Under the balconies on both sides of the hall were long tables loaded with ice buckets, rented champagne glasses, and trays of hors d'oeuvres. The waiters were hurriedly enlisted students from the an school, awkward in white coats with sleeves too long or too short.
Qwilleran wandered through the hall and recognized the usual vernissage crowd: museum curators looking scholarly and aloof; gallery directors reserving their opinions; collectors gossiping among themselves; an teachers explaining the pots to one another; miscellaneous artists and craftsmen enjoying the free champagne; Jack Smith, the Fluxion an critic, looking like an undertaker with chronic gastritis; and one little old lady reporter from the Morning Rampage writing down what everyone was wearing.
And then there was Dan Graham, looking as seedy as ever, making a great show of modesty but bursting with vanity, his eyes eagerly fishing for compliments and his brow furrowing with concern whenever anyone asked him about Mrs. Graham.
"Helluva shame," he would say. "She's been working like a dog, and the little old gal was ready to crack up, so I sent her to Florida for some R-and-R. I don't want her to get sick. I don't want to lose her."
Qwilleran said to Graham, "The pottery racket must be booming, if you can afford a bash like this."
Dan gave a twisted smile. "Just got a swell commission from a restaurant in L.A., with a sizable advance, so I went out on a limb for the bubble-water. Maus kicked in the snick-snacks." He jerked his head at the refreshment table, where Mrs. Marron, red-nosed and sniffling, was replenishing the supply of crab puffs, ham fritters, cheese croquettes, cucumber sandwiches, stuffed mushrooms, tiny sausage rolls, and miniature shrimp quiches.
Then Qwilleran sought out Jack Smith. "What do you think of Dan's Living Glaze?"
"I hardly know what to say. He's done the impossible," said the critic, with an expression like cold marble. "How does he get that effect? How does he get that superb red? I saw some of his pots in a group show last winter, and I said they had the character and vitality of sewer crocks. He didn't like that, but it was true. He's come a long way since then. The merit, of course, is all in the glaze. In form they're appallingly pedestrian. Those slab pots! Made with a rolling pin. . . If only they had put his glaze on her pots: I'm going to suggest that in my review."
A young girl in owlish glasses was staring at Qwilleran, and he walked in her direction.
"Was it all right for me to come here, Mr. Qwilleran?" she asked shyly. "You told me to wait forty-eight hours."
"Any word from William?" She shook her head sadly.
"Did you check the bank account?"
"It hasn't been touched, except that the bank added twenty-six cents interest."
"Then you'd better notify the police. And try not to worry. Here, let me get you something to eat or drink. "
"No, thanks. I don't feel like it. I think I'll go home."
Qwilleran escorted her to the door and told her where to catch the River Road bus.
Returning, and wandering among the crowd, he was surprised to see the Penniman brothers. Tweedledurn and Tweedledee, as they were called by irreverent citizens, seldom attended anything below the status-level of a French Post-Impressionist show.
While the other guests accorded them the deference that their wealth and name warranted, the brothers stood quietly listening, neither smoking nor drinking, and wearing the baffled expression that was their normal look at art functions. They represented the money, not the brains, behind the Morning Rampage, Qwilleran had been told.
He edged into the circle surrounding them and deftly maneuvered them away from the fund-raisers, job-seekers, and apple-polishers by a method known only to veteran reporters. "How do you like the show?" he asked.
Basil Penniman, the one with a cast in his left eye, looked at his brother Bayley.
"Interesting," said Bayley, at length.
"Have you ever seen a glaze like that?"
It was Bayley's turn to toss the conversational ball to Basil, whom he regarded inquiringly.
"Very interesting," said Basil.
"This is not for publication, is it?" asked Bayley, suddenly on guard.
"No, an isn't my beat anymore," said Qwilleran. "I just happen to live here. Wasn't it your father who built the place?"
The brothers nodded cautiously.
"This old building must have some fascinating secrets to tell," Qwilleran ventured. There was no reply, but he observed a faint stirring of reaction. "Before Mrs. Graham left town, she lent me some documents dealing with the early days of the pottery. I haven't read them yet, but I imagine they might make good story material. Our readers enjoy anything of a historical nature, especially if there's human interest involved."
Basil looked at Bayley in alarm.
Bayley turned pink. "You can't print anything without permission."
"Mrs. Graham promised the papers to us," said Basil.
"They're family property," his brother echoed.
"We can take legal action to get them."
"Say, what's in those papers?" Qwilleran asked in a bantering tone. "It must be pretty hot stuff! Maybe it's a better story than I thought."
"You print that," said Bayley, his flush deepening to crimson, "and we'll — we'll — "
"Sue," Basil contributed hesitantly.
"We'll sue the Fluxion. That's yellow journalism, that's what it is!" Bayley was now quite purple.
Basil touched his brother's arm. "Be careful. You know what the doctor told you."
"Sorry if I alarmed you," Qwilleran said. "It was all in jest."
"Come," said Basil to Bayley, and they left the hall quickly.
Qwilleran was preening his mustache with wicked satisfaction when he spotted a tall, gaunt, gray-haired woman moving across the hall with halting step. "Inga Berry!" he exclaimed. "I'm Jim Qwilleran."
"Why, I was expecting a much younger man," she said. "Your voice on the phone had so much enthusiasm and — innocence, if you'll pardon the expression."
"Thank you, I think," he replied. "May I get you some champagne?"
"Why not? We'll take a quick look at the dirty old pots and then sit down somewhere and have a nice chat. . . Oh, my! Oh my!" She had caught sight of the Living Glaze. She walked as quickly as she could toward the radiant display, leaning on her furled umbrella. "This is — this is better than I expected!"
"Do you approve?"
"They make me feel like going home and smashing all my own work." She drank her champagne rather fast. "One criticism: It's a shame to waste this magnificent glaze on rolled clay."
"That's what our critic said."
"He's right — for once in his life. You can tell him I said so." She stopped and started across the hall. "Is that Charlotte Roop? Haven't seen her for forty years. Everybody ages but me."
"How about another glass of champagne?"
Miss Berry looked around critically. "Is that all they've got?"
"I have some scotch and bourbon in Number Six, if you'd care to come up," Qwilleran suggested.
"Hot dog!"
"I know you potters have to drink because of the dust."
"You scalawag!" She poked him with the umbrella. "Where did you hear that? You know too much."
She ascended the stairs slowly, favoring one knee, and when the door of Number Six was thrown open, she entered as if in a dream. "My, this brings back memories. Oh, the parties we used to give here! We were devils! . . . Hello, cats. . . Now where's this secret window you told me about?"
Qwilleran uncovered the peephole, and Miss Berry squinted through it.
"Yes," she nodded. "Penniman probably had this window cut for surveillance."
"What would he be spying on?"
"It's a long story." She sat down, groaning a little. "Arthritis," she explained. "Thank God it's in my nether joints. If it happened to my hands, I'd cut my throat. A potter's hands are his fortune. His finest tool is his thumb. . . Thank you. You're a gentleman and a scholar." She accepted a glass of bourbon. "My, this was a busy place in the old days. The pottery was humming. We had easel painters in the studios, and one weaver, and a metalsmith. Penniman had a favorite — a beautiful girl but a mediocre potter. Then along came a young sculptor, and he and the girl fell in love. He was as handsome as the dickens. They tried to keep their affair a secret, but Papa Penniman found out, and soon after that. . . well, they found the young man's body in the river. . . I'm telling you this because you're not like those other reporters. It's all ancient history now. You must be a new boy in town."