The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

8

On Wednesday morning Qwilleran and Bunsen drove to the Allison house on Merchant Street. Qwilleran said he hoped some of the girls would be there. Bunsen said he'd like to photograph one of the canopied beds with a girl in it.

The house was a Victorian monster — the love-song of a nineteenth-century carpenter enamored of his jigsaw — but it was freshly painted, and the windows exhibited perky curtains. Mrs. Middy met them at the door, wearing her shapeless hat and a frilly lace collar.

"Where's the girls?" Bunsen shouted. "Bring on the girls!" "Oh, they're not here in the daytime," said Mrs. Middy. "They're working girls. Now, what would you like to see?

Where would you like to start?" "What I want to see," said the photographer, "is those bedrooms with canopied beds." The decorator bustled around, plumping cushions and moving ashtrays. Then a haggard woman came from the rear of the house. Her face was colorless, and her hair was done up in rollers, covered by a net cap. She wore a housecoat of a depressing floral pattern, but her manner was hearty.

"Hello, boys," she said. "Make yourselves at home. I've unlocked the sideboard, if you want to pour a drink." "It's too early for hooch," said Bunsen, "even for me." "You want some coffee?" Mrs. Allison turned her face toward the rear of the house, and shouted. "Elsie, bring some coffee!" To her guests she said, "Do you boys like sticky buns?… Elsie, bring some sticky buns!" There was a piping, unintelligible reply from the kitchen.

"Then find something else!" yelled Mrs. Allison.

"It's a nice place you've got here," Qwilleran said.

"It pays to run a decent establishment," said the house mother, "and Mrs. Middy knows how to make a place comfortable. She doesn't come cheap, but she's worth every penny." "Why did you choose Early American for your house?" For an answer Mrs. Allison turned to the decorator. "Why did I choose Early American?" "Because it's homey and inviting," said Mrs. Middy. "And because it is part of our national heritage." "You can quote me," Mrs. Allison said to Qwilleran with a generous gesture. She went to the sideboard. "Sure you don't want a drink? I'm going to have one myself." She poured a straight rye, and as the decorator showed the newsmen about the house, Mrs. Allison trailed after them, carrying her glass in one hand and the bottle in the other. Qwilleran made notes on crewelwork, dry sinks, and Queen Anne candlesticks. The photographer formed an attachment for a ship's figurehead over the living-room mantel — an old wood carving of a full-busted mermaid with chipped nose and peeling paint.

He said, "Reminds me of a girl I used to date." "That's one I caught and had stuffed," said Mrs. Allison. "You should've seen the one that got away." Mrs. Middy said: "Look at the skirts on these little cafe tables, Mr. Qwillum. Aren't they sweet?

They're slightly Victorian, but Mrs. Allison didn't want the interior to be too pure." "It's all pretty elegant," Qwilleran said to the house mother. "I suppose you're fussy about the kind of girls you get in here." "You better believe it. They gotta have references and at least two years of college." She poured another ounce in her glass.

The bedrooms were vividly pink. They had pink walls, pink carpet, and even pinker side curtains on the four- poster beds.

"Love this shade of green!" said Bunsen.

"How do the girls react to all this pink?" Qwilleran asked.

Mrs. Allison turned to the decorator. "How do the girls react to all this pink?" "They find it warm and stimulating," said the decorator. "Notice the hand-painted mirror frames, Mr. Qwillum." Bunsen photographed one bedroom, the living room, a corner of the dining room, and a close-up of the ship's figurehead. He was finished before noon.

"Come around and meet the girls some evening," Mrs. Allison said, as the newsmen made their goodbyes.

"Got any blondes?" asked the photographer.

"You name it. We got it." "Okay, some night when I can get out of washing the dishes and helping the kids with their homework, I'll be around to collect that drink." "Don't wait too long. You're not getting any younger," Mrs. Allison said cheerily.

As the newsmen carried the photographic equipment to the car, Mrs. Middy came hurrying after them. "Oh, dear!

Oh, dear!" she said. "I forgot to tell you: Mrs. Allison doesn't want you to use her name or address." "We always use names," Qwilleran said.

"Oh, dear! I was afraid so. But she thinks the girls will get crank phone calls if you print the name and address.

And she wants to! avoid that." "It's newspaper policy to tell who and where," Qwilleran explained. "A story is incomplete without it." "Oh, dear! Then we'll have to cancel the story. What a pity!" "Cancel it! We can't cancel it! We're right on deadline!" "Oh, dear! Then you'll have to write it up without the name and address," said Mrs. Middy.

She no longer looked like a dumpling to Qwilleran. She looked like a granite boulder in a fussy lace collar.

Bunsen said to his partner in a low voice: "You're trapped. Do what the old gal wants." "You think I should?" "We don't have time to pick up another cover story." Mrs. Middy said: "Just say that it's a residence for professional girls. That sounds nicer than career girls, don't you think? And don't forget to mention the name of the decorator!" She shook a playful finger at the newsmen.

As they drove away from the house on Merchant Street, Bunsen said, "You can't win 'em all." Qwilleran was not cheered by this philosophy, and they drove in silence until Bunsen said, "They buried the Tait woman this morning." "I know." "The chief assigned two photographers. That's pretty good coverage for a funeral. He only sent one to the international boat races last week." Bunsen lit a cigar, and Qwilleran opened his window wide.

