The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "I'd call it a yellow-pink of low saturation and medium brilliance." "A decorator would call it Cream of Carrot," he said, "or Sweet Potato Souffle." After Natalie had been welcomed and teased and flattered and congratulated by those who knew her, David Lyke brought her to meet Qwilleran and Cokey. He told her, "The Daily Fluxion might want to photograph your house in the Hills. What do you think?" "Do you want it photographed, David?" "It's your house, darling. You decide." Natalie said to Qwilleran: "I'm moving out as soon as I find a studio. And then my husband — my ex-husband — is going to sell the house." "I hear it's really something," said the newsman.

  "It's super! Simply super! David has oodles of talent." She looked at the decorator adoringly.

  Lyke explained: "I corrected some of the architect's mistakes and changed the window detail so we could hang draperies. Natalie wove the draperies herself. They're a work of art." "Well, look, honey," said Natalie, "if it will do you any good, let's put the house in the paper." "Suppose we let Mr. Qwilleran have a look at it." "All right," she said. "How about Monday morning? I have a hair appointment in the afternoon." Qwilleran said, "Do you have your looms at the house?" "Ooh, yes! I have two great big looms and a small one. I'm crazy about weaving. David, honey, show them that sports coat I did for you." Lyke hesitated for the flicker of an eyelid. "Darling, it's at the cleaner," he said. Later he remarked to Qwilleran: "I use some of her yardage out of friendship, but her work leaves a lot to be desired. She's just an amateur with no taste and no talent, so don't emphasize the hand-weaving if you publish the house." The evening followed the usual Lyke pattern: a splendid buffet, drinks in abundance, music for dancing played a trifle too loud, and ten conversations in progress simultaneously. It had all the elements of a good party, but Qwilleran found himself feeling troubled at David Lyke's last remark. At his first opportunity he asked Natalie to dance, and said, "I hear you're going into the weaving business on the professional level." "Yes, I'm going to do custom work for decorators," she said in her high-pitched voice that sounded vulnerable and pathetic. "David loves my weaving. He says he'll get me a lot of commissions." She was an ample armful, and the glittering wool dress she wore was delectably soft, except for streaks of scratchiness where the fabric was shot with gold threads.

  As they danced, she went on chattering, and Qwilleran's mind wandered. If this woman was banking her career on David's endorsement, she was in for a surprise. Natalie said she was hunting for a studio, and she had a cousin who was a newspaperman, and she loved smoked oysters, and the balconies at the Villa Verandah were too windy. Qwilleran said he had just moved into an apartment there, but refrained from mentioning whose. He speculated on the chances of sneaking a few tidbits from the buffet for his cat.

  "Ooh, do you have a cat?" Natalie squealed. "Does he like lobster?" "He likes anything that's expensive. I think he reads price tags." "Why don't you go and get him? We'll give him some lobster." Qwilleran doubted whether Koko would like the noisy crowd, but he liked to show off his handsome pet, and he went to get him. The cat was half asleep on his refrigerator cushion, and he was the picture of relaxation, sprawled on his back in a position of utter abandon, with one foreleg flung out in space and the other curled around his ears. He looked at Qwilleran upside down with half an inch of pink tongue protruding and an insane gleam in his slanted, half-closed eyes.

  "Get up," said Qwilleran, "and quit looking like an idiot. You're going to a soir‚e." By the time Koko arrived at the party, sitting on Qwilleran's shoulder, he had regained his dignity. At his entrance the noise swelled to a crescendo and then stopped altogether. Koko surveyed the scene with regal condescension, like a potentate honoring his subjects with his presence. He blinked not, neither did he move a whisker. His brown points were so artistically contrasted with his light body, his fur was shaded so subtly, and his sapphire eyes had such unadorned elegance that he made David Lyke's guests look gaudily overdressed.

  Then the first exclamation broke through the silence, and everyone came forward to stroke the silky fur.

  "Why, it feels like ermine!" "I'm going to throw out my mink." Koko tolerated the attention but remained aloof until Natalie spoke to him. He stretched his neck and sniffed her extended finger.

  "Ooh, can I hold him?" she asked, and to Qwilleran's surprise Koko went gladly into her arms, snuggling in her woolly stole, sniffing it with serious concentration, and purring audibly.

