"William," she said, "may I speak with Mr. Maus?… Please tell him it's Mary Duxbury…. That's what I was afraid of. Just a moment." She turned to Qwilleran. "The houseboy says Bob is making hollandaise for the kohlrabi and can't be interrupted." "Tell him the Daily Fluxion is about to print a vile rumor about one of his clients." The attorney came to the telephone (Qwilleran could visualize him, wearing an apron, holding a dripping spoon) and said he knew nothing about a manuscript; nothing had turned up among the papers of the Andrew Glanz estate.
"Then where is it?" Qwilleran asked Mary. "Do you suppose it was destroyed — by someone who had reason to want it suppressed? What was in the chapter that you read?" "It was about a woman who was plotting to poison her husband. It immediately captured one's interest." "Why didn't Andy let you read more?" "He was quite secretive about his novel. Don't you think most writers are sensitive about their work before it's published?" "Perhaps all the characters were drawn from life. Mrs. McGuffey seemed to think they were wildly imaginary, but I doubt whether she's in a position to know. She's lived a sheltered life. Perhaps Andy's story exposed a few Junktown secrets that would prove embarrassing — or incriminating." "He wouldn't have done anything like that! Andy was so considerate — " Qwilleran clenched his teeth. So considerate, so honest, so clever, so intelligent. He knew it by heart. "Perhaps you were in the story, too," he told Mary. "Perhaps that's why Andy wouldn't let you read farther. You may have been so transparently disguised that your position would be revealed and your family would crack down on you." Mary's eyes flashed. "No! Andy would never have been so unkind." "Well, we'll never know now!" Qwilleran started to leave and then turned back. "You know this Hollis Prantz. He says he used to be in the paint and wallpaper business and he retired because of a weak heart, and yet he's as agile as a fox. He was varnishing display cases when I was there today — " "Varnishing?" Mary asked.
"He said he was getting ready for the Block Party tomorrow, and yet he has very little merchandise to offer." "Varnishing on a day like this? It will never dry! If you varnish in damp weather, it remains sticky forever." "Are you sure?" "It's a fact. You may think it's dry, but whenever the humidity is high, the surface becomes tacky again." Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. "Strange mistake to make, isn't it?" "For someone who claims he's been in the paint business," Mary said, "it's an incredible mistake!" Later, the rain turned to a treacherous wet snow as fine as fog, and Qwilleran went to a cheap clothing store in the neighborhood to buy a red hunting cap with earflaps. He also borrowed the Cobb flashlight and crowbar in preparation for his scrounging debut.
But first he had an invitation to drop in on Russell Patch at the cocktail hour to hear the twenty thousand dollar sound system. He went home and trussed Koko in the blue harness. The leash had unaccountably disappeared, but it was not necessary for a social call. The harness alone made Koko look trim and professional, and it afforded a good grip while Qwilleran was carrying the cat down the street. "This trip," he explained to his purring accomplice, "is not purely in the pursuit of culture. I want you to nose around and see if you can turn up anything significant." The carriage house was two doors away, and Qwilleran tucked Koko inside his overcoat to keep him dry. They entered through the refinishing shop, and their host led them up a narrow staircase to a dazzling apartment. The floor was a checkerboard of large black and white tiles, and a dozen white marble statues on white pedestals were silhouetted against the walls, some of which were painted dull black, some shiny red.
Russell introduced his roommate, a sallow young man who was either shy or furtive and who wore on his finger a diamond of spectacular brilliance, and Qwilleran introduced Koko, who was now riding on his shoulder. Koko regarded the two strangers briefly and dismissed them at once by turning and staring in the opposite direction.
The music that filled the room was the busy kind of fiddling and tootling that made Qwilleran nervous. It came at him from all directions." "Do you like baroque music?" Russ asked. "Or would you prefer another type?" "Koko prefers something more soothing," Qwilleran replied.
"Stan, put on that Schubert sonata." The sound system occupied a bank of old kitchen cabinets transformed into an Italian Renaissance breakfront, and Koko immediately checked it out.
"Stan, make us a drink," Russell ordered. "Say, that cat isn't vicious at all. I heard he was a wild one!" "If you also heard that I'm a private eye, it's a lie," said Qwilleran.
"Glad of that. I'd hate to see anyone loafing around Junktown digging up dirt. We've worked hard to build a good image here." "I dug up an interesting fact, however. I learned your friend Andy was writing a novel about Junktown." "Oh, sure," said Russ. "I told him he was wasting his time. Unless you dish out a lot of sex, who buys novels?" "Maybe he did just that. Had you read the manuscript?" Russ laughed. "No, but I can guess what it was like. Andy was a prune, a real prune." "The funny thing is that the manuscript has disappeared." "He probably scrapped it. I told you how he was — a perfectionist." Qwilleran accepted the ginger ale he had requested and said to Stan, "Are you in the antique business?" "I'm a hairdresser," Stan said quietly.
"A lucrative field, I hear." "I do all right." Russ volunteered, "If you want to know what really keeps him in Jaguars and diamonds, he plays the stock market." "Are you interested in the market?" Stan asked the newsman.
"To tell the truth, I've never had anything to invest, so I've never made a study of it." "You don't have to know much," Stan said. "You can go in for no-load mutuals or do like me. I have a discretionary account, and my broker doubles my money every year." "You mean that?" Qwilleran lighted his pipe thoughtfully. He was making a computation. If he won one of the Fluxion's top prizes, he could run it up to… two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two thousand in five years. Perhaps, after all, he was wasting his time trying to make murders out of molehills.
As for Koko, he had checked the place out and was now lounging near a heat register, ignoring the Schubert.
"Say, I'd like to try something," Russ said. "I've got some electronic music that hits the high frequencies-white noise, computer music, synthesized sound, and all that. Let's see if the cat reacts. Animals can hear things beyond the human range." "Okay with me," Qwilleran said. The Schubert came to an end, and then the thirty-six speakers gave out a concert of whines and whinnies, blats and bleeps, flutterings and tweeterings that baffled the ear- drums. At the first squawk Koko pricked up his ears, and in a moment he was on his feet. He looked bewildered. He ran across the room, changed course and dashed back erratically.
"He doesn't like it," Qwilleran protested.
The music slid into a series of hollow whispers and echoes, with pulsing vibrations. Koko raced across the room and-threw himself against the wall.
"You'd better turn it off!" "This is great! " Russ said. "Stan, did you ever see anything like this?" From the speakers came an unearthly screech. Koko rose in the air, faster than the eye could register, and landed on top of the stereo cabinets.
"Turn it off!" Qwilleran shouted above the din. It was too late. Koko had swooped down again, landing on Russ Patch's head, digging in with his claws, until the bellow that came from the man's throat sent him flying through space.
Russ touched his hand to his temple and found blood. "Serves you right," said Stan quietly, as he flipped the switch on the stereo.
Moments later, when Qwilleran took Koko home, the cat was outwardly calm, but the man could feel his trembling.