The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Read online

  trip to Lost Lake Hills.

  To reach the fashionable exurb fifteen miles beyond the city limits, Qwilleran drove through complacent suburbs and past winter-brown farms patched with snow. He had plenty of time to think about this interview with Cal Halapay, and he wondered if the Qwilleran Method would still work. In the old days he had been famous for a brotherly approach that put interviewees at ease. It was composed of two parts sympathy, two parts professional curiosity, and one part low blood pressure, and it had won confidences from old ladies, juvenile delinquents, pretty girls, college presidents, and crooks.

  Nevertheless, he felt qualms about the Halapay assignment. It had been a long time since he had done an interview, and artists were not his specialty. He suspected they spoke a secret language. On the other hand, Halapay was an advertising executive, and he might hand over a mimeographed release prepared by his public relations office. Qwilleran's moustache shuddered.

  It had always been the newsman's habit to compose the opening paragraph of his story in advance. It never worked, but he did it as a limbering up exercise. Now — on the road to Lost Lake Hills — he made a few starts at the Halapay story.

  He thought he might say, "When Cal Halapay leaves his plush executive suite at the end of the day, he forgets the cutthroat competition of the advertising rat race and finds relaxation in — " No, that was trite.

  He tried again. "A multimillionaire advertising man with a beautiful wife (34-22-32) and two swimming pools (one filled with champagne, according to legend) admits he lives a double life. In painting poignant portraits of children, he escapes — " No, that was sensationalism.

  Qwilleran recalled his brief employment with a news, magazine and made another attempt in the crunchy style favored by that publication. "With an ascot folded in the throatline of his custom, made Italian silk sports shirt, the handsome, graying, six-foot-two czar of an advertising empire spends his spare time —»

  Qwilleran guessed that a man of Halapay's accomplishments must be that tall, that gray, and that impressive. He would probably have a winter tan as well.

  "With a blue foulard ascot accentuating his Caribbean tan —»

  Lost Lake Road ended abruptly at a massive iron gate set in a fieldstone wall that looked impregnable and expensive. Qwilleran braked the car and glanced around for signs of a caretaker.

  Almost immediately a recorded voice coming from the gatepost said pleasantly, "Please face the pylon at your left and announce your name clearly."

  He rolled down the car window and said, "Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion."

  "Thank you," murmured the gatepost. The gate swung open, and the newsman drove into the estate, following a road that meandered through a tall stand of pines. It ended in a severely landscaped winter garden — all pebbles, boulders, and evergreens, with arched bridges crossing small frozen ponds. In this setting, bleak but picturesque, stood a rambling house. It was contemporary in style with gently curving rooflines and opaque glass walls that looked like rice paper. Qwilleran revised his opening line about the Italian sports shirt. Halapay probably knocked around his million- dollar pagoda in a silk kimono.

  At the entrance door, which appeared to be carved out of ivory, Qwilleran found something that resembled a doorbell and reached toward it, but before his finger touched the button, the surrounding panel glowed with a blue- green light and chimes could be heard indoors. These were followed by the bark of a dog, or two or three. There was a sharp command, a moment of silent obedience, and a briskly opened door.

  "Good morning. I'm Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion," the newsman said to a curly-haired, pink-faced youth in sweat shirt and dungarees, and before he could add, "Is your father home?" the young man said amiably, "Come in, sir. Here's your passport." He handed over a fuzzy snapshot of a heavily moustached face peering anxiously from the window of a car.

  "That's me!" said Qwilleran in astonishment.

  "Taken at the gate before you drove in," the young man said with obvious delight. "It's spooky, isn't it? Here, let me take your topcoat. I hope you don't mind the dogs. They're sort of friendly. They love visitors. This one is the mother. She's four years old. The pups are from her last litter. Do you like blue terriers?"

