The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  Qwilleran was fascinated by Coker's long neck and graceful chinline.

  "It's great!" he said. His eyes followed her as she moved about the apartment doing domestic and unnecessary little tasks.

  The furnishings were spare, with an understated Bohemian smartness; black canvas chairs, burlap curtains in the honest color of potato sacks, and painted boards supported by clay plant pots to make a bookcase. Cokey had created a festive atmosphere with lighted candles and music. There were even two white carnations leaning out of a former vinegar bottle.

  Her economies registered favorably with Qwilleran. There was something about the room that looked sad and brave to a resident of the Villa Verandah. It touched him in a vulnerable spot, and for one brief moment he had a delirious urge to support this girl for life, but it passed quickly. He pressed a handkerchief to his brow and remarked about the music coming from a portable record player.

  "Schubert," she said sweetly. "I've given up Hindemith. He doesn't go with my new hairdo." For dinner she served a mixture of fish and brown rice in a sauce flecked with green. The salad was crunchy and required a great deal of chewing, retarding conversation. Later came ice cream made of yogurt and figs, sprinkled with sunflower seeds.

  After dinner Cokey poured cups of herb tea (she said it was her own blend of alfalfa and bladder wrack) and urged her guest to take the most comfortable chair and prop his feet on a hassock that she had made from a beer crate, upholstering it with shaggy carpet samples. While he lighted his pipe, she curled up on the couch — an awning-striped mattress on legs — and started knitting something pink.

  "What's that?" Qwilleran gasped, and almost inhaled the match he intended to blowout.

  "A sweater," she said. "I knit all my own sweaters. Do you like the color? Pink is going to be part of my new image, since I had no luck with the old image." Qwilleran smoked his pipe and marveled at the omnipotence of hairdressers. Billions are spent for neurophysiological research to control human behavior, he reflected. Beauty shops would be cheaper.

  For a while he watched the angular grace of Cokey's hands as she manipulated the knitting needles, and suddenly he said: "Tell me honestly, Cokey. Did you know the nature of the Allison house when you suggested publishing it?" "Honestly, i didn't," she said.

  "Did you happen to mention it to that fellow from the Morning Rampage?" "What fellow?" "Mike Bulmer in their Circulation Department. You seem to know him. You spoke to him at the Press Club." "Oh, that one! I don't really know him. He bought some lamps from Mrs. Middy last spring and gave her a bad check; that's why I remembered him." Qwilleran felt relieved. "I thought you were keeping secrets from me." Cokey stopped knitting. She sighed. "There's one secret I'd better confess, because you'll find out sooner or later.

  You're so snoopy!" "Occupational disease," said Qwilleran. He lighted his pipe again, and Cokey watched intently as he knocked it on the ashtray, drew on it, peered into it, filled it, tamped it, and applied a match.

  "Well," said Cokey, when that was done, "it's about David Lyke. When you took me to his party and introduced him, I pretended we had never met." "But you had," said Qwilleran. "In fact, you carry his picture in your handbag." "How did you know?" "You spilled everything on my sofa Saturday night, and Koko selected Lyke's picture and started licking it." "You and your psychic cat are a good team!" "Then it's true?" She shrugged helplessly. "I was one of the hordes of women who fell for that man. Those bedroom eyes! And that voice like a roll of drums!… Of course, it never amounted to anything. David charmed everyone and loved no one." "But you still carry his picture." Cokey pressed her lips together, and her eyelashes fluttered. "I tore it up — a few days ago." Then all at once it became necessary for her to repair her lipstick, change the records, snuff the candles on the dinner table, put the butter in the refrigerator. When she had finished her frantic activity, she sat down again with her knitting. "Let's talk about you," she said to Qwilleran. "Why do you always wear red plaid ties?" He fingered his neckwear tenderly. "I like them. This one is a Mackintosh tartan. I had a Bruce and a MacGregor, too, but Koko ate them." "Ate them!" "I was blaming the moths, but Koko was the culprit. I'm glad he didn't get this one. It's my favorite. My mother was a Mackintosh." "I never heard of a cat eating ties." "Wool-eating is a neurotic symptom," Qwilleran said with authority. "The question is: Why didn't he touch the Mackintosh? He had plenty of opportunity. He ruined all the others. Why did he spare my favorite tie?" "He must be a very considerate cat. Has he eaten anything else?" Qwilleran nodded gloomily. "You know that Danish Modern chair in my apartment? He ate a piece of that, too." "It's wool," Cokey said. "Animal matter. Maybe it tastes good to neurotic cats." "The whole apartment is full of animal matter: vicuna chairs, suede sofas, goat-hair rug! But Koko had to pick Harry Noyton's favorite chair. How much will I have to pay to get it reupholstered?" "Mrs. Middy will do it at cost," said Cokey, "but we'll have to order the fabric from Denmark. And how can you be sure Koko won't nibble it again?" Qwilleran told her about Mrs. Highspight and the plan to adopt the Tait cat. "She told me Tait is unfond of cats.

