The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (8 page)

"Have a cocktail?" Qwilleran invited. "I'm on the wagon myself, but I'll have a lemon and seltzer to keep you company." Cokey looked keenly interested. "Why aren't you drinking?" "It's a long story, and the less said about it, the better." He put a matchbook under one table leg; all the Press Club tables had a built-in wobble.
"I'm on a yoga kick myself," she said. "No liquor. No meat. But I'll make us one of nature's own cocktails if you'll order the ingredients and two champagne glasses." When the tray arrived, she poured a little cream into each glass, filled it with ginger ale, and then produced a small wooden device from her handbag.
"I carry my own nutmeg and grate it fresh," she said, dusting the surface of the drinks with brown spice. "Nutmeg is a stimulant. The Germans put it in everything." Qwilleran took a cautious sip. The drink had a bite. It was like Cokey - cool and smooth, with an unexpected pepperiness. "How did you decide to become an architect?" he asked.
"Maybe you haven't noticed," said Cokey, "but there are more architects named Wright than there are judges named Murphy. We seem to gravitate to the drafting board. However, the name is getting me nowhere." She stroked her long hair lovingly. "I may have to give up the struggle and find a husband." "Shouldn't be difficult." "I'm glad you're so confident." She set her jaw and ground some more nutmeg on her cocktail. "Tell me what you think of the decorating profession after two weeks in the velvet jungle?" "They seem to be likable people." "They're children! They live in a world of play." A shadow passed over Cokey's face - the sliver of face that was visible. "And, just like children, they can be cruel." She studied the grains of nutmeg clinging to the inside of her empty glass and, catlike, darted out a pink tongue to lick it clean.
A man walked past the table and said, "Hi, there, Cokey." She looked up abruptly. "Well, hello!" she said with meaning in the inflection.
"You know him?" Qwilleran asked in surprise.
"We've met," said Cokey. "I'm getting hungry. May we order?" She looked at the menu and asked for brook trout with a large garnish of parsley, and a small salad. Qwilleran compared her taut figure with his own well-padded beltline and felt guilty as he ordered bean soup, a hefty steak and a baked potato with sour cream.
"Are you divorced?" Cokey asked suddenly.
Qwilleran nodded.
"That's cool. Where do you live?" "I moved into the Villa Verandah today." He waited for her eyes to open wide, and then added in a burst of honesty, "The apartment belongs to a friend who's gone abroad." "Do you like living alone?" "I don't live alone," said Qwilleran. "I have a cat. A Siamese." "I adore cats," Cokey squealed. "What's your cat's name?" Qwilleran beamed at her. People who really appreciated animals always asked their names. "His real name is Kao K'o-Kung, but he's called Koko for everyday purposes. I considered myself a dog man until I met Koko. He's a remarkable animal. Perhaps you remember the murder on Blenheim Place last spring. Koko is the cat who was involved, and if I told you some of his intellectual feats you wouldn't believe me." "Oh, I'd believe anything about cats. They're uncanny." "Sometimes I'm convinced Koko senses what's going to happen." "It's true! Cats tune in with their whiskers." "That's what I've been told," said Qwilleran, preening his moustache absently. "Koko always gives the impression that he knows more than I do, and he has clever ways of communicating. Not that he does anything uncatlike, you understand. Yet, somehow he gets his ideas across.... I'm not explaining this very well." "I know exactly what you mean." Qwilleran looked at Cokey with appreciation. These were matters he could not discuss with his friends at the Fluxion. With their beagles and boxers as a frame of reference, how could they understand about cats? In this one area of his life he experienced a kind of loneliness. But Cokey understood. Her mischievous green eyes had mellowed into an expression of rapport.
He reached over and took her hand - the slender, tapering hand that was playing tiddledywinks with stray poppyseeds on the tablecloth. He said, "Have you ever heard of a cat eating spider webs - or glue? Koko has started licking gummed envelopes. One day he chewed up a dollar's worth of postage stamps." "I used to have a cat who drank soapsuds," Cokey said. "They're individualists. Does Koko scratch furniture? It was noble of your friend to let you move into his apartment with a cat." "Koko does all his scratching on an old unabridged dictionary," Qwilleran said with a note of pride.