  Qwilleran said, "I —»

  "Everyone wants Yorkshires these days, but I like the Kerry blues. They've got beautiful coats, haven't they? Did you have any trouble finding the place? We have a cat, too, but she's pregnant, and she sleeps all the time. I think it's going to snow. I hope so. The skiing has been lousy this year —»

  Qwilleran, who prided himself on conducting interviews without making notes, was taking mental inventory of the house: white marble foyer with fish pool and tropical tree probably fourteen feet high. Skylight two stories overhead. Sunken living room carpeted with something like white raccoon. Fireplace in a shiny black wall. Probably onyx. He noticed also that the boy had a hole in his sleeve and was padding around in sweat socks. The flow of chatter had not ceased.

  "Would you like to sit in the living room, Mr. Qwilleran? Or do you want to go right to the studio? It's more comfortable in the studio, if you don't mind the smell. Some people are allergic to turpentine. Would you like a Coke or something? Allergies are funny things. I'm allergic to crustaceans. That bums me up, because I'm crazy about lobster —»

  Qwilleran was waiting for a chance to say, "Is your father home?" when the young man said, "My secretary tells me you want to do a story on my paintings. Let's go into my studio. Do you want to ask questions, or shall I just talk?"

  Qwilleran gulped and said, "Frankly, I was expecting you to be much older —»

  "I'm a boy wonder," said Halapay without smiling. "I made my first million before I was twenty one. I'm twenty nine now. I seem to have a genius for making money. Do you believe in genius? It's spooky, really. Here's a picture of me when I was married. My wife looks Oriental, doesn't she? She's out taking an art lesson this morning, but you'll meet her after lunch. We designed the house to go with her looks. Would you like some coffee? I'll stir up the housekeeper if you want coffee. Let's face it, I look boyish and I always will. There's a bar in the studio if you'd rather have a drink."

  The studio had a painty aroma, a good deal of clutter, and one vast wall of glass overlooking a white, frozen lake. Halapay flicked a switch, and a filmy shade unfolded from the ceiling to screen out the glare. He touched another control, and doors glided open to reveal a bigger liquor supply than the Press Club had on its backbar.

  Qwilleran said he preferred coffee, so Halapay pressed a button and gave the order to a brass grille mounted on the wall. He also handed Qwilleran an odd- shaped bottle from the bar. "This is a liqueur I brought back from South America," he said. "You can't buy it here. Take it home with you. How do you like the view from this window? Sensational, isn't it? That's a man-made lake. The landscaping alone cost me half a million. Do you want a doughnut with your coffee? These are my paintings on the wall. Do you like them?"

  The studio walls were covered with framed canvases — portraits of small boys and girls with curly hair and cheeks like red apples. Everywhere Qwilleran looked there were red apples. "Pick out a painting," said Halapay, "and take it home with you — compliments of the artist. The large ones sell for five hundred dollars. Take a big one. Do you have any kids? We have two girls. That's their picture on the stereo cabinet. Cindy is eight and Susan is six."

  Qwilleran studied the photograph of Halapay's daughters. Like their mother they had almond eyes and classically straight hair, and he said, "How come you paint nothing but children with curly hair and rosy cheeks?"

  "You should go to the Valentine Ball on Saturday night. We're having a great jazz combo. Do you know about the ball? It's the annual Valentine party at the art club. We're all going in costume representing famous lovers. Would you like to go? You don't have to dress up, if masquerading doesn't appeal to you. It's twenty dollars a couple. Here, let me give you a pair of tickets."

  "Getting back to your
paintings," said Qwilleran, "I'm curious to know why you specialize in kids. Why not landscapes?"

  "I think you should write up the ball in your column," Halapay said. "It's the biggest event of the year at the club. I'm chairman, and my wife's very photogenic. Do you like art? Everyone in the art field will be there."

  "Including George Bonifield Mountclemens III, I suppose," said Qwilleran, in a tone intended to be jocular.

  Without any change in his expressionless delivery, Halapay said, "That fraud! If that fraud showed his face in the outer lobby of the club, they'd throw him out. I hope he isn't a close friend of yours. I have no use for that character. He doesn't know anything about art, but he poses as an authority, and your paper lets him crucify established artists. They're letting him corrupt the entire art atmosphere of the city. They should get smart and unload him."

