The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "You mean they were ostensibly protected by the government?" "Something like that." "National treasures?" "I guess that's what they call them." "Hmm… Did you tell the police that, Mr. Starkweather?" "No." "Why not?" "They didn't ask anything like that." Qwilleran enjoyed a moment's glee. He could picture the brusque Wojcik interrogating the laconic Starkweather.

  Then he thought of one more question. "Can you think of anyone who has shown particular interest in these 'protected' items?" "No, but I wonder…" "What? What do you wonder, Mr. Starkweather?" Lyke's partner coughed. "Is the studio liable — I mean, if there's anything illegal — could they…" "I doubt it. Why don't you get some sleep, Mr. Starkweather? Why don't you take a pill and try to get some sleep?" "Oh, no! I must go to the studio. I don't know what will happen today. This is a terrible thing, you know." When Starkweather hung up, Qwilleran felt as if he'd had all his teeth pulled. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, and found Koko stretched out on the refrigerator cushion. The cat was lying on his side with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Qwilleran spoke to him, and not a whisker moved. He stroked the cat, and Koko heaved a great sigh in his sleep. His hind foot trembled.

  "Dreaming?" said Qwilleran. "What do you dream about? Chicken curry? People with guns that make a loud noise? I'd sure like to know what you witnessed last night." Koko's whiskers twitched, and he threw one paw across his eyes.

  The next time the telephone rang, it interrupted Qwilleran's shaving, and he answered in a mild huff. He considered shaving a spiritual rite — part ancestor worship, part reaffirmation of gender, part declaration of respectability — and it required the utmost artistry.

  "This is Cokey," said a breathless voice. "I just heard the radio announcement about David Lyke. I can't believe it." "He was murdered, all right." "Do you have any idea who did it?" "How would I know?" "Are you mad at me?" Cokey said. "You're mad at me because I suggested publishing the Allison house." "I'm not mad," said Qwilleran, letting his voice soften a little. It occurred to him that he might want to question Cokey about a few things. "I'm shaving. I've got lather allover my face." "Sorry I called so early." "I'll give you a ring soon, and we'll have dinner." "How's Koko?" "He's fine." After saying goodbye, Qwilleran had an idea.: He wiped the lather from his face, waked Koko, and placed him on the dictionary. Koko arched his back in a tense, vibrating stretch. He turned his whiskers up, rolled his eyes down, and yawned widely, showing thirty teeth, a corrugated palate, five inches of tongue, and half his gullet.

  "Okay, let's play the game," Qwilleran said, after a prolonged yawn of his own.

  Koko turned around three times, then rolled over and assumed a languid pose on the open pages of the dictionary.

  "Game! Game! Play the game!" Qwilleran dug his fingernails into the pages to demonstrate.

  Coyly Koko rolled over on his back and squirmed in a happy way.

  "You loafer! What's the matter with you?" The cat just narrowed his eyes and looked dreamy.

  It was not until Qwilleran waved a sardine under Koko's nose that he agreed to cooperate. The game was uneventful, however: maxillary and maypop, travel and trawlnet, scallion and Scandinavian. Qwilleran had hoped for more pertinent catchwords. He had to admit, though, that a couple of them made sense. The sardine can said PRODUT OF NORWAY.

  Qwilleran hurried to the office and tackled the next issue of Gracious Abodes, but his mind was not on the magazine. He waited until he thought Starkweather would be at the studio, and then he telephoned Mrs. Starkweather at home.

  She burst into tears. "Isn't it awful?" she cried. "My David! My dear David! Why would anyone want to do it?" "It's hard to understand," said Qwilleran.

  "He was so young. Only thirty-two, you know. And so full of life and talent. I don't know what Stark will do without him." "Did David have enemies, Mrs. Starkweather?" "I don't know. I just can't think. I'm so upset." "Perhaps someone was jealous of David's success. Would anyone gain by his death?" The tears tapered off into noisy sniffing. "Nobody would gain very much. David lived high, and he gave everything away. He didn't save a penny. Stark was always warning him." "What will happen to David's half of the business?" Qwilleran asked in a tone as casual as he could manage.

  "Oh, it will go to Stark, of course. That was the agreement. Stark put up all the money for the business. David contributed his talent. He had so much of that," she added with a whimper.

