The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "Yes."

  "But they were not touched."

  "That's right."

  "How do you remove one of those domes? I looked at them, and I couldn't figure it out."

  "It fits down over the pedestal, secured by a molding attached with concealed screws."

  "In other words," said Qwilleran, "you'd have to know the trick in order to get the thing apart. The dagger must have been taken by somebody in the know — after hours, when the museum was closed. Wouldn't you say it looks like an inside job?"

  "I dislike your reference to an inside job, Mr. Qwilleran," said the curator. "You newspapermen can be extremely obnoxious, as this museum has discovered — to its sorrow. I forbid you to print anything about this incident without permission from Mr. Farhar."

  "You don't tell a newspaper what to print and what not to print," said Qwilleran, keeping his temper in check.

  "If this item appears," Smith said, "we will have to conclude that the Daily Fluxion is an irresponsible, sensational press. First, you may be spreading a false alarm. Second, you may encourage an epidemic of thefts. Third, you may impede the recovery of the dagger if it has actually been stolen."

  "I'll leave that up to my editor," said Qwilleran. "By the way, do you move up the ladder when Farhar leaves?"

  "His successor has not yet been announced," Smith said, and his sallow skin turned the color of parchment.

  Qwilleran went to dinner at the Artist and Model, a snug cellar hideaway favored by the culture crowd. The background music was classical, the menu was French, and the walls were hung with works of art. They were totally unviewable in the cultivated gloom of the basement, and even the food — small portions served on brown earthenware — was difficult for the fork to find.

  It was an atmosphere for conversation and handholding, rather than eating, and Qwilleran allowed himself a moment of self-pity when he realized he was the only one dining alone. He thought, Better to be at home sharing a slice of meat loaf with Koko and having a fast game of Sparrow. Then he remembered dolefully that Koko had deserted him.

  He ordered ragout de boeuf Bordelaise and entertained himself by brooding over the golden dagger. The Smith person had been furtive. He had admittedly lied at the beginning of the interview. Even the girl in the check, room had tried to deter Qwilleran from visiting the Florentine Room. Who was covering up for whom?

  If the dagger had been stolen, why had the thief selected this particular memento of Renaissance Italy? Why steal a weapon? Why not a goblet or bowl? It was hardly the kind of trinket that a petty thief could peddle for a meal ticket, and professional jewel thieves — big operators — would have made a bigger haul. Someone had coveted that dagger, Qwilleran told himself, because it was gold, or because it was beautiful.

  It was a poetic thought, and Qwilleran blamed it on the romantic mood of the restaurant. Then he let his thoughts drift pleasantly to Zoe. He wondered how long it would be before he could conventionally invite her out to dinner. A widow who didn't believe in funerals and who wore purple silk trousers as mourning attire apparently did not cling to convention.

  All around him couples were chattering and laughing. Repeatedly one female voice rose in a trill of laughter.

  There was no doubt about that voice. It belonged to Sandy Halapay. She had evidently found a dinner date to amuse her while her husband was in Denmark.

  When Qwilleran left the restaurant, he stole a glance at Sandy's table and at the dark head bending toward her. It was John Smith.

  Qwilleran plunged his hands in his overcoat pockets and walked the few blocks to Penniman School, his mind flitting from the Cellini dagger to the sly-eyed John Smith — to the conniving Sandy — to Cal Halapay in Denmark — to Tom, the Halapay's surly houseboy — to Tom's girl in the museum checkroom — and back to the dagger.

  This mental merry-go-round gave Qwilleran a mild vertigo, and he tried to shake the subject out of his mind. After all, it was none of his business. Neither was the murder of Earl Lambreth. Let the police solve it.

  At Penniman School, Qwilleran found other mysteries to confound him. The Happening was a roomful of people, things, sounds, and smells that seemed to have no purpose, no plan, and no point.

  The school was lavishly endowed (Mrs. Duxbury had been a Penniman before her marriage), and among its facilities was an impressive sculpture studio. It had been de, scribed in one of Mountclemens' columns as "big as a barn and artistically productive as a haystack." This sculpture studio was the scene of the Happening, to attend which students paid a dollar and the general public paid three. Proceeds were earmarked for the scholarship fund.

