"A committee of ghost writers. A committee of three. Probably a Mr. George, a Mr. Bonifield, and a Mr. Mountclemens. No one man could cause so much trouble, or be so hated, or have such an ambiguous image."
"You just don't know about critics, that's all. You're used to cops and robbers."
"I have an alternate theory, if you don't buy my first one."
"What's that?"
"It's a phenomenon of the electronics age. The art column is turned out by a battery of computers in Rochester, New York."
"What did Bruno put in your tomato juice?" Arch said.
"Well, I'm telling you one thing: I won't believe George Bonifield Mountclemens until I see him."
"All right. How about tomorrow or Wednesday? He's been out of town, but he's back now. We'll line up an appointment for you."
"Let's make it for lunch — here. We can eat upstairs — off a tablecloth."
Arch shook his head. "He won't come to the Press Club. He never comes downtown. You'll probably have to go to his apartment."
"Okay, line it up," said Qwilleran, "and maybe I'll take Bruno's advice and rent a bulletproof vest."
5
Qwilleran spent Tuesday morning at the Board of Education Building, viewing an exhibition of school children's art. He hoped to write something tenderly humorous about the crayoned sailboats floating in the sky, the purple houses with green chimneys, the blue horses that looked like sheep, and the cats-cats- cats.
After his venture into the uncomplicated world of juvenile art, Qwilleran returned to the office in a state of contented detachment. His arrival in the Feature Department caused an unnatural silence. Typewriters stopped chattering. Heads that had been bent over proofs were suddenly raised. Even the green telephones were respectfully quiet.
Arch said, "We've got news for you, Jim. We called Mountclemens to make an appointment for you, and he wants you to go tomorrow night. To dinner!"
"Huh?"
"Aren't you going to faint? The rest of the department did."
"I can see the headline now," said Qwilleran. "Critic Poisons Reporter's Soup."
"He's supposed to be a great cook," Arch said. "A real gourmet. If you're lucky, he'll postpone the arsenic until dessert. Here's his address."
At six o'clock Wednesday night Qwilleran took a cab to 26 Blenheim Place. The address was in an old section of town, once a fashionable neighborhood of stately homes. Most of them had become cheap rooming houses or quarters for odd business enterprises. There was a mender of antique porcelain, for example; Qwilleran guessed he was a bookie. Next door was an old coin shop, probably a front for a dope ring. As for the
manufacturer of burlesque costumes, there was no doubt in Qwilleran's mind as to the real nature of that establishment.
In the midst of it all, one proud and plucky town house was making a last stand. It had a respectable residential air. It was tall for its width and primly Victorian, even to the ornamental iron fence. This was No. 26.
Qwilleran dodged a pair of neighborhood drunks careening down the sidewalk and walked up the stone steps to the small portico, where three mailboxes indicated the building had been made into apartments.
He smoothed his moustache, which was lively with curiosity and anticipation, and rang the bell. A buzzer unlocked the front door, and he walked into a tile- floored vestibule. Before him was another door, also locked — until a buzzer of another tone released it.
Qwilleran stepped into a palatial but dimly lighted entrance hall that enveloped him with its furnishings. He was aware of large gilt picture frames, mirrors, statuary, a table supported by gold lions, a carved bench like a church pew. Red carpet covered the hall floor and the stairway, and from the top of the flight came a voice with a finely honed edge:
"Come right up, Mr. Qwilleran."
The man at the top of the stairs was excessively tall and elegantly slender. Mountclemens wore a dark red velvet jacket, and his face impressed the newsman as poetic; perhaps it was the way the thin hair was combed down on the high forehead. A fragrance of lime peel surrounded him.
"Apologies for the moat-and-drawbridge arrangement downstairs," said the critic. "In this neighborhood one takes no chances."
He gave Qwilleran a left-handed handshake and ushered him into a living room unlike anything the newsman had ever seen. It was crowded and shadowy. The only illumination came from a flagging blaze in the fireplace and from hidden spotlights beamed on works of art.
Qwilleran's eye itemized marble busts, Chinese vases, many gilded picture frames, a bronze warrior, and some crumbling wood carvings of angels. One wall of the high-ceilinged room was covered with a tapestry having life, size figures of medieval damsels. Over the fireplace was a painting that any moviegoer would recognize as a Van Gogh.
"You seem impressed by my little collection, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, "or appalled by my eclectic taste…. Here, let me take your coat."
"It's a pocket-size museum," said Qwilleran in awe.
"It is my life, Mr. Qwilleran. And I admit — quite without modesty — that it succeeds in having a certain ambiance."
Hardly an inch of dark red wall remained uncovered. The fireplace was flanked by well-stocked bookshelves. Other walls were stacked to the ceiling with paintings.
