"He was an arrogant, avaricious, overbearing man," said Zoe. "I loathed Mountclemens, and yet I had to play along — for obvious reasons."
"Obvious reasons?"
"Can't you see? My paintings were enjoying his critical favor. If I had made him angry, he could have ruined my career. He would have ruined Earl, too. What could I do? I flirted — discreetly, I thought — because that was the way Mountclemens wanted to play." Zoe fussed with her handbag — clasping, unclasping, clasping. "And then he got the idea that I should leave Earl and go with him."
"How did you handle that proposition?"
"It was a delicate maneuver, believe me! I said — or I implied — that I would like to accept his proposal, but an old-fashioned sense of loyalty bound me to my husband. What an act! I felt like the heroine in one of those old silent movies."
"Did that settle the matter?"
"Unfortunately, no. He continued his campaign, and I got in deeper and deeper. It was a nightmare! There was the constant strain of acting out a lie."
"Didn't your husband know what was going on?"
Zoe sighed. "For a long time he didn't suspect. Earl was always so preoccupied with his own problems that he was blind and deaf to everyone else. But eventually he heard the gossip. And then we had a horrible scene. I convinced him — finally — that I was trapped in a nasty situation." There was prolonged business with the handbag clasp. Falteringly she said, "You know — Earl seemed to cling to me. Even though we were no longer — if you know what I mean. I found it safer to be marred, and Earl clung to me because I was a success. He was born to be a failure. His only achievement was a happy accident — finding half a Ghirotto — and it was his life's ambition to find the other half and be rich!"
Qwilleran said, "You don't think Mountclemens killed your husband, do you?"
Zoe looked at him helplessly. "I don't know. I just don't know. He wouldn't have done anything so drastic merely to get me. I'm positive of that! He wasn't capable of loving that passionately. But he might have done it to get me and the other half of the Ghirotto."
That would be quite a package, Qwilleran reflected. He said, "Mountclemens had a passion for art."
"Only as a form of wealth, to be accumulated and hoarded. He didn't share his possessions. He didn't even want people to know he owned fabulous treasures."
"Where did he get the dough to buy them? Certainly not from writing art columns for the Daily Fluxion."
Zoe left his question dangling. She seemed to shrink into her chair. "I'm tired," she said. "I'd like to go home. I didn't mean to talk like this."
"I know. It's all right," Qwilleran said. "I'll call you a cab."
"Thank you for being so understanding."
"I'm complimented to have you confide in me."
Zoe bit her lip. "I feel I can say this to you: When Earl was killed, my reaction was more fear than grief — fear of Mountclemens and what would happen next. Now that fear has been removed, and I can't be anything but glad."
Qwilleran watched Zoe's taxi disappear into the dark, ness. He wondered if she had suspected Mountclemens from the start. Was the critic one of Earl's enemies — one of the "important people" she had been afraid to name to the police? On the other hand, would a man like Mountclemens — enjoying a good life and with so much to lose — take the risk of committing murder to gain a woman and a valuable painting? Qwilleran doubted it.
Then his thoughts went back to the monkey propped on the mantel in his apartment. What would happen to it now? Along with the Rembrandt drawings and the Van Gogh, the Ghirotto monkey would go to that woman from Milwaukee. She would be unlikely to know its significance. In all probability she would loathe the ugly thing. How easy it would be -
An idea began to take shape in his mind. "Keep it… Say nothing… Give it to Zoe."
He returned to the apartment to look at the monkey. On the mantel in front of the canvas sat Kao K'o Kung, straight as a sentinel, giving Qwilleran a reproachful stare.
"Okay. You win," said the newsman. "I'll report it to the police."
14
Thursday morning Qwilleran telephoned Lodge. Kendall at the press room in police headquarters.
He said, "I've picked up some information on Lambreth and Mountclemens. Why don't you bring the Homicide guys to lunch at the club?"
"Make it dinner. Hames and Wojcik are working nights."
"Do you think they're willing to discuss the case?"
"Oh, sure. Especially Hames. He's a relaxed type. Never underestimate him, though. He's got a mind like a computer."
