The Cat Who Turned On and Off

by Lilian Jackson Braun

Pedestrians were few, and cars barreled past with whining snow tires, in a hurry to be elsewhere.

  A wintry blast from the northeast sent Qwilleran hurrying toward the first store that professed to sell antiques. It was dark within, and the door was locked, but he cupped his hands to his temples and looked through the glass. What he saw was a gigantic wood carving of a gnarled tree with five lifesize monkeys swinging from its branches. One monkey held a hatrack. One monkey held a lamp. One monkey held a mirror. One monkey held a clock. One monkey held an umbrella stand.

  Qwilleran backed away. Nearby was the shop called The Three Weird Sisters. The store was closed, although a card in the window insisted it was open.

  The newsman turned up his coat collar and covered his ears with gloved hands, wishing he had not had his hair trimmed. He next tried the Junque Trunque — closed — and a basement shop called Tech-Tiques, which looked as if it I had never been open. Between the antique shops there were commercial establishments with dirty windows, and in one of these — a hole in the wall labeled Popopopoulos' Fruit, Cigars, Work Gloves and Sundries — he bought a pouch of tobacco and found it to be stale.

  With growing disaffection for his assignment he walked past a dilapidated barbershop and a third-class nursing home until he reached a large antique shop on the comer. Its door was padlocked, and its windows were plastered with notices of an auction. Qwilleran, looking through the glass door, saw dusty furniture, clocks, mirrors, a bugle made into a lamp, and marble statues of Greek maidens in coy poses.

  He also saw the reflection of another man approaching the store. The figure came up behind him with a faltering step, and a thick voice said amiably, "You like 'at slop?" Qwilleran turned and faced an early-morning drunk, red-eyed and drooling but amiable. He was wearing a coat obviously made from a well-used horse blanket.

  "Know what it is? Slop!" the man repeated with a moist grin as he peered through the door at the antiques.

  Relishing the wetness of the word, he turned to Qwilleran and said it again with embellishments. "Ssssloppp!" The newsman moved away in disgust and wiped his face with a handkerchief, but the intruder was determined to be friendly.

  "You can't get in," he explained helpfully. "Door locked. Locked it after the murder." Perhaps he caught a flicker of interest in Qwilleran's face, because he added, "Stabbed! Sssstabbed!" It was another juicy word, and he illustrated it by plunging an imaginary dagger into the newsman's stomach.

  "Get lost!" Qwilleran muttered and strode away.

  Nearby there was a carriage house converted into a refinishing shop. Qwilleran tried that door, too, knowing it would not open, and he was right.

  He was beginning to have an uneasy feeling about this street, as if the antique shops were fakes — stage props.

  Where were the proprietors? Where were the collectors who paid twenty-eight dollars for an old tin box? The only people in sight were two children in shabby snowsuits, a workman with a lunchpail, an old lady in black, who was plodding along with a shopping bag, and the good-natured drunk, now sitting on the frozen sidewalk.

  At that moment Qwilleran looked up and saw movement in a curved bay window — a clean, sparkling window in a narrow town house painted dark gray with fresh black trim and a fine brass knocker on the door. The building had a residential look, but there was a discreet sign: The Blue Dragon-Antiques.

  Slowly he mounted the flight of eight stone steps and tried the door, fearing it would be locked, but to his surprise it opened, and he stepped into an entrance hall of great elegance and formality. There was an Oriental rug on the waxed floor and delicate Chinese paper on the walls. A gilded mirror crowned with three carved plumes hung over a well- polished table that held chrysanthemums in a porcelain bowl. There was a fragrance of exotic wood. There was also the hush of death, except for the ticking of a clock.

  Qwilleran, standing there in amazement, suddenly felt he was being watched, and he turned on his heel, but it was only a blackamoor, a lifesize ebony carving of a Nubian slave with turbaned head and an evil glint in his jeweled eyes.

  Now the newsman was convinced that Junktown was something less than real. This was the enchanted palace in the depths of the dark forest.

  A blue velvet rope barred the stairway, but the parlor doors stood open invitingly, and Qwilleran advanced with caution into a high-ceilinged room filled with furniture, paintings, silver, and blue and white china. A silver chandelier hung from the sculptured plaster ceiling.