  Cokey pulled Qwilleran away. "It makes me so mad," she said, "when I think of all the trouble I take to stay thin and get my hair straightened and improve my conversation! Then she comes in, babbling and looking frizzy and thirty pounds overweight, and everybody goes for her, including the cat!" Qwilleran experienced a pang of sympathy for Cokey, mixed with something else. "I shouldn't leave Koko here too long, among all these strangers," he said. "It might upset his stomach. Let's take him back to 15-F, and you can have a look at my apartment." "I've brought my nutmeg grater," she said. "Do you happen to have any cream and ginger ale?" Qwilleran retrieved Koko from Natalie's stole, and led Cokey around the long curving corridor to the other wing.

  When he threw open the door of his apartment, Cokey paused for one breathless moment on the threshold and then ran into the living room with her arms flung wide. "It's glorious!" she cried.

  "Harry Noyton calls it Scandihoovian." "The green chair is Danish, and so is the endwood floor," Cokey told him, "and the dining chairs are Finnish. But the whole apartment is like a designers' Hall of Fame. Bertoia, Wegner, Aalto, Mies, Nakashima! It's too magnificent! I can't bear it!" She collapsed in the cushions of a suede sofa and put her face in her hands.

  Qwilleran brought champagne glasses filled with a creamy liquid, and solemnly Cokey ground the nutmeg on the bubbling surface.

  "To Co key, my favorite girl," he said, lifting his glass. "Skinny, straight-haired, and articulate!" "Now I feel better," she said, and she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in the shaggy pile of the rug.

  Qwilleran lighted his pipe and showed her the new issue of Gracious Abodes with the Allison living room on the cover.

  They discussed its challenging shades of red and pink, the buxom ship's figurehead, and the pros and cons of four-poster beds with side curtains.

  Koko was sitting on the coffee table with his back turned, pointedly ignoring the conversation. The curve of his tail, with its uplifted tip, was the essence of disdain, but the angle of his ears indicated that he was secretly listening.

  "Hello, Koko," said the girl. "Don't you like me?" The cat made no move. There was not even the tremor of a whisker.

  "I used to have a beautiful orange cat named Frankie," she told Qwilleran sadly. "I still carry his picture in my handbag." She extracted a wad of cards and snapshots from her wallet and sorted them on the seat of the sofa, then proudly held up a picture of a fuzzy orange blob.

  "It's out of focus, and the color has faded, but it's all I have left of Frankie. He lived to be fifteen years old. His parentage was uncertain, but — " "Koko!" shouted Qwilleran. "Get away!" The cat had silently crept up on the sofa, and he was manipulating his long pink tongue.

  Qwilleran said, "He was licking that picture." "Oh!" said Cokey, and she snatched up a small glossy photograph of a man. She slipped it into her wallet but not before Qwilleran had caught a glimpse of it. He frowned his displeasure as she went on talking about cats and grinding nutmeg into their cocktails.

  "Now, tell me all about your moustache," Cokey said. "I suppose you know it's terribly glamorous." "I raised this crop in Britain during the war," said Qwilleran, "as camouflage." "I like it." It pleased him that she had not said "Which war?" as young women were inclined to do. He said: "To tell the truth, I'm afraid to shave it off. I have a strange feeling that these lip whiskers put me in touch with certain things — like subsurface truths and imminent happenings." "How wonderful!" said Cokey. "Just like cats' whiskers." "I don't usually confide this little fact. I wouldn't want it to get noised around." "I can see your point." "Latel
y I've been getting hunches about the theft of the Tait jades." "Haven't they found the boy yet?" "You mean the houseboy who allegedly stole the stuff? That's one of my hunches. I don't think he's the thief." Cokey's eyes widened. "Do you have any evidence?" Qwilleran frowned. "That's the trouble; I don't have a thing but these blasted hunches. The houseboy doesn't fit the role, and there's something fishy about the timing, and I have certain reservations about G. Verning Tait. Did you ever hear anything about a scandal in the Tait family?" Cokey shook her head.

  "Of course, you were too young when it happened." Cokey looked at her watch. "It's getting late. I should be going home." "One more drink?" Qwilleran suggested. He went to the bar with its vast liquor supply and took the cream and ginger ale from the compact refrigerator.

  Cokey began walking around the room and admiring it from every angle. "Everywhere you look there's beautiful line and composition," she said with rapture in her face. "And I love the interplay of textures — velvety, sleek, woolly, shaggy. And this rug! I worship this rug!" She threw herself down on the tumbled pile of the luxurious rug. She lay there in ecstasy with arms flung wide, and Qwilleran combed his moustache violently. She lay there, unaware that the cat was stalking her. With his tail curled down like a fishhook and his body slung low, Koko moved through the shaggy pile of the rug like a wild thing prowling through the underbrush. Then he sprang!