Qwilleran said, "I'll get to the club early and snag a quiet table upstairs. Is six o'clock okay?"
"Make it six-fifteen. I won't promise; but I'll try to have them there."
Qwilleran wrote six-fifteen on his desk calendar and reluctantly considered the possibility of starting his day's work. He sharpened a handful of pencils, cleaned out his paper clip tray, filled his glue pot, straightened his stack of copy paper. Then he pulled out his draft of the Butchy Bolton interview and put it away again. No hurry; the Photo Department had not yet produced any pictures to accompany the story. Without much effort he found similar excuses to postpone most of the other chores in his «next» file.
He was in no mood to work. He was too busy wondering how the Daily Fluxion would react to the idea of a murderer on the staff — on the culture beat, no less! He could visualize the editorial embarrassment if the police pinned Lambreth's murder on Mountclemens, and he could picture the other newspaper gleefully capitalizing on the scandalous news…. No, it was unthinkable. News, paper writers reported on homicide; they never indulged in it.
Qwilleran had liked Mountclemens. The man was a delightful host, clever writer, unashamed egotist, cat, worshipper, fearless critic, miser with electric light bulbs, sentimentalist about old houses, and an unpredictable human being. He could be curt one minute, genial the next — as he was on the night he heard the news of Lambreth's murder.
The newsman looked at his calendar. There was nothing on his schedule until six-fifteen. Six-fifteen — the hour the clock stopped for Earl Lambreth. Six-fifteen? Qwilleran felt a prickling sensation in his moustache. Six-fifteen! Then Mountclemens had an alibi!
It was six-twenty that evening when the police reporter turned up with the two men from the Homicide Bureau: Hames, blandly amiable, and Wojcik, all business.
Hames said, "Aren't you the fellow with the cat that can read?"
"He can not only read," said Qwilleran; "he can read backwards, and don't laugh. I'm sending him to the FBI Academy when he grows up, and he may get your job."
"He'll do all right, too. Cats are born snoopers. Our kids have a cat that gets into everything. He'd make a good cop — or a good newspaperman." Hames scanned the menu. "Before I order, who's paying for this meal? The Daily Fluxion or us underpaid guardians of the public welfare?"
Wojcik said to Qwilleran, "Kendall tells us you want to talk about the art murders."
"I've picked up a few facts. Do you want to hear them now, or do you want to order first?"
"Let's hear."
"Well, it's like this: Lambreth's widow seems to have made me her confidant, and she told me a few things last night after I discovered something unusual in Mountclemens' apartment."
"What were you doing up there?"
"Looking for the cat's toy mouse. It's an old sock filled with dried mint. He was going crazy because he couldn't find it."
Hames said, "Our cat's wild for catnip, too."
"This isn't catnip. It's fresh mint that Mountclemens grew in a pot on the windowsill."
"Same thing," said Hames. "Catnip's a member of the mint family."
"So what did you find that was unusual?" said Wojcik.
"A painting of a monkey that seemed to ring a bell. I called Mrs. Lambreth, and she came over and identified it."
"What's with this monkey?"
"It has to do with that painting of a ballet dancer by Ghirotto at the Lambreth Gal
lery."
Hames said, "We have one of those Ghirotto dancers at home. My wife bought it for $14.95 at Sears."
"Ghirotto painted a lot of dancers," said Qwilleran, "and the reproductions are quite popular. But this one is unique. It's only half a painting. The canvas was ripped and the two halves sold separately. Lambreth owned the half with Ghirotto's signature and was hunting for the other half, which had a monkey on it. Combined and restored, they'd be worth $150,000."
Hames said, "They get ridiculous prices for art these days…. Does anybody want one of these poppy,seed rolls?"
Wojcik said, "And you found the missing half —»
"In a closet in Mountclemens' apartment," said Qwilleran.
"In a closet? You were really snooping, weren't you?" Qwilleran's moustache rebelled and he smoothed it. "I was looking for the cat's —»
"Okay, okay, so it looks like Mountclemens killed a man to get a picture of a dame in a short skirt. What else do you know?"
