"It's my guess," said Qwilleran, "that there's more unconventional conduct in Maus Haus than you realize."
"Spare me the details at the moment. When the exigencies of this day have abated, I shall — "
The telephone rang. "Excuse me," said Qwilleran. He went to the desk and picked up the receiver. "Yes. . . Yes, what can I do for you? . . . Overdrawn! What do you mean?" He opened a desk drawer and brought out his check- book, tucking the receiver between shoulder and ear while he found his current balance. "Seventeen-fifty! That's the wrong figure. I wrote a check for seven-fifty! Seven hundred and fifty dollars. . . I can't believe it.
What's the endorsement? . . . I see. . . Are both signatures quite legible? . . . To be authentic, the last name in the first endorsement should look like G-w-w-w . . . Well, then, it's a forgery. And somebody has tampered with the amount of the check. . . Thanks for calling me. I can track it down at this end. . . No, I don't think there'll be any problem. I'll get back to you."
Qwilleran turned to his visitor, but the attorney had slipped out, closing the door. The newsman sat down and studied his next move with circumspection.
At four o'clock that afternoon the Great Hall was flooded with diffused light from the skylight three stories overhead. It fell on the jewellike objects exhibited on pedestals in the center of the floor. In this dramatic light the Living Glaze was brilliant, magnetic, even hypnotic. Elsewhere in the hall the graceful shapes of Joy's thrown pots, bowls, vases, jars, and pitchers in subtle speckled grays and gray-greens, rough and smooth at the same time, like half-melted ice. Also on display were the brutal, primitive shapes of Dan's earlier slab pots in blackish browns and slate blues, decorated with globs of clay like burnt biscuits.
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."