave until seven o'clock or later."

  "What time was it when you were talking to him?"

  "The front door was still open, so it must have been before five-thirty."

  "Did he explain why he couldn't leave the gallery?"

  "He had to work on the books — for a tax deadline or something — so I went home. But I was tired and didn't feel like cooking."

  Butchy said, "She's been working night and day, getting ready for a one-man show."

  "So I decided to have a bath and change clothes," Zoe went on, "and go back downtown at seven o'clock and drag Earl away from his books."

  "Did you telephone him to say you were returning to the gallery?"

  "I think so. Or maybe I didn't. I can't remember. I thought about phoning, but in the rush of getting dressed, I don't know whether I called or not…. You know how it is. You do things automatically — without thinking. Sometimes I can't remember whether I've brushed my teeth, and I have to look at the toothbrush to see if it's wet.

  "When did you arrive at the gallery the second time?"

  "Just about seven o'clock, I think. Earl had taken the car in for repairs, so I called a taxi and had the driver take me to the alley entrance of the gallery. I have a key for the back door — just in case of emergency."

  "It was locked?"

  "That's another thing I don't remember. It should have been locked. I put my key in the lock and turned the door handle without thinking much about it. The door opened, and I went in."

  "Did you notice anything amiss on the ground floor?"

  "No. The lights were out. I went right up the spiral staircase. As soon as I walked into the workroom, I sensed something wrong. It was deadly quiet. I was almost afraid to go into the office." She was remembering it painfully. "But I did. First I saw — papers and everything allover the floor. And then — " She put her face in her hands, and there was silence in the room.

  After a while Qwilleran said gently, "Would you like me to notify Mountclemens in New York? I know he thought highly of you both."

  "If you wish."

  "Have the funeral plans been made?"

  Butchy said, "There won't be a funeral. Zoe doesn't approve of funerals."

  Qwilleran stood up. "We'll be going now, but please let me know — Mrs. Lambreth — if there's anything I can do. Sometimes it helps just to talk."

  Butchy said, "I'm here. I'm looking after her." Qwilleran thought the woman sounded possessive. He said, "Just one more thing, Mrs. Lambreth. Do you have a good photograph of your husband?"

  "No. Just a portrait I painted last year. It's in my studio. Butchy will show you. I think I'll go upstairs."

  She walked from the room without further ceremony, and Butchy led the newsmen to the studio at the rear of the house.

  There on the wall was Earl Lambreth — cold, haughty, supercilious-painted without love.

  "Perfect likeness," said Butchy with pride. "She really captured his personality."

  Almost inaudible was the click of Odd Bunsen's camera.

  8

  When Qwilleran and Odd Bunsen drove away from the Lambreth house, they shivered in silence until the heater in Odd's car gave out the first promising puff.

  Then Odd said, "The Lambreths seem to be doing all right at that art racket. Wish I could live like that. I'll bet that sofa was worth a thousand bucks. Who was that big bruiser?"

  "Butchy Bolton. Teaches sculpture at Penniman School of Fine Art."

  "She really thought she was running the show. Enjoying it, too."

  Qwilleran agreed. "Butchy didn't strike me as being exactly grief-stricken over the loss of Earl Lambreth. I wonder where she fits into the picture. Friend of the family, I suppose."

  "If you ask me," said Odd, "I don't think that doll Zoe was taking it too hard, either."

  "She's a calm, intelligent woman," Qwilleran. said, "even if she is a doll. She's not the type to collapse."

  "If my wife ever finds me lying in a pool of blood, I want her to collapse and collapse good! I don't want her running home and fixing her lipstick and putting on a sharp outfit to receive callers. Imagine a dame not remembering whether she telephoned her husband or not, and not remembering whether the gallery door was locked!"

  "It was the shock. It leaves blanks in the memory. She'll remember tomorrow — or the next day. What did you think of the portrait she painted of her husband?"

  "Perfect! He's a cold fish. I couldn't have taken a photograph that was any better."

  Qwilleran said, "I used to think these modern artists painted drips and blots because they couldn't draw, but now I'm not so sure. Zoe is really talented."

  "If she's so talented, why does she waste her time painting that modern garbage?"

  "Probably because it sells. By the way, I'd like to meet out police reporter."

  "Lodge Kendall? Haven't you met him yet? He's over at the Press Club just about every day for lunch."

  "I'd like to have a talk with him."

  "Want me to line it up for tomorrow?" Odd said.

  "Okay…. Where are you headed now?"

  "Back to the Lab."

  "If it isn't out of your way, would you drop me at my apartment?"

  "No sweat."

  Qwilleran looked at his wristwatch in the glow from the instrument panel. "It's ten-thirty!" he said. "And I forgot to feed the cat."

  "A-hah! A-hah!" said Odd. "I told you Monty wanted you for a cat-sitter." A few minutes later, when he turned the car into Blenheim Place, he said, "Doesn't this neighborhood scare the hell out of you? The characters you see on the streets!"

  "They don't bother me," said Qwilleran.

  "You wouldn't get me to live here! I'm a coward."