Qwilleran, irritated by Wojcik's brusqueness, found his spirit of cooperation flagging. He said to himself, Let him dig up his own lousy clues. With a degree of reluctance he told the detective, "Mountclemens had apparently been making eyes at Mrs. Lambreth."
"Did she tell you that?" Qwilleran nodded.
"Women always say that. Was she interested in Mountclemens?"
Qwilleran shook his head. "Foiled!" said the jovial Hames. "So the villain went home and committed hara-kiri in his backyard, after which he swallowed the knife to conceal the evidence of suicide and throw suspicion on the poor widow. Will someone please pass the butter?"
Wojcik threw his partner an impatient scowl. "However," said Qwilleran coolly, "I have an alibi for Mountclemens." He paused and waited for the reaction.
Kendall was all eyes and ears; Wojcik was twiddling a spoon; Hames was buttering another roll.
Qwilleran proceeded. "Lambreth was murdered at six-fifteen, according to the electric desk clock that stopped at that hour, but Mountclemens was on the three o'clock plane to New York. I bought his ticket for him."
"You bought his ticket," said Hames, "but do you know whether he used it? Perhaps he changed his reservation and went on the seven o'clock plane after killing Lambreth at six-fifteen Funny thing about that clock stopping at six-fifteen. It wasn't damaged. It was merely unplugged from the wall socket. It appears that the murderer went to some pains to stage signs of a violent shindy, place the clock on the floor and disconnect the juice, thus pinpointing the hour of the crime. Had the struggle been genuine and had the clock been knocked to the floor accidentally in the heat of battle, it would probably have been damaged, and if it had not been damaged, it would have continued to run, unless its fall had yanked the plug from the wall socket. However, considering the position of the desk and the location of the wall socket and the spot where the clock was found, it is doubtful whether such a fall could have disconnected the plug accidentaUy. So it appears that the murderer made a special effort to register the hour of the murder by means of the clock — for the purpose of establishing an alibi — after which he took a later flight… all of this assuming that your art critic with a three o'clock plane ticket was actually the killer."
Wojcik said, "We'll check the airline." After the detectives had left, Qwilleran had another cup of coffee with Lodge Kendall and said, "Did you say Hames had a mind like a computer? It's more like a cement mixer."
Kendall said, "I think he's right. I'll bet Mountclemens had you pick up his plane ticket for the express purpose of emphasizing that three o'clock departure. Then he took a later flight. Lambreth would have no qualms about letting him in the gallery after hours, and Mountclemens probably took the man completely by surprise."
"With only one hand?"
"He was tall. He came up behind Lambreth, got a stranglehold with his right arm, and plunged the chisel in Lambreth's exposed throat with his good left hand. Then he roughed up the office, disconnected the clock, damaged some art to leave a false clue, and took a later plane."
Qwilleran shook his head. "I can't picture Mountclemens on the other end of that chisel."
"Got a better theory?"
"I'm playing with one. It hasn't jelled yet. But it might explain all three deaths…. What's in that package?"
"The tapes the police impounded. There's nothing on them — just an art review. Are they any good to you?"
"I'll give them to Arch," Qwilleran said. "And maybe I'll write some kind of memorial piece to go with Mountclemens' last column."
"Careful how you phrase it. You might be writing a memorial to a murderer," Kendall said.
Qwilleran's moustache made a stubborn stand. He said, "I have a hunch you'll find Mountclemens was on that three o'clock plane."
When Qwilleran arrived home with the tape reels under his arm, it was nearing eight o'clock, and Koko met him at the door with an impatient clamor. Koko was not in favor of Qwilleran's casual meal schedule.
"If you'd learn to talk, I wouldn't have to hang around the Press Club so much," the newsman explained, "and you'd get your dinner on time."
Koko passed one paw over his right ear and gave his left shoulder blade two short licks with his tongue.
Qwilleran studied the signals thoughtfully. "I guess you can talk, all right. I'm just not bright enough to read you."