Even the red carpet, which had a luminosity of its own, was crowded — with oversize chairs, tables, pedestals, a desk, and a lighted cabinet filled with small carvings.
"Let me pour you an aperitif," said Mountclemens, "and then you can collapse into an easy chair and prop your feet up. I avoid serving anything stronger than sherry or Dubonnet before dinner, because I am rather proud of my culinary skill, and I prefer not to paralyze your taste buds."
"I can't have alcohol," said Qwilleran, "so my taste buds are always in first-class condition."
"Then how about a lemon and bitters?"
While Mountclemens was out of the room, Qwilleran became aware of other details: a dictating machine on the desk; music drifting from behind an Oriental screen; two deep-cushioned lounge chairs facing each other in front of the fire, sharing a plump ottoman between them. He tried one of the chairs and was swallowed up in the cushions. Resting his head back and putting his feet on the ottoman, he experienced an unholy kind of comfort. He almost hoped Mountclemens would never return with the lemon and bitters.
"Is the music satisfactory?" asked the critic as he placed a tray at Qwilleran's elbow. "I find Debussy soothing at this time of day. Here is something salty to nibble with your drink. I see you have gravitated to the right chair."
"This chair is the next best thing to being unconscious," said Qwilleran. "What's it covered with? It reminds me of something they used to make boy's kneepants out of."
"Heather corduroy," said Mountclemens. "A miracle fabric not yet discovered by scientists. Their preoccupation with man- made materials amounts to blasphemy."
"I'm living in a hotel where everything is plastic. It makes an old flesh-and-blood character like me feel obsolete."
"As you can see by looking around you, I ignore modern technology."
"I'm surprised," said Qwilleran. "In your reviews you favor modem art, and yet everything here is — " He couldn't think of a word that sounded complimentary.
"I beg to correct you," said Mountclemens. He gestured grandly toward a pair of louvered doors. "In that closet is a small fortune in twentieth-century art — under ideal conditions of temperature and humidity. Those are my investments, but these paintings you see on the walls are my friends. I believe in the art of today as an expression of its time, but I choose to live with the mellowness of the past. For the same reason I am attempting to preserve this fine old house."
Mountclemens — sitting there in his velvet jacket, with Italian pumps on his long narrow feet and a dark red aperitif in his long white fingers — looked smug, sure, safe, and unreal. His nasal voice, the music, the comfortable chair, the warmth of the fire, and the dimness of the room were making Qwilleran drowsy. He needed ac
tion. "Mind if I smoke?" he said.
"Cigarettes in that cloisonn box at your elbow."
"I use a pipe." Qwilleran searched for his quarter-bend bulldog and his tobacco pouch and his matches and commenced the ritual of lighting up.
As the flame from his match flared in the darkened room, he jerked his head to the side. He stared at the bookshelves. He saw a red light. It was like a signal. No, it was two red lights. Blazing red- and alive! Qwilleran gasped. The rush of breath extinguished the match, and the red signals disappeared.
"What was — that?" he said, when he stopped spluttering. "Something between the books. Something —»
"It was only the cat," said Mountclemens. "He likes to retire behind the books. The shelves are unusually deep because of my art books, and he can find a sanctum back there. Apparently he has had his afternoon nap behind the biographies. He seems to favor biographies."
"I never saw a cat with blazing red eyes," said Qwilleran.
"You will find that characteristic of Siamese cats. Shine a light in their eyes, and they turn ruby red. Ordinarily they are blue — like the blue in that Van Gogh. See for yourself when the cat decides to flatter us with his presence. For the moment he prefers seclusion. He is busy sensing you. Already he knows several things about you."
"What does he know?" Qwilleran squirmed in his chair.
"Having observed you, he knows you are unlikely to make any loud noises or sudden movements, and that is in your favor. So is your pipe. He likes pipes, and he knew that you smoked one, even before you extracted it from your pocket. He also realizes you are affiliated with a newspaper."
"How does he figure that?"
"Ink. He has quite a nose for printer's ink."
"Anything else?"
"At this moment he is flashing a message. He is telling me to serve the first course, or he will not get his own dinner until midnight."
Mountclemens left the room and returned with a tray of hot tarts.
"If you have no objection," he said, "we shall have the first course in the parlor. I have no servants, and you must forgive me if I employ a few informalities."
The crust was flaky; the filling was a tender custard ~ flecked with cheese and spinach. Qwilleran savored every mouthful.
"You may wonder," said the critic, "why I prefer to manage without servants. I have a morbid fear of robbery, and I want no strangers coming to the house and discovering the valuables I keep on the premises. Please be good enough not to mention my collection downtown."
"Certainly — if that's the way you feel."
"I know how you newspaper people function. You are purveyors of news by instinct and by habit."
"You mean we're a bunch of gossips," said Qwilleran amiably, enjoying the last forkful of cheese custard and wondering what would come next.
