The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (15 page)

"What's that? Where did you get that?" Qwilleran demanded. Then his eyes traveled to the wing of the chair.
Across its top a patch of upholstery fabric was missing, and the padding was bursting through.
"Koko!" yelled Qwilleran. "Have you been chewing this chair? This expensive Danish chair?" Koko gave a little cough, and produced another wad of green wool, well chewed.
Qwilleran gasped. "What will Harry Noyton say? He'll have a fit!" Then he raised his voice to a shout, "Are you the one who's been eating my ties?" The cat looked up at the man and purred mightily.
"Don't you dare purr! You must be crazy - to eat cloth! You're out of your mind! Lord! That's all I need - one more problem!" Koko gave another wheezing cough, and up came a bit of green wool, very damp.
Qwilleran dashed to the telephone and dialed a number.
"Connect me with the bartender," he said, and in a moment he heard the hubbub of the Press Club bar like the roar of a hurricane. "Bruno!" he shouted. "This is Qwilleran. How do I reach that doctor? That psycatatrist?"
17
The morning after Koko ate a piece of the Danish chair, Qwilleran telephoned his office and told Arch Riker he had a doctor's appointment and would be late.
"Trouble?" Riker asked.
"Nothing serious," said Qwilleran. "Sort of a digestive problem." "That's a twist! I thought you had a stomach like a billy goat." "I have, but last night I got a big surprise." "Better take care of it," Riker advised. "Those things can lead to something worse." Bruno had supplied Dr. Highspight's telephone number, and when Qwilleran called, the voice of the woman who answered had to compete with the mewing and wailing of countless cats. Speaking with a folksy English accent, she told Qwilleran he could have an appointment at eleven o'clock that morning. To his surprise she said it would not be necessary to bring the patient. She gave an address on Merchant Street, and Qwilleran winced.
He prepared a tempting breakfast for Koko - jellied consomme and breast of Press Club turkey - hoping to discourage the cat's appetite for Danish furniture. He said goodbye anxiously, and took a bus to Merchant Street.
Dr. Highspight's number was two blocks from the Allison house, and it was the same type of out-dated mansion.
Unlike the Allison house, which was freshly painted and well landscaped, the clinic was distinctly seedy. The lawn was full of weeds. There were loose floorboards on the porch.
Qwilleran rang the doorbell with misgivings. He had never heard of a psycatatrist, and he hated the thought of being rooked by a quack. Nor did he relish being made the victim of an- other practical joke.
The woman who came to the door was surrounded by cats. Qwilleran counted five of them: a tiger, an orange nondescript, one chocolate brown, and two sleek black panthers. From there his glance went to the woman's runover bedroom slippers, her wrinkled stockings, the sagging hem of her housedress, and finally to her pudgy middle-aged face with its sweet smile.
"Come in, love," she said, "before the pussies run out in the road." "My name's Qwilleran," he said. "I have an appointment with Dr. Highspight." His nose recorded faint odors of fish and antiseptic, and his eye perused the spacious entrance hall, counting cats. They sat on the hall table, perched on several levels of the stairway, and peered inquisitively through all the doorways. A Siamese kitten with an appealing little smudged face struck a businesslike pose in a flat box of sand that occupied one corner of the foyer.
"Eee! I'm no doctor, love," said the woman. "Just a cat fancier with a bit of common sense. Would you like a cuppa? Go in the front room and make yourself comfy, and I'll light the kettle." The living room was high-ceilinged and architecturally distinguished, but the furniture had seen better days.
Qwilleran selected the over-stuffed chair that seemed least likely to puncture him with a broken spring. The cats had followed him and were now inspecting his shoelaces or studying him from a safe distance. He marveled at a cat's idea of a safe distance - roughly seven feet, the length of an average adult's lunge.
