The Cat Who Saw Red Read online

  Qwilleran found a door knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang. Then he waited — with an air of resignation, his stomach growling its hunger — until the heavy door opened on creaking hinges.

  For the next half-hour very little made sense. Qwilleran was greeted by a slender young man with impudent eyes and ridiculous sideburns, long and curly. Although he wrote the white duck coat of a servant, he was carrying a half-empty champagne glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he was grinning like a cat in a tree. "Welcome to Maus Haus," he said. "You must be the guy from the newspaper."

  Qwilleran stepped into the dim cavern that was the foyer.

  "Mickey Maus is in the kitchen," said the official greeter. "I'm William." He lipped his cigarette in order to thrust his right hand forward.

  Qwilleran shook hands with the amiable houseboy or butler or whatever he was. "Just William?"

  "William Vitello."

  The newsman looked sharply at the young-old leprechaun face. "Vitello? I could swear you were Irish."

  "Irish mother, Italian father. My whole family is a goulash," William explained with an ear-to-ear smile. "Come on in. Everybody's in the Great Hall, getting crocked. I'll introduce you around."

  He led the way into, a vast hall so dark that scores of lamps and candles on torcheres and in sconces succeeded in lighting it only dimly, but Qwilleran could distinguish a balcony supported by Egyptian columns and a grand staircase guarded by sphinxes. The floor and walls were inlaid with ceramic tiles in chocolate brown, and voices bounced off the slick surfaces, resounding with eerie distortions.

  "Spooky place, if you don't mind my saying so," said Qwilleran.

  "You don't know the half of it," William informed him. "It's a real turkey."

  In the center of the hall, under the lofty ceiling, a long table was laid for dinner, but the guests were cocktailing under the balcony, where there was some degree of coziness.

  "Champagne or sherry?" William asked. "The sherry's a bomb, I ought to warn you."

  "You can skip the drink," Qwilleran said, reaching in his pocket for tobacco and pipe and hoping that a smoke would curb his hunger pangs.

  "It's just a small party tonight. Most of the people live here. Want to meet some of the girls?" William jerked his head in the direction of two brunettes.

  "Live here! What kind of establishment is Maus running?"

  The houseboy hooted with delight. "Didn't you know? This is a sort of weird boardinghouse. It used to be a real art center — studios on the balcony and a big pottery operation in the back — but that was before Mickey Maus took it over. I'm a charity case myself. I go to art school and get room and board in exchange for several kinds of menial and back breaking labor."

  "Of which grass-cutting is not one," Qwilleran said with a nod toward the shaggy front lawn.

  William launched another explosive laugh and slapped the newsman on the back. "Come and meet Hixie and Rosemary. But look out for Hixie; she's a husband-hunter."

  The two women were standing near a sideboard that held platters of hors d'oeuvres. Rosemary Whiting was a nice-looking woman of indefinite age and quiet manner. Hixie Rice was younger, plumper, louder, and had longer eyelashes.

  Hixie was intently busy with her champagne- sipping and canape-nibbling, all the while chattering in a high-pitched monotone: "I'm rabid for chocolate! Chocolate butter creams, chocolate chip cookies, brownies, black-bottom pie, devil's food cake — anything that's made with chocolate and three cups of sugar and a pound of butter." She stopped to pop a bacon-wrapped oyster into her mouth.

  There was quite a lot of Hixie, Qwilleran noted. Her figure ballooned out wherever her tightly fitted orange dress would permit, and her hair puffed like a chocolate souffle above her dimpled dumpling face.

  "Caviar?" Rosemary murmured to Qwilleran, offering a platter.

  He took a deep breath and resolutely declined. "It's rich in vitamin D," she added.

  "Thanks just the same." "Mickey Maus," William was saying, "is a nut about butter. The only time he ever lost his cool was when we were having a small brunch and we were down to our last three pounds of butter. He panicked."

  "Unfortunately, animal fats — " Rosemary began in a soft voice, but she was interrupted by Hixie.

  "I eat a lot because I'm frustrated, but I'd rather be fat and jolly than thin and crabby. You have to admit I that I have a delightful disposition." She batted her eyelashes and reached for another canape. "What's on the menu tonight, Willie?"

