The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "What are you trying to do? Trip me?" Qwilleran said. He prepared the beef according to official instructions, placed the dish on the floor, and sat down to watch Koko eat. He was beginning to appreciate the fine points of Siamese design — the elegant proportions of the body, the undulating muscles beneath the fine coat, and the exquisite shading of the fur from off-white to pale fawn to the darkest of velvety browns. Qwilleran decided it was the finest shade of brown he had ever seen.

  To his surprise, the cat showed no interest in food. He wanted to rub ankles and utter plaintive high-pitched mews.

  "What's the matter with you?" said Qwilleran. "You're a hard one to figure out."

  The cat looked up with a beseeching expression in his blue eyes, purred loudly, and raised one paw to Qwilleran's knee.

  "Koko, I'll bet you're lonesome. You're used to having someone. around all day. Are you feeling neglected?"

  He lifted the willing bundle of warm fur to his shoulder, and Koko purred in his ear with a rasping undertone that denoted extreme satisfaction.

  "I think I'll stay home tonight," Qwilleran told the cat. "Weather's bad. Snow's getting deep. Left my rubbers at the office.

  Scrounging for something to eat, he helped himself to a slice of Koko's p?t‚ de la maison. It was the best meat loaf he had ever tasted. Koko sensed that this was a party and began to race from one end of the apartment to the other. He seemed to be flying low over the carpet, his feet moving but never touching the floor — up over the desk in a single leap, then from chair to bookshelf to table to another chair to cabinet top — all with bewildering speed. Qwilleran began to realize why there were no table lamps in the apartment.

  He too wandered around — at a more leisurely rate. He opened a door in the long narrow hall and found a bedroom with a four-poster bed that had red velvet side curtains and a canopy. In the bathroom he found a green flask labeled Essence of Lime; he took a sniff and recognized the scent. In the living room he strolled with his hands in his pants pockets, enjoying a close inspection of Mountclemens' treasures; engraved brass labels on the picture frames said Hals, Gauguin, Eakins.

  So this was a love nest, according to Bruno. Qwilleran had to agree it was well equipped for the purpose: dim lights, soft music, candles, wine, big loungy chairs — everything to induce a mellow mood.

  And now Earl Lambreth was dead! Qwilleran blew through his moustache as he considered the possibilities. It was not difficult to visualize Mountclemens as a wife, stealer. The critic had a suave charm that would appeal to any woman he chose to impress — and an authority that would never take no for an answer. Wife-stealer, yes. Murderer, no. Mountclemens was too elegant, too fastidious for that.

  Eventually Qwilleran returned to his own apartment, followed by a genial Koko. For the cat's amusement, Qwilleran tied a wad of folded paper to a length of string and dangled it. At nine o'clock the final edition of the Daily Fluxion was delivered, and Koko perused the head, lines. When the newsman finally settled down in an easy chair with a book, the cat took possession of his lap, the silky fur testifying to a state of contentment. It was with apparent reluctance that Koko took leave at mid, night and went upstairs to his cushion on top of the refrigerator.

  Qwilleran described his evening of cat-sitting the next day when he stopped at Arch Riker's desk to pick up his paycheck.

  Arch said, "How are you hitting it off with the critic's cat?"

  "Koko was lonesome last night, so I stayed home and entertained him. We played Sparrow."

  "Is this some parlor game I'm not familiar with?"

  "It's something we invented — like tennis, with one player and no net," said Qwilleran. "I make a sparrow out of paper and tie it to a piece of string. Then I swing it back and forth while Koko bats it with his paw. He's got a substantial backhand, I want you to know. Every time he connects, he gets one point. If he strikes and misses, that's a point for me. Twenty-one points is game. I'm keeping a running score. After five games last night it was Koko 108 and Qwilleran 92."

  "I'm betting on the cat all the way," said Arch. He reached for a sheet of pink paper. "I know that cat consumes a lot of your time, attention, and physical strength, but I wish you'd give me some action on that Halapay profile. Another pink memo came up this morning."

  "I'll be all set as soon as I have one more meeting with Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran.