After dinner, cat and man went upstairs to the dictating machine on the critic's desk, and Qwilleran slipped a reel on the spindle. The sharp voice of the late George Bonifield Mountclemens-made more nasal by the quality of the equipment-filled the room:
"For publication Sunday, March 8 — Serious collectors of contemporary art are secretly acquiring all available works by the celebrated Italian painter Scrano, it was learned this week. For reasons of ill health, the artist — for twenty years a recluse in the Umbrian Hills — is no longer able to produce the paintings that have earned him the accolade of modern master.
"Scrano's final works are now en route to the United States, according to his New York agent, and prices may be expected to soar. In my own modest collection I have a small Scrano painted in 1958, and I have been offered twenty times its original cost. Needless to say, I would not part with it."
There was a pause in the dictation, while a few inches of tape unwound thoughtfully. Then the ringing voice dropped to a more casual tone.
"Correction! Editor, delete the last two sentences." There was another pause. Then:
"Scrano's work is handled locally by the Lambreth Gallery, which will reopen soon, it has been announced. The gallery closed following the tragedy of February 25, and the art world mourns… correction, the local art world mourns… the passing of a respected and influential figure.
"The quality of Scrano's work has not wavered, despite age and illness. He combines the technique of an old master, the hubris of youth, the insight of a sage, the expressiveness…"
Koko sat on the desk, regarding the spinning tape with fascination and purring a rich throaty accompaniment.
"Recognize your old roommate?" asked Qwilleran with a note of sadness. He himself was affected by the sound of Mountclemens' last words, and he smoothed his moustache pensively.
As the tape rewound at high speed, Koko lowered his head and fervently rubbed his jaw against the edge of the machine.
Qwilleran said, "Who killed him, Koko? You're supposed to be able to sense things."
The cat sat tall on the desk, with forelegs close to his body, and stared at Qwilleran with wide eyes. The blue disappeared, and they were large black voids. He swayed slightly.
"Go ahead. Talk! You must know who killed him." Koko closed his eyes and uttered a tentative squeak. "You must have seen it happen! Tuesday night. Out the back window. Cats can see in the dark, can't they?"
The cat's ears waggled, one forward and one back, and he jumped to the floor. Qwilleran watched while he prowled about the room — aimlessly at first — looking under a chair here and a cabinet there, peering into the cold black fireplace, touching an elect
ric cord with a wary paw. Then he thrust his head forward and down. He began to zigzag down the long hall to the kitchen, and Qwilleran followed.
At the bedroom door Koko gave a perfunctory sniff. At the threshold of the kitchen, he stopped and murmured something in his throat. Then he backtracked down the long hall to the tapestry that covered much of the wall space opposite the bedroom door. Woven into the tapestry was the scene of a royal hunting party, with horses, falcons, dogs, and small game. Dim light and the fading of age made the figures almost indistinguishable, but Koko showed pronounced interest in the rabbits and wildfowl that filled one corner of the design. Was it true, Qwilleran wondered, that cats could sense the content of a picture?
Koko touched it experimentally with his paw. He reared on his hind legs and waved his head from side to side like a cobra. Then dropping to all fours, he sniffed the lower edge of the tapestry where it grazed the floor.
Qwilleran said, "Is there something behind that thing?" He lifted one corner of the heavy hanging and saw nothing but plain wall. Yet Koko gave a joyous cry. Qwilleran raised the corner higher, and the cat pushed his way behind the tapestry, proclaiming his delight in positive tones.
"Wait a minute," Qwilleran went for the flashlight and shone a wedge of light between tapestry and wall. It revealed the edge of a doorframe, and that was where Koko was rubbing and sniffing and voicing his excitement.
Qwilleran followed, burrowing with some difficulty between the heavy textile and the wall, until he came to the bolted door. The catch slid open easily, and the door swung out over a narrow stairway. It made a sharp turn and descended to the floor below, where it was closed off by a second door. At one time this would have been the servants' stairs.
There was a light switch, but no light bulb responded. Qwilleran was not surprised. He descended with the aid of the flashlight — thoughtfully. If this led to the rear apartment — which the critic had claimed to use for storage — there was no telling what treasures might be found.
Koko had already scampered to the bottom and was waiting impatiently. Qwilleran picked him up and opened the door.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Page 14
