The Cat Who Saw Red (20 page)

Then Qwilleran sought out Jack Smith. “What do you think of Dan’s Living Glaze?”

“I hardly know what to say. He’s done the impossible,” said the critic, with an expression like cold marble. “How does he get that effect? How does he get that superb red? I saw some of his pots in a group show last winter, and I said they had the character and vitality of sewer crocks. He didn’t like that, but it was true. He’s come a long way since then. The merit, of course, is all in the glaze. In form they’re appallingly pedestrian. Those slab pots! Made with a rolling pin… If only they had put his glaze on her pots: I’m going to suggest that in my review.”

A young girl in owlish glasses was staring at Qwilleran, and he walked in her direction.

“Was it all right for me to come here, Mr. Qwilleran?” she asked shyly. “You told me to wait forty-eight hours.”

“Any word from William?” She shook her head sadly.

“Did you check the bank account?”

“It hasn’t been touched, except that the bank added twenty-six cents interest.”

“Then you’d better notify the police. And try not to worry. Here, let me get you something to eat or drink. “

“No, thanks. I don’t feel like it. I think I’ll go home.”

Qwilleran escorted her to the door and told her where to catch the River Road bus.

Returning, and wandering among the crowd, he was surprised to see the Penniman brothers. Tweedledurn and Tweedledee, as they were called by irreverent citizens, seldom attended anything below the status-level of a French Post-Impressionist show.

While the other guests accorded them the deference that their wealth and name warranted, the brothers stood quietly listening, neither smoking nor drinking, and wearing the baffled expression that was their normal look at art functions. They represented the money, not the brains, behind the Morning Rampage, Qwilleran had been told.

He edged into the circle surrounding them and deftly maneuvered them away from the fund-raisers, job-seekers, and apple-polishers by a method known only to veteran reporters. “How do you like the show?” he asked.

Basil Penniman, the one with a cast in his left eye, looked at his brother Bayley.

“Interesting,” said Bayley, at length.

“Have you ever seen a glaze like that?”

It was Bayley’s turn to toss the conversational ball to Basil, whom he regarded inquiringly.

“Very interesting,” said Basil.

“This is not for publication, is it?” asked Bayley, suddenly on guard.

“No, an isn’t my beat anymore,” said Qwilleran. “I just happen to live here. Wasn’t it your father who built the place?”

The brothers nodded cautiously.

“This old building must have some fascinating secrets to tell,” Qwilleran ventured. There was no reply, but he observed a faint stirring of reaction. “Before Mrs. Graham left town, she lent me some documents dealing with the early days of the pottery. I haven’t read them yet, but I imagine they might make good story material. Our readers enjoy anything of a historical nature, especially if there’s human interest involved.”

Basil looked at Bayley in alarm.

Bayley turned pink. “You can’t print anything without permission.”

“Mrs. Graham promised the papers to us,” said Basil.

“They’re family property,” his brother echoed.

“We can take legal action to get them.”

“Say, what’s in those papers?” Qwilleran asked in a bantering tone. “It must be pretty hot stuff! Maybe it’s a better story than I thought.”

“You print that,” said Bayley, his flush deepening to crimson, “and we’ll — we’ll —”

“Sue,” Basil contributed hesitantly.

“We’ll sue the Fluxion. That’s yellow journalism, that’s what it is!” Bayley was now quite purple.

Basil touched his brother’s arm. “Be careful. You know what the doctor told you.”

“Sorry if I alarmed you,” Qwilleran said. “It was all in jest.”

“Come,” said Basil to Bayley, and they left the hall quickly.

Qwilleran was preening his mustache with wicked satisfaction when he spotted a tall, gaunt, gray-haired woman moving across the hall with halting step. “Inga Berry!” he exclaimed. “I’m Jim Qwilleran.”

“Why, I was expecting a much younger man,” she said. “Your voice on the phone had so much enthusiasm and — innocence, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“Thank you, I think,” he replied. “May I get you some champagne?”

“Why not? We’ll take a quick look at the dirty old pots and then sit down somewhere and have a nice chat… Oh, my! Oh my!” She had caught sight of the Living Glaze. She walked as quickly as she could toward the radiant display, leaning on her furled umbrella. “This is — this is better than I expected!”

“Do you approve?”

