The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

  1

  Jim Qwilleran prepared his bachelor breakfast with a look of boredom and distaste, accentuated by the down-curve of his bushy moustache. Using hot water from the tap, he made a cup of instant coffee with brown lumps floating on the surface. He dredged a doughnut from a crumb-filled canister that was beginning to smell musty. Then he spread a paper napkin on a table in a side window where the urban sun, filtered through smog, emphasized the bleakness of the furnished apartment.

  Here Qwilleran ate his breakfast without tasting it, and considered his four problems: At the moment he was womanless. He had received an eviction notice, and in three weeks he would be homeless. At the rate the moths were feeding on his neckwear, he would soon be tieless. And if he said the wrong thing to the managing editor today, he might very well be jobless. Over forty-five and jobless. It was not a cheerful prospect.

  Fortunately, he was not friendless. On his breakfast table — along with a large unabridged dictionary, a stack of paperback books, a pipe rack with a single pipe, and a can of tobacco — there was a Siamese cat.

  Qwilleran scratched his friend behind the ears, and said, "I'll bet you weren't allowed to sit on the breakfast table when you lived upstairs." The cat, whose name was Koko, gave a satisfied wiggle, tilted his whiskers upward, and said, "YOW!" He had lived with the newsman for six months, following the unfortunate demise of the man on the second floor.

  Qwilleran fed him well, conversed sensibly, and invented games to play — unusual pastimes that appealed to the cat's extraordinary intelligence.

  Every morning Koko occupied one small corner of the breakfast table, arranging himself in a compact bundle, brown feet and tail tucked fastidiously under his white-breasted fawn body. In the mild sunshine Koko's slanted eyes were a brilliant blue, and his silky fur, like the newly spun spider web that spanned the window, glistened with a rainbow of iridescence.

  "You make this apartment look like a dump," Qwilleran told him.

  Koko squeezed his eyes and breathed faster. With each breath his nose changed from black velvet to black satin, then back to velvet.

  Qwilleran lapsed again into deep thought, absently running a spoon handle through his moustache. This was the day he had promised himself to confront the managing editor and request a change of assignment. It was a risky move. The Daily Fluxion was known as a tight ship. Percy preached teamwork, team spirit, team discipline. Shoulder to shoulder, play the game, one for all. Ours not to question why. A long pull, a strong pull, a pull all together. We happy few!

  "It's like this," Qwilleran told the cat. "If I walk into Percy's office and flatly request a change of assignment, I'm apt to land out in the street. That's the way he operates. And I can't afford to be unemployed — not right now — not till I build up a cash reserve." Koko was listening to every word.

  "If the worst came to the worst, I suppose I could get a job at the Morning Rampage, but I'd hate to work for that stuffy sheet." Koko's eyes were large and full of understanding. "Yow," he said softly.

  "I wish I could have a heart-to-heart talk with Percy, but it's impossible to get through to him. He programmed, like a computer. His smile — very sincere. His handshake — very strong. His compliments — very gratifying. Then the next time you meet him on the elevator, he doesn't know you. You're not on his schedule for the day." Koko shifted his position uneasily.

  "He doesn't even look like a managing editor. He dresses like an advertising man. Makes me feel like a slob." Qwilleran passed a hand over the back of his neck. "Guess I should get a haircut." Koko gurgled something in his throat, and Qwilleran recognized the cue. "Okay, we'll play the game. But only a few innings this morning. I've got to go to work." He opened the big dictionary, which was remarkable for its tattered condition, and he and Koko played their word game. The way it worked, the cat dug his claws into the pages, and Qwilleran opened the books where he indicated, reading aloud the catchwords — the two boldface entries at the top of the columns. He read the right-hand page if Koko used his right paw, but usually it was the left-hand page. Koko was inclined to be a southpaw.

  "Design and desk," Qwilleran read. "Those are easy. Score two points for me…. Go ahead, try again." Koko cocked his brown ears forward and dug in with his claws.

  "Dictyogenous and Dieguenos. You sneaky rascal! You've stumped me!" Qwilleran had to look up both definitions, and that counted two points for the cat.