  "Didn't Dave have any family?" "Nobody. Not a living soul. I think that's why he gave so many parties. He wanted people around him, and he thought he had to buy their affection." Mrs. Starkweather heaved a breathy sigh. "But it wasn't true. People just naturally adored David." Qwilleran bit his lip. He wanted to say: Yes, but wasn't he a cad? Didn't he say cutting things about the people who flocked around him? Don't you realize, Mrs. Starkweather, that David called you a middle-aged sot?

  Instead he said, "I wonder what will happen to his Oriental art collection." "I don't know. I really don't know." Her tone hardened. "I can think of three or four spongers who'd like to get their hands on it, though!" "You don't know if the art is mentioned in David's will?" "No, I don't." She thought for a moment. "I wouldn't be surprised if he left it to that young Japanese who cooks for him. It's just an idea." "What makes you think that?" "They were very close. David was the one who set Yushi up in the catering business. And Yushi was devoted to David. We were all devoted to David." The tears started again. "I'm glad you can't see me, Mr. Qwilleran. I look awful. I've been crying for hours! David made me feel young, and suddenly I feel so old." Qwilleran's next call was to the studio called PLUG. He recognized the suave voice that answered.

  "Bob, this is Qwilleran at the Fluxion," he said.

  "Yes, indeed!" said Orax. "How the wires are buzzing this morning! The telephone company may declare an extra dividend." "What have you heard about Dave's murder?" "Nothing worth repeating, alas." "I really called," said Qwilleran, "to ask about Yushi. Do you know if he's available for catering jobs? I'm giving a party for a guy who's getting married." Orax said: "I'm sure Yushi will have plenty of time now that David has departed. He's listed in the phone book under Cuisine Internationale…. Are we going to see you at the Posthumous Pour?" "What's that?" "Oh, didn't you know?" said Orax. "When David wrote his will, he provided for one final cocktail bash for all his friends — at the Toledo! No weeping! Just laughter, dancing and booze until the money runs out. At the Toledo it runs out very fast." "David was a real character," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to write a profile of him for the paper. Who were his best friends? Who could fill me in?" Orax hummed on the line for a few seconds. "The Starkweathers, of course, and the Noytons, and dear Yushi, and quite a few unabashed freeloaders like myself." "Any enemies?" "Perhaps Jacques Boulanger, but these days it's hard to tell an enemy from a friend." "How about the girls in his life?" "Ah, yes, girls," said Orax. "There was Lois Avery, but she married and left town. And there was a creature with long straight hair who works for Mrs. Middy; I've forgotten her name." "I think," said Qwilleran, "I know the one you mean."

  16

  Qwilleran took a taxi to the Sorbonne Studio. He had telephoned for an appointment, and a woman with an engaging French accent had invited him to arrive tout de suite if he desired a rendez-vous with Monsieur Boulanger at the atelier.

  In the taxi he thought again about Cokey. Now he knew! Koko had sensed her deception. Koko had been trying to convey that information when he nipped Cokey's head and licked the photograph from her wallet.

  Qwilleran had caught only a glimpse of the picture, but he was fairly sure whose likeness the cat had licked: that arty pose, that light hair. Now he knew! Cokey — so candid, so disarming — was capable of a convincing kind of duplicity.

  She had allowed Qwilleran to introduce David, and the decorator had played the game with only a meager wavering of his sultry gaze. Was he playing the gentleman on a spur-of-the-moment cue? Or was there some prearranged agreement?

  If Cokey had deceived Qwilleran once, she had probably de
ceived him twice. Had she engineered the embarrassment about the Allison house? Did she have connections at the Morning Rampage?

  "Is this the place you want?" asked the cabdriver, rousing Qwilleran from his distasteful reverie. The taxi had stopped in front of a pretentious little building, a miniature version of the pavilions that French monarchs built for their mistresses.

  The interior of the Sorbonne Studio was an awesome assemblage of creamy white marble, white carpet, white furniture, and crystal chandeliers. The carpet, thick and carved, looked like meringue. Qwilleran stepped on it cautiously.

  There was an upholstered hush in the place until a dark-skinned young woman of rare beauty appeared from behind a folding screen and said, "Bonjour, m'sieu. May I 'elp you?" "I have an appointment with Mr. Boulanger," said Qwilleran. "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Ah, oui. Monsieur Boulanger is on the telephone with a client, but I will announce your presence." With a sinuous walk she disappeared behind the folding screen, which was mirrored, and Qwilleran caught a reflection of himself looking smugly appreciative at her retreating figure.