  Returning to his desk, he called Sandy and suggested lunch the following Wednesday.

  "Let's make it for dinner," she suggested. "Cal is in Denmark, and I'm all alone. I'd love to go to dinner where there's a dance band. You're such a wonderful dancer." Her laughter left the sincerity of her compliment in doubt.

  Be Nice to People said the slogan on his telephone, and he replied, "Sandy, I'd enjoy that very much — but not next week. I'll be working nights." The telephone said nothing about lying to people. "Let's just have lunch on Wednesday and discuss your husband's charities and civic activities. They've given me a firm deadline on this profile."

  "All right," she said. "I'll pick you up, and we'll drive out somewhere. We'll have scads to talk about. I want to hear all about the Lambreth murder."

  "I'm afraid I don't know much about it."

  "Why, I think it's all perfectly obvious."

  "What's obvious?"

  "That it's a family affair." Weighted pause. "You know what was going on, don't you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Well, I wouldn't want to discuss it on the phone," she said. "See you Wednesday at noon."

  Qwilleran spent the morning finishing up odds and ends. He wrote a short humorous piece about a local graphics artist who had switched to watercolors after dropping a hundred-pound lithograph stone on his foot. Then he did an inspirational story about a prizewinning textile weaver who was also a high-school math teacher, author of two published novels, licensed pilot, cellist, and mother of ten. Next he considered the talented poodle who paw-painted pictures. The poodle was having a show at the humane society shelter.

  Just as Qwilleran was visualizing the headline (One-Dog Exhibition of Poodle Doodles), the telephone on the desk rang. He answered, and a low, breathy voice gave him a ripple of pleasure.

  "This is Zoe Lambreth, Mr. Qwilleran. I must speak softly. Can you hear me?"

  "Yes. Is anything wrong?"

  "I need to talk with you — in person — if you can spare the time. Not here. Downtown."

  "Would the Press Club be all right?"

  "Is there some place more private? I'd like to talk confidentially."

  "Would you mind coming to my apartment?"

  "That would be better. You live in Mountclemens' building, don't you?"

  "No. 26 Blenheim Place."

  "I know where it is."

  "How about tomorrow afternoon? Take a taxi. It isn't a nice neighborhood."

  "Tomorrow. Thank you so much. I need your advice. I must hang up now."

  There was an abrupt click, and the voice was gone. Qwilleran's moustache virtually danced. Widow of Slain Art Dealer Reveals Story to Flux Reporter.

  9

  It had been a long time since Qwilleran had entertained a woman in his apartment, and he waked Saturday morning with a mild case of stage fright. He swallowed a cup of instant coffee, gnawed on a stale doughnut, and wondered if he should serve Zoe something to eat or drink. Coffee seemed suitable under the circumstances. Coffee and what? Doughnuts would look frivolous; why, he couldn't explain. Cake? Too pretentious. Cookies?

  There was a grocery in the neighborhood that specialized in beer, cheap wine, and gummy white bread. Dubiously Qwilleran inspected their packaged cookies, but the ingredients listed in small type (artificial flavoring, emulsifier, glycerine, lecithin and invert syrup) dampened his interest.

  He inquired for a bakery and walked six blocks through February slush to a shop where the merchandise appeared edible. Vetoing petit fours (too fancy) and oatmeal cookies (too hearty), he settled on chocolate chip cookies and bought two pounds.

 
There was an old-fashioned percolator in his kitchenette, but how it operated was a mystery to him. Zoe would have to accept instant coffee. He wondered if she used sugar and cream. Back he went to the grocery store for a pound of sugar, a half pint of coffee cream, and some paper napkins. By that time it was noon, and a reluctant February sun began slanting into the apartment, exposing dust on the tables, lint on the rug, and cat hair on the sofa. Qwilleran dusted with paper napkins, then hurried upstairs to Mountclemens' apartment to hunt for a vacuum cleaner. He found one in a broom closet in the kitchen.

  One o'clock came, and he was ready — except for cigarettes. He had forgotten cigarettes. He rushed out to the drugstore and bought something long, mild, and unfiltered. After debating about the filter, he decided Zoe was not one to compromise.