  The final score was 7 to 5 in Qwilleran's favor. Then he proceeded to shower and dress, after preparing Koko's breakfast — fresh beef, diced and heated with a little canned mushroom gravy. The cat showed no interest in food, however. He followed the man around, yowling for attention in his clarion Siamese voice, tugging at the bath towel, leaping into dresser drawers as they were opened.

  "What tie shall I wear?" Qwilleran asked him. There were only a few neckties in his collection — for the most part Scotch plaids with a predominance of red. They hung about the apartment on door handles and chairbacks. "Maybe I should I wear something funereal to impress Percy favorably. These days we all conform. You cats are the only real independents left." Koko blinked his acknowledgment. Qwilleran reached for a narrow strip of navy-blue wool draped over the swing-arm of a floor lamp. "Damn those moths!" he said. "Another tie ruined!" Koko uttered a small squeak that sounded like sympathy, and Qwilleran, examining the nibbled edge of the necktie, decided to wear it anyway.

  "If you want to make yourself useful," he told the cat, "why don't you go to work on the moths and quit wasting your time on spider webs?" Koko had developed a curious aberration since coming to live with Qwilleran. In this dank old building spiders were plentiful, and as fast as they spun their webs, Koko devoured the glistening strands.

  Qwilleran tucked the ragged end of the navy-blue tie into his shirt and pocketed his pipe, a quarter-bend bulldog.

  Then he tousled Koko's head in a rough farewell and left the apartment on Blenheim Place.

  When he eventually arrived in the lobby of the Daily Fluxion, his hair was cut, his moustache was lightly trimmed, and his shoes rivaled the polish on the black marble walls. He caught a reflection of his profile in the marble and pulled in his waist- line; it was beginning to show a slight convexity.

  More than a few eyes turned his way. Since his arrival at the Fluxion seven months before — with his ample moustache, picturesque pipe, and unexplained past — Qwilleran had been a subject for conjecture. Everyone knew he had had a notable career as a crime reporter in New York and Chicago. After that, he had disappeared for a few years, and now he was holding down a quiet desk on a Midwestern newspaper, and writing, of all things, features on art!

  The elevator door opened, and Qwilleran stepped aside while several members of the Women's Department filed out on their way to morning assignments or coffee breaks. As they passed, he checked them off with a calculating eye. One was too old. One was too homely. The fashion writer was too formidable. The society writer was married.

  The married one looked at him with mock reproach. "You lucky dog!" she said. "Some people get all the breaks. I hate you!" Qwilleran watched her sail across the lobby, and then he jumped on the elevator just before the automatic doors closed.

  "I wonder what that was all about," he mumbled.

  There was one other passenger on the car-a blonde clerk from the Advertising Department. "I just heard the news," she said. "Congratulations!" and she stepped off the elevator at the next floor.

  A great hope was rising under Qwilleran's frayed tie as he walked into the Feature Department wi
th its rows of green metal desks, green typewriters, and green telephones.

  Arch Riker beckoned to him. "Stick around," the feature editor said. "Percy's calling a meeting at ten thirty. Probably wants to discuss that ridiculous w in your name. Have you seen the first edition?" He pushed a newspaper across the desk and pointed to a major headline: Judge Qwits Bench After Graft Qwiz.

  Riker said: "No one caught the error until the papers were on the street. You've got the whole staff confused." "It's a good Scottish name," Qwilleran said in defense. Then he leaned over Riker's desk, and said: "I've been getting some interesting vibrations this morning. I think Percy's giving me a new assignment." "If he is, it's news to me." "For six months I've been journalism's most ludicrous figure — a crime writer assigned to the art beat." "You didn't have to take the job if it didn't appeal to you." "I needed the money. You know that. And I was promised a desk in the City Room as soon as there was an opening." "Lots of luck," Riker said in a minor key.

  "I think something's about to break. And whatever it is, everyone knows it but you and me." The feature editor leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "It's axiomatic in the communications industry," he said, "that the persons most directly concerned are the last ones to know." When the signal came from the City Room, Riker and Qwilleran filed into the managing editor's office, saying, "Morning, Harold." The boss was called Percy only behind his back.