  A folded newspaper lay on the porch of No. 26. Qwilleran picked it up, unlocked the front door, and closed it quickly behind him, glad to get in out of the cold. He rattled the door handle to make sure it was locked again — as Mountclemens had warned him to do.

  Using a second key, he unlocked the inner vestibule door. And that's when he recoiled in black fright!

  Out of the dark came a wild scream. Qwilleran's mind went blank. The hairs of his moustache stood on end. His heart pounded. Instinctively he gripped the newspaper like a club.

  Then he realized the source of the scream. Koko was waiting for him. Koko was scolding him. Koko was hungry. Koko was furious.

  Qwilleran leaned against the doorjamb and gasped. He loosened his tie.

  "Never do that again!" he told the cat.

  Koko was sitting on the table that was supported by golden lions, and he retorted with a torrent of abuse.

  "All right! All right!" Qwilleran yelled at him. "I apologize. I forgot, that's all. Important business downtown."

  Koko continued his tirade.

 
; "Wait till I take my coat off, will you?"

  Once Qwilleran started upstairs, the tumult ceased. The cat bounded ahead and led him into Mountclemens' apartment, which was in darkness. Qwilleran groped for a light switch. This delay irritated Koko, who commenced another vocal demonstration. Now the piercing cries had gravel-throated undertones signifying menace.

  "I'm coming. I'm coming," said Qwilleran, following the cat down the long narrow hall to the kitchen. Koko led him directly to the refrigerator, where there was a chunk of beef waiting in a glass tray. It looked like a whole tenderloin.

  Qwilleran put the meat on a built-in butcher's block and hunted for a sharp knife.

  "Where does he keep his knives?" he said, pulling open one drawer after another.

  Koko leaped lightly to the adjoining counter and nosed a knife rack, where five handsome blades hung point downward on a magnetized bar.

  "Thanks," said Qwilleran. He started to carve the beef, marveling at the quality of the cutlery. Real chef's knives. They made meat-cutting a pleasure. How did Mountclemens say to cut the beef? The size of a kidney bean or the size of a navy bean? And how about the broth? He said to warm it in broth. Where was the broth?

  The cat was sitting on the counter, supervising every move with what appeared to be an impatient scowl.

  Qwilleran said, "How about eating it raw, old man? Since it's so late —»

  Koko gargled a low note in his throat, which Qwilleran assumed was acquiescence. In a cupboard he found a plate — white porcelain with a wide gold band. He arranged the meat on it — attractively, he thought — and placed it on the floor alongside a ceramic water bowl decorated with the word «cat» in three languages.

  Koko jumped to the floor with a grunt, walked to the plate, and examined the beef. Then he looked up at Qwilleran with incredulity displayed in the tilt of his ears.

  "Go ahead. Eat," said Qwilleran. "Enjoy it in good health."

  Koko lowered his head once more. He sniffed. He touched the beef with his paw and gave a perceptible shudder. He shook his paw fastidiously and walked away, his tail pointed stiffly toward the North Star.

  Later, after Qwilleran had found some thin gravy in the refrigerator and prepared the meal properly, Kao K'o Kung consented to dine.

  The newsman related the experience at the Press Club the following noon when he had lunch with Arch Riker and Lodge Kendall.

  "But this morning I acquitted myself admirably," said Qwilleran. "Koko got me up at six, thirty by yelling outside my door, and I went up and prepared breakfast to his satisfaction. I think he's going to let me keep the job until Mountclemens comes home."

  The police reporter was young, tense, earnest, literal, and unsmiling. He said, "Do you mean to say you let a cat boss you around?"

  "Actually, I feel sorry for him. Poor little rich cat! Nothing but tenderloin and p?te de la maison. I wish I could catch him a mouse."

  Arch explained to Kendall, "You see, this is a Siamese, descended from an Egyptian god. It not only communicates and runs the show; it reads newspaper headlines. A cat that can read is obviously superior to a newspaperman who can't catch mice."

  Qwilleran said, "He flies, too. When he wants to get to the top of a seven-foot bookcase, he just puts his ears back and zooms up like a jet. No wings. He's got some kind of aerodynamic principle that ordinary cats don't have."

  Kendall regarded the two older men with wonder and suspicion.

  "After Koko got me up at six-thirty," said Qwilleran, "I started thinking about the Lambreth murder. Any developments, Lodge?"

  "Nothing released this morning."

  "Have they reached any conclusions about the vandalism?"

  "Not that I've heard."

  "Well, I observed something last night that looks interesting. All four items that were damaged were portrayals of the female figure, more or less unclothed. Did the police notice that?"

  "I don't know," said the police reporter. "I'll mention it at Headquarters."

  "It isn't easy to spot. The stuff is pretty abstract, and a casual glance wouldn't tell anything."

  "Then the vandal must have been someone who digs modem art," said Kendall. "Some kind of nut who hated his mother."

  "That narrows it down," said Arch. Qwilleran was in his element — on the fringe of the police beat where he had learned the newspaper craft. His face had a glow. Even his moustache looked happy.