"How literary of him!" "It's not really an old dictionary," he explained. "It's the new edition. The man Koko used to live with bought it for himself and then decided he preferred the old edition, so he gave the new one to the cat for a scratching pad." "I admire men who admire cats." Qwilleran lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. "We have a game we play with this dictionary. Koko exercises his claws, and I add a few words to my vocabulary... This is something I wouldn't want to get around the Press Club you understand." Cokey looked at him mistily. "I think you're wonderful," she said. "I'd love to play the game sometime." When Qwilleran arrived home that evening, it was late, and he was exhausted. Girls like Cokey made him realize he was not so young as he used to be.
He unlocked the door of his apartment and was groping for the light switch when he saw two red sparks in the darkened living room. They glowed with a supernatural light. He had seen them before, and he knew what they were, but they always gave him a scare.
"Koko!" he said. "Is that you?" He flipped the lights on, and the mysterious red lights in Koko's eyes were extinguished.
The cat approached with arched back, question-mark tail, and the backswept whiskers of disapproval. He made vehement one-note complaints.
"I'm sorry," said Qwilleran. "Did you think you were abandoned? You'll never believe this, but we went for a walk - a long walk. That's what lady architects like to do on a date - take you for a walk, looking at buildings. I'm bushed!" He sank into a chair and kicked off his shoes without untying the laces. "For three hours we've been looking at architecture: insensitive massing, inefficient site-planning, trite fenestration... " Koko was howling impatiently at his knee, and Qwilleran picked up the cat, laid him across his shoulder, and patted the sleek fur. He could feel the muscles struggling beneath the pelt, and Koko wriggled away and jumped down.
"Is something wrong?" Qwilleran asked.
"YaW-OW!" said Koko.
He ran to the Spanish chest that housed the stereo set. It was a massive carved piece built close to the floor, resting on four bun-shaped feet. Koko plumped to the floor in front of it, stretched one foreleg, and vainly tried to reach under the chest, his brown tail tensed in a scimitar curve.
Qwilleran uttered a weary moan. He knew the cat had lost his homemade mouse - a bouquet of dried mint leaves tied in the toe of an old sock. He also knew there would be no sleeping that night until the mouse was retrieved. He looked for something to poke under the chest. Broomstick? There was no broom in the kitchen closet; the maids evidently used their own sweeping equipment.... Fireplace poker? There were no fireplaces at the Villa Verandah.... Umbrella? If Noyton owned one, he had taken it to Europe.... Fishing rod? Golf club? Tennis racquet? The man seemed to have no active hobbies.... Backscratcher? Long-handled shoe- horn? Clarinet? Discarded crutch?
With Koko at his heels, yowling imperious Siamese commands, Qwilleran searched the premises. He thought wistfully of all the long, slender implements he could use: tree branch, fly swatter-buggy whip.
Eventually he lowered himself to the floor. Lying flat, he reached under the low chest and gingerly extracted a penny, a gold earring, an olive pit, a crumpled scrap of paper, several dust- balls, and finally a familiar gray wad of indefinite, shape.
Koko pounced on his mouse, sniffed it once without much interest, and gave it a casual whack with his paw. It went back under the Spanish chest, and Koko sauntered away to get a drink of water before retiring for the night.
But Qwilleran stayed up smoking his pipe and thinking about many things: Cokey and nutmeg cocktails, Gracious Abodes and Mrs. Middy's lace collar, buggy whips and the situation in Muggy Swamp. Once he went to the wastebasket and fished out the crumpled paper he had found beneath the Spanish chest. There was only a name on it: Arne Thorvaldson. He dropped it in the basket again. The gold earring he tossed in the desk drawer with the paper clips.
10
On the day following the funeral, Qwilleran telephoned G. Verning Tait and asked if he might call and deliver the books on jade. He said he always liked to return borrowed books promptly.
Tait acquiesced in a voice that was neither cold nor cordial, and Qwilleran could imagine the crimping of the mouth that accompanied it.
"How did you get this number?" Tait asked.
Qwilleran passed a hand swiftly over his face and hoped he was saying the right thing. "I believe this is - yes, this must be the number that David Lyke gave me." "I was merely curious. It's an unlisted number." Qwilleran put Noyton's address book away in the desk, stroked Koko's head for luck, and drove to Muggy Swamp in a company car. It was a wild shot, but he was hoping to see or hear something that would reinforce his hunch - his vague suspicion that all was not exactly as represented on the police record.