  The advertising director was there, shooting his cuffs. The photo chief was there, looking bored. The women's editor was there, wearing a brave hat of zebra fur and giving Qwilleran a prolonged friendly stare that embarrassed him. Fran Unger had a syrupy charm that he distrusted. He was wary of women executives. He had been married to one once.

  Someone closed the door, and the managing editor swiveled his chair to face Qwilleran.

  "Qwill, I owe you an apology," he said. "I should have discussed this with you ten days ago. You've probably been hearing rumors, and it was unfair of me to leave you in the dark. I'm sorry. I've been involved with the mayor's Civilian Committee on Crime, but that is no excuse per se." He's really not a bad guy, Qwilleran thought, as he wriggled anxiously in his chair.

  "We promised you another assignment when the right opportunity presented itself," the editor went on, "and now we have a real challenge for you! We are about to launch a project of significance to the entire newspaper industry and, I might add, a bonanza for the Daily Fluxion per se." Qwilleran began to realize why everyone called the boss Percy.

  The editor continued: "This city has been selected for an experiment to determine if national advertising ordinarily carried in magazines can be diverted to daily papers in major cities." The advertising director said, "If it works, our linage will double. The revenue for the experimental year alone will be upward of a million dollars." "The Morning Rampage also will be making a bid for this plum," said the editor, "but with our new presses and our color reproduction process, we can produce a superior product." Qwilleran stroked his moustache nervously. "It will be your job, Qwill, to produce a special Sunday supplement for fifty-two weeks — in magazine format, with plenty of color!" Qwilleran's mind raced ahead to the possibilities. He pictured great court trials, election campaigns, political exposes, sports spectaculars, perhaps overseas coverage. He cleared his throat, and said, "This new magazine — I suppose it will be general interest?" "General interest in its approach," said Percy, "but specific in content.. We want you to publish a weekly magazine on interior design." "On what?" Qwilleran said in an unintended falsetto.

  "On interior decorating. The experiment is being conducted by the home-furnishings industry." "Interior decorating!" Qwilleran felt a chill in the roots of his moustache. "I should think you'd want a woman to handle it." Fran Unger spoke up sweetly. "The Women's Department wanted the assignment very badly, Qwill, but Harold feels a great many men are interested in the home today. He wants to avoid the women's slant and attract general readership to the Gracious Abodes magazine." Qwilleran's throat felt as if it had swallowed his moustache. "Gracious Abodes? Is that the name of the thing?" Percy nodded. "I think it conveys the right message: charm, livability, taste! You can do stories on luxury homes, high-rent apartments, residential status symbols, and the Upper Ten Percent and how they live." Qwilleran fingered his frayed tie.

  "You'll love this assignment, Qwill," the women's editor assured him. "You'll be working with decorators, and they're delightful people." Qwilleran leaned toward the managing editor earnestly. "Harold, are you sure you want me for this beat? You know my background! I don't know the first thing about decorating." "You did an outstanding job on the art beat without knowing the first thing about art," said Percy. "In our business, expertise can be a draw- back. What this new job needs is nothing more nor less than a seasoned newsman, creative and resourceful. If you have any trouble at the start, Fran will be glad to lend a hand, I'm sure." Qwilleran squirmed in his chair. "Yes, of course," said the women's editor. "We can work together, Qwill, and I can steer you in the right direction." Ignoring Qwilleran's bleak reaction, she went on. "For example, you could start with the Sorbonne Studio; they do society work. Then Lyke and Starkweather; they're the largest decorating firm in town." She made a swooning gesture. "David Lyke is absolutely adorable!" "I'll bet he is," said Qwilleran in a sullen growl. He had his private opinion of decorators, both male and female.

