"Never mind Koko. Tell me what happened to the art dealer." The words came out reluctantly. "She... her throat was cut." "By the mushroom artist?" She nodded.
"That figures. He was obsessed with knives. When did this happen?" "On Labor Day weekend." "Why is so much of this Ross fellow's work hanging in the apartment?" "Well," said Mary, selecting her words with care, "he was a young artist... and she thought he had promise...
and she promoted him in her gallery. He was her prot‚g‚, you might say." "Uh-huh," said Qwilleran knowingly. "Where is he now? I assume he was convicted." "No," Mary said slowly. "He was never brought to trial... You see, he left a confession... and took his own life."
6
QWILLERAN FELT IN better spirits when he left the Blue Dragon. Koko's discovery was pertinent: 14-A had been the scene of a murder. That cat had an infallible sense when it came to turning up evidence of criminal activity.
Carrying the Grinchman & Hills report Qwilleran headed for home with a brisk step, eager to start reading. Instead of wasting time on dinner in a restaurant, he stopped at the Carriage House Cafe to inquire about take-out food.
"We don't usually... do... take-outs," said the cashier in a distracted way. She was staring at Qwilleran's oversized moustache. "Are you on television?" Regarding her with mournful eyes under drooping lids, he said in a rich, resonant tone reserved for such occasions, "At this moment I am live - in person - talking with an attractive woman behind a cash register, regarding the possibility of a take-out dinner." "I'll see what I can do," she called over her shoulder as she hurried into the kitchen. Immediately a man with long hair and a chef's hat peered through the small window in the kitchen door. Qwilleran gave him a cordial salute.
The cashier returned. "We don't have take-out trays, but the cook will put together a serving of today's special, if you don't mind carrying a regular plate. You can bring it back tomorrow. Are you driving?" "I'm walking but I don't have far to go. What is your special?" "Beef Stroganoff." "It sounds most appetizing." "We'll put some coleslaw and a dinner roll in foil," the cashier volunteered.
While retrieving his bill clip from his pocket, Qwilleran placed the Grinchman & Hills report on the counter and noticed the cashier trying to read it upside down.
"Grinch... man... and... Hills," she read aloud. "Is that the script for a movie?" she asked, wide-eyed.
"Yes, but keep it quiet;" he replied in a low voice with a swift glance to either side. "It's going to be a buddy movie like Bonnie and Clyde or Harold and Maude. I'm playing Grinchman." Leaving a sizable tip for a happy and flustered cashier, he departed with the bulky report under one arm and a plate of hot food covered with foil, on top of which were balanced two foil packets. "Your coleslaw and buttered roll," the cashier told him with an expansive display of hospitality. "Open the door for him," she called to the busboy.
Qwilleran covered the distance to the Casablanca quickly, and a young man held the two heavy doors for him, saying, "Somebody's gonna eat tonight." On the main floor there was activity suitable for late afternoon on a Monday. The person seated in the phone booth was telephoning and neither swigging nor snorting. An elderly man using a walker moved down the hall slowly and with extreme concentration. Kitty-Baby, having picked up the scent of the beef Stroganoff, was dogging Qwilleran's feet. In the vicinity of the desk a young man was swinging a mop across the floor, while Mrs. Tuttle sat at her post, knitting, and Rupert lounged about in his red hat. Despite the tools in his jacket pocket, he never seemed to do much work. Among the persons waiting for the elevator were employed tenants with gaunt end-of-day expressions, the Asian mother with her children, elderly souls complaining about Medicare, and students with an excess of youthful energy, talking loudly about bridges, professors, and final exams. Probably engineering students, Qwilleran guessed.
Rupert caught his eye and nodded toward the elevators. "Both workin' today." "A cause for celebration," Qwilleran replied. While the passengers waited in suspense, reassuring knocks and whines could be heard in both elevator shafts. Old Green was the first to appear, immediately filling with passengers and going on its way. Then the door of Old Red opened, and two of the waiting students rushed aboard. Qwilleran stood back, allowing a white-haired woman with a cane to go next. Slowly, one faltering step at a time, she approached the car, and just as her head and one foot were inside, the heavy door started to close.
"Hold it!" he yelled. One student lunged for the door; the other lunged at the woman, pushing her from danger. As she toppled backward, Qwilleran dropped everything and caught her, while Old Red closed its door and took off.
Instantly Mrs. Tuttle and Rupert were on the scene, the custodian retrieving the woman's cane and the manager saying, "Are you all right, Mrs. Button?" Set back on her feet but shaking violently, the woman raised her cane as if to strike and screamed in a cracked voice, "That man grabbed me!" "He saved you, Mrs. Button," explained the manager. "You could have fallen and broken your hip." "He grabbed me!" "Wheelchair," Mrs. Tuttle mumbled, and Rupert quickly brought one from the office and took the offended victim upstairs in Old Green, while Qwilleran surveyed the gooey hash on the floor.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Qwilleran," said Mrs. Tuttle. "Is that your dinner?" "It was my dinner. Anyway, the plate didn't break, but I'm afraid I messed up your floor." "Don't worry about that. The boy will take care of it." "I don't think that will be necessary," he said. Kitty-Baby had been joined by Napoleon and two other cats, and the quartet was lapping it up, coleslaw and all.
"At least let me wash your plate," Mrs. Tuttle offered.
"It looks as if Old Red is my nemesis," said Qwilleran as he nodded his thanks to a child who handed him his buttered roll and a man who picked up the Grinchman & Hills report, straightening its rumpled pages.
"Could the boy go out and bring you something to eat?" the manager suggested.
"I think not, thank you. I'll go upstairs and feed the cats and then go out to dinner." When he opened the door of 14-A, Koko and Yum Yum came forward nonchalantly.
"How about showing some concern?" he chided them. "How about displaying a little sympathy? I've just had a grueling experience." They followed him into the kitchen and watched politely as he opened a can of crabmeat.
They were neither prowling nor yowling nor ankle-rubbing, and Qwilleran realized that they were not hungry.
"Has someone been up here?" he demanded.
"Did they give you something to eat?" When he placed the plate of food on the floor, the cats circled it and sniffed from all angles before consenting to nibble daintily. Then Qwilleran was sure someone had been feeding them. He inspected the apartment for signs of intrusion and found no evidence in the library or in either bedroom. The doors to the terrace were locked. Both bathrooms were undisturbed. Only in the gallery was there anything different, and he could not imagine exactly what it was. The Indian dhurrie still covered the bloodstain on the carpet; no artwork was missing; the potted trees had all their leaves, but something had been changed.
At that moment Koko entered the gallery and embarked on a businesslike program of sniffing. He sniffed at the foot of the stairs, alongside the sofa, on the gallery level between trees, and in front of the stereo.