Robert Maus had not exaggerated. Every five years the Fluxion had resurrected the story of the mysteri- ous deaths at the pottery, most likely to embarrass the Morning Rampage. The rival newspaper was still financed by the Penniman family. It had been old Hugh Penniman who built the strange art center and hobnobbed with its arty residents.
The stories, written in the old-fashioned Sunday supplement style, related how "a handsome young sculptor" by the name of Mortimer Mellon had fallen in love with "the lovely Helen Maude Hake," a lady potter. She, alas, happened to be the "protegee" of Hugh Penniman, "the well-known philanthropist." Following a "wild party" at the pottery, the body of the "lovelorn sculptor" was found in the river, and a verdict of accidental death was pronounced by the coroner. Not satisfied with the disposition of the case, reporters from the Fluxion attempted to interview other artists at the pottery, but the "slovenly Bohemians" showed "an insolent lack of cooperation." Soon afterward the episode came to "its final tragic end" when "the lovely Helen" took her own life, following Mortimer "to a watery grave." She left a suicide note that was never made public.
Just as Qwilleran finished reading, he heard a thud at the opposite end of the room, and he turned to see a book with a red cover lying open and facedown on the floor. With a softer thump Koko landed on the floor beside it and started nosing it across the slippery tile floor.
"Bad cat!" Qwilleran scolded. It was a library book-an old one, none too solid in the spine. "The librarian will have you shot! Bad cat!" Qwilleran repeated.
As he scowled his displeasure, he saw Koko slowly arch his back and flatten his ears. The cat's brown tail stiffened, and he began to step around the book in a strange long-legged dance. He circled the book once, twice, three times, and Qwilleran felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. Once before, in an icy courtyard, he had seen Koko perform that ritual. Once before, the cat had walked around and around and around, and the thing he circled was a body.
Now it was a book he was circling — an old red book titled The Ancient Art of Potting. The silence was broken only by the mournful sound of a boat whistle on the river.
9
Before going to bed Thursday night Qwilleran telephoned the Fluxion's night man at police headquarters and asked him to check for unidentified bodies dragged from the river in the last forty-eight hours.
Kendall called back with the information. "There was one," he said. "Male. Caucasian. About sixty years old. Is that your boy?"
Qwilleran slept fitfully that night, and between his restless moments he dreamed about seaweed — great curtains of seaweed undulating with the motion of the waves. Then it became a head of green hair swirling in dirty brown water.
When he awoke in the morning he had a feeling; that his bones had turned to jelly. He dressed wearily, ignoring the cats, and they seemed to sense that he was preoccupied; they kept out of his way. It was when he started downstairs for a steadying cup of coffee that he walked into the situation that stiffened his spirit. He met Robert Maus on the stairs.
The attorney stopped and faced him squarely, and the newsman saw that the black eye had faded to a banana-peel yellow. Maus gave the impression that he was about to say something momentous, and after a few long seconds it came out: "Mr. Qwilleran, do you, by any chance, have a moment of your valuable time to spare?"
"I guess so."
They went to Maus's apartment, a comfortable: place done in English antiques and broccoli-green; leather, with much polished brass and steel.
The attorney bowed and motioned Qwilleran to a Bank of England chair. "The matter I have to discuss," he said, "concerns Mrs. Graham. I find it somewhat, shall I say, painful to approach you in this manner, and you must not, under any circumstance, consider this an accusation or even a reproach. However. . . a matter has been brought to my attention, signifying that a word with you at this time would not be amiss — in consideration of the apprehensions I entertain concerning what I humbly describe as . . . the respectability of this establishment."
"What the devil is the problem?" Qwilleran demanded.
The attorney raised a protesting hand. "Nothing that could be termed — in any real and active sense — a problem, I assure you, but rather a situation that has been brought to my cognizance. . . and in apprising you of the fact I am seeking neither confirmation nor denial. . . my only interest being to maintain good relationships. . ."
"Okay, what's this all about?" Qwilleran snapped. "Let's have it!"
Maus paused as if counting to ten and then stated slowly and carefully, "Mr. Graham, whom you have met. . . is under the impression. . . that his wife received considerable financial aid from you. . . to make her departure possible. I am not, I repeat — "
Qwilleran jumped to his feet and walked impatiently across the Oriental rug. "How did I know she was going to run off? She was going to get a divorce. You know that as well as I do. And one of your legal buddies had his hand out for more than she could afford. And if Dan has a complaint, why doesn't he come and see me about it?"
Maus lowered the pitch of his voice and spoke apologetically. "He fears — whether with or without cause, I do not know, — that a confrontation might, shall we say, impair his chances of favorable comment in the. . . publication you represent."
"Or — to put it more honestly — he's hoping his accusation will make me feel so guilty that I'll knock myself out to get a picture of his pots on the front page. It's not the first time I've run up against that simpleminded strategy. It's a stupid move, and I may get mad enough to forget the free publicity entirely. You can tell him that!"
Maus raised both hands. "Let us preserve our equanimity, at all costs, and bear in mind that my only motive intervening is to prevent any taint of . . .
scandal."
"You're apt to have something worse than scandal on your hands!" Qwilleran roared as he stormed out of the apartment.
He was still irritable when he arrived at the Fluxion to pick up his paycheck and open his mail. He went through his mail hopefully each day, and his pulse still skipped a beat every time the telephone jangled, although instinct told him there would be no word from Joy.
In the feature department he said to Riker, "Come on down to the coffee shop. I've got a few things to tell you."
"Before I forget it," the feature editor said, "would you attend a press luncheon this noon and write a few inches for tomorrow's paper? They're introducing a new product."
"What kind of product?"
"A new dog food."
"Dog food! Isn't that stretching my responsibilities I as gourmet reporter?"
"Well, you haven't done anything else to earn your paycheck this week — not that I can see. . . Come on. What's on your mind?"
The Fluxion coffee shop was in the basement, and at midmorning it was the noisiest and therefore the most private conference room in the building. Newspaper deadlines being what they were, the compositors were having their dinner, the pressmen were having their lunch, the advertising representatives were having breakfast, and the clerical workers were having their first coffee break. The concrete-walled room shook with the roar of nearby presses; customers were shouting at one another; counter girls yelled orders; cooks barked replies; busboys slammed dishes; and a radio was bleating without an audience for the reason that it could not possibly be heard. The resulting din made the coffee shop highly desirable for confidential conversations; only mouth-to-ear shouts were audible.