"Didjus want something?" asked the waiter, who was never out of earshot.
Qwilleran waved him away, but before the man left he rearranged the sticky salt and pepper shakers and whisked an imaginary crumb off the plastic tablecloth.
"What I'd really like," William went on, "I'd like to be a private operator. I read a lot of detective stories, and I think I'd be pretty good at it."
"Investigative work fascinates me, too," Qwilleran confided. "I used to cover the crime beat in Chicago and New York."
"You did? Did you cover any big cases? Did you cover the Valentine's Day massacre?"
"I'm not that old, sonny."
"Didn't you ever want to be a detective yourself?"
"Not really." Qwilleran preened his mustache. "But a reporter sharpens his faculty for observation and gets in the habit of asking questions. I've been asking myself questions ever since I came to Maus Haus."
"Like what?"
"Who screamed at three-thirty Wednesday morning? Why was the pottery door locked? How did Maus get his black eye? What happened to Joy Graham's cat? What's happened to Joy Graham?"
"You think something's happened to her?"
The waiter was hovering around the table. "Wudjus like to order now?"
Qwilleran took a deep breath of exasperation. "Yes, bring me some escargots, vichyssoise, boeuf Bourguignon, and a small salade Nicoise."
There was a long silence, then, "Wudjus say that again?"
"Never mind," said Qwilleran. "Just bring me a frozen hamburger, gently warmed, and some canned peas."
William ordered cream of mushroom soup, pot roast with mashed potatoes, and salad with Thousand Island dressing. "Say, is it true you used to be engaged to her?" he asked Qwilleran.
"Joy? That was a long time ago. Who told you?"
William looked wise. "I found out, that's all. Do you still like her?"
"Of course. But not in the same way."
"A lot of people at Maus Haus like her. Ham Hamilton was nuts about her. I think that's why he had himself transferred — to stay out of trouble."
Qwilleran groomed his mustache; another possible clue was gnawing at his upperlip. "Did you hear anything or notice anything unusual the night she disappeared?"
"No, I played gin with Rosemary until ten o'clock. Then she had to take her beauty treatment on her slant board, so I tried to find Hixie, but she was out. I watched TV for a while. Once I heard Dan's car pull out of the carport, but I was in bed by midnight. I have an early class on Wednesdays."
The waiter brought the soup. "Wudjus like some crackers?"
"By the way," Qwilleran asked the houseboy, "do you know what they mean by a 'slob potter'? I've heard Dan called a slob potter."
William's explosive laugh rang through the restaurant. "You mean slab potter, although you're not so very far off base. Dan rolls out the clay in flat slabs and builds square and rectangular pieces that way."
"Do you think he's good?"
"Who am I to say? I'm really a slob potter. . . This is crummy soup."
"Is it canned?"
"No, worse! It tastes like I made it."
"Dan says he's aiming for big things in New York and Europe."
"Yeah, I know. And I guess he means it. He got a passport in the mail last week."
"He did? How do you know?"
"I was there when the mail came. I guess it was a passport. It was in a thick brown envelope that said 'Passport Office' or something like that in the corner."
The waiter served the main course. "Wudjus like ketchup?"
"No ketchup," said Qwilleran. "No mustard. No steak sauce. No chili sauce."
William said, "If you want to see Mickey Maus have a cat fit, just mention ketchup."
"I hear Maus is a widower. What happened to his wife?"
"She choked to death a couple of years ago. They say she choked on a bone in the chicken Marengo. She was a lot older than Mickey Maus. I think he likes older women. Look at Charlotte!"
"What about Charlotte?"
"I mean, the way he butters her up all the time. At first I thought Charlotte was his mother. Max thinks she's his mistress. Hixie says Mickey Maus is the illegitimate son of Charlotte and that old guy who started the Heavenly Hash business." William howled with merriment.
"I hear Max is having a rough time at the Golden Lamb Chop."
"Too bad. I've got my theories about that, too."
"Like what?"
"Like he goes for chicks, you know, on a wholesale scale. And he doesn't bother to play by the rules."
"You think there might be a jealous husband in the picture?"
"It's just a guess. Hey, why don't you and I open a detective agency? It wouldn't take much capital. . . Look out! Here comes Professor Moriarty again."
"Wudjus like some more butter?" asked the waiter.
For a while Qwilleran concentrated on his hamburger, which had been grilled to the consistency of a steel-belted radial tire, and William concentrated on satisfying his youthful appetite.
"I have to get up at six tomorrow morning," he remarked. "Gotta go to the farmers' market with Mickey."
"I wouldn't mind going along," Qwilleran said. "It might be a story."
"Never been there? It's a gas! Just meet us in the kitchen at six-thirty. Want me to call you?"
"Thanks, but I've got an alarm clock. Three of them, counting the cats."
William ordered strawberry cheesecake for dessert. "Best wallpaper paste I've ever eaten," he said.
Qwilleran ordered black coffee, which was served in a mug with the flavor of detergent lingering on the rim. "By the way," he said, "did you ever watch Joy Graham when she was using the wheel?"
His guest nodded, his mouth full of cheesecake.
"Which wheel did she use?"
"The kick-wheel. Why?"
"Never the electric?"
"No, she has to do everything the hard way, when it comes to pottery. Don't ask me why. I know she's a friend of yours, but she does some wacky things."
"She always did."
"Know what I overheard at the dinner last Monday? She was talking to Tweedledee and Tweedledum — "
"The Penniman brothers?"
William nodded. "She was trying to sell them some old papers she found in the pottery somewhere. She said they could have them for five thousand dollars!" "She was kidding," Qwilleran said, without conviction.
They left the Petrified Bagel after the waiter's final solicitation: "Wudjus like a toothpick?"
Qwilleran went home on the bus. William was going to visit his mother.
"It's her birthday," the houseboy explained, "and I've bought her some cheap perfume. It doesn't matter what you give her; she makes insulting remarks about everything, so what's the use?"
In the Great Hall at Maus Haus, Dan was again working on the exhibit, pushing and pulling massive tables and benches into position for the display of pots. He was humming "Loch Lomond."
Qwilleran forgot his morning irritation with the publicity-seeking potter. "Here, let me help you," he offered.
Dan looked at Qwilleran warily, and his mouth dropped open. "Sorry if I said anything to get you riled up. I didn't know Maus would go blabbing it around."
"No harm done."
"It's your money. It's your business what you do with it, I guess."
"Forget it."
"Got a postcard today," Dan said. "Mailed from Cincinnati."
Qwilleran gulped twice before answering. "From your wife? How's everything?" He tried to speak casually. "Will she be back for the champagne party?"
"Guess not. She wants me to mail her summer duds to her in Miami."
"Miami!"
"Yep. Guess she's going to soak up some sunshine before she comes home. Do her some good. Give her a chance to think things over."
"No bad feeling; then?"
Dan scratched his head. "Husband and wife have to keep their identity, especially when they're artists. She'll get rid of that fuzzy feeling and come back, sassy as ever. We have our blowups; what couple doesn't?" He smiled his twisted smile, so much an imitation of Joy's smile that Qwilleran felt his flesh crawl. It was grotesque.