Mountclemens nodded encouragingly. "It's something I wouldn't want to get around at the Press Club," Qwilleran said.
Mountclemens agreed. "I seem to see things more clearly," said the newsman. Mountclemens understood.
"Sometimes I seem to sense what's going to happen, and I turn up in the right place at the right time. It's uncanny."
"Kao K'o,Kung does the same thing." A deep grumble came from the top of the cabinet, and the cat stood up, arched his back in a taut stretch, yawned widely, and jumped to the floor with a grunt and velvety thud.
"Watch this," said the critic. "In three or four minutes the doorbell will ring, and it will be the newspaper delivery. Right now the newsboy is riding his bicycle two blocks away, but Kao K'o Kung knows he's on his way here."
The cat walked across the living room to the hall and waited at the top of the stairs. In a few minutes the door, bell rang.
Mountclemens said to Qwilleran, "Would you be good enough to pick up the newspaper downstairs? He likes to read it while the news is fresh. Meanwhile, I will toss the salad."
The cat waited on the top stair with a dignified display of interest while the newsman walked down to retrieve the paper that had been tossed on the front porch.
"Lay the paper on the floor," Mountclemens instructed him, "and Kao K'o Kung will read the headlines."
The cat followed this procedure closely. His nose twitched with anticipation. His whiskers moved up and down twice. Then he lowered his head to the screamer head, which was printed in two, inch type, and touched each letter with his nose, tracing the words: DEBBAN RELLIK DAM.
Qwilleran said, "Does he always read backwards?"
"He reads from right to left," Mountclemens said. "By the way, I hope you like Caesar salad."
It was a man's salad, zesty and full of crunch. Then came a bittersweet chocolate dessert with a velvet texture, and Qwilleran felt miraculously in harmony with a world in which art critics could cook like French chefs and cats could read.
Later they had small cups of Turkish coffee in the living room, and Mountclemens said, "How are you enjoying your new milieu?"
"I'm meeting some interesting personalities."
"The artists in this city have more personality than talent, I regret to say."
"This Cal Halapay is a hard one to figure out."
"He is a charlatan," said Mountclemens. "His paintings belong in advertisements for shampoo. His wife is decorative, if she keeps her mouth shut, but unfortunately she finds this an impossible feat. He also has a houseboy or prot‚g‚ - or whatever the charitable term may be - who has the insolence to want a retrospective exhibition of his life's work at the age of twenty-one. Have you met any other representatives of this city's remarkable art life?"
"Earl Lambreth. He seems to be - "
"There is a pathetic case. No talent whatever, but he hopes to reach the stars on his wife's apron strings. His one and only achievement has been to marry an artist. How he managed to win such an attractive woman is be, yond my imagination."
"She's good, looking, all right," Qwilleran agreed.
"And an excellent artist, although she needs to clean up her palette. She has done some studies of Kao K'o Kung, capturing all his mystery, magic, perversity, independence, playfulness, savagery, and loyalty - in one pair of eyes."
"I met Mrs. Lambreth at the Turp and Chisel last weekend: There was a party - "
"Are those aging adolescents still dressing up in fancy costumes?"
"It was a Valentine party. They all represented great lovers. First prize went to a woman sculptor called Butchy Bolton. You know her?"
"Yes," said the critic, "and good taste prevents me from making any comment whatever. I suppose Madame Duxbury was also there, dripping with sables and Gainsboroughs."
Qwilleran got out his pipe and took a long time lighting it. Then Kao K'o Kung walked into the room from the direction of the kitchen and performed his afterdinner ritual for all to admire. In studious concentration he darted his long pink tongue over his face. Next he licked his right paw well and used it to wash his right ear. Then he changed paws and repeated the identical process on the left: one pass over the whiskers, one pass over the cheekbone, twice over the eye, once over the brow, once over the ear, once over the back of the head.
Mountclemens said to Qwilleran, "You may feel complimented. When a cat washes up in front of you, he is admitting you into his world.... Where are you planning to live?"
"I want to find a furnished apartment as soon as possible - anything to get sprung from that plastic-coated hotel."
"I have a vacancy downstairs," said Mountclemens. "Small but adequate - and furnished rather well. It has a gas fireplace and some of my second-best Impressionists. The rent would be insignificant. My chief interest is to have the place occupied."
"Sounds good," said Qwilleran from the depths of his lounge chair, with memories of Caesar salad and lobster bisque still soothing him.
"I travel a great deal, viewing exhibitions and serving on art juries, and in this dubious neighborhood it is a good idea to have signs of life in the front apartment downstairs."
"I'd like to have a look at it." "Regardless of rumors that I am a monster," said Mountclemens in his most agreeable tone, "you will not find me a bad landlord. Everyone hates a critic, you know, and I imagine the gossips have described me as a sort of cultivated Beelzebub with artistic pretensions. I have few friends and, thankfully, no relatives, with the exception of a sister in Milwaukee who refuses to disown me. I am somewhat of a recluse."
Qwilleran made an understanding gesture with his pipe.
"A critic cannot afford to mix with artists," Mountclemens went on, "and when you hold yourself aloof, you invite jealousy and hatred. All my friends are here in this room, and I care for nothing else. My only ambition is to own works of art. I am never satisfied. Let me show you my latest acquisition. Did you know that Renoir painted window shades at one time in his career?" The critic leaned forward and lowered his voice, and a peculiar elation shone in his face. "I have two window shades painted by Renoir."
A shrill howl came from Kao K'o Kung, who was sitting in a tall, compact posture, gazing into the fire. It was a Siamese comment that Qwilleran could not translate. More than anything else it sounded like a portent.
