The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "Not at all. You're —»

  "I needed to talk to someone who's disinterested and sympathetic. You're very easy to talk to. Is that typical of newspapermen?"

  "We're good listeners."

  "I feel much better now, thanks to you." Zoe leaned back in her chair and was silent, and a tenderness crept into her face.

  Qwilleran smoothed his moustache with the stem of his pipe and beamed inwardly. He said, "I'm glad I could —»

  "Are you looking for material for your column?" Zoe interrupted, the radiance of her expression seeming inappropriate for the question.

  "Of course, I'm always —»

  "I'd like to tell you about Nino." She pronounced the name "Nine-oh."

  "Who's Nino?" said Qwilleran, camouflaging a mild disappointment with a brisk tone.

  "He's a Thingist. Some people call him a junk sculptor. He makes meaningful constructions out of junk and calls them Things."

  "I saw them at the gallery. One was a piece of sewer pipe stuck with bicycle spokes."

  Zoe gave him a luminous smile. "That's 'Thing #17. Isn't it eloquent? It affirms life while repudiating the pseudo-world around us. Weren't you gripped by its rebellious tensions?"

  "To tell you the truth… no," said Qwilleran, a trifle peevishly. "It looked like a piece of sewer pipe and some bicycle spokes."

  Zoe gave him a sweet look in which reproach mingled with pity. "Your eye isn't tuned to contemporary expression as yet, but you'll develop appreciation in time."

  Qwilleran squirmed and scowled down at his moustache.

  Enthusiastically Zoe went on. "Nino is my prot‚g‚, more or less. I discovered him. This city has some talented artists, but I can honestly say that Nino has more than talent. He has genius. You should visit his studio." She leaned forward eagerly. "Would you like to meet Nino? I'm sure he'd make good material for a story."

  "What's his full name?"

  "Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Three," she said. "Or maybe it's Five. I can never remember the last digit. We call him Nino for short."

  "You mean he has a number instead of a name?"

  "Nino is a disaffiliate," she explained. "He doesn't subscribe to the conventions of ordinary society."

  "He wears a beard, of course."

  "Yes, he does. How did you know? He even speaks a language of his own, but we don't expect conformity of a genius, do we? Using a number instead of a name is part of his Protest. I think only his mother and the Social Security people know his real name."

  Qwilleran stared at her. "Where does this character hang out?"

  "He lives and works in an alley garage at Twelfth and Somers, behind an iron foundry. His studio may shock you."

  "I don't think I shock easily."

  "I mean you may be disturbed by his collection of Found Objects."

  "Junk?"

  "It isn't all junk. He has a few very fine things. Heaven knows where he gets them. But mostly it's junk — beautiful junk. Nino's talent for alley-picking amounts to a divine gift. If you go to see him, try to understand the nature of his artistic vision. He sees beauty where others see only trash and filth."

  Qwilleran studied Zoe with fascination — her quiet animation, her obvious conviction. He didn't understand what she was talking about, but he enjoyed being under her spell.

  "I think you'll like Nino," she went on. "He is elemental and real — and sad, in a way. Or perhaps you and I are the sad ones, conducting ourselves according to a prescribed pattern. It's like following the steps of a dance composed by a dictatorial dancing master. The dance of life should be created from moment to moment with individuality and spontaneity."

  Qwilleran roused himself from a rapt stare and said, "May I ask you a personal question? Why do you paint such incomprehensible things when you have the ability to make real pictures of real things?"

  Zoe gazed at him sweetly again. "You are so na‹ve, Mr. Qwilleran, but you are honest, and that is refreshing. Real pictures of real things can be done by a camera. I paint in the exploratory spirit of today. We don't have all the answers and we know it. Sometimes I'm bewildered by my own creations, but they are my artistic response to life as I see it today. True art is always an expression of its time."

  "I see." He wanted to be convinced, but he wasn't sure that Zoe had succeeded.

  "Someday we must discuss this subject at great length." There was an unaccountable yearning in her expression.

  "I'd enjoy that," he said softly.

  A self-conscious silence loomed between them. Qwilleran breached it by offering her a cigarette.

  "I've given them up," she reminded him.

  "Cookie? They're chocolate chip."

