The Cat Who Saw Red (4 page)

Mrs. Marron, the housekeeper, admitted Qwilleran and the soup carton to Maus Haus. She was a sad-faced woman with dull eyes and a sallow complexion. With weary step she led the way across the Great Hall, now flooded with daylight from a skylight three stories overhead.

“I gave Number Six a good cleaning,” she said. “William washed the walls last week. He’ll bring your things up when he comes home from school.”

The afternoon sun was streaming through the huge studio window as if to prove the spotlessness of the premises. The floor of brown ceramic tile gleamed with an iridescent patina; the dark oak furniture was polished; the windowpanes sparkled. Mrs. Marron lowered the Roman shade — a contraption of pleated canvas favored by artists in earlier days — and said, “Mr. Maus didn’t tell me what meals you’d be taking. Everybody works different hours. They come and they go. They eat or they don’t eat.”

“I’ll have breakfast and notify you from day to day about the other meals,” Qwilleran said. “Count me in for dinner tonight… How about this telephone? Is it connected?”

“I’ll tell the phone company to start service.” She suddenly jumped back. “Oh! What’s in that box?”

The soup carton, which Qwilleran had placed on the desk, had gone into convulsions, quaking and rocking and emitting unearthly sounds.

“I have two Siamese cats,” the newsman explained, “and I want to be sure they don’t get out of the apartment, Mrs. Marron.”

“Are they expensive?”

“They’re extremely important to me, and I don’t want anything to happen to them. Please be careful when you come in to clean.”

When the housekeeper left, Qwilleran closed the door, first testing the lock and the latch. He also investigated the catches on the three small casement windows over the desk. He checked the bathroom window, heat registers, air vents, and anything else that might serve as an escape hatch for a determined cat. Only then did he open the soup carton.

The cats emerged cautiously, swinging their heads from side to side. Then with one accord they crept toward the white bear rug, stalking it with tails dipped and bellies close to the floor. When the beast made no move to attack or retreat, Koko bravely put his head inside the gaping jaws. He sniffed the teeth and stared into the glass eyes. Yum Yum stepped daintily on the pelt, and soon she was rolling over and over on the white fur in apparent ecstasy.

Qwilleran’s practiced eye perused the apartment for trouble spots and found it catproof. His inquisitive roommates would not be able to burrow into the box spring; the bed was a captain’s bunk, built in between two large wardrobes. There were no plants for Yum Yum to chew. The lamp on the desk was weighty enough to remain upright during a cat chase.

For entertainment there were pigeons on the ledge outside the windows, and an oak dining table in a sunny spot would hold the cats’ blue cushion.

“I think this place will do,” Qwilleran said to the cats. “Don’t you?”

The answer came from the bathroom, where Koko was crowing in exultation, enjoying the extra resonance that tile walls gave to his normally loud and penetrating voice.

The man felt exhilarated, too. In fact, his elation had acted as a substitute for calories at lunchtime. Since meeting Joy the night before, his hunger pangs had vanished, and already he felt thinner. He wondered whether Joy was in the pottery — and whether it would be discreet to go looking for her — and whether he would see her at the dinner table.

Then he remembered the can of boned chicken in his topcoat pocket. He found a can opener in the tiny kitchenette and was arranging morsels of chicken on a handmade stoneware plate when he heard a knock at the door. It was a playful knock. Was it Joy? Hastily he placed the dish on the bathroom floor, summoned the cats, and closed the door on them. Before answering the knock, he took time to glance in the bathroom mirror, straighten his tie, and run a hand over his hair. With his face pleasantly composed, he flung open the door.

“Hi!” said William, who stood there grinning and carrying a suitcase and a carton of books.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Qwilleran, his face relaxing into its usual sober lines. “Thanks. Just drop them anywhere.”

“You’ve got the best setup in the whole building,” the houseboy said, walking around the room with a proprietary swagger. “How much rent is Mickey Maus charging you?”

“There are some more boxes in the wagon,” Qwilleran told him. “And a scale, and a big wrought-iron coat of arms. Do you mind bringing them up?” He started unpacking books, stacking them in the row of built-in bookcases at one end of the room.

William walked to the window. “You’ve got a good view. You’ll be able to watch all the wild parties down at the marina… Do you play bridge?”

“I’m no asset to the game,” Qwilleran mumbled.

