The Cat Who Saw Red (8 page)

“There’s Robert Maus, the lawyer, who owns the place. He can’t make a statement on any subject, including the weather, without first considering the pros, cons, legal implications, and tax advantages. Very dignified gent. But here’s a curious development: This morning he was nursing a black eye… Then there’s Max Sorrel, who owns the Golden Lamb Chop. He comes on strong as a ladies’ man, and it was his car that drove out of the garage shortly after I heard the scream.”

“But you aren’t positive he was in it,” Riker said. “Joy may have been driving.”

“If she was, she gave the car a pat on the rump and sent it home again: it was back in the garage this morning. Dan said she probably went on the River Road bus. If so, she picked a fine time; it was pouring rain.”

“Who else lives there?”

“Three women. And a houseboy who’s nosy but likable. And a housekeeper.” Qwilleran leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his mustache. He remembered Joy’s remark about a “discreet” extortion scheme and decided not to mention it.

Riker said, “You’re letting your imagination run away with you, Qwill. Nothing’s happened to Joy. You wait and see.”

“I wish I could believe it.”

“Well, anyway, I’ve got to eat and get back to the office. A syndicate salesman’s coming in with some comic strips at two o’clock.” He hailed a waitress. “Bowl of bean soup, meatballs and noodles, salad with Roquefort, and let’s have some more butter at this table.”

“And what’ll you have, Skinny?” she asked Qwilleran. “You want cottage cheese again?”

“I’m starving. Quips are not appreciated.”

“You want a cheeseburger with french fries? Macaroni and cheese? Ham and sweets?”

“No, I’ll have a poached egg,” he decided with firm resolve, “and all the celery they’ve got in the kitchen. I can burn up more calories chewing celery than I get from eating the damn stuff.”

“Where are you eating tonight?” Riker asked.

“I’ve invited Maus to go with me to the Toledo Tombs, and it’s going to be a heroic test of willpower on my part. I hear the food’s the best in town.”

“That’s the place where you get a fresh napkin every five minutes. Rosie and I went there for our anniversary, and the waiters made me nervous. After they brought the seventeenth clean ashtray, I started flicking my ashes on the floor under the table.”

That afternoon Qwilleran went to the public library to get a book on French food. He also picked up a book on the art of ceramics, without knowing exactly why. At the liquor store he bought a bottle of sherry and some bourbon in preparation for possible visitors to his apartment. He bought a brush at the pet shop. Finally he stopped at a supermarket to buy food for the cats. Goaded by his own unsatisfied appetite and his financial setback, he was hardly in a generous mood.

They’re spoiled brats, he told himself. Lobster — red salmon — boned chicken! Other cats eat cat food, and it’s about time they faced reality.

He bought a can of Kitty Delight (on sale), some Pussy Pâté (two for the price of one), and a jumbo-size box of Fishy Fritters (with a free offer on the back).

When he arrived home, Koko and Yum Yum were sitting in compact bundles on the windowsill, and their behavior indicated that they sensed the nature of the situation. Instead of chirping and crowing a welcome, they sat motionless and gazed through Qwilleran as if he were invisible.

“Soup’s on!” he announced, after smearing a dime’s worth of Pussy Pâté on a plate and placing it on the floor.

Neither of the cats moved a whisker.

“Try it! The label says it’s delicious.”

They seemed totally deaf. There was not even the flicker of an ear. Qwilleran picked Koko up bodily and plumped him down in front of the pate, and Koko stood there with legs splayed, frozen in the position in which he had landed, glaring at the evil-looking purple smear on the plate. Then he shuddered exquisitely and walked away.

Later that evening Qwilleran described the incident to Robert Maus. “I’m convinced they can read price tags,” he said, “but they’ll eat the stuff if they get hungry enough.”

Maus deliberated a few seconds. “A béarnaise sauce might make it more palatable,” he suggested, “or a sprinkling of freshly grated Romano.”

The two men had met in the lobby of a downtown building, where an elevator descended to unknown depths and deposited them in a cellar. The subterranean restaurant consisted of a series of cavernous rooms, long and narrow, vaulted in somber black masonry. It had been a sewer before the city installed the new disposal system.