  In a moment a handsome Negro, wearing a goatee, came striding out from the inner regions. "Hello, there," he said with a smile and an easy manner. "I'm Jack Baker." "I have an appointment with Mr. Boulanger," said Qwilleran.

  "I'm your man," said the decorator. "Jacques Boulanger to clients, Jack Baker to my relatives and the press.

  Come into my office, s'il vous plait." Qwilleran followed him into a pale-blue room that was plush of carpet, velvety of wall, and dainty of chair. He glanced uneasily at the ceiling, entirely covered with pleated blue silk, gathered in a rosette in the center.

  "Man, I know what you're thinking." Baker laughed. "This is a real gone pad. Mais malheureusement, it's what the clients expect. Makes me feel like a jackass, but it's a living." His eyes were filled with merriment that began to put Qwilleran at ease. "How do you like the reception salon? We've just done it over." "I guess it's all right if you like lots of white," said Qwilleran.

  "Not white!" Baker gave an exaggerated shudder. "It's called Vichyssoise. It has an undertone of Leek Green." The newsman asked: "Is this the kind of work you do for your customers? We'd like to photograph one of your interiors for Gracious Abodes. I understand you do a lot of interiors in Muggy Swamp." The decorator hesitated. "I don't want to seem uncooperative, vous savez, but my clients don't go for that kind of publicity. And, to be perfectly frank, the designing I do in Muggy Swamp is not, qu'est-ce qu'on dit, newsworthy. I mean it!

  My clients are all squares. They like tired cliches. Preferably French cliches, and those are the worst! Now, if I could show you design with imagination and daring. Not so much taste, but more spirit." "Too bad," said Qwilleran. "I was hoping we could get an important society name like Duxbury or Penniman." "I wish I could oblige," said the decorator. "I really do. I dig the newspaper scene. It was an American newsman in Paris who introduced me to my first client — Mrs. Duxbury, as a matter of fact." He laughed joyously. "Would you like to hear the whole mad tale? C'est formidable!" "Go ahead. Mind if I light my pipe?" Baker began his story with obvious relish. "I was born right here in this town, on the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks, if you know what I mean. Somehow I made college on a scholarship and came out with a Fine Arts degree, which entitled me — ma foi! — to work for a decorating studio, installing drapery hardware. So I saved my pennies and went to Paris, to the Sorbonne. C'est bien ‡a." The decorator's face grew fond." And that's where I was discovered by Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury, a couple of beautiful cats." "Did they know you were from their own city?" "Mais non! For kicks I was speaking English with a French accent, and I had grown this picturesque beard. The Duxburys bought the whole exotic bit — bless them! — and commissioned me to come here and do their thirty-room house in Muggy Swamp. I did it in tones of Oyster, Pistachio, and Apricot. After that, all the other important families wanted the Duxburys' Negro decorator from Paris. I had to continue the French accent, vous savez." "How long have you kept the secret?" "It's no secret any longer, but it would embarrass too many people if we admitted the truth. So we all enjoy the harmless little divertissement. I pretend to be French, and they pretend they don't know I'm not. C'est parfait!" Baker grinned with pleasure as he related it.

  The young lady with the ravishing face and figure walked into the office carrying a golden tray. On it were delicate teacups, slices of lemon, a golden teapot.

  "This is my niece, Verna," said the decorator.

  "Hi!" she said to Qwilleran. "Ready for your fix? Lemon or sugar?" There was no trace of a French accent. She was very American and very young, but she poured from the vermeil teapot with aristocratic grace.

  Qwilleran said to Baker, "Who did the decorating in Muggy Swamp before you arrived on the scene?" The decorator gave a twisted smile. "Eh bien, it was Lyke and Starkweather." He waited for Qwilleran's reaction, but the newsman was a veteran at hiding reactions behind his ample moustache.

