He found himself in a large old-fashioned kitchen with drawn window shades and the aroma of disuse. Yet the room was comfortably warm. It was more studio than kitchen. There was an easel, a table, a chair, and — against one wall — a cot. Many unframed canvases stood on the floor, face to the wall.
One door led to the patio. Another, toward the front of the house, opened into a dining room. Qwilleran ran the flashlight over a marble fireplace and an ornate built, in sideboard. Otherwise the room was bare.
Koko wriggled to get free, but there was dust every' where, and Qwilleran kept a tight hold on the cat while he turned his attention back to the kitchen.
One painting stood on the sink counter, propped against the cupboards above. It was a portrait of a steely, blue robot against a rusty-red background, disturbingly real and signed by the artist, O. Narx. There was a three, dimensional quality in the work, and the robot itself had the glint and texture of actual metal. It was covered with dust. Qwilleran had heard it said that old houses manufacture their own dust.
Alongside the back door a kitchen table, well crusted with dried paint of many colors, held a jar of brushes, a palette knife, and some twisted tubes. The easel stood near the window, and on it was another square-headed mechanical man in a menacing pose. The painting was unfinished, and a brushful of white paint splashed across the canvas had disfigured it.
Koko squirmed and squealed and made himself a troublesome armful, and Qwilleran said, "Let's get upstairs. There's nothing down here but dirt."
At the top, after bolting the door and groping his way out from under the tapestry, Qwilleran said, "False alarm, Koko. You're losing your knack. There were no clues down there."
Kao K'o Kung gave him a withering look, then turned his back and licked himself extensively.
15
Friday morning Qwilleran sat at his typewriter and stared at the row of keys that spelled q-w-e-r-t-y-u-i-o-p. He hated that word qwertyuiop; it meant that he was stymied, that he should be writing brilliant copy, and that he hadn't an idea in his head.
It was three days since he had found the body of Mountclemens sprawled in the patio. It was four days since Nino had fallen to his death. It was nine days since the murder of Earl Lambreth.
Qwilleran's moustache was twitching and sending him signals. It kept suggesting that the three deaths were connected. One person had killed the art dealer, pushed Nino off the scaffolding, and knifed Mountclemens. And yet — to spoil his argument — there was the possibility that Mountclemens had committed the first murder.
The telephone on his desk rang three times before it won his attention.
Lodge Kendall was on the line, saying, "Thought you'd like to know what Homicide found out at the airline."
"Huh? Oh, yes. What did they find out?"
"The alibi holds. The passenger list indicates Mountclemens was on that afternoon flight."
"Did it depart on time?"
"Right on schedule. Did you know the airline puts passenger lists on microfilm and keeps them for three years?"
"No. I mean — yes. That is — thanks for filling me in." So Mountclemens had an alibi, and Qwilleran had some support for his new theory. Only one person, he told himself, had a motive in all three crimes and the strength to plunge a blade into a man and the opportunity to push Nino to his death. Only Butchy Bolton. And yet it was all too neat, too pat. Qwilleran was reluctant to trust his suspicions.
He went back to his typewriter. He looked at the blank sheet of paper waiting expectantly. He looked at the ten green typewriter keys: qwertyuiop.
Butchy, he was aware, had a serious grudge against Earl Lambreth. She thought he had cheated her out of a lucrative commission and considerable prestige. Further, more, Lambreth was encouraging his wife to drop Butchy. Grievances like these could build up in the imagination of a woman who had a personality problem and was given to violent fits of temper. With Lambreth out of the way, she might reason, Zoe would again be her "best friend" as in the old days. But there was another obstacle in Butchy's way: Zoe was showing inordinate interest in Nino. If Nino were to meet with a fatal accident, Zoe might have more time and enthusiasm for her girlhood friend.
Qwilleran whistled through his moustache as he remembered another fact: It had been Butchy's idea, according to Mrs. Buchwalter, to put that piece of junk sculpture on the scaffolding.