"Let us simply say that a great deal of information — correct and otherwise — is exchanged over the tables at the Press Club. Nevertheless, I feel I can trust you."
"Thank you."
" What a pity you don't drink wine. I had planned to celebrate this occasion by opening a bottle of Chateau Cas d'Estournel 45. It was a great vintage — very slow in maturing — even better than the 28's."
"Open it anyway," Qwilleran said. "I'll enjoy watching you enjoy it. Honestly!"
Mountclemens' eyes sparkled. "I need no further encouragement. And I shall pour you a glass of Catawba grape juice. I keep it in the house for — him."
"Who?"
"Kao K'o Kung."
Qwilleran's face went momentarily blank.
"The cat," said Mountclemens. "Forgive me for forgetting you have not been formally introduced. He is very fond of grape juice, especially the white. And nothing but the best brand. He is a connoisseur."
"He sounds like quite a cat," Qwilleran said.
"A remarkable creature. He has cultivated an appreciation for certain periods of art, and although I disagree with his choice, I admire his independence. He also reads newspaper headlines, as you will see when the late edition is delivered. And now I believe we are ready for the soup." The critic drew aside some dark red velvet curtains.
An aroma of lobster greeted Qwilleran in the dining alcove. Plates of soup, thick and creamy, were placed on a bare table that looked hundreds of years old. Thick candles burned in iron holders.
As he seated himself in a lavishly carved high-backed chair, he heard a thud in the living room. It was followed by throaty mutterings. A floorboard creaked, and a light-colored cat with a dark face and slanting eyes walked into the dining alcove.
"This is Kao K'o Kung," said Mountclemens. "He was named after the thirteenth-century artist, and he himself has the dignity and grace of Chinese art."
Kao K'o Kung stood motionless and looked at Qwilleran. Qwilleran looked at Kao K'o Kung. He saw a long, lean, muscular cat with sleek fur and an unbearable amount of assurance and authority.
Qwilleran said, "If he's thinking what I think he's thinking, I'd better leave." "He is only sensing you," said Mountclemens, "and he appears stem when he concentrates. He is sensing you with his eyes, ears, nose, and whiskers. His findings from all four avenues of investigation will be relayed to a central point for evaluation and synthesis, and — depending upon the verdict — he may or may not accept you."
"Thanks," said Qwilleran.
"He is somewhat of a hermit and suspicious of outsiders."
The cat took his time and, when he had finished looking at the visitor, calmly and without visible effort rose in vertical flight to the top of a tall cabinet.
"Whoosh!" said Qwilleran. "Did you see that?"
On top of the cabinet Kao K'o Kung arranged himself in an imperious posture and watched the scene below with intelligent interest.
" A seven, foot leap is not unusual for a Siamese," said Mountclemens. "Cats have many gifts that are denied humans, and yet we tend to rate them by human standards. To understand a cat, you must realize that he has his own gifts, his own viewpoint, even his own morality. A cat's lack of speech does not make him a lower animal. Cats have a contempt of speech. Why should they talk when they can communicate without words? They manage very well among themselves, and they patiently try to make their thoughts known to humans. But in order to read a cat, you must be relaxed and receptive."
The critic's manner was serious and scholarly. "For the most part," he went on, "cats resort to pantomime when dealing with humans. Kao K'o Kung uses a code which is not difficult to learn. He scratches objects to call attention. He sniffs to indicate suspicion. He rubs against ankles when he wants service, and he shows his teeth to express disapproval. He also has a catly way of thumbing his nose."
"That I've got to see."
"Very simple. When a cat, who is a picture of grace and beauty, suddenly rolls over in a hideous posture, contorts his face, and scratches his ear, he is telling you, sir, to go to blazes!"
Mountclemens removed the soup plates and brought in a tureen of chicken in a dark and mysterious sauce. A piercing howl came from the top of the cabinet.
Qwilleran said, "You don't need an antenna to tune in that kind of message."
"The lack of an antenna in the human anatomy," said the critic, "impresses me as a vast oversight, a cosmic blunder. With some simple arrangement of feelers or whiskers, think what man might have achieved in communication and prognostication! What we call extrasensory perception is normal experience for a cat. He knows what you are thinking, what you are going to do, and where you have been. I would gladly trade one ear and one eye for a full set of cat's whiskers in good working condition."
Qwilleran put down his fork and wiped his moustache carefully with his napkin. "That's very interesting," he said. He coughed once or twice and then leaned toward his host. "Do you want to know something? I have a funny feeling about my moustache. I've never told this to anyone, but ever since I grew this set of lip whiskers I've had a weird idea that I'm more — more aware! Do you know what I mean?"
Mountclemens nodded encourag
ingly. "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?"
The Cat Who Could Read Backwards Page 5