“Hey, do you really read all this heavy stuff?” The houseboy had picked up a volume of Toynbee that Qwilleran had bought for a dime at a flea market. “All I ever read is whodunits… Jeez! What’s that?”

An earsplitting shriek came from the bathroom.

“One of the cats. Their litter pan is in the car, too, and a sack of gravel. Better bring those up first.”

“Mind if I take a look at them?” William moved toward the bathroom.

“Let’s wait till everything’s moved in,” Qwilleran said with a touch of impatience. “They might dart out into the hall. They’re edgy in a strange place.”

“It must be great — working for a newspaper. Do you cover murder trials?”

“Not anymore. That’s not my beat.”

“What do you do, then?”

Qwilleran was half irritated, half amused. The houseboy’s curiosity and persistence reminded him of his own early days as a copyboy. “Look, I’ll tell you the story of my life tomorrow,” he said. “First let’s get my things moved in. Then I’d like to visit the pottery.”

“They don’t like visitors,” William said. “Not when they’re working. Of course, if you don’t mind getting thrown out on your ear…”

Qwilleran did not see Joy until dinnertime. The meal was served at a big round table in a corner of the kitchen, because there were only six sitting down to dinner. Robert Maus was absent, and Miss Roop and Max Sorrel were on duty at their restaurants.

The room was heady with aromas: roast beef, cheese, logs burning in the fireplace, and Joy’s spicy perfume. She looked more appealing than ever, having rouged her cheeks and darkened her eyelids.

Qwilleran merely sampled the corn chowder, ate half of his portion of roast beef and broccoli parmigiana, declined a Parker House roll, and ignored a glob of mush flecked with green.

“Everything’s good,” he assured Mrs. Marron, who had prepared the meal, “but I’m trying to lose weight.”

Rosemary, the quiet one, glanced at the untouched glob on Qwilleran’s salad plate. “You should eat the bulgur. It’s highly nutritious.”

“Do you cook, Mr. Qwilleran?” Hixie asked.

“Only a few gourmet dishes for my cats.”

The conversation at the table was lagging; the Grahams were moody, and William was eating as if he might never have another meal. Qwilleran tried to entertain the group with tales about Koko and Yum Yum. “They can smell through the refrigerator door,” he said. “If there’s lobster in there, they won’t eat chicken, and if there’s chicken, they won’t eat beef. Salmon has to be a nationally advertised brand; don’t ask me how they know. In the morning Koko rings for his breakfast; he steps on the tabulator key of the typewriter, which jerks the carriage and rings the bell. One of these days I think he’ll learn to type.”

With Joy in the audience he was feeling at his best, and yet the more he talked, the more he sensed her melancholy.

Finally she said, “I had a cat, but he disappeared a couple of weeks ago. I miss him terribly. His name was Raku.”

Her husband spoke for the first time that evening. “Somebody probably stole the Blimp. That’s what I called him. The Blimp.” He looked pleased with himself.

“What kind of cat?” Qwilleran asked Joy. “Did you let him go out?”

“No, but cats have a way of sneaking out. He was a big smoky brown longhair.”

Her husband said, “People steal cats and sell them to labs for experiments.”

Joy gritted her teeth. “For God’s sake, Dan, must you bring that subject up again?”

“It’s getting to be big business,” he said. “Kitnapping.” Dan looked hopefully around the table for appreciation of his bon mot.

“That’s not funny!” Joy had put down her fork and was sitting with clenched fists. “It’s not funny at all.”

Qwilleran turned to her husband. “By the way, I’d like to have a tour of the pottery when you have time.”

“Not before the exhibition,” said the potter, shaking his head gravely.

“Why not?” his wife snapped.

“Cripes, you know it’s nerve-racking to have somebody around when you’re working.” To Qwilleran he said, “Can’t afford any interruptions. Busy as a one-armed paperhanger with the itch, if you know what I mean.”

Joy turned to Qwilleran, her voice icy. “Anytime you want to see the pottery, let me know. I’d love to show you my latest work.” She shot a venomous glance at her husband.

To cover the embarrassed silence that followed, the newsman addressed Graham again. “You were telling me you didn’t like the Fluxion critic. What’s your complaint?”

“He doesn’t know beans about pottery, if you know what I mean.”

“He was a museum curator before he started writing for us.”