  "Not much. Just cream of watercress soup, jellied clams, stuffed breast of chicken baked in a crust, braised endive — I hate endive — broiled curried tomatoes, romaine salad, and crepes suzette."

  "That's what Charlotte would call just a little bite to eat," Hixie observed.

  William explained to Qwilleran: "Charlotte never has a meal. Only what she calls 'a bite to eat.' That's Charlotte over there — the old gal with the white hair and five pounds of jewelry."

  The woman with hair like spun sugar was talking vehemently to two paunchy gentlemen who were listening with more politeness than interest. Qwilleran recognized them as the Penniman brothers, members of the Civic Arts Commission. It was Penniman money that had founded the Morning Rampage, endowed the art school, and financed the city park system.

  Moving nervously about the Great Hall was another man who looked vaguely familiar. He had a handsome face and a brooding expression that changed to a dazzling smile whenever a woman glanced his way; the startling feature of his appearance was a shaven head.

  Qwilleran, studying the other guests, noted an attractive redhead in an olive green pantsuit. . . and a young man with a goatee. . . and then he saw her. For a moment he forgot to breathe.

  Impossible! he told himself. And yet there was no mistaking that tiny figure, that heavy chestnut hair, that provocative one-sided smile.

  At the same time, she turned in his direction and stared in disbelief. He felt a crawling sensation on his upper lip, and he touched his mustache. She started to move toward him across the tile floor-gliding the way she used to do, her dress fluttering the way it used to do, her melodic voice calling. "Jim Qwilleran! Is it really you?"

  "Joy! Joy Wheatley!"

  "I can't believe it!" She stared at him and then rushed into his arms.

  "Let me look at you, Joy. . . You haven't changed a bit."

  "Oh, yes, I have."

  "How many years has it been?"

  "Please don't add them up . . . I like your mustache, Jim, and you're huskier than you were."

  "You mean stouter. You're being kind. You were always kind."

  She pulled away. "Not always. I'm ashamed of what I did."

  He looked at her closely and felt his collar tighten. "I never thought I'd see you again, Joy. What are you doing here?"

  "We've been living here since January. My husband and I operate the pottery at the back of the building."

  "You're married?" Qwilleran's rising hopes leveled off.

  "My name is Graham now. What are you doing here, Jim?"

  "No one calls me Jim anymore. I've been Qwill for the last twenty years. "

  "Do you still spell Qwilleran with a w?"

  "Yes, and it still gives typesetters and proofreaders ulcers."

  "Married?"

  "Not at the moment."

  "Are you still writing?"

  "I've been with the Daily Fluxion for more than a year. Haven't you noticed my byline?"

  "I'm not much of a reader — don't you remember? And my husband is mad at the Fluxion art critic, so he buys the Morning Rampage."

  "Tell me, Joy — where have you been all these; years?"

  "Mostly in California — until Mr. Maus invited us I to come here and take charge of the pottery. . . There's so much to talk about! We'll have to — when can we — ?"

  "Joy," Qwilleran said, lowering his voice, "why did you run away?"

  She sighed and looked first to one side and then the other. "I'll explain later, but
first I think you should meet my husband. . . before the terrible-tempered Mr. G. throws a tantrum," she added with a wry smile.

  Qwilleran looked across the hall and saw a tall, angular man watching them. Dan Graham had faded carrot hair, a prominent Adam's apple, and freckled skin stretched taut across prominent bones in his face and hands. His worn corduroy jacket, unpressed shirt, and barefoot sandals evidently were intended to express the free artistic spirit, Qwilleran thought, but instead they made the man look seedy and forlorn. But terrible-tempered? . . . No.

  Graham's nod of acknowledgment was curt when Joy introduced Qwilleran as "an old flame." There was something pointed about the way she said it- not with mischief but with spite — and Qwilleran thought, All is not well between these two. And he felt guilty about-feeling glad.

  He said to Dan Graham, "I knew your wife in Chicago when we were kids. I was the boy next door. I'm with the Daily Fluxion now."

  Graham mumbled something. He spoke rapidly and swallowed his words.

  "Beg your pardon?" Qwilleran said.

  "Gettingreadyforanexhibition. Maybeyoucangetmesomepublicity."