  Cokey shrieked and sat up. "He bit me! He bit my head!" Qwilleran rushed to her side. "Did he hurt you?" Cokey ran her fingers through her hair. "No. He didn't actually bite me. He just tried to take a little nip. But he seemed so… hostile! Qwill, why would Koko do a thing like that?"

  12

  Qwilleran would have slept until noon on Sunday, if it had not been for the Siamese Whisker Torture. When Koko decided it was time to get up, he hopped weightlessly and soundlessly onto the sleeping man's bed and lightly touched his whiskers to nose and chin. Qwilleran opened his eyelids abruptly and found himself gazing into two enormous eyes, as innocent as they were blue.

  "Go 'way," he said, and went back to sleep. Again the whiskers were applied, this time to more sensitive areas — the cheeks and forehead.

  Qwilleran winced and clenched his teeth and his eyes, only to feel the cat's whiskers tickling his eyelids. He jumped to a sitting position, and Koko bounded from the bed and from the room, mission accomplished.

  When Qwilleran shuffled out of the bedroom, wearing his red plaid bathrobe and looking aimlessly for his pipe, he surveyed the living room with heavy-lidded eyes. On the coffee table were last night's champagne glasses, the Sunday paper, and Koko, diligently washing himself allover.

  "You were a bad cat last night," Qwilleran said. "Why did you try to nip that pleasant girl who's so fond of cats?

  Such bad manners!" Koko rolled over and attended to the base of his tail with rapt concentration, and Qwilleran's attention went to the rug. There, in the flattened pile, was a full-length impression of Cokey's tall, slender body, where she had sprawled for one dizzy moment. He made a move to erase the imprint by kicking up the pile with his toe, but changed his mind.

  Koko, finished with his morning chore, sat up on the coffee table, blinked at the newsman, and looked angelic.

  "You devil!" said Qwilleran. "I wish I could read your mind. That photograph you licked — " The telephone rang, and he went to answer it with pleased anticipation. He remembered the congratulatory calls of the previous Sunday. Now a new issue of Gracious Abodes had reached the public.

  "Hello-o?" he said graciously.

  "Qwill, it's Harold!" The tone was urgent, and Qwilleran cringed. "Qwill, have you heard the news?" "No, I just got out of bed — " "Your cover story in today's paper — your residence for professional girls — haven't you heard?" "What's happened?" Qwilleran put a hand over his eyes. He had visions of mass murder — a houseful of innocent girls murdered in their beds, their four-poster beds with pink side curtains.

  "The police raided it last night! It's a disorderly house!" "What!" "They planted one of their men, got a warrant, and knocked the place off." Qwilleran sat down unexpectedly as his knees folded. "But the decorator told me — " "How did this happen? Where did you get the tip on this — this house?" "From the decorator. From Mrs. Middy, a nice little motherly woman. She specializes in — well — residences for girls. Dormitories, that is, and sorority houses. And this was supposed to be a high-class boardinghouse for professional girls." "Professional is the word!" said Percy. "This is going to make us look like a pack of fools. Wait till the Morning Rampage plays it up." Qwilleran gulped. "I don't know what to say." "There's nothing we can do about it now, but you'd better get hold of that Mrs. Biddy — " "Middy." " — whatever she calls herself — and let her know exactly how we feel about this highly embarrassing incident….

  It's an incredible situation per se, and on the heels of the Muggy Swamp mess it's too much!" Percy hung up, and Qwilleran's stunned mind tried to remember how it had happened. There must be an explanation. Then he grabbed the telephone and dialed a number.

  "Yes?" said a sleepy voice.

  "Cokey!" said Qwilleran sternly. "Have you heard the news?" "What news? I'm not awake yet." "Well, wake up and listen to me! Mrs. Middy has got me in a jam. Why didn't you tip me off?" "About what?" "About Mrs. Allison's place." Cokey yawned. "What about Mrs. Allison's place?" "You mean you don't know?" "What are you talking about? You don't make sense." Qwilleran found himself with a death grip on the receiver. He took a deep breath. "I've just been notified that the police raided Mrs. Allison's so-called residence for professional girls last night…. It's a brothel! Did you know that?" Cokey shrieked. "Oh, Qwill, what a hoot!" "Did you know the nature of Mrs. Allison's house?" His voice was gruff.

  "No, but I think the idea's a howl!" "Well, I don't think it's a howl, and the Daily Fluxion doesn't think it's a howl. It makes us look like saps. How can I get hold of Mrs. Middy?" Cokey's voice sobered. "You want to call her?