  She also said he's slow to pay his bills." "The richer they are, the harder it is to collect," said Cokey.

  "But is Tait as rich as people think? David hinted that the decorating bill was unpaid. And when we discussed the possibility of publishing the Tait house, David said he thought he could use persuasion; it sounded as if he had some kind of leverage he could employ. Actually, Tait agreed quite readily. Why? Because he was really broke and inclined to cooperate with his creditor? Or for some other obscure reason?" Qwilleran touched his moustache. "Sometimes I think the Muggy Swamp episode is a frame-up. And I still think the police theory about the houseboy is all wet." "Then what's happened to him?" "Either he's in Mexico," said Qwilleran, "or he's been murdered. And if he's in Mexico, either he went of his own accord or he was sent there by the conspirators. And if he was sent, either he has the jades with him or he's clean. And if he has the jades, I'll bet you ten to one that Tait is planning a trip to Mexico in the near future. He's going away for a rest.

  If he heads west, he'll probably wind up in Mexico." "You can also go west by heading east," said Cokey.

  Qwilleran reached over and patted her hand. "Smart girl." "Do you think he'd trust the houseboy with the jades?" "You've got a point. Maybe Paolo didn't take the loot. Maybe he was dispatched to Mexico as a decoy. If that's the case, where are the jades hidden?" The answer was a large silence filling the room. Qwilleran clicked his pipe on his teeth. Cokey clicked her knitting needles. The record player clicked as another disc dropped on the turntable. Now it was Brahms.

  Finally Qwilleran said, "You know that game Koko and I play with the dictionary?" He proceeded with circumspection. "Lately Koko's been turning up some words that have significance…. I shouldn't talk about it. It's too incredible." "You know how I feel about cats," said Cokey. "I'll believe anything." "The first time I noticed it was last Sunday morning. I had forgotten to fix his breakfast, and when we played the dictionary game he turned up hungerly." Cokey clapped her hands. "How clever!" "On the next try he turned up feed, but I didn't catch on until he produced meadow mouse. Apparently he was getting desperate. I don't think he really cares for mice." "Why, that's like a Ouija board!" "It gives me the creeps," said Qwilleran. "Ever since the mystery in Muggy Swamp, he's been flushing out words that point to G. Verning Tait, like bald and sacroiliac. He picked sacroiliac twice in one game, and that's quite a coincidence in a dictionary with three thousand pages." "Is Mr. Tait bald?" "Not a hair on his head. He also suffers from a back ailment…. Do you know what a koolokamba is?" Cokey shook her head.

  "It's an ape with a bald head and black hands. Koko dredged that one up, too." "Black hands! That's poetic symbolism," Coker said. "Can you think of any more?" "Not every word pertains to the situation. Sometimes it's visceripericardial or calorifacient. But one day he found two significant words on one page: rubeola and ruddiness. Tait has a florid complexion, I might add." "Oh, Q
will, that cat's really tuned in!" Coker said. "I'm sure he's on the right track. Can you do anything about it?" "Hardly." Qwillerau looked dejected. "I can't go to the police and tell them my cat suspects the scion of a fine old family…. Still, there's another possibility…." "What's that?" "It may be," said Qwilleran, "that the police suspect Tait, too, and they're publishing the houseboy theory as a cover-up."

  19

  Qwilleran arrived home from Cokey's apartment earlier than he had expected. Cokey had chased him out. She said they both had to work the next day, and she had to fix her hair and iron a blouse.

  When he arrived at the Villa Verandah, Koko greeted him with a table-hopping routine that ended on the desk.

  The red light on the telephone was glowing. The phone had been ringing, Koko seemed to be saying, and no one had been there to answer.

