"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion," the newsman said in his courtliest manner.
"Nope, I haven't had one o' them for years," she replied in a reedy voice. "People like the kind with china handles and a double lid." Qwilleran inspected the litter of indescribable knickknacks and raised his voice. "What's your specialty, Miss Peabody? "No sir! No discounts! If you don't like my prices, leave the things be. Somebody else'll buy 'em." Qwilleran bowed and left the shop. He walked past a billiard hall (windows boarded up) — past a chili parlor with a ventilator exhausting hot breath across the sidewalk (rancid grease, fried onions, sour mop) — until he reached the fruit and tobacco shack of Papa Popopopoulos. There was an aroma of overripe banana and overheated oil stove in the shack. The proprietor sat on an orange crate, reading a newspaper in his native language and chewing a tobacco-stained moustache of great flamboyance.
Qwilleran stamped his feet and clapped his gloved hands together. "Pretty cold out there," he said.
The man listened attentively. "Tobac?" he said.
Qwilleran shook his head. "No, I just stopped in for a chat. Frankly, that last pouch I bought was somewhat past its prime." Popopopoulos rose and came forward graciously. "Fruit? Nize fruit?" "I don't think so. Cozy little place you've got here. How long have you been doing business in Junktown?" "Pomegranate? Nize pomegranate?" The shopkeeper held up a shriveled specimen with faded red skin.
"Not today," said Qwilleran, looking toward the door. "Pomegranate make babies!" Qwilleran made a hasty exit. There was nothing to be learned, he decided, from Andy's two protgs.
It was then that he spotted the shop of The Three Weird Sisters, its window filled with washbowl and pitcher sets, spittoons, and the inevitable spinning wheel. Arch Riker might flip over this junk, but Qwilleran had no intention of flipping.
He squared his shoulders and marched into the shop. As soon as he opened the door, his nose lifted. He could smell — was it or wasn't it? Yes, it was — clam chowder!
Three women wearing orange smocks stopped what they were doing and turned to regard the man with a bushy moustache. Qwilleran returned their gaze. For a moment he was speechless.
The woman sitting at a table addressing Christmas cards was a brunette with luscious blue eyes and dimples.
The one polishing a brass samovar was a voluptuous orange-redhead with green eyes and a dazzling smile. The young girl standing on a stepladder hanging ropes of Christmas greens was a tiny blonde with upturned nose and pretty legs.
Qwilleran's face was radiant as he finally managed to say, "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Yes, we know!" they chorused, and the redhead added in a husky voice, "We saw you at the auction and adored your moustache. Sexiest one we've ever seen in Junk- town!" She hobbled toward him with one foot in a walking cast and gave his hand a warm grasp. "Pardon my broken metatarsal. I'm Cluthra. Godawful name, isn't it?" "And I'm Amberina," the brunette said.
"I'm Ivrene," said a chirping voice from the top of the stepladder. "I'm the drudge around here." The redhead sniffed. "Ivy, the soup's scorching!" The little blonde jumped down from the ladder and ran into the back room.
Flashing her dimples, the brunette said to Qwilleran, "Would you have a bowl of chowder with us? And some cheese and crackers?" If they had offered hardtack and goose grease, he would have accepted.
"Let me take your overcoat," said the redhead. "It's awfully warm in here." She threw her smock back over her shoulders, revealing a low-cut neckline and basic architecture of an ample nature.
"Sit here, Mr. Qwilleran." The brunette moved some wire carpet beaters from the seat of a Victorian settee.
"Cigarette?" offered the redhead.
"I'll get you an ashtray," said the brunette.
"I smoke a pipe," Qwilleran told the sisters, groping in his pocket and thinking, If only the guys in the Feature Department could see me now! As he filled his pipe and listened to two simultaneous conversations, he glanced around the shop and saw lead soldiers, cast-iron cherubs, chamber pots, and a tableful of tin boxes that had once held tobacco, crackers, coffee, and the like. The old stenciled labels were half obliterated by rust and scuffmarks, and Qwilleran had an idea. Arch Riker said he collected tin; this was the chance to buy him a crazy Christmas present.
"Do you really sell those old tobacco tins?" he asked. "How much for the little one that's all beat up?" "We're asking ten," they said, "but if it's for yourself, you can have it for five." "I'll take it," he said and threw down a nickel, without noticing the expression that passed among them.