“They make me feel like going home and smashing all my own work.” She drank her champagne rather fast. “One criticism: It’s a shame to waste this magnificent glaze on rolled clay.”

“That’s what our critic said.”

“He’s right — for once in his life. You can tell him I said so.” She stopped and started across the hall. “Is that Charlotte Roop? Haven’t seen her for forty years. Everybody ages but me.”

“How about another glass of champagne?”

Miss Berry looked around critically. “Is that all they’ve got?”

“I have some scotch and bourbon in Number Six, if you’d care to come up,” Qwilleran suggested.

“Hot dog!”

“I know you potters have to drink because of the dust.”

“You scalawag!” She poked him with the umbrella. “Where did you hear that? You know too much.”

She ascended the stairs slowly, favoring one knee, and when the door of Number Six was thrown open, she entered as if in a dream. “My, this brings back memories. Oh, the parties we used to give here! We were devils!… Hello, cats… Now where’s this secret window you told me about?”

Qwilleran uncovered the peephole, and Miss Berry squinted through it.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Penniman probably had this window cut for surveillance.”

“What would he be spying on?”

“It’s a long story.” She sat down, groaning a little. “Arthritis,” she explained. “Thank God it’s in my nether joints. If it happened to my hands, I’d cut my throat. A potter’s hands are his fortune. His finest tool is his thumb… Thank you. You’re a gentleman and a scholar.” She accepted a glass of bourbon. “My, this was a busy place in the old days. The pottery was humming. We had easel painters in the studios, and one weaver, and a metalsmith. Penniman had a favorite — a beautiful girl but a mediocre potter. Then along came a young sculptor, and he and the girl fell in love. He was as handsome as the dickens. They tried to keep their affair a secret, but Papa Penniman found out, and soon after that… well, they found the young man’s body in the river… I’m telling you this because you’re not like those other reporters. It’s all ancient history now. You must be a new boy in town.”

Qwilleran nodded. “Do you think his drowning was an accident, or suicide, or murder?”

Miss Berry hesitated. “The official verdict was suicide, but some of us — you won’t write anything about this, will you? — some of us had our suspicions. When the reporters started hounding us, we all played dumb. We knew which side our bread was buttered on!”

“You suspected… Popsie?”

Miss Berry looked startled. “Popsie! How did you —? Well, never mind. The poor girl jumped in the river soon after. She was pregnant.”

“You should have done something about it.”

The potter shrugged. “What could we do? Old Mr. Penniman was a wealthy man. His money did a lot of good for the city. And we had no proof… He’s dead now. Charlotte Roop — that woman I saw downstairs — was his secretary at the time of the drownings. She used to come to our parties, but she was a fifth wheel. We were a wild bunch. The kids today think they’ve invented free love, but they should have been around when we were young! My, it’s nice to be seventy-five and done with all that nonsense… Hello, cats,” she said again.

The cats were staring at her from their blue cushion — Koko as if he understood every word, and Yum Yum as if she had never seen a human before.

Qwilleran asked, “Why did Charlotte Roop hang around, if she didn’t fit in?” He was casually lighting his pipe.

“Well, the gossips said she had a crush on her boss, and she was jealous of his beautiful paramour.” Miss Berry lowered her voice. “We always thought it was Charlotte who tattled to Penniman about the affair that was going on behind his back.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Just putting two and two together. After the tragedy, Charlotte had a nervous collapse and quit her job. I lost track of her then. And if somebody didn’t tip him off, why would Penniman have cut that peephole in the wall?” She leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward the newsman. “It was just before the tragedy that Penniman commissioned Herb Stock to paint that Egyptian-style mural in the kiln room. Now I can guess why!” Miss Berry sipped her drink and mused about the past. “Penniman was very generous with commissions, but you didn’t dare cross him! You couldn’t print any of this in your paper, of course.”

“Not unless we wanted to start a newspaper war,” Qwilleran said. It always amazed him how carelessly people spoke their minds to the press, and how surprised and indignant they were when they found themselves quoted in print.

The telephone rang.

Qwilleran picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?… Yes, did Odd Bunsen tell you what we want?… You did? Quick work! What did you find?… Wine bottles! Anything else?… What of broken crockery?… All of it?. Wow!… Would you say the broken stuff was once a part of round or square pieces?… I see. You’ve been a great help. How much do I owe you?… Well, that’s kind of you. Hope it wasn’t too cold down there… Let me know if I can do anything for you.”