  His footsteps made the floor creak, and he coughed self-consciously. Then he caught a glimpse of something blue in the window — a large blue porcelain dragon — and he was moving toward it when he almost fell over a foot. It looked like a human foot in an embroidered slipper. He sucked in his breath sharply and stepped back. A lifesize female figure in a long blue satin kimono was seated in a carved Oriental chair. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, and the slender hand held a cigarette holder. The face seemed to be made of porcelain — blue-white porcelain — and the wig was blue-black.

  Qwilleran started to breathe again, thankful he had not knocked the thing over, and then he noticed smoke curling from the tip of the cigarette. It — or she — was alive.

  "Are you looking for anything in particular?" she asked coolly. Only the lips moved in her masklike face. Her large dark eyes, heavily rimmed with black pencil, fixed themselves on the newsman without expression.

  "No. Just looking," said Qwilleran with a gulp.

  "There are two more rooms in the rear, and eighteenth century oils and engravings in the basement." She spoke with a cultivated accent.

  The newsman studied her face, making mental notes for the story he would write: wide cheekbones, hollow cheeks, flawless complexion, blue-black hair worn Oriental style, haunting eyes, earrings of jade. She was about thirty, he guessed — an age to which he was partial. He relaxed.

  "I'm from the Daily Fluxion," he said in his most agreeable voice, "and I'm about to write a series on Junktown." "I prefer to have no publicity," she said with a frozen stare.

  Only three times in his twenty-five years of newspapering had he heard anyone decline to be mentioned in print, and all three had been fugitives — from the law, from blackmail, from a nagging wife. But here was something incomprehensible: the operator of a business enterprise refusing publicity. Free publicity.

  "All the other shops seem to be closed," he said.

  "They should open at eleven, but antique dealers are seldom punctual." Qwilleran looked around aimlessly and said, "How much for the blue dragon in the window?" "It's not for sale." She moved the cigarette holder to her lips and drew on it exquisitely. "Are you interested in Oriental porcelains? I have a blue and white stemmed cup from the Hsuan Te period." "No, I'm just digging for stories. Know anything about the auction sale down at the corner?" She coughed on the cigarette smoke, and for the first time her poise wavered. "It's at one thirty today," she said.

  "I know. I saw the sign. Who was this dealer who was killed?" Her voice dropped to a lower pitch. "Andrew Glanz. A highly respected authority on antiques." "When did it happen?" "The sixteenth of October." "Was it a holdup? I don't remember reading about a murder in Junktown, and I usually follow the crime news carefully." "What makes you think it was-murder?" she said with a wary glint in her unblinking eyes.

  "I heard someone say — and in this kind of neighborhood, you know…" "He was killed in an accident." "Traffic accident?" "He fell from a ladder." She crushed her cigarette. "I would rather not talk about it. It was too — too — " "He was a friend of yours?" Qwilleran asked in the sympathetic tone that had won him the confidence of maidens and murderers in the past.

  "Yes. But, if you don't mind, Mr.- Mr. — " "Qwilleran." "The name is Irish?" She was deliberately changing the subject.

  "No, Scottish. Spelled with a Qw. And your name?" "Duckworth." "Miss or Mrs.?" She drew a deep breath. "Miss…. I have quite a few antiques from Scotland in the other room. Would you like to see them?" She rose and led the way. S
he was tall and slender, and the kimono, a long shaft of blue, moved with silky grace among the mahogany sideboards and walnut tables.

  "These andirons are Scottish," she said, "and so is this brass salver. Do you like brass? Most men like brass." Qwilleran was squinting at something leaning against the wall in a far cornet. "What's that?" he demanded. He pointed to a wrought-iron coat of arms, a yard in diameter. It was a shield surrounded by three snarling cats.

  "An ornament from an iron gate, I think. It may have come from the arch over the gate of a castle." "It's the Mackintosh coat of arms!" said Qwilleran. "I know the inscription: Touch not the catt bot a glove. My mother was a Mackintosh." He patted his moustache with satisfaction.

  "You ought to buy it," Miss Duckworth said.

