The Cat Who Could Read Backwards by Lilian Jackson Braun

Probably a Mr. George, a Mr. Bonifield, and a Mr. Mountclemens. No one man could cause so much trouble, or be so hated, or have such an ambiguous image."
     
     
"You just don't know about critics, that's all. You're used to cops and robbers."
     
     
"I have an alternate theory, if you don't buy my first one."
     
     
"What's that?"
     
     
"It's a phenomenon of the electronics age. The art column is turned out by a battery of computers in Rochester, New York."
     
     
"What did Bruno put in your tomato juice?" Arch said.
     
     
"Well, I'm telling you one thing: I won't believe George Bonifield Mountclemens until I see him."
     
     
"All right. How about tomorrow or Wednesday? He's been out of town, but he's back now. We'll line up an appointment for you."
     
     
"Let's make it for lunch - here. We can eat upstairs - off a tablecloth."
     
     
Arch shook his head. "He won't come to the Press Club. He never comes downtown. You'll probably have to go to his apartment."
     
     
"Okay, line it up," said Qwilleran, "and maybe I'll take Bruno's advice and rent a bulletproof vest."
     
     
-5-
     
     
Qwilleran spent Tuesday morning at the Board of Education Building, viewing an exhibition of school children's art. He hoped to write something tenderly humorous about the crayoned sailboats floating in the sky, the purple houses with green chimneys, the blue horses that looked like sheep, and the cats-cats- cats.
     
     
After his venture into the uncomplicated world of juvenile art, Qwilleran returned to the office in a state of contented detachment. His arrival in the Feature Department caused an unnatural silence. Typewriters stopped chattering. Heads that had been bent over proofs were suddenly raised. Even the green telephones were respectfully quiet.
     
     
Arch said, "We've got news for you, Jim. We called Mountclemens to make an appointment for you, and he wants you to go tomorrow night. To dinner!"
     
     
"Huh?"
     
     
"Aren't you going to faint? The rest of the department did."
     
     
"I can see the headline now," said Qwilleran. "Critic Poisons Reporter's Soup."
     
     
"He's supposed to be a great cook," Arch said. "A real gourmet. If you're lucky, he'll postpone the arsenic until dessert. Here's his address."
     
     
At six o'clock Wednesday night Qwilleran took a cab to 26 Blenheim Place. The address was in an old section of town, once a fashionable neighborhood of stately homes. Most of them had become cheap rooming houses or quarters for odd business enterprises. There was a mender of antique porcelain, for example; Qwilleran guessed he was a bookie. Next door was an old coin shop, probably a front for a dope ring. As for the
     
     
manufacturer of burlesque costumes, there was no doubt in Qwilleran's mind as to the real nature of that establishment.
     
     
In the midst of it all, one proud and plucky town house was making a last stand. It had a respectable residential air. It was tall for its width and primly Victorian, even to the ornamental iron fence. This was No. 26.
     
     
Qwilleran dodged a pair of neighborhood drunks careening down the sidewalk and walked up the stone steps to the small portico, where three mailboxes indicated the building had been made into apartments.
     
     
He smoothed his moustache, which was lively with curiosity and anticipation, and rang the bell. A buzzer unlocked the front door, and he walked into a tile- floored vestibule. Before him was another door, also locked - until a buzzer of another tone released it.
     
     
Qwilleran stepped into a palatial but dimly lighted entrance hall that enveloped him with its furnishings. He was aware of large gilt picture frames, mirrors, statuary, a table supported by gold lions, a carved bench like a church pew. Red carpet covered the hall floor and the stairway, and from the top of the flight came a voice with a finely honed edge:
     
     
"Come right up, Mr. Qwilleran."
     
     
The man at the top of the stairs was excessively tall and