  "I'm new on this beat," said Qwilleran as Halapay stopped for breath, "and I'm no expert —»

  "Just to prove what a fraud your critic is — he builds up Zoe Lambreth as a great artist. Did you ever see her stuff? It's a hoax. You go and see her paintings at the Lambreth Gallery, and you'll see what I mean. No reputable gallery would accept her work, so she had to marry an art dealer. There are tricks in all trades. As for her husband, he's nothing but a bookkeeper who got into the art racket, and I do mean racket. Here comes Tom with the coffee."

  A houseboy dressed in soiled chinos and a half, buttoned shirt appeared with a tray, which he banged down on a table with a lack of grace. He gave Qwilleran an unfriendly stare.

  Halapay said, "I wonder if we ought to have a sandwich with this, It's almost lunchtime. What do you want to know about my work. Go ahead and ask some questions. Don't you want to make notes?"

  "I'd like to know," said Qwilleran, "why you specialize in painting children."

  The artist lapsed into a thoughtful silence, his first since Qwilleran's arrival. Then he said, "Zoe Lambreth seems to have this big connection with Mountclemens. It would be interesting to know how she manages it. I could make a few guesses — not for publication. Why don't you dig into the situation? You might come up with a juicy expos‚ and get Mountclemens fired. Then you could be art critic."

  "I don't want — " Qwilleran began.

  "If your paper doesn't clean up that

  mess — and clean it up soon — they're going to start feeling it where it hurts. I wouldn't mind a hot dog with this coffee. Do you want a hot dog?"

  At five, thirty that afternoon Qwilleran fled to the warm varnished sanctuary of the Press Club, where he had agreed to meet Arch Riker. Arch wanted a quick drink on the way home. Qwilleran wanted an explanation.

  He told Bruno curtly, "Tomato juice on the rocks. No lime, no Worcestershire, no Tabasco." To Arch he said, "Thanks, pal. Thanks for the welcome celebration."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Was that an initiation gag?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'm talking about that assignment to interview Cal Halapay. Was that a practical joke? You couldn't have been serious. The guy's a nut."

  Arch said, "Well, you know how artists are. Individualists. What happened?"

  "Nothing happened. Nothing I could possibly use in a story — and it took six hours to find it out. Halapay lives in

  this rambling house about the size of a junior high school, only it's sort of Japanese. And it's wired to do all kinds of tricks. The inside is wild. There's one wall made of glass rods hanging like icicles. They move when you walk past and sound like a xylophone that needs tuning."

  "Well, why not? He's got to spend his dough somehow."

  "I know, but wait till I finish. There's all this expensive stage setting, and then out comes Cal Halapay padding around in stocking feet and wearing a sweat shirt with a big hole in the elbow. And he looks about fifteen years old."

  "Yes, I've heard he's youthful, looking — for a millionaire," Arch said.

  "That's another thing. He keeps boasting about his money and trying to force presents on you. I had to fight off cigars, liquor, a $500 painting, a frozen turkey from his ranch in Oregon, and a Kerry blue puppy. After lunch his wife showed up, and I was afraid his generosity would exceed the bounds of propriety. Incidentally, Mrs. Halapay is quite a dish."

  "You're making me envious. What did you have for lunch? Ostrich tongues?"

  "Hot dogs. Served by a houseboy with the charm of a gorilla."

  "You got a free lunch. What are you griping about?"

  "Halapay. He won't answer questions."

  "He refuses?" Arch asked in surprise.

  "He ignores them. You can't pin him down. He wanders from progressive jazz to primitive masks he collected in Peru to pregnant cats. I had more luck

  communicating with the gatepost than with that boy wonder."

  "Did you get anything at all?"

  "I saw his paintings, of course, and I found out about a blast the art club is giving on Saturday night. I think I might go."

  "What did you think of his paintings?"

  "They're slightly monotonous. All those red-apple cheeks! But I made a discovery. In all those pictures of kids, Cal Halapay is painting himself. I think he's enchanted with his own looks. Curly hair. Pink complexion."

  Arch said, "I agree this isn't going to make the kind of story the boss wants. It sounds like The Arabian Nights."