  "You mean you walked away with all their customers?" "C'est la vie. Decorating clients are fickle. They are also sheep, especially in Muggy Swamp." Baker was frank, so Qwilleran decided to be blunt. "How come you didn't get the G. Verning Tait account?" The decorator looked at his niece, and she looked at him. Then Jack Baker smiled an ingratiating smile. "There was some strong feeling in the Tait family," he said, speaking carefully. "Pour-tant, David Lyke did a good job. I would never have used that striped wallpaper in the foyer, and the lamps were out of scale, but David tried hard." His expression changed to sorrow, real or feigned. "And now I've lost my best competition. Without competition, where are the kicks in this game?" "I'm thinking of writing a profile on David Lyke," said Qwilleran. "As a competitor of his, could you make a statement?" "Quotable?" asked Baker with a sly look. "How long had you know Lyke?" "From way back. When we were both on the other side of the tracks. Before his name was Lyke." "He changed his name?" "It was unpronounceable and unspellable. Dave decided that Lyke would be more likable." "Did you two get along?" "Tiens! We were buddies in high school — a couple of esthetes in a jungle of seven-foot basketball players and teen-age goons. Secretly I felt superior to Dave because I had parents, and he was an orphan. Then I came out of college and found myself working for him-measuring windows and drilling screwholes in the woodwork so David Lyke could sell $5,000 drapery jobs and get invited to society debuts in Muggy Swamp. While I'd been grinding my brain at school and washing dishes for my keep, he'd been making it on personality and bleached hair and — who knows what else. It rankled, man; it rankled!" Qwilleran puffed on his pipe and looked sympathetic.

  "Dites donc, I got my revenge," Baker smiled broadly. "I came back from Paris and walked away with his Muggy Swamp clientele. And to rub it in, I moved into the same building where he lived, but in a more expensive apartment on a higher floor." "You live at the Villa Verandah? So do I." "Sixteenth floor, south." "Fifteenth floor, north." "Alors, we're a couple of status-seekers," said Baker.

  Qwilleran had one more question. "As a competitor of David's, and a former friend, and a neighbor, do you have any educated guesses as to the motive for his murder?" The decorator shrugged. "Qui sait? He was a ruthless man — in his private life as well as in business." "I thought he was the most," said Verna. "Vraiment, ch‚rie, he had a beautiful facade, but he'd cut your throat behind your back, as the saying goes." Qwilleran said, "I've never met anyone with more personal magnetism." "Eh bien!" Baker set his jaw, and looked grim. "Well, I'll probably see you around the mausoleum," said the newsman, as he rose to leave.

  "Come up to the sixteenth floor and refuel some evening," the decorator said. "My wife's a real swinger in the kitchen." Qwilleran went back to the office to check proofs, and he found a message to see the managing editor at once.

  Percy was in a less than genial mood. "Qwill," he said abruptly, "I know you were not enthusiastic about taking the Gracious Abodes assignment, and I think I was wrong in pressing it on you." "What do you mean?" "I'm not blaming you for
the succession of mishaps per se, but it does seem that the magazine has been accident- prone." "I didn't like the idea at the beginning," said Qwilleran, "but I'm strong for it now. It's an interesting beat." "That thing last night," said Percy, shaking his head. "That murder! Why does everything happen on your beat?

  Sometimes there are psychological reasons for what we call a jinx. Perhaps we should relieve you of the assignment.

  Anderson is retiring October first…." "Anderson!" Qwilleran said with undisguised horror! "The church editor?" "Perhaps you could handle church news, and Gracious Abodes could be turned over to the Women's Department, where it belonged in the first place." Qwilleran's moustache reared up. "If you'd let me dig into these crimes, Harold, the way I suggested, I think I could unearth some clues. There are forces working against us! I happen to know, for example, that the Police Widows' Fund got a sizable donation from the owners of the Morning Rampage around the same time the Vice Squad raided the Allison house." Percy looked weary. "They're getting one from us, too. Every September both papers make a donation." "All right, then. Maybe it wasn't a payoff, but I'll bet the timing wasn't accidental. And I suspect a plot — in the Muggy Swamp incident, too." "On what do you base your suspicions?" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "I can't reveal my source at this time, but with further investigation — " The editor slapped his hand on the desk with finality. "Let's leave it the way I've suggested, I Qwill. You put next Sunday's magazine to bed, and then let Fran Unger take over." "Wait! Give me one more week before you make a decision. I promise there'll be a surprising development." "We've had nothing but surprising developments for the last fifteen days." Qwilleran did not reply, and he did not move away from Percy's desk. He just stared the editor in the eye and waited for an affirmative — a trick he had learned from Koko.