"I've had two stolen," said the receptionist comfortingly. "Now I drive an old piece of junk." Next he called the precinct station, and a bored sergeant took the information, saying they would try to send an officer to the building.
Then he called Mary and broke the news.
"I sympathize," she said. "I don't own a car anymore. I take taxis or rent a car when I need transportation." "They're sending an officer over here." "Don't count on it too much, Qwill." Suddenly he was enormously hungry. He fed the cats hurriedly and went out to dinner, riding down on Old Red.
When it stopped at Four, Yazbro stepped aboard, squinting at Qwilleran with a glimmer of hostile recognition.
"My car has just been stolen," Qwilleran said to enlist the man's sympathy.
Yazbro grunted something unintelligible.
"It was parked in #28, next to your slot. Was it there when you left this morning?" "Di'n't notice." Qwilleran went to the deli for an early dinner. All he wanted was a bowl of chicken soup with matzo balls, a pastrami sandwich two inches thick, a dish of rice pudding, and some time to sort out his feelings about life in the big city.
The Press Club was not what it used to be. The staffers at the Daily Fluxion were all new and uninteresting. There was no one whose company he enjoyed half as much as that of Polly Duncan and Arch Riker, not to mention Larry Lanspeak, Chief Brodie, Junior Goodwinter, Roger MacGillivray, and a dozen others. The Casablanca itself was a disaster, and the Countess would never agree to sell to the Klingenschoen Fund. And the last straw was the theft of his car.
Even the prospect of writing a book on the Casablanca was losing its appeal. At this moment he had only one reason to stay. He wanted to have lunch with Lieutenant Hames as soon as the detective returned to town. He wanted to tell him about Koko's discoveries: first the bloodstain, then the bracelet, and finally the confession on the wall. He would relate how the cat found the exact spot where the artist was said to have jumped from the terrace. Then he would advance his theory that special-interest groups were resorting to criminal means to clear the way for the Gateway Alcazar: knifing the heir to the Casablanca and throwing her lover from the terrace, after drugging them both. But in attempting to frame Ross they had used an unlikely signature on his alleged confession and had misspelled Dianne. Furthermore, one tenant heard screams as the body plummeted to earth. As a newsman Qwilleran had seen suicides jump off high buildings and bridges, and they jumped in desperate silence.
He walked home slowly and found the crumbling front steps a disgrace, the lobby grim, the tenants depressing, and Old Red an affront to human dignity. Koko met him at the door as usual and trotted to the library as usual, where he took up his position on the Van Gogh volume as usual, tensing his taillike a corkscrew.
"What are you trying to tell me?" Qwilleran asked him. "Was that Vincent's favorite perch?" The thought crossed his mind that Vincent had witnessed the murder, and he had an irrational desire to visit the Bessinger-Todd Gallery once more.
When he phoned, he was answered in a hurry. "Is the gallery still open?" he asked. "This is Jim Qwilleran at the Casablanca." "I've just locked the door. This is Jerry Todd. What can I do for you?" "I never had a chance to talk with you about artwork for my barn, and I may be leaving soon." "If you want to come over, I'll wait," the art dealer suggested.
"Be right there." Qwilleran ran downstairs, thinking it quicker and easier than taking the elevator. He hailed a cab and arrived at the gallery within minutes.
Todd unlocked the door. "That was fast." "I see you've sold a lot of things since Friday night," said Qwilleran, observing the empty walls.
"Very successful opening," the dealer said cheerfully, pinching his nose in the odd way he had. "The Pizza Eaters, The Wing Ding Eaters and The Hot Dog Eaters all went to one buyer, a fastfood chain. They wanted them for their corporate headquarters. It will occupy an entire floor of the Gateway Alcazar. Did you see anything you liked at the opening?" "Nothing suitable for a barn, to tell the truth." "Perhaps you should consider contemporary tapestries if you're going to have a lot of wood surfaces. We have one artist who does abstract weavings in nature themes. I can show you pictures of her work." He produced an album of color slides.
Qwilleran, who truthfully had no plans to convert his barn, was captivated. "How large are they?" "She takes commissions to order, including some huge tapestries for hotel lobbies. You'd never guess it, but she's just a tiny little thing. Here's her picture." The artist had a roguish pixie face that appealed to Qwilleran. "Your suggestion is certainly something for me to consider," he said. "I'll get back to you after I consult my architect." "Architects approve of her tapestries. They complement rather than compete with the architecture, and her perception of dimension is outstanding. She shows great sensitivity with threads, and of course she dyes her own colors." At that moment a mushroom-tinted Persian walked into the room waving a plumed tail. "Is that Vincent?" Qwilleran asked.
"Yes, that's Vincent. He was Dianne's cat and I adopted him. They don't allow pets where I live, but he's happy in the gallery, and customers like him," said Todd, pinching his nose. Vincent circled the two men with dignity and oscillating tail.
"Did he experience any psychological trauma as a result of the Labor Day incident?" "Apparently not. She always locked him up in the bedroom when she had company. He liked the waterbed, so he didn't object. In fact, when he came to live at the gallery, I bought him a cat-size waterbed." "You did? Where did you buy it? I have a cat who'd like a waterbed." "From a mail-order catalogue. I can get the information for you if you're interested." "I'd appreciate that. And by the way, when Vincent lived at the Casablanca, did he make a habit of sitting on any of the art books?" "Not that guy! He always looks for the softest seat in the house!" Qwilleran cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you, Mr. Todd, and I hope it won't be too distasteful. Since living in the penthouse I've found evidence that Ross did not commit the murder and did not take his own life." Todd gulped and pinched his nose. "What kind of evidence?" "That's something I can't discuss until I've talked with my friend at the Homicide Squad." "Oh, God! Does that mean the case will be re-opened? We've had enough notoriety! Nobody knows me as a gallery director anymore; I'm the ex-husband of a murdered woman. I swear there are people who think I did it!" In a kindly vein Qwilleran went on. "I understand there was a cocktail party the evening before Labor Day. If you were there and can recall some of the other guests, it may help corroborate my suspicions." "I was there!" Todd said grimly. "Di had invited a lot of people including the girl from the newspaper, so I felt I should make an appearance. Ylana Targ. She writes the art column." "How late did you stay?" "Till about ten o'clock. I wanted to leave earlier because one fellow had brought jazz records, and jazz drives me up the wall, but it started raining - a real cloudburst. The skylight started leaking, and we had to put pots and pans around to catch the drips." "Who was there when you left?" "Ross, of course. Di and Ylana and Ross and another fellow from the building were playing Scrabble. A few others were in the living room, drinking and passing smokes around. I don't remember who they were." "The fellow who made a fourth for Scrabble - do you know his name, or what he looked like?" "He was slick- looking... well-groomed...sort of like a male model." "Well, I won't detain you any longer," Qwilleran said. "Thanks for staying open. I'll call you about the tapestries when I get back to Pickax. I think we can do business." He returned home, changed into a sweatshirt, track-lighted the gallery, filled the ice bucket on the bar, and put a bowl of cashews on the cocktail table. "Care for a few rounds of Scrabble while we're waiting?" he asked Koko.