"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."
Qwilleran nodded. "Do you think his drowning was an accident, or suicide, or murder?"
Miss Berry hesitated. "The official verdict was suicide, but some of us — you won't write anything about this, will you? — some of us had our suspicions. When the reporters started hounding us, we all played dumb. We knew which side our bread was buttered on!"
"You suspected. . . Popsie?"
Miss Berry looked startled. "Popsie! How did you — ? Well, never mind. The poor girl jumped in the river soon after. She was pregnant."
"You should have done something about it."
The potter shrugged. "What could we do? Old Mr. Penniman was a wealthy man. His money did a lot of good for the city. And we had no proof. . . He's dead now. Charlotte Roop — that woman I saw downstairs — was his secretary at the time of the drownings. She used to come to our parties, but she was a fifth wheel. We were a wild bunch. The kids today think they've invented free love, but they should have been around when we were young! My, it's nice to be seventy-five and done with all that nonsense. . . Hello, cats," she said again.
The cats were staring at her from their blue cushion — Koko as if he understood every word, and Yum Yum as if she had never seen a human before.
Qwilleran asked, "Why did Charlotte Roop hang around, if she didn't fit in?" He was casually lighting his pipe.
"Well, the gossips said she had a crush on her boss, and she was jealous of his beautiful paramour." Miss Berry lowered her voice. "We always thought it was Charlotte who tattled to Penniman about the affair that was going on behind his back."
"What gave you that impression?"
"Just putting two and two together. After the tragedy, Charlotte had a nervous collapse and quit her job. I lost track of her then. And if somebody didn't tip him off, why would Penniman have cut that peephole in the wall?" She leaned forward and jabbed a finger toward the newsman. "It was just before the tragedy that Penniman commissioned Herb Stock to paint that Egyptian-style mural in the kiln room. Now I can guess why!" Miss Berry sipped her drink and mused about the past. "Penniman was very generous with commissions, but you didn't dare cross him! You couldn't print any of this in your paper, of course."
"Not unless we wanted to start a newspaper war," Qwilleran said. It always amazed him how carelessly people spoke their minds to the press, and how surprised and indignant they were when they found themselves quoted in print.
The telephone rang.
Qwilleran picked up the receiver and said, "Hello? . . . Yes, did Odd Bunsen tell you what we want? . . . You did? Quick work! What did you find? . . . Wine bottles! Anything else? . . . What of broken crockery? . . . All of it?. Wow!. . . . Would you say the broken stuff was once a part of round or square pieces? . . . I see. You've been a great help. How much do I owe you? . . . Well, that's kind of you. Hope it wasn't too cold down there . . . Let me know if I can do anything for you."
Qwilleran offered to take Miss Berry to dinner, but she said she had other plans. As he accompanied her to the door he asked casually, "By the way, what happens if you heat up a kiln too fast?"
"You lose a month's work! The pots explode! It's the most heartbreaking fireworks you ever heard — pop! pop! pop! — one after the other, and it's too late to do anything about it."
Qwilleran was glad Miss Berry had other plans. He wanted to dine alone, to think. First he telephoned Dan Graham's loft and invited the potter in for a drink after dinner. To celebrate, he said. Then he went to Joe Pike's Seafood Hut.
It was a frustrating situation. Qwilleran had all kinds of curious notions that a crime had been committed but no proof — except the forged endorsement on a altered check. Added to the baffling evidence now was the frogman's report. According to his description of the "crockery" found in the river, Dan had dumped a load of broken pots. They were round pots! Joy's work, not his own. And the bright blues and greens described by the diver were the Living Glaze. Even in the muddy water, the diver said, the fragments glowed.
As Qwilleran sipped the green turtle soup, he feared that the situation was hopeless. With the baked clams he began to take heart. Halfway through the red snapper he hit upon an idea, and the salad brought him to a decision. He would take the bold step — a confrontation with Dan — and hope to expose the potter's hand. The manner of approach was the crucial factor. He was sure he could handle it.
Dan arrived at Number Six about nine o'clock, glowing with the day's success. Patting his stomach, he said, "You missed a good supper downstairs. Pork chops and some kind of mashed potatoes. I don't go for the fancy grub that Maus cooks, but the housekeeper can put on an honest-to-gosh feed when she wants to. I'm a meat-and-potatoes man myself. How about you?"
"I can eat anything," Qwilleran said over his shoulder as he rattled ice cubes. "What do you like with your bourbon?"