"Now, love, what seems to be the bother?" asked Mrs. Highspight, seating herself in a platform rocker and picking up a wild-looking apricot cat to hold on her lap. "I was expecting a young lad. You were in such a dither when you called." "I was concerned about my Siamese," said Qwilleran. "He's a remarkable animal, with some unusual talents - and very friendly. But lately his behavior has been strange. He's crazy about gummed envelopes, masking tape, stamps - anything like that. He licks them!" "Eee, I like to lick envelopes myself," said Mrs. Highspight, rocking her chair vigorously and stroking the apricot cat. "It's a caution how many flavors they can think up." "But you haven't heard the worst. He's started eating cloth! Not just chewing it - swallowing it! I thought the moths were getting into my clothes, but I've found out it's the cat. He's nibbled three good wool ties, and last night he ate a chunk out of a chair." "Now we're onto something!" said the woman. "Is it always wool that he eats?" "I guess so. The chair is covered with some kind of woolly material." "It won't hurt him. If he can't digest it, he'll chuck it up." "That's comforting to know," said Qwilleran, "but it's getting to be a problem. It was a costly chair that he ate, and it doesn't even belong to me." "Does he do it when you're at home?" "No, always behind my back." The poor puss is lonesome. Siamese cats need company, they do, or they get a bit daft. Is he by himself all day?" Qwilleran nodded.
"How long has he lived with you?" "About six months. He belonged to my landlord, who was killed last March. Perhaps you remember the murder on Blenheim Place." "Eee, that I do! I always read about murders, and that was a gory one, that was. They done him in with a carving knife. And this poor puss - was he very fond of the murdered man?" "They were kindred spirits. Never separated." "That's your answer, love. The poor puss has had a shock, like. And now he's lonesome." Qwilleran found himself rising to his own defense. "The cat's very fond of me. We get along fine. He's affectionate, and I play with him once in a while." Just then a large smoky-blue cat walked into the room and made a loud pronouncement.
"The kettle's boiling," said Mrs. Highspight. "Tommy always notifies me when the kettle's boiling. I'll fetch the tea things and be back in a jiff." The company of cats kept their eyes on Qwilleran until the woman returned with cups and a fat brown teapot.
"And does he talk much, this puss of yours?" she asked.
"He's always yowling about one thing or another." "His mother pushed him away when he was a kit. That kind always talks a blue streak and needs more affection, they do. Is he neutered?" Qwilleran nodded. "He's what my grandmother used to call a retired gentleman cat." "There's only one thing for it. You must get him another puss for a companion." "Keep two cats?" Qwilleran protested.
"Two's easier than one. They keep each other entertained and help wash the places that's hard to reach. If your puss has a companion, you won't have to swab his ears with cotton and boric acid." "I didn't know I was supposed to." "And don't bother your head about the feed bill. Two happy cats don't eat much more than one cat that's lonesome." Qwilleran felt a tiny breath on his neck and turned to find the pretty little Siamese he had seen in the entrance hall, now perched on the back of his chair, smelling his ear.
"Tea's ready to pour," Mrs. Highspight announced. "I like a good strong cup. There's a bit of milk in the pitcher, if you've a mind." Qwilleran accepted a thin china cup filled with a mahogany-colored brew, and noted a cat hair floating on its surface. "Do you sell cats?" he asked.
"I breed exotics and find homes for strays," said Mrs. Highspight. "What your puss needs is a nice little Siamese ladylove-spayed, of course. Not that it makes much difference. They still know which is which, and they can be very sweet together. What's the name of your puss?" "Koko." "Eee! Just like Gilbert and Sullivan!" Then she sang in a remarkably good voice, " 'For he's going to marry Yum Yum, te dum. Your anger pray bury, for all will be merry. I think you had better succumb, te dum.' " Tommy, the big blue point, raised his head, and howled. Meanwhile, the Siamese kitten was burrowing into Qwilleran's pocket.
"Shove her off, love, if she's a bother. She's a regular hoyden. The females always take a liking to men." Qwilleran stroked the pale fur, almost white, and the kitten purred delicately and tried to nibble his finger with four little teeth. "If I'm going to get another cat," he said, "maybe this one - " "Eee, I couldn't let you have that one. She's special, like. But I know where there's an orphan needs a good home.
Did you hear about that Mrs. Tait that died last week? There was a burglary, and it was in all the papers." "I know a little about it," said Qwilleran. "A sad thing, that was. Mrs. Tait had a Siamese female, and I don't fancy her husband will be keeping the poor puss." "What makes you think so?" "Eee, he doesn't like cats." "How do you know all this?" "The puss came from one of my litters, and the missus-rest her soul!-had to call on me for help. The poor puss was so nervous, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. And now the poor woman's gone, and no telling what will become of the puss.... Let me fill your teacup, love." She poured more of the red-black brew with its swirling garnish of tea leaves.
"And that husband of hers," she went on. "Such a one for putting on airs, but - mind this! - I had to wait a good bit for my fee. And me with all these hungry mouths to feed!" Qwilleran's moustache was signaling to him. He said that, under the circumstances, he would consider adopting the cat. Then he tied the shoelace the cats had untied, and stood up to leave. "How much do I owe you for the consultation?" "Would three dollars be too much for you, love?" "I think I can swing it," he said.