Graham snorted. “Doesn’t mean a thing. He may know Flemish painting and African sculpture, but what he doesn’t know about contemporary pots would fill a book, if you know what I mean. When I had my last one-man show in L.A., the leading critic said my textures were a treat for the eye and a thrill for the fingertips. And I quote.”

Joy said to Qwilleran with a disdainful edge to her voice, “Dan put a couple of old pots in a group show when we first came here, and your critic was unkind.”

“I don’t expect a critic to be kind,” her husband said, his Adam’s apple moving rapidly. “I expect him to know his business.”

William spoke up. “He calls ‘em the way he sees ‘em. That’s all any critic can do. I think he’s pretty perceptive.”

“Oh, William, shut up,” Joy snapped. “You don’t know anything about pots either.”

“I beg your pardon!” said the houseboy with mock indignation.

“Anyone who gets the cones mixed up and puts cracked biscuit shelves away with the good ones is a lousy potter,” she said curtly.

“Well, Dan told me to —”

“Don’t listen to Dan. He’s as sloppy as you are. What do they teach you at Penniman Art School? How to make paper flowers?”

Qwilleran had never seen that side of Joy’s nature. She had been moody as a girl but never sharp-tongued.

Hixie said to the houseboy in a bantering tone, “Don’t let it burn you, Willie dear. Your personal charm makes up for your stupidity.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“This bickering,” Rosemary murmured, “is not very good for the digestion.”

“Don’t blame it on me,” said William. “She started it.”

Dan stood up and threw his napkin on the table. “I’ve had it up to the ears! Lost my appetite.” He strode away from the table.

“The big baby!” his wife muttered. “I noticed he finished his apple pie before he made his temperamental exit.”

“I don’t blame him,” said Hixie. “You were picking on him.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business and concentrate on stuffing your face, dear? You do it so well!”

“See?” Hixie said, batting her eyelids. “The skinny ones always have miserable dispositions.”

“Really!” Rosemary protested in her gentle voice. “Do we have to talk like this in front of Mr. Qwilleran?”

Joy put her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, Jim. My nerves are tied in knots. I’ve been… working too hard. Excuse me.” She left the table hurriedly.

The meal ended with stilted scraps of conversation. Hixie talked about the cookbook she was writing. Rosemary extolled the healthful properties of blackstrap molasses. William wondered who had won the ball game in Milwaukee.

After dinner Qwilleran called Arch Riker at home, using the public telephone in the foyer. “I’ve sure walked into something at Maus Haus,” he said, speaking in a low voice. “The tenants are all one big scrappy family, and Joy is definitely upset. She says she’s overworked, but it looks like domestic trouble to me. I wish I could get her away for a visit with you and Rosie. It might do her some good.”

“Don’t take any chances until you know the score,” Riker warned him. “If it’s marital trouble, she might be using you.”

“She wouldn’t do that. Poor kid! I still think of her as twenty years old.”

“How do you size up her husband?”

“He’s a conceited ass.”

“Ever meet an artist who wasn’t? They all overrate themselves.”

“But there’s something pitiful about the guy. For all I know, he may have talent. Haven’t seen his work. Someone said he was a slob potter, whatever that means.”

“It doesn’t sound good… How about your new column? Are you going to do a story on Maus?”

“If I can pin him down. He’s gone to an MSG meeting tonight.”

“What’s that?”

“Meritorious Society of Gastronomes. A bunch of food snobs.”

“Qwill,” said Riker in a serious voice, “watch your step, will you? About Joy, I mean.”

“I’m no kid, Arch.”

“Well, it’s spring, you know.”

When Qwilleran returned to Number Six, he found Koko and Yum Yum locked in mortal combat with the bearskin rug, which they had chased into a corner. The poor beast, powerless against two determined Siamese, had skidded across the glossy tile floor and was cowering, with back humped and jaws gaping, under the massive carved desk.

Qwilleran was haranguing the cats and dragging the rug back to its rightful position in front of the captain’s bed when there was a knock on the door, and — despite a promise he had made to himself — his heart flipped when he saw Joy standing there. Her hair was hanging down to her waist, and she was wearing something filmy and apple green. Although her eyes looked puffed, her composure had returned.

She smiled her funny little smile and peeked into the apartment hesitantly. “Do you have company? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”