The Cat Who Saw Red Read online

  He raised his head and listened sharply. Silence. The scream, Qwilleran decided, had been part of the sound effects of his dream. He switched on the bed lamp to check the time, and that was when he noticed the cats. They had raised their heads and were I listening, too. Their ears were pointed forward. Both heads rotated slowly as they scanned the soundscape in every direction. The cats had heard something. It had not been a dream.

  Still, the man told himself, it could have been squealing tires on River Road, or the garage door creaking again. Noises magnified themselves on the threshold of waking. At that moment he heard the sound of creaking hinges quite plainly, followed by the rumble of a car engine, and he jumped out of bed in time to see a light-colored convertible pulling away from the building. He glanced at his watch. It was three twenty-five.

  The cats laid their ears back and their chins on their paws and settled down to sleep, and Qwilleran closed the ventilating panes in the big studio window as the first drops of rain splashed on the glass like enormous tears.

  5

  When Qwilleran awoke Wednesday morning, it took him a few seconds to get his bearings in the strange apartment. He looked at the sky through the studio window-a vast panorama of blue, broken only by a single soaring pigeon. He stared up at the beamed ceiling two stories overhead, noted the big plaid chair, remembered the white bearskin rug. Then the events of the previous day came rushing into his mind: his new home in a pottery. . . the nearness of Joy after all the years of separation. . . her marital trouble. . . the $750 loan. . . and the sound he had heard in the night. In daylight the recollection of it seemed considerably less alarming. He stretched and yawned, disturbing Yum Yum, who was huddled in his armpit, and then he heard a bell ring. Koko was standing on the desk with one paw on the typewriter.

  "Coming right up!" Qwilleran said, hoisting him- self out of bed. He put on his red plaid bathrobe and went to the tiny kitchen to open a can of food for the cats. "I know you ordered beef Wellington," he told Koko, "but you'll have to settle for red salmon. This is two dollars a can. Bon appetit!"

  The prospect of breakfast touched off a joyous scuffle. Yum Yum kicked Koko with her hind leg like a mule, and he gave her a push. They went into a clinch, pummeling each other until Koko played too rough. Then Yum Yum sprang back and started to circle, lashing her tail. Suddenly she pounced and grabbed him by the throat, but Koko got a hug-hold, and they rolled over and over, locked together. By secret signal both cats quit the fight at the same instant and licked each other's imaginary wounds.

  When Qwilleran dressed and went downstairs, he followed the aroma of bacon and coffee into the kitchen. At the big round table Robert Maus was solemnly breakfasting on croissants and marmalade and French chocolate, while Hixie waited for Mrs. Marron to make French toast.

  Qwilleran helped himself to orange juice. "Where's everybody this morning?"

  "Max never gets up for breakfast," Hixie reported promptly, as she spooned sour cream into her coffee. "William's gone to an early class. Rosemary always has wheat germ in her apartment. Charlotte came early and had 'a bit to eat' big enough to choke a horse, and now she's gone to the Red Cross to roll bandages, or whatever she does there on Wednesday mornings."

  "Miss Roop," Maus explained in his pedantic manner, "devotes a generous amount of time to . . . volunteer clerical work at the blood bank, for which she must be . . . admired."

  "Do you suppose she's atoning for something wicked in her past?" Hixie asked.

  The attorney turned to her in solemn disapproval. "You are, to all appearances, a nasty young lady. Furthermore I find the use of . . . sour cream in coffee an extremely. . . revolting habit."

  "Hurry up with the toast, Marron baby," said Hixie. "I'm starving."

  "Do the Grahams come down to breakfast?" Qwilleran asked.

  "They haven't shown up this morning." She was heaping gooseberry jam on a crusty French roll. "I wish I had a job like theirs, so I could be my own boss and set my own hours."

  "My dear young woman," Maus told her gravely, "you would be bankrupt within six months. You are entirely without. . . self-discipline." Then he turned to Qwilleran. "I trust you are sufficiently... comfortable in Number Six?"