  Three corned beef sandwiches came to the table with a plastic squeeze bottle, and the newsmen concentrated on applying mustard, each in his fashion: Arch squirting it on the rye bread in concentric circles, Kendall limning a precise zigzag, and Qwilleran squeezing out a reckless abstraction.

  After a while Kendall said to him, "Know much about Lambreth?"

  "I just met him once. He was sort of a stuffed shirt."

  "Was the gallery successful?"

  "Hard to say. It was sumptuously furnished, but that doesn't prove anything. Some of the paintings were priced in five figures, although I wouldn't give you five cents for them. I imagine investors were buying this kind of art; that's why Lambreth set up shop in the financial district."

  "Maybe some sucker thought he'd been taken and got into a fatal argument with the dealer."

  "That doesn't fit in with the nature of the vandalism." Arch said, "Do you think the choice of weapon indicates anything?"

  …"It was a chisel from the workbench," said Kendall.

  "Either the killer seized on that in a moment of passion, or he knew in advance it would be there for the purpose.

  "Who was employed in the workroom?"

  "I don't think anyone was employed," said Qwilleran. "I suspect Lambreth made the frames himself-in spite of the fancy front he put on for customers. When I was there, I noticed definite evidence of work in progress — but no workman. And when I asked who made the frames, he gave me an evasive answer. Then I noticed that his hands were grimy — you know, stained and battered as if he did manual labor."

  "Then maybe the gallery wasn't too successful, and he was cutting comers."

  "On the other hand, he was living in a good neighborhood, and his house appeared to be furnished expensively.

  Kendall said, "I wonder if Lambreth admitted the killer to the premises after hours. Or did the killer let himself in the back way — with a key?"

  "I'm sure it was someone Lambreth knew," Qwilleran said, "and I think the evidence of a struggle was rigged after the murder."

  "How do you figure that?"

  "From the position of the body. Lambreth seemed to have gone down between his swivel chair and his desk, as if he had been sitting there when the murderer took him by surprise. He wouldn't engage in a brawl and then go and sit at his desk, waiting to be polished off."

  "Well, let the police solve it," said Arch. "We've got work to do."

  As the men left the lunch table, the bartender beckoned to Qwilleran. "I read about the Lambreth murder," he said and paused significantly before adding, "I know that gallery."

  "You do? What do you know about it?"

  "Lambreth was a crook."

  "What makes you think so?"

  Bruno gave a hasty glance up and down the bar. "I know a lot of painters and sculptors, and anyone of them can tell you how Lambreth operated. He'd sell something for $800 and give the artist a measly $150."

  "You think one of your pals wiped him out?"

  Bruno was suitably indignant. "I wasn't saying anything like that. I just thought you'd like to know what kind of a guy he was."

  "Well, thanks."

  "And his wife isn't much better." "What do you mean by that?"

  The bartender picked up a towel and wiped the bar where it didn't need wiping. "Everybody knows she's been playing around. You've got to hand it to her, though. She tiddley-winks where it'll do the most good."

  "Like where?"

  "Like upstairs over where you live. I understand it's quite a cozy apartment up there." Bruno stopped wiping the bar and gave Qwilleran a significant look. "S
he goes up there to paint the cat!"

  Qwilleran shrugged a no-comment and started to leave.

  Bruno called him back. "Something else, too, Mr. Qwilleran," he said. "I heard about some funny business at the museum. There's a valuable art object missing, and they're hushing it up."

  "Why would they hush it up?"

  "Who knows? A lot of funny things go on at that place."

  "What's missing?"

  " A dagger — from the Florentine Room! This friend of mine — he's a guard at the museum — he discovered the dagger was missing and reported it, but nobody wants to do anything about it. I thought it might be a scoop for you.

  "Thanks. I'll look into it," said Qwilleran. Some of his best tips had come from Press Club bartenders. Also some of the worst.

  On the way out of the building he stopped in the lobby where the ladies of the press were running a benefit sale of secondhand books. For a half, dollar he picked up a copy of Keeping Your Pet Happy. He also bought A Study of Crests and Troughs in American Business from 1800 to 1850 for a dime.

  Back at the office he telephoned the Lambreth home.

  Butchy answered and said no, Zoe couldn't come to the phone… yes, she had managed to get some sleep… no, there was nothing Qwilleran could do.

  He finished his afternoon's work and went home with his coat collar turned up against the snow that had started to fall. He thought he would feed the cat, go out and grab a hamburger somewhere, and then wander over to the art museum to look at the Florentine Room. It was Thursday, and the museum was open late.

  When he arrived at No. 26, shaking the snow from his shoulders and stamping his feet, he found Koko waiting for him. The cat greeted him in the front hall — not with a noisy bill of complaints this time but an appreciative squeak. The way his whiskers tilted upward gave him a pleasant look of expectancy. The newsman felt flattered.

  "Hello, old fellow," he said. "Did you have an eventful day?"

  From Koko's noncommittal murmur, Qwilleran decided the cat's day had been somewhat less interesting than his own. He started upstairs to carve the tenderloin — or whatever one called the cut of beef that Mountclemens supplied for catfood — and noted that Koko did not bound ahead of him. Instead the cat was dogging his heels and getting between his ankles as he climbed the stairs.