The attorney was greeted with deference, and the two men were conducted to a table resplendent with white napery. Seven wineglasses and fourteen pieces of flat silver glittered at each plate. Two waiters draped napkins, lightly scented with orange flower water, across the guests’ knees. A captain presented menus bound in gold-tooled Florentine leather, and three busboys officiated at the filling of two water glasses.

Maus waved the chlorinated product away with an imperious gesture. “We drink only bottled water,” he said, “and we wish to consult the sommelier.”

The wine steward arrived, wearing chains and keys and a properly pompous air, and Maus selected a champagne. Then the two diners perused the menu, which was only slightly smaller than the Sunday edition of the Fluxion, offering everything from aquavit to zabaglione, and from avocado supręme rémoulade to zucchini sauté avec hollandaise.

“I might note, in passing,” said the attorney sadly, “that the late Mrs. Maus inevitably ordered chopped sirloin when we dined here.”

Qwilleran had not realized that Maus was widowed. “Didn’t your wife share your interest in haute cuisine?”

After some studied breathing Maus replied: “Not that I can, with any good conscience, admit. She once used my best omelet pan for, I regret to say, liver and onions.”

Qwilleran clucked his sympathy.

“I suggest we start, if it meets with your approval, Mr. Qwilleran, with the ‘French bunion soup,’ as it was called in our ménage. Mrs. Maus, as it happened, was a chiropodist by profession, and she had the… unfortunate habit of discussing her practice at the dinner table.”

Onion soup was served, crusted with melted cheese, and Qwilleran manfully limited himself to three sips. “How did you happen to buy the pottery?” he inquired.

Maus considered his answer carefully. “It was an inheritance,” he said at length. “The building was a bequest from my wife’s uncle, Hugh Penniman, a patron of the arts and collector of ceramics in particular, who conceived the building as an art center… in which capacity it functioned — at great expense to the philanthropist himself — until his death… after which it passed to his two sons, who declined the bequest, considering it a white elephant (under the terms imposed by the will)… whereupon it fell to my wife and subsequently to me.”

“What were the terms of the will?”

“The old gentleman stipulated that the building must continue to serve the arts, as it were — a proviso synonymous with economic folly in the opinion of my wife’s cousins, and not without reason, artists being largely insolvent, as you must be aware. However, I devised the… not uninspired expedient of renting the studios to gourmets (since gastronomy is viewed, in the eyes of its practitioners, as an art). At the same time I chose to… reactivate the pottery operation, which — I surmised — would prove to be a financial liability with favorable tax consequences, if you follow me.”

This recital of facts was terminated by the arrival of the eels in green sauce.

“I’ve been hearing about a drowning scandal in connection with the pottery,” Qwilleran remarked. “When did it happen?”

The attorney drew a slow breath of exasperation. “That unhappy incident is, I assure you, ancient history. Yet time and time again your newspaper — a publication for which I entertain only limited admiration, if you will pardon my candor — your newspaper disinters the episode and publishes unsavory headlines designed, one can only infer, to titillate a readership of less than average intellect. Now that the building has fallen under my aegis, it is to be hoped there will be no further publicity on the subject. If you are in a position to exert any influence to this end, I shall be indeed… grateful.”

“By the way,” Qwilleran said, “I don’t think you should lock the door between the pottery and the apartments. The fire marshal would take a dim view of that.”

“The fire door has not, to my knowledge, been locked at any time.”

“It was locked this morning — from the inside.” Maus, intent on savoring a morsel of eel, made no reply.

“Is Graham considered a good potter?” Qwilleran asked.

“He is, I am inclined to believe, an excellent technician, with a thorough knowledge of materials, equipment, and the operation of a pottery. The creative talent belongs chiefly, it appears to me, on the distaff side of the family.”

“You may not have heard the news,” Qwilleran said, “but Mrs. Graham has left her husband. I believe she consulted you about getting a divorce. Well, last night — in the small hours — she cleared out.”

Maus continued chewing thoughtfully and then said, “Unfortunate, to say the least.”

Qwilleran searched the attorney’s face for some revealing reaction but saw only an imperturbable countenance and preoccupied eyes, one of them ringed with a bruise, now turning purple.