After Nino's death Butchy faced other complications. Mountclemens was posing a threat to Zoe's happiness and her career, and Butchy — fiercely protective — might see a chance to eliminate this distressing dilemma…. qwertyuiop.
"Do you always look so puzzled when you write?" asked a soft voice.
Startled, Qwilleran could only sputter. He jumped to his feet.
Zoe said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come to your office without telephoning first, but I was downtown having my hair done, and I took a chance on finding you here. The girl at the desk said I could walk right in. Am I interrupting something important?"
"Not at all," Qwilleran said. "Glad you dropped in. Let's go to lunch."
Zoe was looking strikingly handsome. He pictured himself ushering her into the Press Club, basking in curious stares, answering questions later.
But Zoe said, "Not today, thanks. I have another appointment. I'd just like to talk to you for a few minutes."
Qwilleran found a chair for her, and she pulled it close to his.
In a low voice she said, "There's something I should tell you — something that's been on my conscience — but it isn't easy to discuss."
"Will it help the investigation?"
"I don't know, really." She glanced around the room. "Is it all right to talk here?"
"Perfectly safe," Qwilleran said. "The music critic has his hearing aid turned off, and the man at the next desk has been in a fog for two weeks. He's writing a series on income tax."
Zoe smiled meagerly and said, "You asked me how Mountclemens could afford to buy his art treasures, and I evaded the question. But I've decided that you should be told, because indirectly it reflects on this newspaper."
"In what way?"
"Mountclemens was taking the profits from the Lambreth Gallery."
"You mean your husband paid him off?"
"No. Mountclemens owned the Lambreth Gallery."
"He owned it?"
Zoe nodded. "Earl was only an employee."
Qwilleran puffed through his moustache. "What a set, up! Mountclemens could write free plugs for his own merchandise and blast the competition — and the Flux paid him to do it! Why didn't you tell me this before?"
Zoe's hand fluttered. "I was ashamed of Earl's connection in the deal. I guess I hoped the secret would die with him."
"Did your husband discuss gallery business at home?"
"Not until recently. I had no idea of Mountclemens' connection with the gallery until a few weeks ago. When Earl and I had the showdown over Mountclemens. It was then he told me what kind of operator Mountclemens really was. It came as a complete shock."
"That I can believe."
"I was even more appalled at Earl's involvement. After that he began to tell me more about the gallery operation. He had been under a terrible strain, and he was overworked. Well paid, but overworked. Mountclemens wouldn't hire any help — or didn't dare. Earl did everything. Besides meeting the public and coping with artists, he made the picture frames and kept the books. My husband used to work for an accounting firm."
"Yes, I'd heard that," said Qwilleran.
"Earl had to take care of all the government red tape and juggle the figures on the tax returns."
"Juggle them, did you say?"
Zoe smiled bitterly. "You don't suppose a man like Mountclemens reported all his income, do you?"
"What did your husband think about that bit of snookery?"
"He said it was Mountclemens' funeral — not his. Earl merely did what he was told, and he wasn't liable." Zoe bit her lip. "But my husband kept a complete record of actual sales."
"You mean he kept two sets of books?"
"Yes. For his own information."
Qwilleran said, "Was he intending to use that information —?"
"Earl was getting to the end of his rope. Something had to be done — some change in the arrangement. And then there was this — this unpleasantness about me. That's when Earl confronted Mountclemens with some demands."
"Did you hear their discussion?"
"No, but Earl told me about it. He threatened Mountclemens — if he didn't leave me alone."
Qwilleran said, "I don't imagine our late art critic would scare very easily."
"Oh, yes, he was scared," said Zoe. "He knew my husband wasn't joking. Earl threatened to tip off the Internal Revenue people. He had the records that would prove fraud. He would even get a commission from the government for informing."
Qwilleran leaned back in his chair. "Wow!" he said softly. "That would have blown the whole mess wide open."
"The ownership of the gallery would have been exposed, and I'm afraid the Daily Fluxion would have looked rather bad."
"That's putting it mildly! The other newspaper would really make hay out of a thing like that. And Mountclemens —»
"Mountclemens would have to stand trial, Earl said. It would mean a jail term for fraud."