The photographer said, "Have you moved into the Villa Verandah with the bigwigs yet?" "I'm moving in this afternoon. And then I've got a dinner date with Mrs. Middy's assistant." "I hope she's got references and two years of college." "She's quite a dish. Clever, too!" "Look out for the clever ones," the photographer warned him. "The dumb ones are safer." Late that afternoon Qwilleran went home, packed his two suitcases, and called a taxi. Then he proceeded to stuff the cat into a canned tuna fish carton with airholes punched in the sides. Suddenly Koko had seventeen legs, all grabbing and struggling at once, and his verbal protests added to the confusion.

"I know! I know!" shouted Qwilleran above the din. "But it's the best I can do." When the seventeen paws, nine ears, and three tails were tucked in, and the cover clapped shut and roped, Koko found himself in a snug, dark, sheltered place, and he settled down. The only sign of life was a glistening eye, seen through one of the airholes.

Once, during the brief ride to the Villa Verandah, the taxi swerved to avoid hitting a bus, and from the back seat came an outraged scream.

"My God!" yelled the driver, slamming on the brakes. "What'd I do?" "It's only my cat," said Qwilleran. "I've got a cat in one of these boxes." "I thought I hit a pedestrian. What is it? A bobcat?" "He's a Siamese. They're inclined to be outspoken." "Oh, yeah. I've seen 'em on television. Ugly buggers." Qwilleran's moustache curled. He was never overly generous with gratuities, but he remembered to give the driver a tip lighter than usual.

At the Villa Verandah, Koko produced earsplitting howls in the elevator, but as soon as he was released from his box in the Noyton apartment, he was speechless. For a moment he stood poised with one forepaw lifted, and the place was filled with breathless, listening cat-silence. Then his head swung from side to side as he observed the general features of the room. He walked cautiously across the sleek wood floor. He sniffed the edge of the thick-piled rug and extended one paw experimentally, but withdrew it at once. He nosed the corner of one sofa, examined the hem of the draperies, looked in the wastebasket near the desk.

Qwilleran showed Koko the new location of his sandbox and gave him his old toy mouse. "Your cushion's on the refrigerator," he told the cat. "Make yourself at home." An unfamiliar bell rang, and Koko jumped in alarm.

"It's only the phone," Qwilleran said, picking up the receiver and seating himself importantly behind the fine leather-topped desk.

From the instrument came a voice speaking in careful English. "I have a transatlantic call for Mr. James Qwilleran." "Speaking." "Copenhagen calling." Then came the excited voice of Harry Noyton. "Would you believe it? I'm in Copenhagen al- ready! How's everything? Did you move in? Did you get settled?" "Just got here. How was the flight?" "Some turbulence east of Gander, but it was a good trip on the whole. Don't forward any mail till I give the signal.

I'll keep in touch. And one of these days I'll have a scoop for the Daily Fluxion." "A news story?" "Something fantastic! Can't talk about it yet… But here's why I called: Do you like baseball? There's a pair of tickets for the charity game, stuck in my desk calendar. It's a shame to let them go to waste — especially at thirty bucks a throw." "I'll probably have to work Saturday." "Then give them to your pals at the paper." "How do you like Copenhagen?" "It looks very clean, very tidy. Lots of bicycles." "How soon will your news break?" "Hopefully, within a week," said Noyton.

"And when it does, the Fluxion gets the first crack at it!" After hanging up, Qwilleran looked for Noyton's calendar. He found it in the desk drawer — a large leather-bound book with a diary on one side and an index for telephone numbers on the other. The baseball tickets were clipped to September 26 — box seats behind the dugout — and Qwilleran wondered whether he should use them or give them away.

He could invite Alacoque Wright, break away from the office at noon on Saturday…

"Koko!" he snapped. "Get away from that book!" The cat had risen noiselessly to the top of the desk and was sinking his claws in the edge of the telephone index.

He was trying to play the game. Qwilleran's moustache twitched. He could not resist opening the book to the page Koko had selected.

On it he found the telephone numbers of a Dr. Thomas and the well-known law firm of TeahandIe, Burris, Hansblow, Maus, and Castle.

"Congratulations!" Qwilleran said to the cat. You've cornered a Maus." There was also Tappington, the stockbroker, and the phone number of Toledo, the most expensive restaurant in town. And at the bottom of the list there was the name Tait. Not George Tait or Verning Tait, but Signe Tait.

Qwilleran stared at the hastily scrawled name as if it were the ghost of the dead woman. Why had Noyton listed Signe and not her husband? What business did a big-time promoter have with the invalid wife of a rich, idle collector of jades?

Qwilleran recalled his conversation with Noyton at David's party. The jade theft had been discussed, but the promoter had not mentioned his acquaintance with the late Mrs. Tait. And yet he was an unabashed name-dropper, and the Tait name would have been an impressive one to drop.

Qwilleran closed the book slowly and opened it again quickly. He went through the diary, checking Noyton's appointments day by day. He started with September 20 and worked backward to January 1. There was no entry concerning Signe Tait or Muggy Swamp. But the color of ink changed around the first of September. For most of the year it had been blue. Then Noyton switched to black. Signe Tait's phone number was written in black; it had been added within the last three weeks.