  When Qwilleran arrived, the vast room was dark except for a number of spotlights that played on the walls. These shafts and puddles of light revealed a north wall of opaque glass and a lofty ceiling spanned by exposed girders. There was also a network of temporary scaffolding overhead.

  Below, on the concrete floor, persons of all ages stood in clusters or promenaded among the stacks of huge empty cartons that transformed the room into a maze. These cardboard towers, painted in gaudy colors and piled precariously high, threatened to topple at the slightest instigation.

  Other threats dangled from the scaffolding. A sword hung from an invisible thread. There were bunches of green balloons, red apples tied by the stems, and yellow plastic pails filled with nobody-knew-what. A garden hose dribbled in desultory fashion. Suspended in a rope sling was a nude woman with long green hair who sprayed cheap perfume from an insecticide gun. And in the center of the scaffold, presiding over the Happening like an evil god, was "Thing #36" with its spinning eyes. Something had been added, Qwilleran noted; the Thing now wore a crown of doorknobs, Nino's symbol of death.

  Soon the whines and bleeps of electronic music filled the room, and the spotlights began to move in coordination with the sound, racing dizzily across the ceiling or lingering on upturned faces.

  In one passage of light Qwilleran recognized Mr. and Mrs. Franz Buchwalter, whose normal dress was not unlike the peasant costumes they had worn to the Valentine Ball. The Buchwalters immediately recognized his moustache.

  "When does the Happening start?" he asked them.

  "It has started," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

  "You mean this is it? This is all there is?"

  "Other things will Happen as the evening progresses," she said.

  "What are you supposed to do?"

  "You can stand around and let them Happen," she said, "or you can cause things to Happen, depending on your philosophy of life. I shall probably shove some of those cartons around; Franz will just wait until they fall on him."

  "I'll just wait until they fall on me," said Franz.

  As more people arrived, the crowd was being forced to circulate. Some were passionately serious; some were amused; others were masking discomfiture with bravado.

  "What is your opinion of all this?" Qwilleran asked the Buchwalters, as the three of them rambled through the maze.

  "We find it an interesting demonstration of creativity and development of a theme," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "The event must have form, movement, a dominant point of interest, variety, unity — all the elements of good design. If you look for these qualities, it adds to the enjoyment."

  Franz nodded in agreement. "Adds to the enjoyment."

  "The crew is mounting the scaffold," said his wife, "so the Happenings will accelerate now."

  In the flashes of half, light provided by the moving spotlights, Qwilleran saw three figures climbing the lad, der. There was the big figure of Butchy Bolton in coveralls, followed by Tom LaBlanc, and then Nino, no less unkempt than before.

  "The young man with a beard," said Mrs. Buchwalter, "is a rather successful alumnus of the school, and the other is a student. Miss Bolton you probably know. She teaches here. It was her idea to have that goggle, eyed Thing reigning over the Happening. Frankly, we were surprised, knowing how she feels about junk sculpture. Perhaps she was making a point. People worship junk today."
/>   Qwilleran turned to Franz. "You teach here at Penniman, don't you?"

  "Yes, he does," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "He teaches watercolor."

  Qwilleran said, "I see you're having a show at the Westside Gallery, Mr. Buchwalter. Is it a success?"

  "He's sold almost everything," said the artist's wife, "in spite of that remarkable review by George Bonifield Mountclemens. Your critic was unable to interpret the symbolism of Franz's work. When my husband paints sailboats, he is actually portraying the yearning of the soul to escape, white-winged, into a tomorrow of purest blue. Mountclemens used a clever device to conceal his lack of comprehension. We found it most amusing."

  "Most amusing," said the artist. "Then you're not offended by that kind of review?"

  "No. The man has his limitations, as we all do. And we understand his problem. We are most sympathetic," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

  "What problem do you mean?"

  "Mountclemens is a frustrated artist. Of course, you know he wears a prosthetic hand — remarkably realistic — actually made by a sculptor in Michigan. It satisfies his vanity, but he is no longer able to paint."