"It would have been the end of Mountclemens — here or anywhere else."
They stared at each other in silence, and then Qwilleran said, "He was a complex character."
"Yes," Zoe murmured.
"Did he really know art?"
"He had a brilliant knowledge. And in spite of his crooked streak, there was no misrepresentation in his column. Whatever he praised about the Lambreth Gallery was praiseworthy — the stripe paintings, the graphics, Nino's junk sculpture —»
"What about Scrano?"
"His concept is obscene, but the technique is flawless. His work has a classic beauty."
"All I see is a flock of triangles." Ah, but the proportions — the design — the depth and mystery in a flat composition of geometrics! Superb! Almost too good to be true."
Qwilleran challenged her boldly. "What about your own painting? Is it as good as Mountclemens said?"
"No. But it will be. The dirty colors I used expressed my inner turmoil, and that's allover now." Zoe showed Qwilleran a cold-blooded little smile. "I don't know who killed Mountclemens, but it's the best thing that could have happened." Venom darted from her eyes. "I don't think there's any doubt that he killed my husband. That night when Earl had to stay in his office to work on the books… I think he was expecting Mountclemens."
"But the police say Mountclemens left for New York at three o'clock that afternoon — by plane."
"I don't think so. I think he drove to New York — in that station wagon that was parked in the alley." Zoe stood up to leave. "But they'll never prove anything now that he's gone."
As Qwilleran rose, she extended a hand in a soft leather glove. She did it almost with gaiety. "I must hurry. I have an appointment at Penniman School. They're taking me on the faculty." Zoe smiled radiantly and walked from the office with a light step.
Qwilleran watched her go at: ld said to himself, "She's free now, and she's happy…. Who freed her?" Then he hated himself for his next thought. "And if it was Butchy, I wonder if the plot was entirely Butchy's idea."
For a while Professional Suspicion argued with Personal Inclination.
The latter said, "Zoe is a lovely woman, incapable of such a heinous plot. And she sure knows how to wear clothes!"
To which Professional Suspicion replied, "She's pretty eager to have her husband's murder blamed on the critic, now that he's gone and can't defend himself. She keeps coming up with scraps of information — strictly afterthoughts — that make Mountclemens look like a heel."
"But she's so gentle and appealing and talented and intelligent! And that voice! Like velvet."
"She's a smart dame, all right. Two people stabbed… and she gets the jackpot. It would be interesting to know how those maneuvers were engineered. Butchy may have done the dirty work, but she isn't bright enough to hatch the plot. Who gave her the key to the back door of the gallery? And who told Butchy to vandalize the female figure — in order to throw suspicion on a cockeyed male? Zoe wasn't even interested in Butchy; she was just using her."
"Yes, but Zoe's eyes! So deep and honest."
"You can't trust a woman with eyes like that. Just stop and think what probably happened on the night of Mountclemens' murder. Zoe phoned him to arrange a rendezvous, saying she'd drive into the deserted alley and sneak in the back way. That's probably the way she always did it. She'd blow the horn, and Mountclemens would go out and unlock the patio gate. But the last time it happened, it wasn't Zoe standing there in the dark; it was Butchy — with a short, wide, sharp, pointed blade."
"But Zoe is such a lovely woman. And that gentle voice! And those knees!"
"Qwilleran, you're a dope. Don't you remember how she got you out of the way on the night of Mountclemens' murder by inviting you to dinner?"
That evening Qwilleran went home and sat down and said to Qwilleran, "You fell for that helpless-female act and let her make you a stooge…. Remember how she sighed and bit her lip and stammered and called you so understanding? All the time she was building up her case with hints, alibis, painful revelations…. And did you notice that nasty gleam in her eye today? It was the same savage look she put in that cat picture at the Lambreth Gallery. Artists always paint themselves. You've found that out."
Qwilleran was plunged in the depths of his big arm, chair, pulling on a pipe that had burned out some minutes before. His silence weighted the atmosphere, and a shrill protest eventually came from Koko.