Qwilleran offered to take Miss Berry to dinner, but she said she had other plans. As he accompanied her to the door he asked casually, “By the way, what happens if you heat up a kiln too fast?”

“You lose a month’s work! The pots explode! It’s the most heartbreaking fireworks you ever heard — pop! pop! pop! — one after the other, and it’s too late to do anything about it.”

Qwilleran was glad Miss Berry had other plans. He wanted to dine alone, to think. First he telephoned Dan Graham’s loft and invited the potter in for a drink after dinner. To celebrate, he said. Then he went to Joe Pike’s Seafood Hut.

It was a frustrating situation. Qwilleran had all kinds of curious notions that a crime had been committed but no proof — except the forged endorsement on a altered check. Added to the baffling evidence now was the frogman’s report. According to his description of the “crockery” found in the river, Dan had dumped a load of broken pots. They were round pots! Joy’s work, not his own. And the bright blues and greens described by the diver were the Living Glaze. Even in the muddy water, the diver said, the fragments glowed.

As Qwilleran sipped the green turtle soup, he feared that the situation was hopeless. With the baked clams he began to take heart. Halfway through the red snapper he hit upon an idea, and the salad brought him to a decision. He would take the bold step — a confrontation with Dan — and hope to expose the potter’s hand. The manner of approach was the crucial factor. He was sure he could handle it.

Dan arrived at Number Six about nine o’clock, glowing with the day’s success. Patting his stomach, he said, “You missed a good supper downstairs. Pork chops and some kind of mashed potatoes. I don’t go for the fancy grub that Maus cooks, but the housekeeper can put on an honest-to-gosh feed when she wants to. I’m a meat-and-potatoes man myself. How about you?”

“I can eat anything,” Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he rattled ice cubes. “What do you like with your bourbon?”

“Just a little ginger ale.” Dan made himself at home in the big chair. “My first wife was a humdinger of a cook.”

“You were married before you met Joy?”

“Yep. It didn’t work out. But she sure could cook! That woman could make chicken taste like roast beef!”

Qwilleran served Dan his drink, poured ginger ale for himself, and made a cordial toast to the success of the potter’s exhibition. Then he looked around for the cats; he always noted their reaction to visitors, and often he was influenced by their attitudes. The cats had retired behind the books on the bookshelf. He could see three inches of tail curling around a volume of English history, but it was not a tail in repose. The tip lifted in regular rhythm, tapping the shelf lightly. It meant Koko was listening. Qwilleran knew the tail belonged to Koko; Yum Yum’s tail had a kink in the tip.

After Dan had quoted with relish all the compliments he had received at the champagne party, Qwilleran made a wry face and said, “I don’t know whether to believe you or not.”

“Whatcha say?”

“Sometimes I think you’re the world’s champion liar.” Qwilleran used his most genial tone. “I think you’re pulling my leg half the time.”

“What do you mean?” Dan clearly did not know whether to grin or scowl.

“Just for example, you told me you threw the switch when Joy’s hair caught in the wheel, and you saved her life. But you know and I know she never used the electric wheel. I think you just wanted to play the big hero. Come on, now. Confess!” Qwilleran’s eyes were gently mocking.

“No, you’ve got me all wrong! Cripes! The kick-wheel was on the blink that night, and she was rushing to finish some pots for the next firing, so she used the power wheel. There’s no law against that, is there?”

“And then you told Bunsen and me there were rats in the basement; we all know that Maus had the exterminator in last month. What is this guff you’re handing me?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Dan said, relaxing as he came to the conclusion that the newsman was ribbing him. “You fellows were off the track. You were trying too hard to squeeze a story out of that broken-down clay room. The real story was the Living Glaze. Am I right? No use wasting your time on stuff that isn’t interesting. I know how valuable your time is. I just wanted to get you into the kiln room, that’s all. Can’t guy use a little psychology, if you know what I mean?”

Qwilleran concentrated on lighting his pipe, as if it ere his primary concern. “All right” — puff, puff — “I’ll buy that” — puff, puff — “but how about that cock-and-bull story that Joy is in Miami for” — puff, puff — “rest and relaxation? She hates Florida.”