  At one-thirty he lighted the gas logs in the fireplace and sat down to wait.

  Zoe arrived promptly at four. Qwilleran saw a lovely woman in a soft brown fur coat step from a taxi, look up and down the street, and hurry up to the portico. He was there to meet her.

  "Thank you so much for letting me come," she said in a low-pitched, breathless voice. "Butchy has been watching me like a hawk, and I had to sneak out of the house I shouldn't complain. At a time like this you need a friend like Butchy." She dropped her brown alligator handbag. "I'm sorry. I'm very much upset."

  "Just take it easy," said Qwilleran, "and gather yourself together. Would a cup of coffee feel good?"

  "I'd better not have coffee," she said. "It makes me nervous, and I'm jumpy enough as it is." She gave Qwilleran her coat and took a seat in a straight, backed pull-up chair, crossing her knees attractively. "Do you mind if we close the door?"

  "Not at all, although there's no one else in the house."

  "I had an uneasy feeling I was being followed. I took a cab to the Arcade Building, then walked through and picked up another one at the other entrance. Do you think they might have someone following me? The police, I mean."

  "I don't see why they should. What gave you that idea?"

  "They came to the house yesterday. Two of them. Two detectives. They were perfect gentlemen, but some of their questions were upsetting, as if they were trying to trap me. Do you suppose they suspect me?"

  "Not really, but they have to cover every possibility."

  "Butchy was there, of course, and she was quite antagonistic toward the detectives. It didn't look good at all. She's so protective, you know. All together, it was a terrible experience."

  "What did they say when they left?"

  "They thanked me for my cooperation and said they might want to talk to me again. After that I telephoned you — while Butchy was down in the basement. I didn't want her to know."

  "Why not?"

  "Well… because she's so sure she can handle every' thing herself in this — this crisis. And also because of what I'm going to tell you…. You don't suppose the police would be watching my movements, do you? Maybe I shouldn't have come here."

  "Why shouldn't you come here, Mrs. Lambreth? I'm a friend of the family. I'm professionally connected with the art field. And I'm going to help you with details concerning the gallery. How does that sound?"

  She smiled bleakly. "I'm beginning to feel like a criminal. One has to be so careful in talking to the police. If you use the wrong word or put the wrong inflection in your voice, they pounce on it."

  "Well, now," said Qwilleran in his most soothing way, "put that episode out of your mind and relax. Wouldn't you like a more comfortable chair?"

  "This is fine. I have a better command of myself when I sit up straight."

  She was wearing a pale blue dress of fuzzy wool that made her look soft and fragile. Qwilleran tried not to stare at the provocative indentation just below her kneecap.

  He said, "I find this a very comfortable apartment. My landlord has a knack for furnishing a place. How did you know I was staying here?"

  "Oh… things get around in art circles."

  "Apparently you've been to this house before."

  "Mountclemens had us to dinner once or twice."

  "You must know him better than most artists do."

  "We've been fairly friendly. I did several studies of his cat. Did you notify him — about the —?"

  "I haven't been able to find out where he stays in New York. Do you know his hotel?"

  "It's near The Museum of Modem Art, but I can't remember the name." She was twisting the handle of her handbag that lay on her lap.

  Qwilleran brought a plate from the kitchenette. "Would you care for some cookies?"

  "No, thanks. I have to — count — calories — " Her voice trailed away.

  He sensed her preoccupation and said, "Now what is it that you want to tell me?" With the other half of his mind he was taking Zoe's measurements and wondering why she worried about calories.

  "I don't know how to begin."

  "How about a cigarette? I'm forgetting my manners."

  "I gave them up a few months ago."

  "Mind if I light my pipe?"

  Abruptly Zoe said, "I didn't tell the police everything."

  "No?"

  "It may have been wrong, but I couldn't bring myself to answer some of their questions."

  "What kind of questions?"

  "They asked if Earl had any enemies. How could I point a finger at someone and say he was an enemy? What would happen if I started naming people allover the city? Acquaintances… fellow club members… important people. I think that was a terrible thing to ask, don't you?"