  Qwilleran dialed the switchboard.

  "Mr. Bunsen called you at nine o'clock," the operator told him. "He said to call him at home if you came in before one A.M." Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was not yet midnight, and he started to dial Bunsen's number. Then he changed his mind. He decided Cokey was right about the importance of image. He decided it would not hurt to enhance his own image — the enviable one of a bachelor carousing until the small hours of the morning.

  Qwilleran emptied his coat pockets, draped his coat on a chair back, and sat down at the desk to browse through the Tait file of newspaper clippings. Koko watched, lounging on the desk top in a classic pose known to lions and tigers, curving his tail around a Swedish crystal paperweight.

  The newsprint was in varying shades of yellow and brown, depending on the age of the news item. Each was rubber-stamped with the date of publication. It was hardly necessary to read the stamp; outmoded typefaces, as well as mellowed paper, gave a clue to the date.

  First Qwilleran shuffled through the clippings hastily, hoping to spot a lurid headline. Finding none in a cursory search, he started to read systematically: three generations of Tait history in chronological disorder.

  Five years ago Tait had given a talk at a meeting of the Lapidary Society. Eleven years ago his father had died.

  There was a lengthy feature on the Tait Manufacturing Company, apparently one of a series on family-owned firms of long standing; organized in 1883 for the manufacture of buggy whips, the company was now producing car radio antennas. Old society clippings showed the elder Taits at the opera or charity functions. Three years ago G. Verning Tait announced his intention of manufacturing antennas that looked like buggy whips. A year later a news item stated that the Tait plant had closed and bankruptcy proceedings were being instituted.

  Then there was the wedding announcement of twenty-four years ago. Mr. George Verning Tait, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Verning H. Tait of Muggy Swamp, was taking a bride. The entire Tait family had gone to Europe for,the ceremony.

  The nuptials had been celebrated at the home of the bride's parents, the Victor Thorvaldsons of — Qwilleran's eyes popped when he read it. "The Victor Thorvaldsons of Aarhus, Denmark." He leaned back in his chair and exhaled into his moustache.

  "Koko," he said, "what do you suppose Harry Noyton is pulling off in Aarhus?" The cat opened his mouth to reply, but there was not enough breath behind his comment to make it audible.

  Qwilleran's watch said one o'clock, and he hurried through the rest of the clippings until he found what he was looking for. Then he dialed Odd Bunsen's number excitedly.

  "Hope I didn't get you out of bed," he said to the photographer.

  "How was your date, you old tomcat?" Bunsen demanded.

  "Not bad. Not bad." "What were you doing on Merchant Street this morning?" "How do you know I was on Merchant Street?" "Aha! I saw you waiting for a bus on the southwest corner of Merchant and State at eleven fifty-five." "You don't miss a thing, do you?" Qwilleran said. "Why didn't you stop and give me a lift?" "I was going in the other direction. Brother! You were getting an early start. It wasn't even lunchtime." "I had a doctor's appointment." "On Merchant Street? Ho ho HO! Ho ho HO!" "Is that all you called about? You're a nosy old woman." "Nope. I've got some information for you." "I've got some news for you, too," said Qwilleran. "I've found the skeleton in the Tait closet." "What is it?" "A court trial. G. Verning Tait was involved in a paternity suit!" "Ho ho HO! That old goat! Who was the gal?" "One of the Taits' servants. She got a settlement, too. According to these old clippings it must have been a sensational trial." "A thing like that can be a rough experience." "You'd think a family with the Taits' money and position would settle out of court-at any cost," Qwilleran said. "I covered a paternity trial in Chicago several years ago, and the testimony got plenty raw…. Now, what's on your mind?

  What's this information you've got for me?" "Nothing much," said Bunsen, "but if you're going to send those photographs to Tait, you'd better make it snappy.

  He's leaving the country in a couple of days." "How do you know?" "I ran into Lodge Kendall at the Press Club. Tait's leaving Saturday morning." "For Mexico?" asked Qwilleran as his moustache sprang to attention.

  "Nope. Nothing as obvious as that! You'd like it if he was heading for Mexico, wouldn't you?" the photographer teased.

  "Well, where is he going?" "Denmark!"

  Qwilleran waked easily the next morning after a night of silly dreams that he was glad to terminate. In one episode he dreamed he was flying to Aarhus to be best man at the high-society wedding of two neutered cats.