  "I didn't know he had been an artist," Qwilleran said.

  "How did he lose his hand?"

  "No one seems to know. It happened before he came here. Obviously the loss has warped his personality. But we must learn to live with his eccentricities. He is here to stay. Nothing, we understand, could uproot him from that Victorian house of his —»

  A series of squeals interrupted Mrs. Buchwalter. The garden hose suspended overhead had suddenly doused a number of spectators.

  Qwilleran said, "The Lambreth murder was shocking news. Do you have any theories?"

  "We don't allow our minds to dwell on that sort of thing," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

  "We don't dwell on it," said her husband.

  Now laughter filled the studio as the crew released a bale of chicken feathers and an electric fan sent them swirling like snow.

  "It seems like good clean fun," Qwilleran commented. He changed his mind a moment later when a noxious wave of hydrogen sulfide was released by the crew.

  "It's all symbolic," said Mrs. Buchwalter. "You don't have to agree with the fatalistic premise, but you must admit they are thinking and expressing themselves."

  Shots rang out. There were shouts, followed by a small riot among the spectators. The crew on the scaffold had punctured the green balloons, showering favors on the crowd below.

  Qwilleran said, "I hope they're not planning to drop that sword of Damocles."

  "Nothing really dangerous ever happens at a Happening," said Mrs. Buchwalter.

  "No, nothing dangerous," said Mr. Buchwalter.

  The crowd was milling about the floor, and the towers of cartons were beginning to topple. A shower of confetti descended from above. Then a volley of rubber balls, dumped from one of the yellow plastic buckets. Then -

  "Blood!" shrieked a woman's voice. Qwilleran knew that scream, and he rammed his way through the crowd to reach her side.

  Sandy Halapay's face dripped red. Her hands were red. She stood there helplessly while John Smith tenderly dabbed at it with his handkerchief. She was laughing. It was ketchup.

  Qwilleran went back to the Buchwalters. "It's getting kind of wild," he said. The crowd had started throwing the rubber balls at the crewmen on the scaffold.

  The rubber balls flew through the air, hit the scaffolding, bounced back, ricocheted off innocent skulls, and were thrown again by jeering spectators. The music screeched and blatted. Spotlights swooped in giddy arcs.

  "Get the monster!" someone yelled, and a hail of balls pelted the Thing with spinning eyes.

  "No!" shouted Nino. "Stop!"

  Seen in flashes of light, the Thing rocked on its perch. "Stop!"

  Crew members rushed to save it. The planks of the scaffold rattled.

  "Look out!"

  There was a scream from the girl in the rope sling.

  The crowd scattered. The Thing fell with a crash. And with it a body plunged to the concrete floor.

  12

  Two news items rated headlines in the Tuesday morning edition of the Daily Fluxion.

  A valuable gold dagger, attributed to Cellini, had disappeared from the art museum. Although its absence had been noted by a guard more than a week ago, the matter was not reported to the police until a Fluxion reporter discovered that the rare treasure was missing from the Florentine Room. Museum officials gave no satisfactory explanation for the delay.

  The other item reported a fatal accident. "An artist plunged to death Monday night at the Penniman School of Fine Art during an audience-participation program called a Happening. He was a sculptor known professionally as Nine Oh Two Four Six Eight Five, whose real name was Joseph Hibber.

  "Hibber was perched on a high scaffold in the darkened room when unruly activity on the floor below caused a near-accident to one of the mammoth props in the show.

  "Eyewitnesses reported that Hibber attempted to save the object from falling on the spectators. In the effort he apparently lost his footing, falling 26 feet to a concrete floor.

  "Mrs. Sadie Buchwalter, wife of Franz Buchwalter, a faculty member, was injured by a flying doorknob when the object crashed. Her condition was described as satisfactory.

  "Some 300 students, faculty members and art patrons attending the benefit event witnessed the accident."

  Qwilleran threw the newspaper on the bar at the Press Club that afternoon, when Arch Riker met him for a five, thirty pick-me-up.

  "Plunged to his death," said Qwilleran, "or was pushed."

  "You've got a criminous mind," said Arch. "Isn't one murder on your beat enough to keep you happy?"

