The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

5

Before going to the cocktail party at David Lyke's apartment, Qwilleran went home to change clothes and give the cat a slice of corned beef he had bought at the delicatessen.

Koko greeted him by flying around the room in a catly expression of joy — over chairs, under tables, around lamps, up to the top of the bookshelves, down to the floor with a thud and a grunt — making sharp turns in midair at sixty miles an hour. Lamps teetered. Ashtrays spun around. The limp curtains rippled in the breeze. Then Koko leaped on the dictionary

and scratched for all he was worth-with his rear end up, his front end down, his tail pointed skyward, like a toboggan slide with a flag on top. He scratched industriously, stopped to look at Qwilleran, and scratched again.

"No time for games," Qwilleran said. "I'm going out. Cocktail party. Maybe I'll bring you home an olive." He put on a pair of pants that had just come from the cleaner, unpinned a newly purchased shirt, and looked for his new tie. He found it draped over the arm of the sofa. There was a hole in it, center front, and Qwilleran groaned. That left only one plaid tie in good condition. He whipped it off the doorknob where it hung and tied it around his neck, grumbling to himself. Meanwhile, Koko sat on the dictionary, hopefully preparing for a game.

"No game tonight," Qwilleran told him again. "You eat your corned beef and then have a nice long nap." The newsman set out for the party with three- fold anticipation. He hoped to make some useful contacts; he was curious about the fashionable and expensive Villa Verandah; and he was looking forward to seeing David Lyke again. He liked the man's irreverent attitude. Lyke was not what Qwilleran had expected a decorator to be. Lyke was neither precious nor a snob, and he wore his spectacular good looks with a casual grace.

The Villa Verandah, a recent addition to the cityscape, was an eighteen-story building curved around a landscaped park, each apartment with a balcony. Qwilleran found his host's apartment alive with the sound of bright chatter, clinking glasses, and music from hidden loudspeakers.

In a pleasant rumbling voice Lyke said: "Is this your first visit to the Villa Verandah? We call this building the Architects' Revenge. The balconies are designed to be too sunny, too windy, and too dirty. The cinders that hurtle through my living room are capable of putting out an eyeball. But it's a good address. Some of the best people live in this building, several of them blind in one eye." He opened a sliding glass door in the glass wall and showed Qwilleran the balcony, where metal furniture stood ankle-deep in water and the wind made ripples on the surface.

"The balconies become wading pools for three days after every rain," he said. "When there's a high wind, the railings vibrate and play' Ave Maria' by the hour. And notice our unique view — a panorama of ninety-two other balconies." The apartment itself had a warmly livable atmosphere. Everywhere there were lighted candles, books in good leather bindings, plants of the exotic type, paintings in important frames, and heaps of pillows. A small fountain in one corner was busy splashing. And the wallpaper was the most sumptuous Qwilleran had ever seen — like silver straw with a tracery of peacocks.

The predominant note was Oriental. He noticed an Oriental screen, some bowlegged black tables, and a Chinese rug in the dining room. Some large pieces of Far Eastern sculpture stood in a bed of pebbles, lighted by concealed spotlights.

Qwilleran said to Lyke, "We should photograph this." "I was going to suggest something else in this building," said the decorator. "I did Harry Noyton's apartment — just a pied-…-terre that he uses for business entertaining, but it's tastefully done in wall-to-wall money. And the colors are smart — in a ghastly way. I've used Eggplant, Spinach, and Overripe Melon." "Who is Harry Noyton?" Qwilleran asked.

"The name sounds familiar." "You must have heard of him. He's the most vocal 'silent partner' in town. Harry owns the ballpark, a couple of hotels, and probably the City Hall." "I'd like to meet him." "You will. He's dropping in tonight. I'd really like to see you publish Harry's country house in Lost Lake Hills — all artsy-craftsy contemporary — but there's an awkward situation in the family at the moment, and it might not be advisable..