He had planned no particular approach-just the Qwilleran Technique. In twenty-five years of newspapering around the country he had enjoyed astounding success in interviewing criminals (described as tight-lipped), old ladies (timid), politicians (cautious), and cowboys (taciturn). He asked no prying questions on these occasions. He just smoked his pipe, murmured encouraging phrases, prodded gently, and wore an expression of sympathetic concern, which was enhanced by the sober aspect of his moustache.
Tait himself, wearing his usual high color and another kind of silk sports shirt, admitted the newsman to the glittering foyer. Qwilleran looked inquiringly toward the living room, but the double doors were closed.
The collector invited him into the library. "Did you enjoy the books?" he said. "Are you beginning to feel the lure of jade? Do you think you might like to collect?" "I'm afraid it's beyond my means at the moment," said Qwilleran, adding a small falsehood: "I'm subletting Harry Noyton's apartment at the Villa Verandah, and this little spree is keeping me broke." The name brought no sign of recognition. Tait said: "You can start collecting in a modest way. I can give you the name of a dealer who likes to help beginners. Do you still have your jade button?" "Carry it all the time!" Qwilleran jingled the contents of his trouser pocket. Then he asked solemnly, "Did Mrs. Tait share your enthusiasm for jade?" The corners of Tait's mouth quivered. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Tait never warmed to the fascination of jade, but collecting it and working with it have been a joy and a comfort to me for more than fifteen years. Would you like to see my workshop?" He led the way to the rear of the house and down a flight of basement stairs.
"This is a rambling house," said Qwilleran. "I imagine an intercom system comes in handy." "Please excuse the appearance of my shop," the collector said. "It is not as tidy as it should be. I've dismissed the housekeeper. I'm getting ready to go away." "I suppose you'll be traveling to jade country," said Qwilleran hopefully.
His supposition got no verification.
Tait said: "Have you ever seen a lapidary shop? It's strange, but when I am down here in this hideaway, cutting and polishing, I forget everything. My back ailment gives me no discomfort, and I am a happy man." He handed the newsman a small carved dragon. "This is the piece the police found behind Paolo's bed when they searched his room. It's a fairly simple design. I've been trying to copy it." "You must feel very bitter about that boy," Qwilleran said.
Tait averted his eyes. "Bitterness accomplishes nothing." "Frankly, his implication came as a shock to me. He seemed an open, ingenuous young man." "People are not always what they seem." "Could it be that Paolo was used as a tool by the real organizers of the crime?" "That is a possibility, of course, but it doesn't bring back my jades." "Mr. Tait," said Qwilleran,"for what it is worth, I want you to know I have a strong feeling the stolen objects will be found." "I wish I could share your optimism." Then the collector showed a spark of curiosity. "What makes you feel that way?" "There's a rumor at the paper that the police are on the track of something." It was not the first time Qwilleran had spread the rumor of a rumor, and it often got results.
"Strange they have not communicated with me," said Tait. He led the way up the stairs and to the front door.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it," Qwilleran said. Then casually he remarked, "That housekeeper of yours- would she take a temporary job while you're away? A friend of mine will need a housekeeper while his wife is in the hospital, and it's hard to get good help on a short-term basis. " "I have no doubt that Mrs. Hawkins needs work," said Tait.
"How long before you'll be needing her again?" "I don't intend to take her back," said Tait. "Her work is satisfactory, but she has an unfortunate personality." "If you don't mind, then, I'd like to give her phone number to my friend." Tait stepped into his library and wrote the information on a slip of paper. "I'll also give you the name and address of that jade dealer in Chicago," he said, "just in case you change your mind." As they passed the living room Qwilleran looked hungrily at the closed doors. "Did Paolo do any damage in opening the cases?" "No. No damage. It's small comfort," Tait said sadly, "but I like to think the jades were taken by someone who loved them." As Qwilleran drove away from Muggy Swamp, he felt that he had wasted a morning and two gallons of Daily Fluxion gas. Yet, throughout the visit, he had felt a teasing discomfort about the upper lip. He thought he sensed something false in the collector's pose. The man should have been sadder - or madder. And then there was that heart- wringing curtain line: "I like to think the jades were stolen by someone who loved them." "Oh, brother!" Qwilleran said aloud. "What a ham!" His morning of snooping had only whetted his curiosity, and now he headed for the place where he might get some answers to his questions. He drove to the shop called PLUG on River Street.
It was an unlikely spot for a decorating studio. PLUG looked self-consciously dapper among the dilapidated storefronts devoted to plumbing supplies and used cash registers.