  "No, thanks." She sighed.

  He pointed to the Monet over the fireplace. "What do you think of that? It came with the apartment."

  "If it were a good one, Mountclemens wouldn't squander it on a tenant," she said with an abrupt edge to her voice, and her quick change of mood astonished Qwilleran.

  "But it has a nice frame," he said. "Who makes the frames at the Lambreth Gallery?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious. People have remarked about their fine workmanship." It was a lie but the kina of lie that always elicited confidences.

  "Oh… Well, I might as well tell you. It was Earl. He made all the frames himself, although he never wanted it known. It would have destroyed the prestige image of the gallery."

  "He was a hard worker — making frames, keeping the books, tending shop."

  "Yes. The last time I saw him alive he was complaining about the work load."

  "Why didn't he hire help?"

  Zoe shrugged and shook her head.

  It was an unsatisfactory answer, but Qwilleran let it pass. He said, "Have you remembered anything that might help the investigation? Anything your husband said when you were there before five-thirty?"

  "Nothing of any importance. Earl showed me some graphics that — had just come in, and I told him — " She stopped abruptly. "Yes, there was a phone call —»

  "Anything unusual about that?"

  "I wasn't listening particularly, but there was something Earl said — now I can remember it — that doesn't make sense. It was about the station wagon."

  "Did your husband have a wagon?"

  "Every dealer has to have one. I hate them."

  "What did he say about the wagon?"

  "I wasn't paying too much attention, but I heard something about putting paintings in the station wagon for delivery. Earl said the wagon was in the alley; in fact, he repeated it rather emphatically. That's why it comes to mind…. I didn't think of it at the time, but now it seems strange."

  "Why does it strike you as strange?"

  "Our car was at the repair shop, having a tune-up. It's still there. I never picked it up. Earl had dropped it off at the.garage that morning. And yet he was insisting — on the telephone — that it was in the alley, as if the other party was giving him an argument."

  "Do you know who was on the line?" Qwilleran asked.

  "No. It sounded like long distance. You know how people shout when it's long distance. Even when it's a perfectly good connection they think they have to pitch their voices higher."

  "Maybe your husband was telling a little white lie — for business reasons.

  "I don't know."

  "Or maybe he was referring to some other dealer's station wagon."

  "I really don't know."

  "You didn't see anything parked in the alley?"

  "No. I went in the front door and left the same way. And when I went back at seven o'clock, there was no car of any kind in the alley. Do you think the phone call has any bearing on what happened?"

  "It wouldn't hurt to tell the police about it. Try to remember as much as you can." Zoe lapsed into a reverie.

  "By the way," Qwilleran said, "does Mountclemens have a car?"

  "No," she murmured.

  Qwilleran took a long time to refill his pipe, tapping it noisily on the ashtra
y. As if in answer to his signal, there was a prolonged, desolate wail outside the apartment door.

  "That's Koko," said Qwilleran. "He objects to being excluded. Mind if he comes in?"

  "Oh, I adore Kao K'o Kung!"

  Qwilleran opened the door, and the cat — after his usual reconnaissance — walked in, his tail moving from side to side in graceful arabesques. He had been sleeping and had not yet limbered his muscles. Now he arched his back in a taut curve, after which he extended two forward legs in a luxurious stretch. He concluded by making a long leg to the rear.

  Zoe said, "He limbers up like a dancer."

  "You want to see him dance?" said Qwilleran. He folded a piece of paper and tied it to a string. In anticipation Koko took a few small steps to the left and a few to the right, then rose on his hind feet as the bauble started to swing. He was all grace and rhythm, dancing on his pointes, leaping, executing incredible acrobatic feats in midair, landing lightly, and leaping again, higher than before.

  Zoe said, "I've never seen him perform like that. Such elevation! He's a real Nijinsky."

  "Mountclemens stresses intellectual pursuits," Qwilleran said, "and this cat has spent too much time on the bookshelves. I hope to broaden his range of interests. He needs more athletics."

  "I'd like to make some sketches." She dived into her handbag. "He does a grand battement just like a ballet dancer."

