The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (3 page)

David Lyke greeted the newsmen at the door, -ushering them into a foyer paved with black and white marble squares and sparkling with crystal. A bronze sphinx balanced a white marble slab on which stood a seventeen-branch candelabrum.
"Crazy!" said Bunsen.
"I suppose you want some help with your equipment," Lyke said. He signaled to a houseboy, who gave the young white-haired decorator a worshipful look with soft black eyes. "Paolo, pitch in and help these splendid people from the newspaper, and maybe they'll take your picture to send home to Mexico." Eagerly the houseboy helped Bunsen carry in the heavy camera case and the collection of lights and tripods.
"Are we going to meet the Taits?" Qwilleran asked.
The decorator lowered his voice. "The old boy's holed up somewhere, clipping coupons and nursing his bad back.
He won't come out till we yell Jade! He's an odd duck." "How about his wife?" "She seldom makes an appearance, for which we can all be thankful." "Did you have much trouble getting their permission?" "No, he was surprisingly agreeable," said Lyke. "Are you ready for the tour?" He threw open double doors and led the news- men into a living room done in brilliant green with white silk sofas and chairs. A writing desk was in ebony ornamented with gilt, and there was a French telephone on a gilded pedestal.
Against the far wall stood a large wardrobe in beautifully grained wood.
"The Biedermeier wardrobe," said Lyke, raising an eyebrow, "was in the family, and we were forced to use it. The walls and carpet are Parsley Green. You can call the chairs Mushroom. The house itself is Spanish, circa 1925, and we had to square off the arches, rip up tile floors, and re-plaster extensively." As the decorator moved about the room, straightening lampshades and smoothing the folds of the elaborately swagged draperies, Qwilleran stared at the splendor around him and saw dollar signs.
"If the Taits live quietly," he whispered, "why all this?" Lyke winked. "I'm a good salesman. What he wanted was a setting that would live up to his fabulous collection of jade. It's worth three quarters of a million. That's not for publication, of course." The most unusual feature in the living room was a series of niches in the walls, fronted with plate glass and framed with classic moldings. On their glass shelves were arranged scores of delicately carved objects in black and translucent white, artfully lighted to create an aura of mystery. Odd Bunsen whispered, "Is that the jade? Looks like soap, if you ask me." Qwilleran said, "I expected it to be green." "The green jade is in the dining room," said Lyke.
The photographer started to set up his tripod and lights, and the decorator gave Qwilleran notes on the interior design.
"When you write up this place," he said, "call the Biedermeier wardrobe an armoire, and call the open-arm chairs fauteuils." "Wait till the guys at the Fluxion read this," said Qwilleran. "I'll never hear the end of it." Meanwhile, Bunsen was working with unusual concentration, taking both color and black-and-white shots. He shifted lights and camera angles, moved furniture an inch one way or another, and spent long periods under the focusing cloth. The houseboy was a willing assistant. Paolo was almost too eager. He got in the way.
Finally Bunsen sank into a white silk chair. "I've got to park for a minute and have a smoke." He drew a long cigar from his breast pocket.
David Lyke grimaced and glanced over his shoulder. "Do you want us all to get shot? Mrs. Tait hates tobacco smoke, and she can smell it a mile away." "Well, that squelches that little idea!" Bunsen said irritably, and he went back to work.
Qwilleran said to him, "We need some close-ups of the jades." "I can't shoot through the glass." "The glass can be removed," said Lyke. "Paolo, will you tell Mr. Tait we need the key to the cases?" The jade collector, a man of about fifty, came at once, and his face was radiant. "Do you want to see my jades?" he said. "Which cases do you want me to open? These pictures will be in color, won't they?" His face had a scrubbed pink gleam, and he kept crimping the corners of his mouth in an abortive smile. He looked, Qwilleran thought, like a powerful man who had gone soft. His silk sports shirt exposed a heavy growth of hair on his arms, and yet there was a complete absence of hair on his head.
The plate-glass panels in the vitrines were ingeniously installed without visible hardware. Tait himself opened them, wearing gloves to prevent smudging.
Meanwhile Lyke recited a speech with affected formality: "Mr. Tait has generously agreed to share his collection with your readers, gentlemen. Mr. Tait feels that the private collector - in accumulating works of art that would otherwise appear in museums - has an obligation to the public. He is permitting these pieces to be photographed for the education and esthetic enjoyment of the community." Qwilleran said, "May I quote you to that effect, Mr. Tait?" The collector did not answer. He was too absorbed in his collection. Reverently he lifted a jade teapot from its place on a glass shelf. The teapot was pure white and paper-thin.