  "There's also Mrs. Middy, who does cozy Early American interiors. And there's a new studio called PLUG. It specializes in Planned Ugliness." Then Percy made a remark that cast a new light on the proposal. "This assignment will carry more responsibility," he said to Qwilleran, "and naturally your classification will be adjusted. You will be advanced from senior writer to junior editor." Qwilleran made a quick computation and came up with a figure that would finance a decent place to live and payoff some old debts. He tugged at his moustache. "I suppose I could give it a try," he said. "How soon would you want me to start?" "Yesterday! We happen to know that the Morning Rampage is breaking with their supplement on October first. We'd like to beat them to the wire." That turned the trick. The prospect of scoring a beat on the competition stirred the ink in Qwilleran's veins. His first horrified reaction to Gracious Abodes dissolved into a sudden sense of proprietorship. And when Fran Unger gave him a chummy smile and said, "We'll have fun with this assignment, Qwill," he felt like saying, Sister, just keep your hands off my magazine.

  That day, during the lunch hour, Qwilleran went out and celebrated the raise in salary. He bought a can of crabmeat for Koko and a new tie for himself. Another red wool plaid.

  2

  Wearing his new tie and the better of his two suits, Qwilleran set forth with some apprehension for his first visit to a decorating studio, bracing himself for an overdose of the precious and the esoteric.

  He found the firm of Lyke and Starkweather in an exclusive shopping area, surrounded by specialty shops, art galleries, and tearooms. The entrance was impressive. Huge double doors of exotically grained wood had silver door handles as big as baseball bats.

  The interior displayed furniture in room settings, and Qwilleran was pleased to find one room wallpapered in a red plaid that matched his tie. Moose antlers were mounted above a fireplace made of wormeaten driftwood, and there was a sofa covered in distressed pigskin, like the hides of retired footballs. A slender young man approached him, and the newsman asked to see Mr. Lyke or Mr. Starkweather. After a delay that seemed inauspicious, a gray-haired man appeared from behind an Oriental screen at the rear of the shop. He had a bland appearance and a bland manner.

  "Mr. Lyke is the one you should talk to, if it's about publicity," he told Qwilleran, "but he's busy with a client. Why don't you just look around while you're waiting?" "Are you Mr. Starkweather?" Qwilleran asked.

  "Yes, but I think you should talk to Mr. Lyke. He's the one…." "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me about these displays while I'm waiting." Qwilleran motioned toward the moose antlers.

  "There isn't much to tell," s
aid Starkweather with a helpless gesture.

  "What's selling these days?" "Just about everything." "Is there any particular color that's popular?" "No. They're all good." "I see you have some modern stuff over there." "We have a little of everything." Qwilleran's interviewing technique was not working. "What do you call that thing?" he asked, pointing to a tall secretary-desk with a bulbous base and an inlaid design of exotic birds and flowers.

  "It's a desk," said Starkweather. Then his expressionless face brightened a fraction of a degree. "Here comes Mr.

  Lyke." From behind the Oriental screen came a good-looking man in his early thirties. He had his arm around an elaborately hatted middle-aged woman who was smiling and blushing with pleasure.

  Lyke was saying in a deep, chesty voice: "You go home, dear, and tell the Old Man you've got to have that twelve- foot sofa. It won't cost him a cent more than the last car he bought. And remember, dear, I want you to invite me to dinner the next time you're having that superb chocolate cake. Don't let your cook bake it. I want you to bake it yourself-for David." While he talked, David Lyke was walking the woman rapidly toward the front door, where he stopped and kissed her temple. Then he said a beautifully timed goodbye, meaningful but not lingering.

  When he turned toward Qwilleran, he recomposed his face abruptly from an expression of rapture to one of businesslike aplomb, but he could not change his eyes. He had brooding eyes with heavy lids and long lashes. Even more striking was his hair-snow white and somewhat sensational with his young suntanned face.

  "I'm David Lyke," he growled pleasantly, extending a cordial hand. His eyes flickered downward for only a second, but Qwilleran felt they had appraised his plaid tie and the width of his lapel. "Come into my office, and we'll talk." The newsman followed him into a room that had deep-gray walls. A leopard rug sprawled on the polished ebony floor. Lounge chairs, square and bulky and masculine, were covered in fabric with the texture of popcorn. On the back wall was a painting of a nude figure, her skin tones a luminous blue-gray, like steel.