  A ballet dancer. A ballet dancer. The words brought a picture to Qwilleran's mind: a cluttered office, a painting hung crookedly on the wall. The second time he had seen that office, over a patrolman's shoulder, there was a body on the floor. And where was the painting? Qwilleran could not remember seeing the ballet dancer.

  He said to Zoe, "There was a painting of a ballet dancer at the Lambreth Gallery —»

  "Earl's famous Ghirotto," she said as she sketched rapidly on a pad. "It was only half of the original canvas, you know. It was his one great ambition to find the other half. It would have made him rich, he thought."

  Qwilleran was alerted. "How rich?"

  "If the two halves were joined and properly restored, the painting would probably be worth $150,000."

  The newsman blew astonishment through his moustache.

  "There's a monkey on the other half, she said, "Ghirotto painted ballerinas or monkeys during his celebrated Vibrato period, but only once did he paint both dancer and monkey in the same composition. It was a unique piece — a collector's dream. After the war it was shipped to a New York dealer and damaged in transit — ripped down the middle. Because of the way the picture was composed, the importer was able to frame the two halves and sell them separately. Earl bought the half with the dancer and hoped to trace the half with the monkey."

  Qwilleran said. "Do you suppose the owner of the monkey has been trying to trace the ballet dancer?"

  "Could be. Earl's half is the valuable one; it has the artist's signature." As she talked, her pencil skimmed over the paper, and her glance darted between sketch pad and performing cat.

  "Did many people know about the Ghirotto?"

  "Oh, it was quite a conversation piece. Several people wanted to buy the ballerina — just on speculation. Earl could have sold it and made a nice little profit, but he was holding out for his dream of $150,000. He never gave up hope of finding the monkey."

  Qwilleran proceeded circumspectly. "Did you see the ballerina on the night of the crime?"

  Zoe laid down her pencil and pad. "I'm afraid I didn't see much of anything — that night."

  "I was there, snooping around," Qwilleran said, "and I'm pretty sure the painting was gone."

  "Gone!"

  "It had been hanging over the desk on my previous visit, and now I remember — the night the police were there — that wall was vacant."

  "What should I do?"

  "Better tell the police. It looks as if the painting's been stolen. Tell them about the phone call, too. When you get home, call the Homicide Bureau. Do you remember the detectives' names? Hames and Wojcik."

  Zoe clapped both hands to her face in dismay. "Honestly, I had forgotten all about that Ghirotto!"

  10

  When Zoe had gone from Qwilleran's apartment leaving him with a can of coffee, a pound of sugar, a half-pint of cream, a pack of cigarettes, and two pounds of chocolate chip cookies — he wondered how much information she had withheld. Her nervousness suggested she was sifting the facts. She had stammered when asked if anyone else had a key to the Lambreth Gallery. Admittedly she had avoided telling the police everything that occurred to her. And she claimed to have forgotten the existence of a painting valuable enough — possibly — to make murder worthwhile.

  Qwilleran went upstairs to prepare Koko's dinner. Slowly and absently he diced meat while pondering other complications in the Lambreth case. How valid was Sandy's hint that this was "a family affair"? And how would that connect with the disappearance of the Ghirotto? There was also the vandalism to take into account, and Qwilleran reflected that the missing painting fell in the same category as the damaged subjects; it depicted the female figure in skimpy attire.

  He opened the kitchen door and looked out. The night was crisp, and the neighborhood smells were made more pungent by the cold. Carbon monoxide hung in the air, and oily rags had been burned at the comer garage. Down below him was the patio, a dark hole, its high brick walls cutting off any light from distant streetlamps.

  Qwilleran turned on the exterior light, which cast a weak yellow glow on the fire escape, and thought, What does that guy have against using a little extra electricity? He remembered seeing a flashlight in the broom closet, and he went to get it — an efficient, long-handled, well, balanced, powerful, chrome-plated beauty. Everything Mountclemens owned was well designed: knives, pots and pans, even the flashlight. It threw a strong beam on the walls and floor of the empty patio, on the ponderous wooden gate, on the wooden fire escape. Patches of frozen slush clung to the steps, and Qwilleran decided to postpone further investigation until daylight. Tomorrow he might even take Koko down there for a romp.