"This is my finest piece," he said, and his voice almost trembled. "The pure white is the rarest. I shouldn't show it first, should I? I should hold it back for a grand finale, but I get so excited about this teapot! It's the purest white I've ever seen, and as thin as a rose petal. You can say that in the article: thin as a rose petal." He replaced the teapot and began to lift other items from the shelves. "Here's a Chinese bell, almost three thousand years old.... And here's a Mexican idol that's supposed to cure certain ailments. Not backache, unfortunately." He crimped the corners of his mouth as if enjoying a private joke that was not very funny.
"There's a lot of detail on those things," Qwilleran observed.
"Artists used to spend a whole lifetime carving a single object," Tait said. "But not all my jades are works of art." He went to the writing table and opened a drawer. "These are primitive tools made of jade. Axheads, chisels, harpoons." He laid them out on the desk top one by one.
"You don't need to take everything out," said Qwilleran. "We'll just photograph the carved pieces," but the collector continued to empty the drawer, handling each item with awe.
"Did you ever see jade in the rough?" he said. "This is a piece of nephrite." "Well, let's get to work," said Bunsen. "Let's start shooting this crazy loot." Tait handed a carved medallion to Qwilleran. "Feel it." "It's cold," said the newsman.
"It's sensuous - like flesh. When I handle jade, I feel a prickle in my blood. Do you feel a prickle?" "Are there many books on jade?" Qwilleran asked. "I'd like to read up on it." "Come into my library," said the collector. "I have everything that has ever been written on the subject." He pulled volume after volume from the shelves: technical books, memoirs, adventure, fiction - all centered upon the cool, sensuous stone.
"Would you care to borrow a few of these?" he said. "You can return them at your leisure." Then he reached into a desk drawer and slipped a button-shaped object into Qwilleran's hand. "Here! Take this with you for luck." "Oh, no! I couldn't accept anything so valuable. " Qwilleran fingered the smooth rounded surface of the stone. It was green, the way he thought jade should be.
Tait insisted. "Yes, I want you to have it. Its intrinsic value is not great. Probably just a counter used in some Japanese game. Keep it as a pocket piece. It will help you write a good article about my collection." He puckered the corners of his mouth again. "And who knows? It may give you ideas. You may become a collector of jade... and that is the best thing that could happen to a man!" Tait spoke the words with religious fervor, and Qwilleran, rubbing the cool green button, felt a prickle in his blood.
Bunsen photographed several groups of jade, while the collector hovered over him with nervous excitement. Then the photographer started to fold up his equipment.
"Wait!" said Lyke. "There's one more room you should see - if it's permissible. Mrs. Tait's boudoir is magnificent." He turned to his client. "What do you think?" Qwilleran caught a significant exchange of glances between the two men.
"Mrs. Tait is unwell," the husband explained to the newsmen. "However, let me see..." He left the room and was gone several minutes. When he returned, his bald head as well as his face was unduly flushed. "Mrs. Tait is agreeable," he said, "but please take the picture as quickly as possible." With the photographer carrying his camera on a tripod and Paolo carrying the lights, the party followed Tait down a carpeted corridor to a secluded wing of the house.
The boudoir was a combined sitting room and bedroom, lavishly decorated. Everything looked soft and downy. The bed stood under a tentlike canopy of blue silk. The chaise longue, heaped with pillows, was blue velvet. There was only one jarring note, and that was the wheelchair standing in the bay window.
Its occupant was a thin, sharp-featured woman. Her face was pinched with either pain or petulance, and her coloring was an unhealthy blond. She acknowledged the introductions curtly, all the while trying to calm a dainty Siamese cat that sat on a cushion on her lap. The cat had large lavender-blue eyes, slightly crossed.
Bunsen, with an attempt at heartiness, said, "Well, look what we've got here! A pussycat. A cross-eyed pussycat.
Woof, woof!" "Stop that!" Mrs. Tait said sharply. "You're frightening her." In a hushed sickroom voice her husband said: "The cat's name is Yu. That's the ancient Chinese word for jade." "Her name is not Yu," said the invalid, giving her husband a venomous look. "Her name is Freya." She stroked the animal, and the small furry body shrank into the cushion.
Bunsen turned his back to the wheelchair and started to whistle softly while adjusting the lens of his camera.
"It's taken you a long time to snap a few pictures," the woman observed. She spoke in a peculiarly throaty voice.
In defense Bunsen said, "A national magazine would take two days to photograph what I've done in one morning." "If you're going to photograph my room," she said, "I want my cat in the picture." A prolonged silence hung quivering in the air as everyone turned to look at the photographer.
"Sorry," he said. "Your cat wouldn't hold still long enough for a time exposure." Coolly the woman said, "Other photographers seem to have no difficulty taking pictures of animals." Bunsen's eyes snapped. He spoke with strained patience. "This is a long time exposure, Mrs. Tait. I've got to stop the lens down as far as possible to get the whole room in focus." "I'm not interested in your technical problems. I want Freya in the picture!" The photographer drew a deep breath. "I'm using a wide angle lens. The cat will be nothing but a tiny dot unless you put it right in front of the camera. And then it'll move and ruin the time exposure." The invalid's voice became shrill. "If you can't take the picture the way I want it, don't take it at all." Her husband went to her side. "Signe, calm yourself," he said, and with one hand waved the others out of the room.