.. Now, come and meet some of the guests. Starkweather is here — with his lovely wife, who is getting to be a middle- aged sot, but I can't say that I blame her." Lyke's partner was sitting quietly at one end of the sofa, but Mrs. Starkweather was circulating diligently. There was a frantic gaiety in her aging face, and her costume was a desperate shade of pink. She clung to Lyke in an amorous way when he introduced Qwilleran.

"I'm in love with David," she told the newsman, waving a cocktail glass in a wide arc. "Isn't he just too overwhelming? Those eyes! And that sexy voice!" "Easy, sweetheart," said Lyke. "Do you want your husband to shoot me?" He turned to Qwilleran. "This is one of the hazards of the profession. We're so lovable." After Lyke disengaged himself from Mrs. Stark- weather's grip, she clung to Qwilleran's arm and went on prattling.

"Decorators give marvelous parties! There are always lots of men! And the food is always so good. David has a marvelous caterer. But the drinks are too potent." She giggled. "Do you know many decorators? They're lots of fun. They dress so well and they dance so well. My husband isn't really a decorator. He used to be in the wholesale carpet business. He handles the money at LandS. David is the one with talent. I adore David!" Most of the guests were decorators, Qwilleran discovered. All the men were handsome, the majority of them young.

The women were less so, but what they lacked in beauty and youth they made up in vivacity and impressive clothes.

Everyone had an easy charm. They complimented Qwilleran on his new magazine, the luxuriance of his moustache, and the fragrance of his pipe tobacco.

Conversation flitted from one subject to another: travel, fashion, rare wine, ballet, and the dubious abilities of other decorators. Repeatedly, the name of Jacques Boulanger came up and was dismissed with disapproval.

No one, Qwilleran noticed, was disposed to discuss the November election or the major-league pennant race or the situation in Asia. And none of the guests seemed disturbed by the news of the Tait theft. They were merely amused that it should have happened to a client of David's.

One young man of fastidious appearance approached Qwilleran and introduced himself as Bob Orax. He had an oval aristocratic face with elevated eyebrows.

"Ordinarily," he told the newsman, "I don't follow crime news, but my family knew the Taits, and I was fascinated by the item in today's paper. I had no idea Georgie had amassed so much jade. He and Siggy haven't entertained for years!

Mother went to school with Siggy in Switzerland, you know." "No, I didn't know." "Siggy's family had more brains than influence, Mother says. They were all scientists and architects. And it was rather a coup when Siggy married a rich American. Georgie had hair in those days, according to Mother." "How did the Taits make their money?" Qwilleran asked.

"In a rather quaint and charming way. Georgie's grandfather made a mint — an absolute mint — manufacturing buggy whips. But Mother says Georgie himself has never had a taste for business. Monkey business, perhaps, but nothing that you can put in the bank." "Tait was devoted to his jade collection," said Qwilleran. "I felt very bad about the theft." "That," said Orax loftily, "is what happens when you hire cheap help. When Father was alive, he always insisted on English butlers and Irish maids. My family had money at one time. Now we get by on our connections. And I have a little shop on River Street that helps to keep the wolf from the door." "I'd like to call on you some day," said Qwilleran. "I'm in the market for story material." "Frankly, I doubt whether your readers are quite ready for me," said the decorator. "I specialize in Planned Ugliness, and the idea is rather advanced for the average taste. But do come! You might find it entertaining." "By the way, who is this Jacques Boulanger I keep hearing about?" "Boulanger?" The Orax eyebrows elevated a trifle higher. "He does work for the Duxburies, the Pennimans, and all the other old families in Muggy Swamp." "He must be good." "In our business," said the decorator, "success is not always an indication of excellence…. Bless you! You have no drink! May I get you something from the bar?" It was not the bar that interested Qwilleran. It was the buffet. It was laden with caviar, shrimp, a rarebit in a chafing dish, marinated mushrooms, stuffed artichoke hearts, and savory meatballs in a dill sauce. As he loaded his plate for the third time, he glanced into the kitchen and saw the large stainless-steel warming oven of a professional caterer. A smiling Oriental caught his eye and nodded encouragement, and Qwilleran signaled a compliment in the man's direction.

Meanwhile a guest with a big, ungainly figure and a craggy face sauntered over to the buffet and started popping tidbits into his mouth, washing them down with gulps from a highball glass.