  As he spoke, Qwilleran noticed for the first time a slight discoloration around the attorney's left eye. "Everything's fine," the newsman said, after a barely perceptible pause, "but I heard something strange in the night. Did anyone else hear an outcry about three-thirty this morning? It sounded like a woman's scream."

  There was no reply at the table. Hixie opened her eyes wide and shook her head. Maus calmly went on chewing with the kind of concentration he always gave to the process.

  It was characteristic of members of the legal profession never to show surprise, Qwilleran reminded himself. "Maybe it was the garage door that I heard," he suggested.

  Maus said, "Mrs. Marron, kindly ask William to . . . lubricate the garage doors when he returns."

  "By the way," said the newsman, pouring himself a cup of the excellent coffee, "I'd like to write a column on your cooking philosophy, Mr. Maus, if you're agreeable." He waited patiently for the attorney's response.

  After a while it came, accompanied by a gracious nod. "I cannot, at this time, see any. . . objection."

  "Perhaps you could have dinner with me tonight at the Toledo Tombs — as the guest of the Daily Fluxion."

  At the mention of the epicurean restaurant Maus brightened noticeably. "By all means! We shall have their. . . eels in green sauce. They also prepare a superb veal dish with tarragon and Japanese mushrooms. You must allow me to order."

  They set a time and place to meet, and Maus left for his office, carrying an attache case. Qwilleran had seen Mrs. Marron stock it with some small cartons, a thermos bottle, and a cold artichoke. Hixie left soon afterward, having finished a plate of bacon and French toast, swimming in melted butter and maple syrup and sprinkled with chopped pecans. Qwilleran remained alone, wondering about his landlord's black eye.

  When Mrs. Marron came to the table to remove the plates, she said, "You should eat something, Mr. Qwilleran — something to stick to the ribs."

  "There's too much sticking to my ribs already." The housekeeper lingered at the table, slowly piling dishes on a tray and slowly rearranging them. "Mr. Qwilleran," she said, "I heard something last night, and it wasn't the garage door."

  "What time did you hear it?"

  "It was after three o'clock. I know that much. My room is in the back, and I don't sleep very good lately, so I watched television in bed. I use the earphone, so I don't disturb anybody."

  "Exactly what did you hear?"

  "I thought it was tomcats scrapping down at the boat docks, but it could've been somebody screaming."

  "I hope everyone in the house is all right," Qwilleran said. "Why don't you check on Mrs. Whiting and the Grahams?"

  "Do you think I should?"

  "Under the circumstances, Mrs. Marron, I think it would be advisable."

  I'm beginning to sound like Robert Maus, he told himself as he sipped black coffee and waited for the housekeeper's return.

  "Mrs. Whiting is all right; she's doing her exercises," Mrs. Marron reported. "But I couldn't get ahold of the Grahams. The door to the pottery is locked. I knocked three, four times, but nobody answered. If they're upstairs in their apartment, they can't hear."

  "You don't have a key to the pottery?" He glanced at a key rack on the kitchen wall.

  The housekeeper shook her head. "Those are only the apartment keys, so I can clean. Shall I go around the backyard and up the fire escape?"

  "Let's try telephoning," Qwilleran suggested. "Do you know the Graham's number?"

  "What shall I say to them?"

  "I'll do the talking."

  Mrs. Marron dialed a number on the kitchen phone and handed the receiver to Qwilleran. A man's voice answered.

  "Mr. Graham? Good morning! This is Jim Qwilleran, your new neighbor. Is everything under control at your end of the buildin
g? We thought we smelled smoke. . . That's good. Just playing safe. By the way, you're missing a fine breakfast. Mrs. Marron is making French toast. . . Can't tempt you? Too bad. I really wanted to discuss the pottery operation. The Fluxion might run a feature story to tie in with your exhibition. . . You will? Good! I'll wait."

  "Smoke?" said Mrs. Marron when Qwilleran had handed back the receiver. "I didn't smell any smoke." A few minutes later Dan Graham walked into the kitchen, looking thinner and more forlorn than ever. He dropped gracelessly into a chair and said he would have coffee and a roll, that's all.

  Mrs. Marron said, "I can make some of those cornmeal johnnycakes you like."

  "Just a roll."

