"May I have another drink?" she asked. "Why is your cat staring at me?"
"He's concerned. He knows when someone's unhappy."
"I don't usually come apart like this, but I've just lived through a traumatic experience. I haven't slept for five nights. Do you mind if I tell you all the nasty details? You're so understanding."
Qwilleran nodded.
"I've just ended an affair with a married man." She paused to observe Qwilleran's reaction, but he was lighting his pipe. She went on: "We couldn't come to terms. He wanted me to go away with him, but I refused to go without making it legal. I want a marriage license. Am I a nut?"
"You're surprisingly conventional."
"But it's the same old story. He's reluctant to get a divorce. He keeps putting me off. . . Mmmm, this is good scotch. Why don't you drink, Qwill?"
"Too young." Hixie wasn't really listening. She was intent on her own problem. "Our plans were all made. We were going to live in Paris. I was even studying French, and Dan announced — " She caught her tongue, threw Qwilleran a panicky glance.
He kept an expressionless face. "Well, now you know," she said, throwing up her hands. "I didn't mean to let it slip. For God's sake, don't — "
"Don't worry. I'm not a — "
"I'd hate for Robert to find out. He'd have a fit. You know how he is. So proper!" She stopped and groaned with chagrin. "And Joy is a friend of yours! Ooh! I really put my foot in it this time. Promise me — Your drinks are so — Haven't slept for five — I'm so tired."
"The scotch will make you sleep well," Qwilleran said. "Shall I walk you home?"
She was a little unsteady on her feet, and he escorted her around the balcony to her own apartment just in time to say good evening to a tight-lipped Charlotte Roop, who was coming home from work.
When he returned to his own place, he found Koko busy tilting pictures.
"Stop that!" Qwilleran barked. He walked to the Art Nouveau print and took it off the hook, slid the metal plate aside, and peered through the aperture. He saw Dan toss a bundle of rags into one of the small kilns. He saw Dan look through the spyhole of a larger kiln and make a notation in a ledger. He saw Dan set an alarm clock and lie down on a cot.
Qwilleran slowly turned away from the peephole. He had recognized the rags.
16
Qwilleran skipped breakfast Wednesday morning. He made a cup of instant coffee in his apartment and got an early start on the column about the Friendly Fatties. Koko was sitting on the desk, trying to help, rubbing his jaw on the button that changed margins, getting his tail caught in the cylinder when Qwilleran triple-spaced.
"At the Friendly Fatties' weekly dinner," the man was typing, "the Fun is more fun than the Food."
There was a knock at his door, and he found Robert Maus standing there, his round-shouldered posture looking less like a gracious bow and more like a haggard droop.
"May I violate the privacy of your sanctum sanctorum?" asked the attorney. "I have a matter of some moment, as it were, to discuss with you."
"Sure. Come in. I hear you've had an unscheduled trip out of the country. You look weary."
"Weary I am, but not, I must admit, as a result of the unexpected detour in my itinerary. The fact of the matter is . . . that I returned to find a situation resembling mild. . . chaos."
"Will you have a chair?"
"Thank you. Thank you indeed."
The cats were regarding the visitor solemnly from the dining table, where they sat at attention, shoulder to shoulder and motionless.
"It is safe to assume," said the attorney, "that these are the two celebrated feline gastronomes."
"Yes, the big one is Koko, and the other is Yum Yum. When did you get back?"
"Late last evening, only to be confronted by a series of complications, which I will endeavor to enumerate, if I may. Whereas, three hundred persons' have been invited to the opening of the pottery exhibition, and we are without a houseboy. Whereas, Mrs. Marron is suffering from allergic rhinitis. Whereas, the tennis club, our immediate neighbor to the west, has made a formal complaint about the issue of smoke from our chimneys. Whereas, the senior partner of Teahandle, Hansblow, Burris, Maus and Castle informs me that a major client has severed connections with our firm as a result of your column in yesterday's press."
"I'm sorry if — "
"The blame does not lie with you. However. . . permit me one more whereas. The esteemed Miss Roop has tendered a bill of complaint alleging scandalous conduct on the premises. . . One moment, I beg of you," Maus said when Qwilleran tried to interrupt. "It is well known to us all that the lady in question is a — you might say — bluenose. But it behooves us to humor the plaintiff for reasons best known to — "
"Never mind the preamble," Qwilleran said. "What's she objecting to?"
Maus cleared his throat and began: "To wit, one female tenant observed entering Number Six at a late hour en neglige. To wit, a second female tenant observed leaving Number Six at a late hour in a flagrant state of inebriation."
Qwilleran blew into his mustache. "I hope you don't think I'm going to dignify that gossip with an explanation."
"Explanations are neither requested nor expected — far from it," said Maus. "Let me, however, state my position. The firm with which I have the honor to be associated is of an extremely conservative bent. In the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and thirteen, a member of the firm was ousted from that august body — then known as Tea- handle, Teahandle and Whitbread — for the simple misdemeanor of drinking three cups of punch at a garden party. I find it imperative, therefore, to avoid any suggestion of impropriety in this house. Any hint of unconventional conduct, if it reached the ears of my colleagues, would embarrass the firm, to state it mildly, and would, in all probability, relieve me of my partnership. The mere fact that I am the proprietor of what is unfortunately called a boardinghouse. . . places me on the brink of . . . disgrace."
"It's my guess," said Qwilleran, "that there's more unconventional conduct in Maus Haus than you realize."
"Spare me the details at the moment. When the exigencies of this day have abated, I shall — "
The telephone rang. "Excuse me," said Qwilleran. He went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Yes. . . Yes, what can I do for you? . . . Overdrawn! What do you mean?" He opened a desk drawer and brought out his check- book, tucking the receiver between shoulder and ear while he found his current balance. "Seventeen-fifty! That's the wrong figure. I wrote a check for seven-fifty! Seven hundred and fifty dollars. . . I can't believe it.
What's the endorsement? . . . I see. . . Are both signatures quite legible? . . . To be authentic, the last name in the first endorsement should look like G-w-w-w . . . Well, then, it's a forgery. And somebody has tampered with the amount of the check. . . Thanks for calling me. I can track it down at this end. . . No, I don't think there'll be any problem. I'll get back to you."
Qwilleran turned to his visitor, but the attorney had slipped out, closing the door. The newsman sat down and studied his next move with circumspection.
At four o'clock that afternoon the Great Hall was flooded with diffused light from the skylight three stories overhead. It fell on the jewellike objects exhibited on pedestals in the center of the floor. In this dramatic light the Living Glaze was brilliant, magnetic, even hypnotic. Elsewhere in the hall the graceful shapes of Joy's thrown pots, bowls, vases, jars, and pitchers in subtle speckled grays and gray-greens, rough and smooth at the same time, like half-melted ice. Also on display were the brutal, primitive shapes of Dan's earlier slab pots in blackish browns and slate blues, decorated with globs of clay like burnt biscuits.