  "What would I do with it? I don't even have an apartment. How much is it?" "I've been asking two hundred dollars, but if you like it, you can have it for one hundred twenty-five dollars. That's actually what I paid for it." She lifted the weighty piece out from the wall to show it off to better advantage. "You'll never find a better buy, and you can always sell it for what you paid — or more. That's the nice thing about antiques. It would be wonderful over a fireplace — against a chimney wall. See, it has remnants of a lovely old red and blue decoration. As she warmed to her sales talk, she grew animated and her dark-rimmed eyes glistened. Qwilleran began to feel mellow. He began to regard this blue-white porcelain creature as a possible prospect for Christmas Eve at the Press Club.

  "I'll think about it," he said, turning away from the coat of arms with reluctance. "Meanwhile, I'm going to cover the auction this afternoon. Do you happen to know where I could get a picture of Andrew Glanz to use with my story?" Her reserved manner returned. "What — what kind of story are you going to write?" "I'll just describe the auction and give suitable recognition to the deceased." She hesitated, glancing at the ceiling. "If it's true what you say. Miss Duckworth-that he was a highly respected authority — " "I have a few pictures in my apartment upstairs. Would you like to look at them?" She unhooked the velvet rope that barred the stairs. "Let me go first and restrain the dog." At the top of the stairs a large German police dog was waiting with unfriendly growl and quivering jaws. Miss, Duckworth penned him in another room and then led the; newsman down a long hallway, its walls covered with framed photographs. Qwilleran thought he recognized some rather important people in those frames. Of the deceased dealer there were three pictures: Glanz on a lecture platform, Glanz with the director of the historical museum, and then a studio portrait — a photograph of a young man with a square jaw, firm mouth, and intelligent eyes — a good face, an honest face.

  Qwilleran glanced at Miss Duckworth, who was clasping and unclasping her hands, and said, "May I borrow this studio shot? I'll have it copied and return it." She nodded sadly.

  "You have a beautiful apartment," he said, glancing into a living room that was all gold velvet, blue silk, and polished wood. "I had no idea there was anything like this in Junktown." "I wish other responsible people would buy some of the old houses and preserve them," she said. "So far the only ones who have shown any inclination to do so are the Cobbs. They have the mansion on this block. Antiques on the first floor and apartments upstairs." "Apartments? Do you know if they have one for rent?" "Yes," the girl said, lowering her eyes. "There's one vacant in the rear." "I might inquire about it. I need a place to live." "Mrs. Cobb is a very pleasant woman. Don't let her husband upset you." "I don't upset easily. What's wrong with her husband?" Miss Duckworth turned her attention to the downstairs hall. Customers had walked into the house and were chattering and exclaiming. "You go down," she instructed Qwilleran, "and I'll let the dog out of the kitchen before I follow you." Downstairs two women were wandering among the treasures — women with the air and facial characteristics of suburban housewives; the newsman had met hundreds of them at flower shows and amateur art exhibits. But the garb of these women was out of character. One wore a man's leather trench coat and a woolly mop of a hat studded with seashells, while the other was bundled up in an Eskimo parka over black-and-white checkerboard trousers stuffed into hunting boots with plaid laces.

  "Oh, what a lovely shop," said the parka.

  "Oh, she's got some old Steuben," said the trench coat. "Oh, Freda, look at this decanter! My grandmother had one just like it. Wonder what she wants for it." "She's high, but she has good things. Don't act too enthusiastic, and she'll come down a few dollars," the trench coat advised, adding in a low voice, "Did you know she was Andy's girl friend?" "You mean — Andy, the one who…?" The trench coat nodded. "You know how he was killed, don't you?" The other one shuddered and made a grimace of distaste. "Here she comes." As Miss Duckworth glided into the room — looking cool, poised, fragile as bone china — Qwilleran went to the rear. of the shop to have one more look at the Mackintosh coat of arms. It was massive and crudely made. He felt a need to touch it, and his flesh tingled as his hand made contact with the iron. Then he hefted it-with an involuntary grunt. It felt like a hundred-pound weight.

  And yet, he remembered afterwards, the delicate Miss Duckworth had lifted it with apparent ease.

  3

  By noon Zwinger Street showed signs of coming to life. A halfhearted winter sunshine had broken through the gloom, adding no real joy to the scene — only a sickly smile. The sidewalks were now populated with women and quite a few men in their antiquing clothes — deliberately outlandish, mismatched, or shabby. They moved from shop to shop while waiting for the auction at one thirty.