The youngest one served the soup in antique shaving mugs. "The Dragon just phoned," she told Qwilleran. "She wants to see you this afternoon." She seemed unduly pleased to give him the message.
"How did she know I was here?" "Everybody knows everything on this street," the red-head said.
"The Dragon has this place bugged," the young one whispered.
"Ivy, don't talk silly." The sisters continued the conversation in three-part harmony — Cluthra in her husky voice, Amberina with a musical intonation, and Ivrene piping grace notes from her perch. Eventually Qwilleran brought up the subject of Andy Glanz.
"He was a real guy!" the redhead said with lifted eyebrows, and her rasping voice showed a trace of tenderness.
"He had quite an intellect, I understand," Qwilleran said.
"Cluthra wouldn't know anything about that," said the young one on the ladder. "She brings out the beast in men." "Ivy!" came the sharp reprimand.
"It's true, isn't it? You said so yourself." The brunette hastily remarked, "People don't believe we're sisters. The truth is, we had the same mother but different fathers." "Does this business support the three of you?" "Heavens, no! I have a husband, and I do this just for fun. Ivy's still in school — art school — and — " "And Cluthra lives on her alimony," chipped in the youngest, earning pointed glares from her elders.
"Business has been terrible this month," said the brunette. "Sylvia's the only one who's doing any business around here." "Who's Sylvia?" Qwilleran asked.
"A rich widow," came the prompt reply from the top of the ladder.
"Sylvia sells camp," the redhead explained.
"That's not what you called it yesterday!" Ivy reminded her.
"Where's her shop?" asked the newsman. "What's her full name?" "Sylvia Katzenhide. She calls her place Sorta Camp. It's in the next block." "Cluthra calls her the Cat's Backside," Ivy said, ignoring the exasperated sighs from her sisters.
"If you go to see Sylvia, wear earmuffs," the redhead advised.
"Sylvia's quite a talker," said the brunette.
"She's got verbal diarrhea," said the blonde. "Ivy!" "Well, that's what you said!" When Qwilleran left the Three Weird Sisters, he was walking with a light step. He had heard little Ivy say, as he walked out the door, "Isn't he groovy?" He preened his moustache, undecided whether to answer Mary Duckworth's summons or visit the loquacious Sylvia Katzenhide. Mrs. McGuffey was also on his list, and sooner or later he would like to talk to the outspoken Ivy again — alone. She was a brat, but brats could be useful, and she was an engaging brat, as brats went.
On Zwinger Street a hostile sun had penetrated the winter haze — not to warm the hearts and frozen nosetips of Junktown residents, but to convert the lovely snow into a greasy slush for the skidding of cars and splashing of pedestrians, and Qwilleran's mind went to Koko and Yum Yum — lucky cats, asleep on their cushions, warm and well-fed, with no weather to weather, no deadlines to meet, no decisions to make. It had been a long time since he had consulted Koko, and now he decided to give it a try.
There was a game they played with the unabridged dictionary. The cat dug his claws into the book, and Qwilleran opened to the page indicated, where the catchwords at the top of the columns usually offered some useful clue.
Incredible? Yes. But it had worked in the past. A few months before, Qwilleran had been credited with finding a stolen jade collection, but the credit belonged chiefly to Koko and Noah Webster. Perhaps
the time had come to play the game again.
He went home and unlocked his apartment door, but neither cat was anywhere in sight. Someone had been in the apartment, though. Qwilleran noticed a slight rearrangement and the addition of several useless gimcracks. The brass candlesticks on the mantel, which he liked, had gone, and in their place stood a pottery pig with a surly sneer.
He called the cats by name and got no answer. He searched the apartment, opening all doors and drawers. He got down on his knees at the fireplace and looked up the chimney. It was an unlikely possibility, but one could never tell about cats!
While he was posed on all fours with his head in the fireplace and his neck twisted in an awkward position, Qwilleran sensed movement in the room behind him. He withdrew his head just in time to see the missing pair walk nonchalantly across the carpet, Koko a few paces ahead of Yum Yum as usual. They had come from nowhere, as cats have a way of doing, holding aloft their exclamatory tails. This unpredictable pair could walk on little cat feet, silent as fog, or they could thump across the floor like clodhoppers.