The distinguished epicure was engrossed in evaluating the green sauce. He said, “The parsley, it is safe to say, was added a trifle too soon… although, as you must know, much controversy can be generated on the subject of herbs. At the Meritorious Society of Gastronomes last evening we enjoyed a stimulating symposium on oregano. The discussion, it eventuated, grew quite… stormy.”

“Is that how you got that mouse?” Qwilleran asked.

The attorney tenderly touched his left eye. “In the heat of argument, I regret to report, one of our members — an impetuous individual — thrust his fist in my direction at an inopportune time.”

The main course and a bottle of white wine were now served in a flurry of excitement by seven members of the restaurant staff. Maus tasted the wine and sent it back, complained about a cigar at the next table, and detected a soupçon too much tarragon in the sauce.

Qwilleran viewed with mounting hunger the dish of veal and mushrooms, aswim in delicate juices. He determined, however, to adhere to his regimen: three bites and quit. After the first bite he said to Maus, “Do you think Max Sorrel would make a good personality story for my column?”

The attorney sagely nodded approval. “His restaurant is experiencing certain — shall we say? — difficulties at this time, and it is undoubtedly true that some manner of… favorable comment in the press would not go unappreciated. I deem it inadvisable to elucidate, but Mr. Sorrel, I am sure, will be happy to discuss the matter with you, if you so… desire.”

“And what about Charlotte Roop?”

Maus laid down his knife and fork, which he was manipulating in the European manner. “Ah, there is a jewel! Do not allow yourself to be misled by the fluttering spinster facade. Miss Roop is a successful career woman with remarkable executive ability and integrity of the highest order. If she suffers from certain character defects, it behooves us to leave them unmentioned.”

Qwilleran took his second bite. “Rosemary Whiting seems to be very nice. A perfect lady.”

“A Canadian,” Maus said. His face was beatific as he savored the veal, having come to terms with the excess of tarragon.

“What’s her special interest in food?”

“Mrs. Whiting, it pains me to say, is a purveyor of health foods. You may have heard her panegyrics to soybeans and sunflower seeds.”

“And Hixie Rice, I understand, is a food writer.”

Maus raised his hands in a dignified gesture of resignation. “The young lady writes, in the course of duty, those appalling menus for third-rate restaurants: ‘Today’s special — a delectable ragout blending tender tidbits of succulent baby lamb with garden-sweet carrots, pristine cubes of choice Michigan potato, and jewellike peas — all in a tasty sauce redolent of the Far East.’ That effusion of baroque prose indicates, as you may be aware, yesterday’s leftovers drowning in canned gravy… with sufficient curry powder to camouflage the rancidity.”

Qwilleran took his third bite. “William is an interesting character, too.”

“He prattles to excess, alas, and boasts no useful skills, but he is congenial, and his bridge game is not without merit.”

The captain and the waiters had been observing, with increasing alarm, Qwilleran’s dilatory attitude toward the food, and now there was a stir among the staff as the head chef came storming from the kitchen.

He walked directly toward Qwilleran and demanded, “You no like my cooking?”

“A true gourmet never stuffs himself,” the newsman replied calmly. “The food is excellent, rest assured. I’d like to take the rest of this veal home to my cats.”

“Gatti! Santa Maria! So now I cook for gatti!” The chef threw up his hands and charged back to the kitchen.

After the braised fennel amandine and the tossed salad with nasturtium seeds, and the chestnut puree in meringue nests, and the demitasse, Qwilleran reached in his pocket for his pipe and drew forth the turquoise beetle that Koko had found near the waterfront. “Ever see that before?”

Maus nodded… Mrs. Graham had the charm to present to each of us a scarab — as a token, so to speak, of good fortune. Mine has, unhappily, disappeared — an omen that bodes no good, one would imagine.”

Qwilleran paid the check, thankful that the Fluxion was footing the bill; he could have lived for a week on the tip alone. And now he was eager to go home. He had made no notes during the dinner interview, as Maus expounded his culinary tenets. The newsman knew that cautious subjects speak more freely when their words are not being recorded. But he had accumulated plenty of material for a column on Robert Maus, and now it was necessary to collect the piquant quotes from the corners of his mind and get them down on paper before they faded from memory. As soon as the waiters brought the cats’ veal to the table, wrapped in a linen napkin, the two men departed — Maus radiating gustatory satisfaction and Qwilleran feeling vaguely hungry and a trifle sorry for himself.