"I like these kids — these decorators," he said to the newsman. "They invite me to a lot of their parties. But how they ever make a living is beyond me! They live in a dream world. I'm a businessman myself-in and out of a dozen enterprises a year — and I make every investment payoff. I'm not in the racket for kicks — like these kids. You understand. You're a newspaperman, aren't you?" "Jim Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion." "You newspaper guys are a good breed. You've got your feet on the ground. I know a lot of journalists. I know the managing editors of both papers, and the Fluxion sports editor, and your financial writer. They've all been up to my hunting lodge. Do you like hunting and fishing?" "I haven't done much of it," Qwilleran admitted.

"To tell the truth, all we do is sit around with a bottle and shoot the breeze. You ought to come up and join us some time…. By the way, I'm Harry Noyton." They shook hands, and Qwilleran said, "David tells me you have a house that might make good story material for the Fluxion's new decorating magazine." Noyton stared at his shoes for a long minute before answering. "Come in the other room where it's quiet," he said.

They went into the breakfast room and sat at a marble-topped table — the promoter with his high-ball glass and Qwilleran with a plate of shrimp and mushrooms.

Noyton said: "Whatever you've heard about my house in the Hills is no lie. It's terrific! And I give David all the credit — that is, Dave and my wife. She's got talent. I don't have any talent myself. All I did was go to engine college for a couple of years." He paused and gazed out the window. "But Natalie is artistic. I'm proud of her." "I'd like to see this house." "Well… here's the problem," said Noyton, taking a long drink from his glass. "The house is going to be sold. You see, Natalie and I are getting a divorce." "Sorry to hear it," said Qwilleran. "I've been over that course myself." "There's no trouble between us, you understand. She just wants out! She's got this crazy idea that she wants an artistic career. Can you imagine that? She's got everything in the world, but she wants to be creative, wants to starve in an attic studio, wants to make something of her life. That's what she says. And she wants it bad! Bad enough to give up the boys. I don't understand this art bug that gets into women these days." "You have children?" "Two sons. Two fine boys. I don't know how she can have the heart to get up and walk away from them. But those are my terms: I get complete custody of the boys, and the divorce is forever. No willy-wagging. She can't change her mind and decide to come back after a couple of months. I won't play the fool for anyone! Especially not a woman…. Tell me, am I right?" Qwilleran stared at the man — aggressive, rich, lonely.

Noyton drained his drink, and said, "I'll send the boys to military school, of course." "Is Mrs. Noyton a painter?" Qwilleran asked.

"No, nothing like that. She's got these big looms, and she wants to weave rugs and things for decorators to sell. I don't know how she's going to make a living. She won't take any money from me, and she doesn't want the house. Know anybody wants a quarter-million dollars' worth of real estate?" "It must be quite a place." "Say, if you want to write it up for the paper, it might help me to unload the joint. I'm leveling with you, understand." "Is anyone living there now?" "Caretaker, that's all. Natalie's in Reno. I'm living here at the Villa Verandah… Wait'll I flavor these ice cubes." Noyton dashed to the bar, and while he was gone the Japanese caterer quietly removed Qwilleran's plate and replaced it with another, piled high.

"Like I was saying," Noyton went on, "I have this apartment that Dave decorated. That boy's got taste! Wish I had that boy's taste. I've got a wood floor imported from Denmark, a built-in bar, a fur rug — the works!" "I wouldn't mind seeing it." "Come on and have a look. It's right here on this floor, in the north wing." They left the party, Noyton carrying his high-ball glass. "I should warn you," he said as they walked around the curving corridor, "the colors are kind of wild." He unlocked the door to 15-F and touched a wall switch. Qwilleran gasped.

Pleasant music burst forth. Rich colors glowed in pools of light. Everything looked soft, comfortable, but rugged.

"Do you go for this modern stuff?" Noyton asked. "Expensive as hell when it's done right." With awe in his voice Qwilleran said: "This is great! This really gets to me." The floor consisted of tiny squares of dark wood with a velvety oiled finish. There was a rug as shaggy as unmown grass and half as big as a squash court.