"You rascals!" Qwilleran said.
"Yow?" said Koko with an interrogative inflection that seemed to imply, "Were you calling us? What's for lunch?" "I searched allover! Where the devil were you hiding?" They had come, it seemed, from the direction of the bathroom. They were blinking. Their eyes were intensely blue. And Yum Yum was carrying a toothbrush in her tiny V-shaped jaws. She dropped it in front of him.
"Good girl! Where did you find it?" She looked at him with eyes bright, crossed, and uncomprehending.
"Did you find it under the tub, sweetheart?" Yum Yum sat down and looked pleased with herself, and Qwilleran stroked her tiny head without noticing the far- away expression in Koko's slanted eyes.
"Come on, Koko, old boy!" he said. "Let's play the game." He slapped the cover of the dictionary — the starting signal — and Koko hopped on the big book and industriously sharpened his claws on its tattered binding. Then he hopped down and went to the window to watch pigeons.
"The game! Remember the game? Play the game!" Qwilleran urged, opening the book and demonstrating the procedure with his fingernails. Koko ignored the invitation; he was too busy observing the action outdoors.
The newsman grabbed him about the middle and placed him on the open pages. "Now dig, you little monkey!" But Koko stood there with his back rigidly arched and gave Qwilleran a look that could only be described as insulting.
"All right, skip it!" the man said with disappointment. "You're not the cat you used to be. Go back to your lousy pigeons," and Koko returned his attention to the yard below where Ben Nicholas was scattering crusts of bread.
Qwilleran left the apartment to continue his rounds, and as he went downstairs, Iris Cobb came flying out of the Junkery.
"Are you having fun in Junktown?" she asked gaily. "I'm unearthing some interesting information," he replied, "and I'm beginning to wonder why the police never investigated Andy's death. Didn't the detectives ever come around asking questions?" She was shaking her head vaguely when a man's gruff voice from within the shop shouted, "I'll tell you why they didn't. Junktown's a slum, and who cares what happens in a slum?" Mrs. Cobb explained in a low voice, "My husband is rabid on the subject. He's always feuding with City Hall. Of course, he's probably right. The police would be glad to label it an accident and close the case. They can't be bothered with Junktown." Then her expression perked up; she had the face of a woman who relishes gossip. "Why were you asking about the detectives! Do you have any suspicions?" "Nothing definite, but it was almost too freakish to dismiss as an accident." "Maybe you're right. Maybe there was something going on that nobody knows about." She shivered. "The idea gives me goosebumps…. By the way, I sold the brass candlesticks from your apartment, but I've given you a Sussex pig — very rare. The head comes off, and you can drink out of it." "Thanks," said Qwilleran.
He started down the front steps and halted abruptly. That toothbrush that Yum Yum had brought him! It had a blue handle, and the handle of his old toothbrush, he seemed to recall, was green…. Or was it?
9
Qwilleran walked to The Blue Dragon with a long stride, remembering the vulnerable Mary of the night before, but he was greeted by another Mary — the original one — aloof and inscrutable in her Japanese kimono. She was alone in the shop. She sat in her carved teakwood chair, as tall and straight as the wisp of smoke ascending from her cigarette.
"I got your message," he said, somewhat dismayed at the chilly reception. "You did say you wanted to see me, didn't you?" "Yes. I am very much disturbed." She laid down the long cigarette holder and faced him formally.
"What's the trouble?" "I used poor judgment last night. I am afraid," she said in her precise way, "that I talked too much." "You were delightful company. I enjoyed every minute." "That's not what I mean. I should never have revealed my family situation." "You have nothing to be afraid of. I gave you my word." "I should have remembered the trick your Jack Jaunti played on my father, but unfortunately the Scotch I was drinking — " "You were completely relaxed. It was good for you. Believe me, I would never take advantage of your confidence." Mary Duckworth gave him a penetrating look. There was something about the man's moustache that convinced people of his sincerity. Other moustaches might be villainous or supercilious or pathetic, but the outcropping on Qwilleran's upper lip inspired trust.