"And if you want to contribute a few pennies for the cup of tea, it goes to buy a bit of a treat for the pussies. Just drop it in the marmalade crock on the hall table." Mrs. Highspight and an entourage of waving tails accompanied Qwilleran to the door, the Siamese kitten rubbing against his ankles and touching his heart. He dropped two quarters in the marmalade jar.
"Call on me any time you need help, love," said Mrs. Highspight.
"There's one thing I forgot to mention," Qwilleran said. "A friend visited me the other evening, and Koko tried to bite her. Not a vicious attack - just a token bite. But on the head, of all places!" "What was the lady doing?" "Cokey wasn't doing a thing! She was minding her own business, when all of a sudden Koko sprang at her head." "The lady's name is Cokey, is it?" "That's what everybody calls her." "You'll have to call her something else, love. Koko thought you were using his name. A puss is jealous of his name, he is. Very jealous." When Qwilleran left the cattery on Merchant Street, he told himself that Mrs. Highspight's diagnosis sounded logical; the token attack on Cokey was motivated by jealousy. At the first phone booth he stopped and called the Middy studio.
On the telephone he found Cokey strangely gentle and amenable. When he suggested a dinner date, she invited him to dinner at her apartment. She said it would be only a casserole and a salad, but she promised him a surprise.
Qwilleran went back to his office and did some writing. It went well. The words flowed easily, and his two typing fingers hit all the right keys. He also answered a few letters from readers who were requesting decorating advice: "May I use a quilted matelass‚ on a small bergŠre?" "Is it all right to place a low credenza under a high clerestory?" In his agreeable mood Qwilleran told them all, "Yes. Sure. Why not?" Just before he left the office at five thirty, the Library chief called to say that the Tait clipping file had been returned, and Qwilleran picked it up on his way out of the building.
He wanted to go home and shave before going to Cokey's, and he had to feed the cat. As soon as he stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he could hear paeans of greeting, and when he entered the apartment Koko began a drunken race through the rooms. He went up over the backs of chairs and down again with a thud. He zoomed up on the stereo cabinet and skated its entire length, rounded the dining table in a blur of light fur, cleared the desk top, knocked over the wastebasket - all the while alternating a falsetto howl with a baritone growl.
"That's the spirit!" said Qwilleran. "That's what I like to see," and he wondered if the cat sensed he was getting a playmate.
Qwilleran chopped some chicken livers for Koko and saut‚ed them in butter, and he crumbled a small side order of Roquefort cheese. Hurriedly he cleaned up and put on his other suit and his good plaid tie. Then it was six thirty, and time to leave. For a few seconds he hesitated over the Tait file from the Library - a bulky envelope of old society notes, obsolete business news, and obituaries. His moustache pricked up, but his stomach decided the Tait file could wait until later.
18
Cokey lived on the top floor of an old town house, and Qwilleran, after climbing three flights of stairs, was breathing hard when he arrived at her apartment. She opened the door, and he lost what little breath he had left.
The girl who greeted him was a stranger. She had cheekbones, temples, a jawline, and ears. Her hair, that had formerly encased her head and most of her visage like a helmet of chain mail, was now a swirling frame for her face.
Qwilleran was fascinated by Coker's long neck and graceful chinline.
"It's great!" he said. His eyes followed her as she moved about the apartment doing domestic and unnecessary little tasks.
The furnishings were spare, with an understated Bohemian smartness; black canvas chairs, burlap curtains in the honest color of potato sacks, and painted boards supported by clay plant pots to make a bookcase. Cokey had created a festive atmosphere with lighted candles and music. There were even two white carnations leaning out of a former vinegar bottle.
Her economies registered favorably with Qwilleran. There was something about the room that looked sad and brave to a resident of the Villa Verandah. It touched him in a vulnerable spot, and for one brief moment he had a delirious urge to support this girl for life, but it passed quickly. He pressed a handkerchief to his brow and remarked about the music coming from a portable record player.
"Schubert," she said sweetly. "I've given up Hindemith. He doesn't go with my new hairdo." For dinner she served a mixture of fish and brown rice in a sauce flecked with green. The salad was crunchy and required a great deal of chewing, retarding conversation. Later came ice cream made of yogurt and figs, sprinkled with sunflower seeds.