  "Or a stack of wheat cakes. It will only take a minute."

  The potter scowled at her, and she went back to the sink and started stacking plates in the dishwasher.

  Qwilleran resisted an impulse to ask the man about his wife. Instead he hinted at vast possibilities for free publicity, and Dan warmed up.

  "The newspapers ought to print some more articles like that," he said, "instead of tearing us down all the time. Hell, they don't pan the new model cars or those stupid clothes they design in Paris. Why do they pick on artists? The papers hire some nincompoop as a critic and let him air his private beefs and chase people away from the exhibitions. A lot of people would like contemporary art if the local newspapers didn't keep telling them how bad it is. They should be explaining to the public how to appreciate what they see."

  "I'll speak to our feature editor," Qwilleran said. "It's not my beat and I can't make the decision, but I'm sure Arch Riker will send a photographer over here. He'll probably want to take some shots of you and your wife, as well as your new pottery. A good human interest story might make a spread in the Sunday supplement. In color!"

  Dan hung his head and looked deep into his coffee cup. "There's the hitch," he said finally. "I know you fellows on the paper like cheesecake and all that kind of stuff, but you'll have to settle for a broken-down he-potter with freckles." He said it with a twisted smile.

  "Why? Doesn't Mrs. Graham like to be photographed? She's very attractive."

  Dan glanced toward the sink, where Mrs. Marron was peeling apples, and lowered his voice. "The old girl's cleared out."

  "She's what? She's left you?" Qwilleran had not expected anything to happen so soon, and yet he should have known that Joy would fly into action.

  "Yes, she's decamped — vamoosed — flown the coop, if you know what I mean. It's not the first time, either." Again there was the brave one-sided smile, and Qwilleran realized — partly with pity and partly with scorn — that the grimace was an unconscious imitation of Joy's appealing mannerism.

  "Once when we were in Florida," the potter went on, "she ran off. No explanation, no note, no nothing. She really left me standing on my ear that time, but she came back, and everything straightened out. Women don't know what they want. . . So I'll just sit tight like a bug in a rug and wait for her to have her fling and get over what's eating her. She'll be back, don't worry. Too bad she had to go right before the exhibition, that's all."

  Qwilleran, who was seldom at a loss for words, hardly knew what to say. It was obvious he knew more than the husband about Joy's intentions. "When did you first realize she'd gone?" he asked, trying to appear sympathetic but not personally involved.

  "Woke up this morning and couldn't find hide nor hair of the woman! Might as well tell you that we had a little argument last night, but I didn't think it was anything serious." Dan stroked his unshaven jaw thoughtfully and looked hurt and dejected.

  Qwilleran noticed that the potter's right thumb was missing up to the first joint, and for a moment his loyalties were divided. A hand injury would be the worst thing that could happen to a potter; was that the reason for his declining success? He could also sympathize with a husband deserted by an ambitious wife; he had gone through the same humiliating experience.

  "Did she take the car?" Qwilleran asked.

  "No, she left it here. I'd be in a fix if she'd run off with the old jalopy. It's not much, but it gets me there and back."

  "Then what did she use for transportation in the middle of the night?"

  Dan's mouth fell open. "The bus, I reckon. They run up and down Rover Road all night."

  Or, thought Qwilleran, did she drive away with the owner of the light-colored convertible at three in the morning? . . . Then the dismal possibility flashed into his mind. It could be that his $750 had financed Joy's elopement with another man.

  No! He refused to believe that! Still, his face felt hot and cold by turns, and he ran a hand over his forehead. Was he an accomplice or a victim, or both? He was a fool, he decided, either way. His first impulse was to stop payment on the check. As a newsman and a professional cynic he suspected he had been duped, but a better instinct told him to have faith in Joy — if he loved her, and he privately admitted it now: He had never really stopped loving Joy Wheatley.

  I know Joy, he told himself. No matter how desperate she was, she would never do that to me. Then he remembered the scream.

  "I don't want to alarm you, Dan," he said in a calm voice that belied his confusion, "but are you sure she left the premises voluntarily?"