  Qwilleran decided there was time for a quick lunch and found a diner, where he gulped a leathery hot dog on a spongy roll, a beverage claiming to be coffee and a piece of synthetic pie with crust made of papier-m?ch‚. He also telephoned the feature editor and asked for a photographer.

  "About this auction," he told Arch Riker. "We should get some candids of the crowd. Their getups are incredible." "I told you Junktown was colorful," Riker reminded him.

  "Don't send me Tiny Spooner. He's a clumsy oaf, and there are lots of breakables here." "At this short notice we'll have to take any man we can get. Have you bought any antiques yet?" "NO!" Qwilleran bellowed into the mouthpiece, at the same time thinking warmly of the Mackintosh coat of arms.

  By one o'clock the scene of the auction was crowded. Andrew Glanz had done business in a large building, probably dating from the 1920s when the neighborhood had begun to go commercial. The high ceiling was hung with ladderback chair, copper pots, birdcages, sleds, and chandeliers of every description. The floor was crowded with furniture in a disorganized jumble, pushed back to make room for rows of folding chairs. A narrow stairway led to a balcony, and from its railings hung Oriental rugs and faded tapestries. Everywhere there were signs re- minding customers, "If you break it, you've bought it." The auctiongoers were circulating, examining the merchandise with studious frowns, looking at the underside of plates, ringing crystal with a flick of a finger.

  QwilIeran pushed through the crowd, making mental notes of the conversation around him.

  "Look at this rocking horse! I had one exactly like it in the attic, and my husband burned it in the fireplace!" "If it has a little man with a parasol on the bridge, it's Canton china, but if he's sitting in the teahouse, it's Nanking.

  .. or maybe it's the other way around." "What's this thing? It would make a wonderful punch bowl!" "I don't see the finial anywhere, thank God!" "There's Andy's stepladder." "My grandmother had a Meissen ewer, but hers was blue." "Do you think they'll put up the finial?" As the auction hour approached, people began to take seats facing the platform, and QwilIeran found a chair at the end of a row where he could watch for the Fluxion photographer to arrive. There were all kinds, all ages in the audience. One man in a Hudson Bay blanket coat carried a small dog dressed to match. Another was wearing a Santa Claus cap and a rainbow-striped muffler that hung down to the floor.

  Next to Qwilleran sat a plump woman with two pairs of glasses hanging from ribbons around her neck.

&
nbsp; "This is my first auction," he said to her. "Do you have any advice for a greenhorn?" The woman had been designed with a compass: large round pupils in round eyes in a round face. She gave him a half-circular smile. "Don't scratch your ear, or you'll find you've bought that pier mirror." She pointed to a narrow mirror in an ornate frame that towered a good fourteen feet high and leaned against the balcony rail. "I was afraid I'd miss the auction. I had to go to the eye doctor, and he kept me waiting. He put drops in my eyes, and I can't see a thing." "What's the finial that everyone's talking about?" She shivered. "Don't you know about Andy's accident?" "I heard he fell off a ladder." "Worse than that!" She made a pained face. "Let's skip the details. It makes me sick to my stomach…. At first I thought you were an out-of-town dealer." "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Really?" She smoothed her ash-colored hair and turned adoring pupils in his direction. "Are you going to write up the auction? I'm Iris Cobb. My husband runs The Junkery down the street." "You must be the people with the apartment to rent." "Are you interested? You'd love it! It's furnished with antiques." The woman kept glancing toward the door.

  "Wonder if my husband is here yet. I can't see a thing." "What does he look like?" "Tall and nice-looking and probably needs a shave. He'll be wearing a red flannel shirt." "He's standing at the back, next to a grandfather's clock." The woman settled back in her chair. "I'm glad he got here. He'll do the bidding, and I won't have to worry about it." "He's talking to a character in a Santa Claus cap." "That must be Ben Nicholas. Ben rents one of our apartments and runs a shop called Bit o' Junk." With an affectionate smile she added, "He's an idiot!" "Anyone else I should know? There's a blond guy on crutches, all dressed in white." "Russell Patch, the refinisher. He never wears anything but white." She lowered her voice. "In front of us — the thin man — he's Hollis Prantz. He has a new shop called Tech-Tiques. The man with the briefcase is Robert Maus, attorney for the estate." Qwilleran was impressed. The firm of Teahandle, Burris, Hansblow, Maus and Castle was the most prestigious in the city.