  "It was a necessary question. In fact," said Qwilleran, in a kind but firm way, "I'm going to ask you the same question. Did he have any enemies?"

  "I'm afraid so. A lot of people disliked him…. Mr. Qwilleran, it's all right to talk confidentially to you, isn't it? I must confide in someone. I'm sure you're not one of those sneaky reporters who would —»

  "Those characters are only in the movies," he assured her. His attitude was all sympathy and interest.

  Zoe sighed heavily and began. "There's a lot of competition and jealousy in the art field. I don't know why it should be."

  "That's true in all fields."

  "It's worse among artists. Believe me!"

  "Could you be more specific?"

  "Well… the gallery directors, for example. The other galleries in town felt that Earl was luring their best artists away from them."

  "Was he?"

  Zoe bristled slightly. "Naturally, the artists wanted to be represented by the foremost gallery. As a result, Earl showed better work, and the Lambreth exhibitions got better reviews.

  "And the jealousy increased."

  Zoe nodded. "Besides, Earl often had to reject the work of second-rate artists, and that didn't win him,any friends! It made him a villain. An artist's ego is a precious thing. People like Cal Halapay and Franz Buchwalter — or Mrs. Buchwalter, to be exact — did a lot of talking about my husband at the club, and it wasn't nice. That's why Earl would never go to the Turp and Chisel."

  "So far," said Qwilleran, "you've mentioned only out siders who were unfriendly. Was there anyone within the organization who didn't get along with your husband?"

  Zoe hesitated. She looked apologetic. "Nobody really warmed up to him. He had an aloof manner. It was only a facade, but few people understood that."

  "There's the possibility that the crime was committed by someone who had a key to the gallery or was willingly admitted to the premises."

  "That's what Butchy said."

  "Did anyone but you have a key?"

  "N-no," said Zoe, groping in the depths of her hand, bag.

  Qwilleran said, "Can I get you something?"

  "Maybe I'll have a glass of water — with some ice. It's rather warm —»

  He turned down the flame in the fireplace and brought Zoe a drink of ice water. "Tell me about your friend Butchy. I understand she's a sculptor."

  "Yes. Welded metal," Zoe said in a bleak voice.

  "You mean she uses a torch and all t
hat? It might make a story. Lady welders are always good for some space — with a photograph of sparks flying."

  Zoe nodded slowly as she considered the idea. "Yes, I wish you would write something about Butchy. It would do her a lot of good — psychologically. Not long ago she lost a $50,000 commission, and it was a damaging set, back. You see, she teaches at Penniman School, and the commission would have enhanced her prestige."

  "How did she lose out?"

  "Butchy was being considered to do the outdoor sculpture for a new shopping center. Then suddenly the com, mission was awarded to Ben Riggs, who shows at the Lambreth Gallery."

  "Was the switch justified?"

  "Oh, yes. Riggs is a much better artist. He works in clay and casts in bronze. But it was a blow to Butchy. I'd like to do something to help her. Would you write her up for the paper?"

  "She's a good friend of yours?" Qwilleran was comparing the soft, attractive Zoe with the mannish character who had been guarding her on the night of the murder.

  "Yes and no. We grew up together and went to art school at the same time, and Butchy was my best friend when we were both at the tomboy age. But Butchy never outgrew that stage. She was always big and husky for a girl, and she bluffed it off by acting boyish. I feel sorry for Butchy. We don't have much in common anymore — except old times."

  "How did she happen to be at your house Wednesday night?"

  "She was the only one I could think to call. After finding Earl and notifying the police, I was in a daze. I didn't know what to do. I needed someone, and so I called Butchy. She came right away and drove me home and said she'd stay with me for a few days. Now I can't get rid of her."

  "How come?"

  "She enjoys being my protector. She needs to feel needed. Butchy doesn't have many friends, and she has an annoying way of clutching at the few she has."

  "What did your husband think of her?"

  "He didn't like her at all. Earl wanted me to drop Butchy, but it's hard to break off with someone you've known all your life — especially when your paths are crossing all the time…. I don't know why I'm telling you these personal details. I must be boring you."