"Sorry, old fellow," said Qwilleran. "I'm not very sociable tonight."
Then he sat up straight and asked himself, What about that station wagon? Did Mountclemens drive it to New York? And whose was it?
Koko spoke again, this time from the hallway. His conversation was a melodic succession of cat sounds that had a certain allure. Qwilleran walked out to the hall and found Koko frolicking on the staircase. The cat's slender legs and tiny feet, looking like long-stemmed musical notes, were playing tunes up and down the red-carpeted stairs. When he saw Qwilleran, he raced to the top of the flight and looked down with an engaging follow-me invitation in his stance and the tilt of his ears.
Qwilleran suddenly felt indulgent toward this friendly little creature who knew when companionship was needed. Koko could be more entertaining than a floor show and, at times, better than a tranquilizer. He gave much and demanded little.
Qwilleran said, "Want to visit your old stamping ground?" He followed Koko and unlocked the critic's door with the key he carried.
Trilling with delight, the cat walked in and explored the apartment, savoring every corner.
"Have a good smell, Koko. That woman from Milwaukee will be coming soon, and she'll sell the place and take you home with her, and then you'll have to live on beer and pretzels."
Koko — as if he understood and wished to comment — paused in his tour and sat down on his spine for a brief but significant washup of his nether parts.
"I gather you'd rather live with me."
The cat ambled toward the kitchen, sprang to his old post on the refrigerator, found it cushionless, complained, and jumped down again. Hopefully he reconnoitered the comer where his dinner plate and water bowl used to be. Nothing there. He hopped lightly to the stove, where the burners tantalized him with whiffs of last week's boiled-over broth. From there he stepped daintily to the butcher's block, redolent with memories of roasts and cutlets and poultry. Then he nuzzled the knife rack and dislodged one blade from the magnetic bar.
"Careful!" said Qwilleran. "You could cut off a toe." He put the knife back on the magnet.
As he lined it up with the other three blades, his moustache flagged him, and Qwilleran had a sudden urge to go down to the patio.
He went to the broom closet for th
e flashlight and wondered why Mountclemens had gone down the fire escape without it. The steps were dangerous, with narrow treads partly iced.
Had the critic thought he was going down to meet Zoe? Had he thrown his tweed coat over his shoulders and gone down without a flashlight? Had he taken a knife instead? The fifth knife that belonged on the magnetic rack?
Mountclemens had left his prosthetic hand upstairs. A man so vain would have worn it to meet his paramour, but he wouldn't need it to kill her.
Qwilleran turned up the collar of his corduroy jacket and stepped carefully down the fire escape, accompanied by a curious but enthusiastic cat. The night was cold. The alley kept its after-hours silence.
The newsman wanted to see how the patio gate opened, in what direction the shadows fell, how visible an arriving visitor would be in the darkness. He examined the solid plank gate with its heavy Spanish lock and strap hinges. Mountclemens would have remained partly hid, den behind the gate as he opened it. One swift movement by the visitor would have pinned him to the wall. Some, how Mountclemens had failed to take his intended victim by surprise. Somehow the murderer had managed to get the jump on him.
While Qwilleran mused and ran the flashlight over the weathered bricks of the patio, Koko discovered a dark stain on the brick floor and sniffed it intently.
Qwilleran grabbed him roughly about the middle. "Koko! Don't be disgusting!"
He went back up the fire escape, carrying the cat, who writhed and squalled as if he were being tortured.
In Mountclemens' kitchen Koko sat down in the middle of the floor and had a pedicure. His brief walk in the unclean outdoors had soiled his toes, his claws, the pads of his dainty feet. Spreading the brown toes like petals of a flower, he darted his pink tongue in and out — washing, brushing, combing, and deodorizing with one efficient implement.
Suddenly the cat paused in the middle of a lick, his tongue extended and his toes spread in midair. A faint rumble came from his throat, and he unfolded to standing position — tense with subdued excitement. Then deliberately he walked to the tapestry in the long hall and pawed the corner.
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Page 15
