The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (5 page)

"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 L&S. 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.
6
"Koko, old fellow, we're moving!" Qwilleran announced happily on Tuesday morning, as he took the doggie bag from the refrigerator and prepared a breakfast for the cat and himself. Reviewing the events of the previous evening, he had to admit that the decorating beat had its advantages. Never had he received so many compliments or tasted such good food, and the offer of an apartment was a windfall.
Koko was huddling on a cushion on top of the refrigerator - the blue cushion that was his bed, his throne, his Olympus. His haunches were sticking up like fins. He looked uncomfortable, apprehensive.
"You'll like it at the Villa Verandah," Qwilleran assured him. "There are soft rugs and high bookshelves, and you can sit in the sun on the balcony. But you'll have to be on your best behavior. No flying around and busting lamps!" Koko shifted weight. His eyes were large troubled circles of blue.
"We'll take your cushion and put it on the new refrigerator, and you'll feel right at home." At the Daily Fluxion an hour later, Qwilleran reported the good news to Odd Bunsen. They met in the employees' lunchroom for their morning cup of coffee, sitting at the counter with pressmen in square paper hats, typesetters in canvas aprons, rewrite men in white shirts with the cuffs turned up, editors with their cuffs buttoned, and advertising men wearing cufflinks.
Qwilleran told the photographer, "You should see the bathrooms at the Villa Verandah! Gold faucets!" "How do you walk into these lucky breaks?" Bunsen wanted to know.
"It was Lyke's idea, and Noyton likes to make generous gestures. He likes to be liked, and he's fascinated by newspaper people. You know the type." "Some newspapers wouldn't let you accept a plum like that, but on a Fluxion salary you have to take all you can get, the photographer said. "Was there any conversation about the robbery?" "Not much. But I picked up on the Taits. Did it strike you that Mrs. Tait had a slight foreign accent?" "She sounded as if she'd swallowed her tongue." "I think she was Swiss. She apparently married Tait for his money, although I imagine he was a good-looking brute before he went bald." "Did you notice his arms?" the photographer said. "Hairiest ape I ever saw! Some women go for that." There was a tap on Bunsen's shoulder, and Lodge Kendall sat down on the next stool. "I just knew I'd find you here, said to the photographer. "The detectives on the Tait case would like a set of the photos you took. Enlargements, preferably any shots that show the jades." "How soon do they want them? I've got a lot of printing to do for Sunday." "Soon as you can." Qwilleran said, "Any progress on the case?" "Tait has reported two pieces of luggage missing," said Kendall. "He's going away for a rest after the funeral. He's pretty shook up. And last night he went to the storeroom to get some luggage, and his two large overseas bags were gone. Paolo would need something transport the jade." "I wonder how he'd get a couple of large pieces of luggage to the airport." "He must have had an accomplice with a car. By the time Tait found the stuff missing, Paolo had time to fly to Mexico and disappear forever in the mountains. I doubt whether they'll ever be able to trace the jades down there.