"Like the rug?" Noyton asked. "Genuine goat hair from Greece." It was surrounded on three sides by a trio of sofas covered in natural tan suede. A chair with inviting body curves was upholstered in something incredibly soft.

"Vicuna," said Noyton. "But try that green chair. That's my favorite." When Qwilleran relaxed in the green chair and propped his feet on the matching ottoman, an expression of beatitude spread over his face. He stroked the sculptured woolly arms. "I'd sure like to have an apartment like this," he murmured.

"And this is the bar," said Noyton with unconcealed pride as he splashed some liquor in his glass. "And the stereo is in that old Spanish chest — the only antique in the place. Cost me a fortune." He sank into the vicuna chair. "The rent for this apartment is nothing to sneeze at, either, but some good people live in this building-good people to know." He named two judges, a banker, the retired president of the university, a prominent scientist. "I know them all. I know a lot of people in this town. Your managing editor is a good friend of mine." Qwilleran's eyes were roving over the wall of cantilevered bookshelves, the large desk topped with rust-colored leather, the sensuous rug, and the three — not one, but three-deep-cushioned sofas.

"Yes, Lyke did a great job on the decorating," he said.

"Say, you look like a regular guy," Noyton remarked with a crafty look. "How are you getting along with these decorators?" "They seem to be a congenial bunch," said Qwilleran, ignoring the innuendo.

"That's not what I mean. Have you met Bob Orax? He's got a real problem." "I'm used to meeting all kinds," Qwilleran said, more curtly than he had intended. He had a newsman's capacity for identifying with his beat and defending its personnel, and he resented Noyton's aspersions.

Noyton said, "That's what I admire about you news guys. Nobody throws you. You take everything in your stride." Qwilleran swung his feet off the ottoman and hoisted himself out of the green chair. "Well, what do you say? Shall we go back where the action is?" They returned to the party, Noyton carrying two bottles of bourbon from his own stock, which he added to Lyke's supply.

Qwilleran complimented the decorator on the Noyton job. "Wish I could afford an apartment like his. What does a layout like that cost, anyway?" "Too much," said the decorator. "By the way, if you ever need anything, I'll get it for you at cost, plus freight." "What I need," said Qwilleran, "is a furnished apartment. The place where I live is being torn down to make a parking lot, and I've got to be out in ten days." "Why don't you use Harry's apartment for a few weeks — if you like it so much?" Lyke suggested. "He's leaving for Europe, and he'll be gone a month or more." Qwilleran blinked. "Do you think he'd be willing to sublet — at a price I could afford?" "Let's ask him." Noyton said, "Hell, no, I won't sublet, but if you want to use the joint while I'm gone, just move in." "No, I'd insist on paying rent," Qwilleran said.

"Don't give me that integrity jive! I've had a lot of good treatment from the papers, and this'll give me a chance to say thanks. Besides, it's no skin off my back. Why should I take your money?" Lyke said to Qwilleran, "There's a catch, of course. He'll expect you to forward his mail and take telephone messages." Qwilleran said, "There's another catch, too. I've got a cat." "Bring him along!" said Noyton. "He can have his own room and bath. First class." "I could guarantee that he wouldn't scratch the furniture." "It's a deal. I'm leaving Wednesday. The keys will be at the manager's desk, including the one for the bar. Help yourself to anything. And don't be surprised if I call you twice a day from Europe. I'm a telephone bug." Later, Lyke said to the newsman: "Thanks for getting me off the hook. Harry was expecting me to do his secretary service. I don't know why, but clients think they've hired a wet nurse for life when they call in a decorator." It had happened so fast that Qwilleran could hardly believe his good fortune. Rejoicing inwardly, he made two more trips to the buffet before saying good night to his host.

As he left the apartment, he felt a tug at his sleeve. The caterer was standing at his elbow, smiling.

"You got a doggie at home?" he asked the newsman.

"No," said Qwilleran, "but — " "Doggie hungry. You take doggie bag," said the caterer, and he pushed a foil-wrapped package into Qwilleran's hand.