  "You don't know what I know."

  "Let's have it. Who was this character?"

  "A beatnik who happened to like Zoe Lambreth. And she was pretty fond of him, although you'd find this hard to believe if you could see the guy — a nature boy straight from the city dump."

  "You never know about women," said Arch. "And yet I've got to admit the boy had possibilities."

  "So who pushed him?"

  "Well, there's this woman sculptor, Butchy Bolton, who seemed to resent him. I think Butchy was jealous of this beatnik's friendship with Zoe and jealous of him professionally. He enjoyed more critical success than she did. Butchy also had a crush on Zoe."

  "Oh, one of those!"

  "Zoe was trying to brush her off-subtly — but Butchy is as subtle as a bulldog. And here's an interesting point: both Butchy and Nino, the deceased, had serious grudges against Zoe's husband. Suppose one of them killed Earl Lambreth did Butchy consider Nino a competitor for Zoe's attention and push him off the scaffold last night? The whole crew rushed out on those flimsy boards to stop the Thing from crashing. Butchy would have had a beautiful opportunity."

  "You seem to know more than the police."

  "I don't have any answers. Just questions. And here's another one: Who stole the painting of a ballet dancer from Earl Lambreth's office? Last weekend I suddenly remembered it was missing on the night of the murder. I told Zoe, and she reported it to the police."

  "You've been a busy boy. No wonder you haven't finished that profile on Halapay."

  "And one more question: Who stole the dagger at the t museum? And why are they being so cagey about it?"

  "Do you have any more yarns?" asked Arch. "Or can I go home to my wife and kiddies?"

  "Go home. You're a lousy audience. Here comes a couple of guys who'll be interested."

  Odd Bunsen and Lodge Kendall were walking through the bar single file.

  "Hey, Jim," said Odd, "did you write that piece about the missing dagger at the museum?"

  "Yeah."

  "They've found it. I went up and got some shots of it.

  The Picture Desk thought people would like to see what the thing looked like — after all the hullabaloo you stirred up."

  "Where'd they find it?"

  "In the safe in the Education De
partment. One of the instructors was writing a piece on Florentine art for some magazine, and he took the dagger out of the case to examine. Then he went off to a convention somewhere and parked it in the safe."

  "Oh," said Qwilleran. His moustache drooped.

  "Well, that solves one of your problems," Arch told him. He turned to the police reporter. "Anything new in the Lambreth case?"

  "A major clue just fizzled out," said Kendall. "The police found a valuable painting that Lambreth's wife said was missing."

  "Where'd they find it?" Qwilleran demanded.

  "In the stock room of the gallery, filed under G."

  "Oh," said Qwilleran.

  Arch slapped him on the back. "As a detective, Jim, you're a great art writer. Why don't you bear down on the Halapay profile and leave crime to the police? I'm going home."

  Arch left the Press Club, and Odd Bunsen and Lodge Kendall drifted away, and Qwilleran sat alone, peering unhappily into his tomato juice.

  Bruno, wiping the bar, said with his wise smile, "You want another Bloody Mary without vodka, lime, Worcestershire, or Tabasco?"

  "No," snapped Qwilleran.

  The bartender lingered. He tidied up the bar. He gave Qwilleran another paper napkin. Finally he said, "Would you like to see a couple of my presidential portraits?"

  Qwilleran glowered at him.

  "I've finished Van Buren," said Bruno, "and I've got him and John Quincy Adams here under the bar."

  "Not tonight. I'm not in the mood."

  "I don't know anybody else who makes collage portraits out of whiskey labels," Bruno persisted.

  "Look, I don't care if you make mosaic portraits out of used olive pits! I don't want to look at them tonight!"

  "You're beginning to sound like Mountclemens," said Bruno.

  "I've changed my mind about that drink," said Qwilleran. "I'll take one. Make it a Scotch — straight."

  Bruno shrugged and began filling the order in slow motion.

  "And snap it up," said Qwilleran.

  Over the loudspeaker came a muffled voice that he did not hear.

  "Mr. Qwilleran," said Bruno. "I think they're paging you."