Qwilleran nodded. "Do you think his drowning was an accident, or suicide, or murder?"
Miss Berry hesitated. "The official verdict was suicide, but some of us — you won't write anything about this, will you? — some of us had our suspicions. When the reporters started hounding us, we all played dumb. We knew which side our bread was buttered on!"
"You suspected. . . Popsie?"
Miss Berry looked startled. "Popsie! How did you — ? Well, never mind. The poor girl jumped in the river soon after. She was pregnant."
"You should have done something about it."
The potter shrugged. "What could we do? Old Mr. Penniman was a wealthy man. His money did a lot of good for the city. And we had no proof. . . He's dead now. Charlotte Roop — that woman I saw downstairs — was his secretary at the time of the drownings. She used to come to our parties, but she was a fifth wheel. We were a wild bunch. The kids today think they've invented free love, but they should have been around when we were young! My, it's nice to be seventy-five and done with all that nonsense. . . Hello, cats," she said again.
The cats were staring at her from their blue cushion — Koko as if he understood every word, and Yum Yum as if she had never seen a human before.
Qwilleran asked, "Why did Charlotte Roop hang around, if she didn't fit in?" He was casually lighting his pipe.
"Well, the gossips said she had a crush on her boss, and she was jealous of his beautiful paramour." Miss Berry lowered her voice. "We always thought it was Charlotte who tattled to Penniman about the affair that was going on behind his back."
"What gave you that impression?"
"Just putting two and two together. After the tragedy, Charlotte had a nervous collapse and quit her job. I lost track of her then. And if somebody didn't tip him off, why would Penniman have cut that peephole in the wall?" She leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward the newsman. "It was just before the tragedy that Penniman commissioned Herb Stock to paint that Egyptian-style mural in the kiln room. Now I can guess why!" Miss Berry sipped her drink and mused about the past. "Penniman was very generous with commissions, but you didn't dare cross him! You couldn't print any of this in your paper, of course."
"Not unless we wanted to start a newspaper war," Qwilleran said. It always amazed him how carelessly people spoke their minds to the press, and how surprised and indignant they were when they found themselves quoted in print.
The telephone rang.
Qwilleran picked up the receiver and said, "Hello? . . . Yes, did Odd Bunsen tell you what we want? . . . You did? Quick work! What did you find? . . . Wine bottles! Anything else? . . . What of broken crockery? . . . All of it?. Wow!. . . . Would you say the broken stuff was once a part of round or square pieces? . . . I see. You've been a great help. How much do I owe you? . . . Well, that's kind of you. Hope it wasn't too cold down there . . . Let me know if I can do anything for you."
Qwilleran offered to take Miss Berry to dinner, but she said she had other plans. As he accompanied her to the door he asked casually, "By the way, what happens if you heat up a kiln too fast?"
"You lose a month's work! The pots explode! It's the most heartbreaking fireworks you ever heard — pop! pop! pop! — one after the other, and it's too late to do anything about it."
Qwilleran was glad Miss Berry had other plans. He wanted to dine alone, to think. First he telephoned Dan Graham's loft and invited the potter in for a drink after dinner. To celebrate, he said. Then he went to Joe Pike's Seafood Hut.
It was a frustrating situation. Qwilleran had all kinds of curious notions that a crime had been committed but no proof — except the forged endorsement on a altered check. Added to the baffling evidence now was the frogman's report. According to his description of the "crockery" found in the river, Dan had dumped a load of broken pots. They were round pots! Joy's work, not his own. And the bright blues and greens described by the diver were the Living Glaze. Even in the muddy water, the diver said, the fragments glowed.
As Qwilleran sipped the green turtle soup, he feared that the situation was hopeless. With the baked clams he began to take heart. Halfway through the red snapper he hit upon an idea, and the salad brought him to a decision. He would take the bold step — a confrontation with Dan — and hope to expose the potter's hand. The manner of approach was the crucial factor. He was sure he could handle it.
Dan arrived at Number Six about nine o'clock, glowing with the day's success. Patting his stomach, he said, "You missed a good supper downstairs. Pork chops and some kind of mashed potatoes. I don't go for the fancy grub that Maus cooks, but the housekeeper can put on an honest-to-gosh feed when she wants to. I'm a meat-and-potatoes man myself. How about you?"
"I can eat anything," Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he rattled ice cubes. "What do you like with your bourbon?"
"Just a little ginger ale." Dan made himself at home in the big chair. "My first wife was a humdinger of a cook."
"You were married before you met Joy?"
"Yep. It didn't work out. But she sure could cook! That woman could make chicken taste like roast beef!"
Qwilleran served Dan his drink, poured ginger ale for himself, and made a cordial toast to the success of the potter's exhibition. Then he looked around for the cats; he always noted their reaction to visitors, and often he was influenced by their attitudes. The cats had retired behind the books on the bookshelf. He could see three inches of tail curling around a volume of English history, but it was not a tail in repose. The tip lifted in regular rhythm, tapping the shelf lightly. It meant Koko was listening. Qwilleran knew the tail belonged to Koko; Yum Yum's tail had a kink in the tip.
After Dan had quoted with relish all the compliments he had received at the champagne party, Qwilleran made a wry face and said, "I don't know whether to believe you or not."
"Whatcha say?"
"Sometimes I think you're the world's champion liar." Qwilleran used his most genial tone. "I think you're pulling my leg half the time."
"What do you mean?" Dan clearly did not know whether to grin or scowl.
"Just for example, you told me you threw the switch when Joy's hair caught in the wheel, and you saved her life. But you know and I know she never used the electric wheel. I think you just wanted to play the big hero. Come on, now. Confess!" Qwilleran's eyes were gently mocking.
"No, you've got me all wrong! Cripes! The kick-wheel was on the blink that night, and she was rushing to finish some pots for the next firing, so she used the power wheel. There's no law against that, is there?"
"And then you told Bunsen and me there were rats in the basement; we all know that Maus had the exterminator in last month. What is this guff you're handing me?"
"Well, I'll tell you," Dan said, relaxing as he came to the conclusion that the newsman was ribbing him. "You fellows were off the track. You were trying too hard to squeeze a story out of that broken-down clay room. The real story was the Living Glaze. Am I right? No use wasting your time on stuff that isn't interesting. I know how valuable your time is. I just wanted to get you into the kiln room, that's all. Can't guy use a little psychology, if you know what I mean?"