As the newsmen drove away from Muggy Swamp, Bunsen said: "Don't forget to give me a credit line on these pictures. This job was a blinger! Do you realize I worked for three hours without a smoke? And that biddy in the wheelchair was the last straw! Besides, I don't like to photograph cats." "That animal was unusually nervous," Qwilleran said.
"Paolo was a big help. I slipped him a couple of bucks." "He seemed to be a nice kid." "He's homesick. He's saving up to go back to Mexico. I'll bet Tait pays him in peanuts." "Lyke told me the jades are worth $750,000." "That burns me," said Bunsen. "A man like Tait can squander millions on teapots, and I have trouble paying my milk bill." "You married guys think you've got all the problems," Qwilleran told him. "At least you've got a home! Look at me - I live in a furnished apartment, eat in restaurants, and haven't had a decent date for a month." "There's always Fran Unger." "Are you kidding?" "A man your age can't be too fussy." "Huh!" Qwilleran contracted his waistline an inch and preened his moustache. "I still consider myself a desirable prospect, but there seems to be a growing shortage of women." "Have you found a new place to live yet?" "I haven't had time to look." "Why don't you put that smart cat of yours to work on it?" Bunsen suggested. "Give him the classified ads and let him make a few phone calls." Qwilleran kept his mouth shut.
4
The first issue of Gracious Abodes went to press too smoothly. Arch Riker said it was a bad omen. There were no ad cancellations, the copy dummied in perfectly, cutlines spaced out evenly, and the proofs were so clean it was eerie.
The magazine reached the public Saturday night, sandwiched between several pounds of Sunday paper. On the cover was an exclusive Muggy Swamp residence in bright Parsley Green and Mushroom White. The editorial pages were liberally layered with advertisements for mattresses and automatic washers. And on page two was a picture of the Gracious Abodes editor with drooping moustache and expressionless eyes - the mug shot from his police press card.
On Sunday morning David Lyke telephoned Qwilleran at his apartment. "You did a beautiful job of writing," said the decorator in his chesty voice, "and thanks for the overstuffed credit line. But where did they get that picture of you? It makes you look like a basset hound." For the newsman it was a gratifying day, with friends calling constantly to offer congratulations. Later it rained, but he went out and bought himself a good dinner at a seafood restaurant, and in the evening he beat the cat at the word game, 20 to 4. Koko clawed up easy catchwords like block and blood, police and politely It was almost as if the cat had a premonition; by Monday morning Gracious Abodes was involved with the law.
The telephone jolted Qwilleran awake at an early hour. He groped for his wristwatch on the bedside table. The hands, after he had blinked enough to see them, said six thirty. With sleep in his bones he shuffled stiffly to the desk.
"Hello?" he said dryly.
"Qwill! This is Harold!" There was a chilling urgency in the managing editor's voice that paralyzed Qwilleran's vocal cords for a moment. "Is this Qwilleran?" shouted the editor.
The newsman made a squeaking reply. "Speaking." "Have you heard the news? Did they call you?" The editor's words had the sound of calamity.
"No! What's wrong?" Qwilleran was awake now.
"The police just phoned me here at home. Our cover story - the Tait house - it's been burglarized!" "What!... What did they get?" "Jade! A half million dollars' worth, at a rough guess. And that's not the worst. Mrs. Tait is dead.... Qwill! Are you there? Did you hear me?" "I heard you," Qwilleran said in a hollow voice, as he lowered himself slowly into a chair. "I can't believe it." "It's a tragedy per se, and our involvement makes it even worse." "Murder?" "No, thank God! It wasn't quite as bad as that. Apparently she had a heart attack." "She was a sick woman. I suppose she heard the intruders, and - " "The police want to talk to you and Odd Bunsen as soon as possible," said the editor. "They want to get your fingerprints." "They want our fingerprints? They want to question us?" "Just routine. They said it will help them sort out the prints they find in the house. When were you there to take pictures?" "Monday. Just a week ago." Then Qwilleran said what they were both thinking. "The publicity isn't going to do the magazine any good." "It could ruin it! What have you got lined up for next Sunday?" "An old stable converted into a home. It belongs to a used-car dealer who likes to see his name in the paper. I've found a lot of good houses, but the owners don't want us to use their names and addresses - for one reason or another." "And now they've got another reason," said the editor. "And a damn good one!" Qwilleran slowly hung up and gazed into space, weighing the bad news. There had been no interference from Koko during this particular telephone conversation. The cat was huddled under the dresser, watching the newsman intently, as if he sensed the gravity of the situation.