  That evening he went to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant, and the brown, eyed waitress reminded him of Zoe. He went home and played Sparrow with Koko, and the cat's movements reminded him of the missing ballet dancer. He lighted the gas logs in the fireplace and scanned the secondhand book on economics that he had bought at the Press Club; the statistics reminded him of Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Three — or was it Five?

  … On Sunday he went to visit Nino.

  The artist's studio-home in an alley garage was as dismal as it sounded. A former occupant had left the building coated with grease, to which was added the blight of Nino's collection of junk.

  Having knocked and received no answer, Qwilleran walked into the agglomeration of joyless castoffs. There were old tires, bushels of broken glass, chunks of uprooted concrete sidewalk, tin cans of every size, and dispossessed doors and windows. He made note of a baby carriage without wheels, a store window mannequin with arms and head missing, a kitchen sink painted bright orange inside and out, an iron gate covered with rust, and a wooden bedstead in the depressing modernistic design of the 1930's.

  A heater suspended from the ceiling belched warm fumes in Qwilleran's face, while the cold drafts at ankle level were paralyzing. Also suspended from the ceiling by a rope was a crystal chandelier of incredible beauty.

  Then Qwilleran saw the artist at work. On a platform at the rear stood a monstrous Thing made of wooden oddments, ostrich plumes, and bits of shiny tin. Nino was at, fixing two baby carriage wheels to the monster's head.

  He gave the wheels a twirl and stood back, and the spinning spokes, glinting under a spotlight, became malevolent eyes.

  "Good afternoon," said Qwilleran. "I'm a friend of Zoe Lambreth. You must be Nino."

  The sculptor appeared to be in a trance, his face illumined with the thrill of creation. His shirt and trousers were stiff with paint and grease, his beard needed trimming, and his hair had not recently known a comb.
In spite of it all, he was a good, looking brute — with classic features and an enviable physique. He looked at Qwilleran without seeing him, then admiringly he turned back to the Thing with spinning eyes.

  "Have you given it a title?" asked the newsman.

  "'Thirty,six, " said Nino, and he put his face in his hands and cried.

  Qwilleran waited sympathetically until the artist had recovered and then said, "How do you create these works of art? What is your procedure?"

  "I live them," said Nino. "Thirty-six is what I am, I was, and I will be. Yesterday is gone, and who cares? If I set fire to this studio, I live — in every leaping flame, flash, flare, floriferous flourish."

  "Do you have your materials insured?" "If I do, I do. If I don't, I don't. It's all relative. Man loves, hates, cries, plays, but what can an artist do? BOOM! That's the way it goes. A world beyond a world beyond a world beyond a world."

  "A cosmic concept," Qwilleran agreed, "but do people really understand your ideas?"

  "They wear out their brains trying, but I know, and you know, and we all know — what do we know? Nothing!"

  Nino was edging closer to the newsman in his enthusiasm for this conversation, and Qwilleran backed away discreetly. He said, "Nino, you appear to be a pessimist, but doesn't your success at the Lambreth Gallery help to give you an affirmative attitude toward life?"

  "Warm, wanton, wary, weak woman! I talk to her. She talks to me. We communicate."

  "Did you know her husband is dead? Murdered!"

  "We are all dead," said Nino. "Dead as doorknobs… Doorknobs!" he shouted and plunged into a mountain of junk in desperate search.

  "Thank you for letting me see your studio," said Qwilleran, and he started toward the door. As he passed a littered shelf, a gleam of gold signaled to him, and he called back over his shoulder, "Here's a doorknob, if that's what you're hunting for."

  There were two doorknobs on the shelf, and they looked like pure gold. With them were other pieces of bright metal, as well as some startling pieces of carved ivory and jade, but Qwilleran did not stop to examine them. The fumes from the heater had made his head throb, and he was making a dash for the fresh air. He wanted to go home and spend a sane, sensible, sanitary Sunday with Koko. He was becoming attached to that cat, he told himself, and he would be sorry when Mountclemens returned. He wondered if Koko really liked the cultural climate upstairs. Were the pleasures of reading headlines and sniffing old masters preferable to an exhilarating game of Sparrow? After four days of play, the score was 471 for the cat, 409 for the man.