-6-
On Thursday The Daily Fluxion published Qwilleran's first profile of an artist. His subject was Uncle Waldo, the elderly primitive and portrayer of livestock. Qwilleran had carefully avoided comment on the old man's artistic talent, building his story instead around the butcher's personal philosophy after a lifetime of selling chuck roasts to housewives in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.
The appearance of the story revived interest in Uncle Waldo's pictures, and on Friday the unimportant gallery that handled his work sold all their dusty canvases of beef cattle and woolly lambs and urged the old man to resume painting. Readers wrote to the editor commending Qwilleran's handling of the story. And Uncle Waldo's grandson, the truck driver, went to the offices of the Daily Fluxion with a gift for Qwilleran - ten pounds of home, made sausage that the retired butcher had made in his basement.
Friday evening Qwilleran himself was accorded some attention at the Press Club as he distributed links of knackwurst. He met Arch Riker and Odd Bunsen at the bar and ordered his usual tomato juice.
Arch said, "You must be quite a connoisseur of that stuff."
Qwilleran ran the glass under his nose and considered the bouquet thoughtfully. "An unpretentious vintage," he said. "Nothing memorable, but it has a naive charm. Unfortunately the bouquet is masked by the smoke from Mr. Bunsen's cigar. I would guess the tomatoes came from - " (he took a sip and rolled it on his tongue) - "from Northern Illinois. Obviously a tomato patch near an irrigation ditch, getting the morning sun from the east and the afternoon sun from the west." He took another swallow. "My palate tells me the tomatoes were picked early in the day - on a Tuesday or Wednesday - by a farmhand wearing a Band-Aid. The Mercurochrome comes through in the aftertaste."
"You're in a good mood," said Arch.
"Yep," said Qwilleran. "I'm moving out of the plastic palace. I'm going to rent an apartment from Mountclemens."
Arch set his glass down with a thud of astonishment, and Odd Bunsen choked on cigar smoke.
"A furnished apartment on the first floor. Very comfortable. And the rent is only $50 a month."
"Fifty! What's the catch?" said Odd.
"No catch. He just doesn't want the house standing empty when he's out of town."
"There's gotta be a catch," Odd insisted. "Old Monty's too tightfisted to give anything away. Sure he doesn't expect you to be a cat-sitter when he's out of town?"
"Quit being a cynical press photographer," said Qwilleran. "Don't you know it's an outdated stereotype?"
Arch said, "Odd's right. When our messenger goes to pick up the tapes, Mountclemens sends him on all kinds of personal errands and never gives the kid a tip. Is it true he's got a houseful of valuable art?"
Qwilleran took a slow swallow of tomato juice. "He's got a lot of junk lying around, but who knows if it's worth anything?" He refrained from mentioning the Van Gogh. "The big attraction is the cat. He's got a Chinese name - something like Koko. Mountclemens says cats like to hear a repetition of syllables when they're being ad, dressed, and their ears are particularly receptive to palatal and velar sounds."
"Somebody's nuts," said Odd.
"This cat is a Siamese, and he's got a voice like an ambulance siren. Know anything about the Siamese? It's a breed of supercat - very intelligent. This one can read."
"Read?"
"He reads the newspaper headlines, but they have to be fresh off the press."
"What does this supercat think of my photographs?" Odd said.
"It's questionable whether cats can recognize pictorial images, according to Mountclemens, but he thinks a cat can sense the content of a picture. Koko prefers modem art to old masters. My theory is that the fresher paint gets through to his sense of smell. Same way with fresh ink on a newspaper."
"What's the house like?" Arch asked.
"Old. Declining neighborhood. But Mountclemens cherishes his place like a holy relic. They're tearing down buildings all around him, but he says he won't give up his house. It's quite a place. Chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, high ceilings - all carved plaster."
"Dust-catchers," said Odd.
"Mountclemens lives upstairs, and the downstairs is made into two apartments. I'm taking the front one. The rear is vacant, too. It's a nice quiet place except when the cat lets out a shriek."
"How was the food on Wednesday night?"
"When you taste Mountclemens' cooking, you forgive him for talking like a character in a Noel Coward play. I don't see how he turns out such dishes with his handicap."
"You mean his hand ?"
"Yes. What's wrong with it?"
"That's an artificial hand he wears," said Arch.
"No kidding! It looks real, except for a little stiffness."
"That's why he tapes his column. He doesn't type."
Qwilleran thought about it for a few moments. Then he said, "I feel sorry for Mountclemens, in a way. He lives like a hermit. He thinks a critic shouldn't mix with artists, and yet art is his chief interest - that and the preservation of an old house."
"What did he say about the local art situation?" Arch asked.
"It's a funny thing. He didn't say much about art. We talked mostly about cats."
"See? What did I tell you?" said Odd. "Monty's lining you up for part-time cat-sitting. And don't expect a tip!"
The unseasonable weather, warm for February, ended that week. The temperature plunged, and Qwilleran bought a heavy pepper-and-salt tweed overcoat with his first full salary check.
For most of the weekend he stayed home, enjoying his new apartment. It had a living room with bed alcove, a kitchenette, and what Mountclemens would call ambiance. Qwilleran called it lots of junk. Still, he liked the effect. It was homey, and the chairs were comfortable, and there were gas logs in the fireplace. The picture over the mantel, according to the landlord, was one of Monet's less successful works.
Qwilleran's only complaint was the dim lighting. Light bulbs of low wattage seemed to be one of Mountclemens' economies. Qwilleran went shopping on Saturday morning and picked up some 75's and l00's.
He had a book from the library on how to understand modem art, and on Saturday afternoon he was coping with Dadaism in chapter nine, and chewing on a pipeful of unlighted tobacco, when an imperative wail sounded outside his door. Although it was clearly the voice of a Siamese cat, the cry was divided into syllables with well-placed emphasis, as if the command were "Let me in!"