  Dan, who had been staring gloomily into his coffee cup, looked up sharply. "How do you mean?"

  "I mean. . . I thought I heard a woman scream last night, and shortly after that, I heard a car drive away."

  The potter gave a short, bitter laugh. "Did you hear that ruckus? Crazy woman! Tell you what happened. When I came home last night, it was sort of late. I know these guys downtown — all artists, more or less — we play poker, drink a few beers. Well, it was sort of late, and Joy was sitting up waiting. Miffed, I guess. There she was — sitting at the wheel and throwing a pot and looking daggers at me when I came in. And you know what? She was working at the wheel with her hair hanging down a mile! I've warned her about that, but she's cocky and never pays any attention to what I say."

  Dan brooded over the situation, staring into his empty coffee cup until Qwilleran poured a refill and said, "Well, what happened?"

  "Oh, we had the usual scrap about this and that, and she started tossing her head around — the way she does when she gets on her high horse. And then — dammit if she didn't get her hair caught in the wheel, just as I was afraid. Could've scalped her! Could've broken her neck if I hadn't been there to throw the switch and stop the thing. Crazy woman!"

  "And you say she screamed?"

  "Woke up the whole house, probably. I tell you it gave me a holy scare, too. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to that old girl."

  Qwilleran wore a frown that passed for sympathy, although it stemmed from his own dilemma.

  "I'm not worried. She'll be back," Dan said. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up, stretching and patting his diaphragm. "Gotta get to work now. Gotta start setting up the exhibition. See if you can do anything for me at the paper, will you?" He reached in his hip pocket and found his wallet, from which he carefully withdrew a folded clipping. He handed it to Qwilleran with poorly concealed pride. "Here's what the top-drawer critic in L.A. said about my one-man show. This guy really knew his onions, I'm not kidding."

  It was a very old clipping, the newsprint yellow and disintegrating where it had been folded.

  After Dan had left, patting the rear pocket where he had stowed the wallet and the worn clipping, Qwilleran asked the housekeeper, "Who drives a light-colored convertible around here?"

  "Mr. Sorrel has a light car. Kind of — baby blue," she added with a catch in her voice.

  "Have you seen him this morning?"

  "No, he never gets up early. He works late every night."

  "I think I'll take a stroll around the grounds," Qwilleran told her. "I want to put my cat on a leash and give him a little exercise. And if you'll tell me where to find the oilcan, I'll fix that garage door."

  "You don't have to do that, Mr. Qwilleran. William
is supposed to — "

  "No trouble, Mrs. Marron. I'll oil the hinges, and William can cut the grass. It needs it."

  "If you walk down to the river," she said in a shaking voice, "be careful of the boardwalk. There might be some loose boards."

  Back in his apartment Qwilleran found the cats bedded down for their morning nap on the bunk, their legs and tails interwoven to make a single brown fur mat between them. He lifted the sleeping Koko, whose body had the limp weight of a sack of flour, and coaxed his yawning head through the collar of a blue leather harness. Then, using a piece of nylon cord as a leash, he led the reluctant cat out the door-still yawning, stretching and staggering.

  They circled the balcony before going downstairs. Qwilleran wanted to read the nameplates on the doors. Adjoining his own was Rosemary Whiting's apartment from which he could hear the sound of music — then that of Max Sorrel, where guttural snoring could be heard behind the closed door. On the opposite side of the balcony were the nameplates of Hixie Rice, Charlotte Roop, and Robert Maus. Why nameplates? Qwilleran started to wonder, but he dropped the question; there were too many other things on his mind.

  He led Koko down the stairs, across the slick brown tiles of the Great Hall, and out into the side yard of Maus Haus. For Koko, an apartment dweller all his life, grass was a rare treat. On the lawn, still wet from the night's rain, he tried to inspect each blade personally, rejecting one and snapping his jaws on the next, with a selectivity understood only by his species. After each moist step through the grass he shook his paws fastidiously.

  There was an open carport on the east side of the building, obviously a new addition. It sheltered a dark blue compact and an old dust-colored Renault. The latter did indeed have a hole in the floor, large enough for a size 12 shoe, the newsman estimated.