  Joy said, "It's going to be a husband-and-wife show. We work in quite different styles. I hope you'll attend the opening, Jim."

  "Don'tthinkmuchofyourartcritic," her husband mumbled. Hisreviewsaren'tworthahillofbeans."

  "Nobody loves an art critic," Qwilleran said. "That's one newspaper job I wouldn't want. Otherwise, how do you like it here in the Midwest, Mr. Graham?"

  "Wouldn't give you two cents for this town," said the potter. Qwilleran's ear was becoming attuned to his rapid delivery and his liberal use of outdated expressions and cliches. "Expect to work in New York eventually — maybe Europe."

  "Well, I like this part of the country very much," Joy said defiantly. "I'd like to stay here." She had always liked everything very much. Qwilleran remembered her boundless enthusiasm.

  Graham glanced testily at the dinner table. "Jeepers creepers! When do we get some chow? I could eat a horse." He waved an empty champagne glass. "This stuff gives you an appetite and no buzz."

  "Do you realize," Qwilleran asked, "that I haven't met our host?"

  Joy seized his hand. "You haven't? I'll take you to the kitchen. Robert Maus is a real lamb pie."

  She led him through a low-ceilinged corridor at the rear of the Great Hall, gripping his fingers and staying closer to him than was necessary. They walked in self-conscious silence.

  The kitchen was a large picturesque room, fragrant with herbs and cooking wine. With its ceramic tile floor, beamed ceiling, and walk-in fireplace, it reminded Qwilleran of kitchens he had seen in Normandy. Copper pots and clusters of dried dill and rosemary hung from an overhead rack, while knives and cleavers were lined up in an oak knife block. On open shelves stood omelet pans, souffle dishes, copper bowls, a fish poacher, salad baskets, and a few culinary objects that remained a mystery to the uninitiated.

  Dominating the scene was a towering, well-built man of middle age, immaculate in white shirt, conservative tie, and gold cuff links. He had the dignity of a Supreme Court justice, plus a slight stoop that gave the effect of a gracious bow. A towel was tied around his waist, and he was kneading dough.

  When Joy Graham made the introduction, Robert Maus exhibited his floured hands in apology and said in measured tones, after some consideration, "How. . . do you do."

  He was assisted by a woman in a white uniform, to whom he gave brief orders in a deferential tone: "Refrigerate, if you please. . . Prepare the sauteuse, if you will. . . And now the chicken, Mrs. Marron. Thank you."

  He started boning chicken breasts with deft slashes of a murderous knife.

  Qwilleran said, "You handle that weapon with a vengeance."

  Maus breathed heavily before replying. "I find it most. . . satisfying." He whipped the knife through the flesh, then gave the quivering beast a whack with the flat of the blade. "Shallots, if you please, Mrs. Marron."

  "This is an extraordinary building," Qwilleran remarked. "I've never seen anything like it."

  The attorney considered the comment at length before rendering his verdict. "It would not be unreasonable to describe it . . . as an architectural horror," he said. "With all due respect to the patron of the arts who built it, one must concede. . . that his enthusiasm and resources outweighed his. . . aesthetic awareness."

  "But the apartments upstairs are adorable," Joy said. "May I take Jim to the balcony, Mr. Maus?"

  He nodded graciously. "If it is your pleasure. I am inclined to believe. . . that the door to Number Six. . . is unlocked."

  Qwilleran had never seen anything to equal Number Six. The studio apartment they entered was a full two stories high, and half the outer wall was window, composed of many small panes. The orange glow from a spring sunset was flooding the room with color, and three small leaded-glass windows above the desk were making their own rainbows.

  Qwilleran blew into his mustache. "I like this furniture!" It was massive, almost medieval in appearance — heavily carved and reinforced with wrought iron.

  "It belongs to Ham Hamilton," Joy told him. "Sexy, isn't it? He'll be sending for it as soon as he knows where he's going to be situated."

  "You mean he's moved out?"

  "He was transferred to Florida. He's a food buyer for a grocery chain."

  Qwilleran eyed the apartment avidly-particularly the big loungy chair in bold black-and-white plaid, the row of built-in bookcases, and — wonder of wonder — a white bearskin rug. "Is this place for rent?" he asked.