  Before leaving for the office, he telephoned Tait and offered to deliver the photographs of the jade the next day.

  He also inquired about the female cat and was appalled to hear that Tait had put her out of the house to fend for herself.

  "Can you get her back?" Qwilleran asked, controlling his temper. He had a particular loathing for people who mistreated animals.

  "She's still on the grounds," Tait said. "She howled all night. I'll let her come back in the house…. How many photos do you have for me?" Qwilleran worked hard and fast at the office that day, while the clerk in the Feature Department intercepted all phone calls and uninvited visitors with the simple explanation that permits no appeal, no argument, no exceptions. "Sorry, he's on deadline." Only once did he take time out, and that was to telephone the Taits' former housekeeper.

  "Mrs. Hawkins," he said, taming his voice to an aloof drawl, "this is an acquaintance of Mr. Tait in Muggy Swamp.

  I am being married shortly, and my wife and I will need a housekeeper. Mr. Tait recommends you highly — " "Oh, he does, does he?" said a musical voice with impudence in the inflection.

  "Could you come for an interview this evening at the Villa Verandah?" "Who'll be there? Just you? Or will the lady be there?" "My fiancee is unfortunately in Tokyo at the moment, and it will be up to me to make the arrangements." "Okey doke. I'll come. What time?" Qwilleran set the appointment for eight o'clock. He was glad he was not in need of a housekeeper. He wondered if Mrs. Hawkins was an example of Tait's ill-advised economies.

  By the time Mrs. Hawkins presented herself for the interview, the rain had started, and she arrived with dripping umbrella and a dripping raincoat over a gaudy pink and green dress. Qwilleran noted that the dress had the kind of neckline that slips off the shoulder at the slightest encouragement, and there was a slit in the side seam. The woman had sassy eyes, and she flirted her shoulders when she walked. He liked sassy, flirtatious females if they were young and attractive, but Mrs. Hawkins was neither.

  With exaggerated decorum he offered her a glass of sherry "against the weather," and poured a deep amber potion from Harry Noyton's well-stocked bar. He poured an exceptionally large glass, and by the time the routine matters had been covered — experience, references, salary — Mrs. Hawkins had relaxed in the cushions of a suede sofa and was ready for a chatty evening.

  "You're one of the newspaper fellows that came to the house to take pictures," she announced at this point, with her eyes dancing at him. "I remember your moustache." She waved an arm at the appointments of the roo
m. "I didn't know reporters made so much money." "Let me fill your glass," said Qwilleran. "Aren't you drinking?" "Ulcers," he said with a look of self-pity. "Lordy, I know all about them!" said Mrs. Hawkins. "I cooked for two people with ulcers in Muggy Swamp. Sometimes, when Mr. Tait wasn't around, she would have me fix her a big plate of French fried onion rings, and if there's anything that doesn't go with ulcers, it's French fried onion rings, but I never argued. Nobody dared argue with her. Everybody went around on tippy-toe, and when she rang that bell, everybody dropped everything and rushed to see what she wanted. But I didn't mind, because — if I have my druthers — I druther cook for a couple of invalids than a houseful of hungry brats. And I had help out there. Paulie was a big help. He was a sweet boy, and it's too bad he turned out to be no good, but that's the way it is with foreigners. I don't understand foreigners. She was a foreigner, too, although it was a long time ago that she came over here, and it wasn't until near the end that she started screaming at all of us in a foreign language. Screaming at her husband, too. Lordy, that man had the patience of a saint! Of course, he had his workshop to keep him happy. He was crazy about those rocks! He bought a whole mountain once — some place in South America. It was supposed to be chock-full of jade, but I guess it didn't pan out. Once he offered me a big jade brooch, but I wouldn't take it. I wasn't having any of that!" Mrs. Hawkins rolled her eyes suggestively. "He was all excited when you came to take pictures of his knickknacks, which surprised me because of the way he felt about the Daily Fluxion." She paused to drain her glass. "This is good! One more little slug? And then I'll be staggering home." "How did Mr. Tait feel about the Fluxion?" Qwilleran asked casually, as he refilled Mrs. Hawkins's glass.

  "Oh, he was dead set against it! Wouldn't have it in the house. And that was a crying shame, because everybody knows the Fluxion has the best comics, but… that's the way he was! I guess we all have our pecu — peculiarities….