Mary took a deep breath and softened slightly. "I believe you. Against my will I believe you. It's merely that — " "Now may I sit down?" "I'm sorry. How rude of me. Please make yourself comfortable. May I offer you a cup of coffee?" "No, thanks. I've just had soup at The Three Weird Sisters." "Clam chowder, I suppose," said Mary with a slight curl of the lip. "Their shop always reminds me of a fish market." "It was very good chowder." "Canned, of course." Qwilleran sensed rivalry and was inwardly pleased. "Any bad dreams last night?" he asked.
"No. For the first time in months I was able to sleep well. You were quite right. I needed to talk to someone." She paused and looked in his eyes warmly, and her words i were heartfelt. "I'm grateful, Qwill." "Now that you're feeling better," he said, "would you do something for me? Just to satisfy my curiosity?" "What do you want?" She was momentarily wary.
"Would you give me a few more details about the night of the accident? It's not morbid interest, I assure you.
Purely intellectual curiosity." She bit her lip. "What else can I tell you? I've given you the whole story." "Would you draw me a diagram of the room where you discovered the body?" He handed her a ball-point pen and a scrap of paper from his pocket — the folded sheet of newsprint that was his standard equipment. Then he knocked his pipe on an ashtray and went through the process of filling and lighting.
Mary gave him a skeptical glance and started to sketch slowly. "It was in the workroom-at the rear of Andy's shop.
The back door is here," she said. "To the right is a long workbench with pigeonholes and hangers for tools. Around the edge of the room Andy had furniture and other items, waiting to be glued or refinished or polished." "Including chandeliers?" "They were hanging overhead — perhaps a dozen of them. Lighting fixtures were Andy's specialty." "And where was the stepladder?" "In the middle of the room there was a cleared space — about fifteen feet across. The stepladder was off to one side of this area." She marked the spot with an X. "And the crystal chandelier was on the floor nearby — completely demolished." "To the right or left of the ladder?" "To the right." She made another X.
"And the position of the body?" "Just to the left of the stepladder." "Face down?" She nodded.
Qwilleran drew long and slowly on his pipe. "Was Andy right-handed or left-handed?" Mary stiffened with suspicion. "Are you sure the newspaper didn't send you to pry into this incident?" "The Fluxion couldn't care less. All my paper wants is an entertaining series on the antiquing scene. I guess I spent too many years on the crime beat. I've got a compulsion to check everything out." The girl studied his sober gaze and the downcurve of the ample mo
ustache, and her voice became tender. "You miss your former work, don't you, Qwill? I suppose antiques seem rather mild after the excitement you've been accustomed to." "It's an assignment," he said with a shrug. "A newsman covers the story without weighing the psychic rewards." Her eyes flickered downward. "Andy was right-handed," she said after a moment's pause. "Does it make my difference?" Qwilleran studied her sketch. "The stepladder was here…and the broken chandelier was over here. And the finial, where he fell, was… to the left of the ladder?" "Yes." "In the middle of the floor? That was a strange place for a lethal object like that." "Well, it was — toward the edge of the open space — with he other items that had been pushed back around the walls." "Had you seen it there before?" "Not exactly in that location. The finial, like everything else, moved about frequently. The day before the accident was on the workbench. Andy was polishing the brass ball." "Was it generally known that he owned the finial?" "Oh, yes. Everyone assured him he had bought a white elephant. Andy quipped that some fun — type suburbanite would think it was a fun thing for serving pretzels." "How did he acquire it in the first place? The auctioneer said it came from an old house that had been torn down." "Andy bought it from Russell Patch. Russ is a great scrounger. In fact, that's how he fractured his leg. He and Cobb were stripping an empty house, and Russ slipped off the roof." "Let me get this straight," Qwilleran said. "Andy didn't believe in scrounging, and yet he was willing to buy from scroungers? Technically that finial was hot merchandise." Mary's shrug was half apology for Andy and half rebuke for Qwilleran.
He smoked his pipe in silence and wondered about this girl who was disarmingly candid one moment and wary the next — lithe as a willow and strong as an oak — masquerading under an assumed name — absolutely sure of certain details and completely blank about others — alternately compassionate and aloof.
After a while he said, "Are you perfectly satisfied that Andy's death was accidental?" There was no response from the girl — merely an unfathomable stare.
The Cat Who Turned On and Off Page 7