  The question made Joy's eyes dance. "Oh, Jim! Are you interested? Would you like to live here?"

  "It would depend on the rent — and a couple of other things." He was thinking about Koko and Yum Yum.

  "Let's ask Mr. Maus right away."

  That was the Joy he remembered — all instant decision and breathless action.

  "No, let's wait until after dinner. Let me think about it."

  "Oh, Jim," she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I've thought about you so much — throughout the years."

  He felt her heart beating, and he whispered, "Why did you disappear? Why did you leave me like that? Why didn't you ever write and explain?"

  She drew away. "It's a long story. We'd better go down to dinner now." And she gave him the half-smile that never failed to make his heart somersault.

  The table was laid with heavy ceramic plates and pewter serving pieces on the bare oak boards, and it was lighted by candles in massive wrought-iron candelabra. Qwilleran found his place card between Hixie Rice and the white-haired woman, who introduced herself as Charlotte Roop. Joy sat at the far end of the table between Basil and Bayley Penniman, and the only way she could communicate with Qwilleran was with her eyes.

  Opposite him sat the bald brute with the facile smile. The man half rose and bowed across the table with his right hand over his heart. "I'm Max Sorrel."

  "Jim Qwilleran of the Daily Fluxion. Haven't I met you somewhere?"

  "I have a restaurant. The Golden Lamb Chop."

  "Yes, I had dinner there once."

  "Did you order our rack of lamb? That's our specialty. We lose money on every one we serve." As the restaurateur spoke, he was industriously polishing his silverware with his napkin.

  Spoons were raised. Qwilleran tasted the watercress soup and found it delicately delicious, yet he had no overwhelming desire to finish it. A sense of elation had banished his appetite. His thoughts, and his eyes, kept turning to Joy. Now he knew why he had always been attracted to women with translucent skin and long hair. Tonight Joy's luxuriant brown hair was braided and coiled around her head like a crown. Her dress had the same filmy quality he used to tease her about when she bought curtain remnants and made them into romantic, impractical clothes. What a crazy kid she had been!

  William removed the soup bowls from the right, served the clams from the left, and poured a white wine, while whistling a tune off-key. When he had finished serving, he joined the guests a
t the table, white coat and all, and monopolized the conversation in his immediate vicinity.

  "Unorthodox arrangement," Qwilleran mentioned to Hixie.

  "Robert is very permissive," she said. "He seems stuffy, but he's a doll, really. May I have some more butter, please?"

  "How do you happen to be living here?"

  "I'm a copywriter at an agency that handles food accounts. You have to have some special interest in food or Robert won't rent to you. Miss Roop manages a restaurant."

  "Yes, I manage one of the Heavenly Hash Houses," said the woman on Qwilleran's left, twisting her several bracelets. She was a small, sprightly woman, probably nearing retirement age, and she wore an abundance of nondescript costume jewelry. "I went to work for Mr. Hashman almost forty years ago. Before that I was secretary to the late Mr. Penniman, so I know something about the newspaper business. I admire newspaper people! They're so clever with words. . . Maybe you can help me." She drew a a crossword puzzle from the outer pocket of her enormous handbag. "Do you know a five letter word for love that begins with a?"

  "It's a Greek word, pronounced a-g-a-pe."

  "Oh, my!" she said. "You are brilliant!" Delightedly she penciled the word in the vertical squares.

  The chicken was served, and again Qwilleran found it easy to abstain. He toyed with his food and listened to the voices around him.

  "Do you realize truffles are selling for seventy-five dollars a pound?" Sorrel remarked.

  The redhead was saying, "Mountclemens was a fraud, you know. His celebrated lobster bisque was a quickie made with canned ingredients."

  "I'm having so much fun in the attic of this building. I've found some old letters and notebooks stuffed away in a dusty jardiniere," Joy told Basil Penniman.

  Rosemary Whiting said, "You can put a sprinkle of wheat germ in almost anything, and it's so good for you."

  "Everyone knows shrimp cocktail is declasse!" Hixie announced.

  The redhead went on talking: "I know of one cassoulet that cooked for thirty years."

  And Joy added, "You'd be surprised what I've found in the attic. It would upset quite a few people."