  Yourself? Now?… Oh, don't do that!" "Why not?" "That poor woman! She'll drop dead from mortification. " "Didn't she know what kind of establishment she was furnishing?" Qwilleran demanded.

  "I'm sure she didn't. She's a genius at doing charming interiors, but she's rather…" "Rather what?" "Muddleheaded, you know. Please don't call her," Cokey pleaded. "Let me break the news gently. You don't want to kill the woman, do you?" "I feel like killing somebody!" Cokey burst into laughter again. "And in Early American!" she shrieked. "With all those Tom Jones beds!" Qwilleran banged the receiver down. "Now what?" he said to Koko. He paced the floor for a few minutes and then snatched the telephone and dialed another number.

  "Hi!" said a childish treble.

  "Let me talk to Odd Bunsen," said Qwilleran.

  "Hi!" said the little voice.

  "Is Odd Bunsen there?" "Hi!" "Who is this? Where's your father? Go and get your father!" "Hi!" Qwilleran snorted and was about to slam the receiver down when his partner came on the line." "That was our youngest," Bunsen said. "He's not much for conversation. What's on your mind this morning?" Qwilleran broke the news and listened to an assortment of croaking noises as the photographer reacted wordlessly.

  The newsman said with a sarcastic edge to his voice: "I just wanted you to know that you may get your wish. You hoped the magazine would fold! And these two incidents in succession may be enough to kill it." "Don't blame me," said Bunsen. "I just take the pictures. I don't even get a credit line." "Two issues of Gracious Abodes and two mishaps! It can't be accidental. I'm beginning to smell a rat." "You don't mean the competition!" "Who else?" "The Rampage hasn't got the guts to try any dirty work." "I know, but they've got a guy working for them who might try to pull something. You know that loudmouth in their Circulation Department? He played on their softball team, you told me." "You mean Mike Bulmer?" Bunsen said. "He's a creep!" "The first time I noticed him at the Press Club, I recognized the face, but it took me a long time to place it. I finally remembered him. He was mixed up in a circulation war in Chicago a few
years back — a bloody affair. And now he's working at the Rampage. I'll bet he suggested the raid on the Allison house to the police, and I'll bet the Vice Squad was only too happy to act. You know how it is; every time the Fluxion editorial writers run out of ideas, they start sniping at the Vice Squad." Qwilleran tamped his moustache, and added, "I hate to say this, but I've got a nasty feeling that Cokey may be involved." "Who?" "This girl I've been dating. Works for Mrs. Middy. It was Cokey who suggested publishing Mrs. Allison's house, and now I've found out that she knows Bulmer. She said hello to him at the Press Club the other night." "No law against that," Bunsen said.

  "It was the way she said it! And the look she gave him!… There's something else, too," Qwilleran began with evident reluctance. "After the party at David Lyke's last night, I brought Cokey back to my apartment — " "Ho HO! This is beginning to sound interesting." " — and Koko tried to bite her." "What was she doing to him?" "She wasn't doing a thing! She was on the — she was minding her own business when Koko made a pass at her head. He's never done a thing like that before. I'm beginning to think he was trying to tell me something." There was silence at the other end of the line. "Are you listening?" "I'm listening. I'm lighting a cigar." "You get remarkably detached when you're home in Happy View Woods on Sunday. I should think you'd be more concerned about this mess." "What mess?" Bunsen said. "I think the Allison thing is a practical joke. It's sort of funny." "The half-million-dollar theft wasn't funny!" "Well," Bunsen drawled, "Bulmer wouldn't go that far!" "He might! Don't forget, there's a million dollars' worth of advertising involved. He might see a chance to make himself a nice bonus." "And victimize an innocent man just to knife the competition?… Naw! You've seen too many old movies." "Maybe Tait wasn't victimized," Qwilleran said slowly. "Maybe he was in on the deal." "Brother, you're really flying high this morning." "Goodbye," said Qwilleran. "Sorry I bothered you. Go back to your peaceful family scene." "Peaceful!" said Bunsen. "Did you say peaceful? I'm painting the basement, and Tommy just fell in the paint bucket, and Linda threw a rag doll down the john, and Jimmy fell off the porch and blacked his eyes. You call that peaceful?" When Qwilleran left the telephone, he wandered aimlessly through the apartment. He glanced at the shaggy rug in the living room and angrily scuffed up the pile to erase the imprint. In the kitchen he found Koko sitting on the big ragged dictionary. The cat sat tall, with forefeet pulled in close, tail curled around tightly, head cocked. Qwilleran was in no mood for games, but Koko stared at him, waiting for an affirmative.