  "Do we have to run a story?"

  "You saw the color of the memo. Pink!"

  Qwilleran massaged his moustache.

  After a while he said, "The only time I got a direct answer to a question was when I mentioned George Bonifield Mountclemens."

  Arch put down his drink. "What did Halapay say?"

  "He exploded — in a controlled sort of way. Basically, he says Mountclemens isn't qualified to judge art."

  "That figures. Halapay had a one-man show about a year ago, and our critic roasted him alive. The readers loved it. It cheered their black hearts to know that a successful moneyman could be a failure at something. But it was a bitter blow to Halapay. He discovered his money could buy anything but a good art review."

  "I weep for him. What about the other newspaper? Did they criticize his work, too?"

  "They don't have a critic. Just a nice old lady reporter who covers the art openings and gushes about everything. They play it safe."

  Qwilleran said, "So Halapay's a bad sport!"

  "Yes, and you don't know how bad," said Arch, pulling his barstool closer to Qwilleran's. "Ever since that episode, he's been trying to bankrupt the Flux. He's withdrawn a lot of advertising linage and switched it over to the other paper. That hurts! Especially since he controls most of the food and fashion advertising in town. He's even trying to turn other admen against the Flux. It's serious."

  Qwilleran grimaced in disbelief. "And I'm supposed to write a story buttering up that skunk, so the advertising department can get the linage back again?"

  "Frankly, it would help. It would take the heat off."

  "I don't like it."

  "Don't go fastidious on me," Arch pleaded. "Just write a folksy piece about an interesting guy who wears old clothes around the house, takes his shoes off, keeps cats and dogs, eats weiners for lunch. You know how to do it."

  "I don't like it."

  "I'm not asking you to lie. Just be selective, that's all. Skip the part about the glass icicles and the half- million, dollar lake and the visits in South America, and bear down on the turkey farm and his lovely wife and the adorable kiddies."

  Qwilleran brooded over it. "I suppose that's called practical newspapering."

  "It helps pay the bills."

  "I don't like it," said Qwilleran, "but if you're in that bad of a bind, I'll see what I can do." He raised his tomato juice glass. "Halapay or hell,to pay!"

  "Don't be cute. I've had a hard day."

  "I'd like to read some of Mountclemens' reviews. Have you got them around?"

  "On file in the library," Arch said.

  "I want to see w
hat he wrote about an artist named Zoe Lambreth. Halapay hinted at a shady connection between Mrs. Lambreth and Mountclemens. Know anything about that?"

  "I just process his copy. I don't peek under his window shades," said Arch, and he gave Qwilleran a good-night slap on the back.

  3

  Qwilleran, wearing the newer and darker of his two suits, went alone to the Valentine Ball at the art club, which — he discovered — was called the Turp and Chisel. The club had originated forty years before in the back room of a blind pig. Now it occupied the top floor of the best hotel; its membership was large and fashionable; and the impecunious Bohemians who had founded the fraternity had become old, staid, and full of dollars.

  Upon his arrival at the ball, Qwilleran was able to wander unrecognized about the premises of the Turp and Chisel. He found a sumptuous lounge, a dining room, and a very busy bar. The games room, paneled with old barn, wood, offered everything from darts to dominoes. In the ballroom, tables were draped with red and white cloths, and an orchestra played innocuous tunes.

  He asked for the Halapay table and was greeted by Sandra Halapay wearing a white kimono of stiff embroidered silk. Exaggerated makeup made her almond eyes even more exotic.

  "I was afraid you wouldn't come," she said, holding his hand long after the handshake had ended and delighting him with a rippling laugh.

  "The invitation was irresistible, Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran. Then he surprised himself by bending over her hand and brushing it with his moustache.

  "Please call me Sandy," she said. "Did you come alone? To a Lovers' Ball?"

  "Yes. I represent Narcissus."

  Sandy trilled with merriment. "You newspaper people are so clever!"

  She was lyrically tall and lovely, Qwilleran decided, and tonight she was charmingly relaxed as wives often are when their husbands are absent.