The Cat Who Turned On and Off

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  "You monkey!" Qwilleran said. "How did you discover that gadget?" He was unsure whether to be peeved at the interruption of his sleep or proud of the cat's mechanical aptitude. He lugged Koko, squalling and writhing, from the bathroom and tossed him on the cushions of the Morris chair. "What were you trying to do? Resurrect Yum Yum's mouse?" Koko licked his rumpled fur as if it had been contaminated by something indescribably offensive.

  Daylight in a menacing yellow-gray began to creep over the winter sky, devising new atrocities in the form of weather. While opening a can of minced clams for the cats, Qwilleran planned his day. For one thing, he wanted to find out how Ben Nicholas folded his money. He also wished he knew how that red feather had transferred from a tweed porkpie to a silk tophat. He had asked Koko about it, and Koko had merely squeezed one eye. As for the avalanche, Qwilleran had discussed it with Mary, and she had a glib explanation: "Well, you see, the attic in Ben's building is used for sleeping rooms, and it's heated." He had not exactly promised Mary that he would drop his unofficial investigation. He had been on the verge of promising when Koko created that commotion. Afterwards, Qwilleran had simply said, "Trust me, Mary. I won't do anything to hurt you," and she had become nicely emotional, and altogether it had been a gratifying evening. She had even accepted his Christmas Eve invitation. She said she would go to the Press Club as Mary Duxbury — not as Mary Duckworth, junk dealer — because the society writers would recognize her.

  Qwilleran still faced a dilemma, however. To drop his investigation was to shirk his own idea of responsibility; to pursue it was to hurt Junktown, and this neglected step- child of City Hall needed a champion, not another antagonist.

  By the time the junk shops opened and Qwilleran started his rounds, the weather had devised another form of discomfort: a clammy cold that chilled the bones and hovered over Junktown like a musty dishrag.

  He went first to Bit o' Junk, but Ben's shop was closed. Then he tried the store that sold tech-tiques, and for the first time since Qwilleran had arrived in Junktown, the place was open. When he walked in, Hollis Prantz came loping from the stockroom in the rear, wearing something somber and carrying a paintbrush.

  "Just varnishing some display cabinets," he explained. "Getting ready for the big day tomorrow." "Don't let me interrupt you," Qwilleran said, as he perused the shop in mystification. He saw tubes from fifteen- year-old television sets, early hand-wired circuits, prehistoric radio parts, and old-fashioned generator cutouts from 1935 automobiles. "Just tell me one thing," he said. "Do you expect to make a living from this stuff?" "Nobody makes a living in this business," said Prantz. "We all need another source of income." "Or extremely monastic tastes," Qwilleran added. "I happen to have a little rental property, and I'm semi-retired. I had a heart attack last year, and I'm taking it easy." "You're young to have a thing like that happen." Qwilleran guessed the dealer was in his early forties.

  "You're lucky if you get a warning early in life. It's my theory that Cobb had a heart attack when he was tearing that building apart; that's heavy work for a man of his age." "What kind of work did you do — before this?" "I was in paint and wallpaper." The dealer said it almost apologetically. "Not much excitement in the paint business, but I get a real charge out of this new shop of mine." "What gave you the idea for tech-tiques?" "Wait till I get rid of this varnish brush." In a second Prantz was back with an old straight-back office chair. "Here.

  Have a seat." Qwilleran studied the disassembled innards of a primitive typewriter. "You'll have to talk fast to convince me this junk is going to catch on." The dealer smiled. "Well, I'll tell you. People will collect anything today, because there aren't enough good antiques to go around. They make lamps out of worm-eaten fence posts. They frame twenty-year-old burlesque posters.

  Why not preserve the fragments of the early automotive and electronics industry?" Prantz shifted to a confidential tone.

  "I've got a promotion I'm working on, based on a phenomenon of our times — the acceleration of obsolescence. My idea is to accelerate antiquity. The sooner an item goes out of style, the quicker it makes its comeback as a collector's piece. It used to be a hundred years before discards made the grade as collectibles. Now it's thirty. I intend to speed it up to twenty or even fifteen…. Don't write this up," the dealer added hastily. "It's still in the thinking stage. Protect me, like a good fellow." Qwilleran shrank into his overcoat when he left Hollis Prantz. The dealer had changed a five for him — with dollar bills folded crosswise — but there was something about Prantz that did not ring true.

  "Mr. Qwilleran! Mr. Qwilleran!" Running footsteps came up behind him, and he turned to catch an armful of brown corduroy, oppossum fur, notebooks, and flying blond hair.

  Ivy, the youngest of the three sisters, was out of breath. "Just got off the bus," she panted. "Had a life class this morning. Are you on your way to our shop?" "No, I'm heading for Mrs. McGuffey's." "Don't go there! 'Mrs. McGuffey is too damn stuffy! That's what Cluthra says." "Business is business, Ivy. Are you all ready for Christmas?" "Guess what! I'm getting an easel for Christmas! A real painter's easel." "I'm glad I ran into you," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to decorate my apartment for the holidays, but I don't have your artistic touch. Besides, this tricky knee — " "I'd love to help you. Do you want an old-fashioned Christmas tree or something swinging?" "A tree would last about three minutes at my place. I have a couple of cats, and they're airborne most of the time.

  But I thought I could get some ropes of greens at Lombardo's — " "I've got a staple gun at the shop. I can do it right now." When Ivy arrived at Qwilleran's apartment, the cedar garlands — ten dollars' worth — were heaped in the middle of the floor, being circled warily by Koko and Yum Yum. The latter left for parts unknown at the sight of the blond visitor, but Koko sat tall and watched her carefully as if she were not to be trusted.

  Qwilleran offered Ivy a Coke before she started decorating, and she sat in the rocking chair made of twigs, her straight blond hair falling like a cape over her shoulders. As she talked, her little-girl mouth pouted and pursed and broke into winning smiles.

  Qwilleran asked, "Where did you three sisters get such unusual names?" "Don't you know? They're different kinds of art glass. My mother was madly Art Nouveau. I'd rather be called Kim or Leslie. When I'm eighteen I'm going to change my name and move to Paris to study art. I mean, when I get the money my mother left me — if my sisters haven't used it all up," she added with a frown. "They're my legal guardians." "You seem to have a lot of fun together in that shop." Ivy hesitated. "Not really. They're kind of mean to me. Cluthra won't let me go steady… and Amberina is trying to suppress my talent. She wants me to study bookkeeping or nursing or something grim like that." "Who's giving you the magnificent Christmas present?" "What?" "The easel." "Oh! Well… I'm getting that from Tom. He's Amberina's husband. He's real neat. I think he's secretly in love with me, but don't say anything to anybody." "Of course not. I'm flattered," said Qwilleran, "that you feel you can confide in me. What do you think about all the mishaps in Junktown? Are they as accidental as they appear?" "Cluthra says the Dragon dropped that thing on her foot on purpose. Cluthra may decide to sue her for an enormous amount of money. Five thousand dollars!" "An astronomical figure," Qwilleran agreed. "But what about the two recent deaths in Junktown?" "Poor C. C.! He was a creep, but I felt sorry for him. His wife wasn't nice to him at all. Did you know she murdered her first husband? Of course, nobody could ever prove it." "And Andy. Did you know Andy?" "He was dreamy. I was mad about Andy. Wasn't that a horrible way to die?" "Do you think he might have been murdered?" Ivy's eyes grew wide with delight at the possibility. "Maybe the Dragon — " "But Mary Duckworth was in love with Andy. She wouldn't do a thing like that." The girl thought about it for a few seconds. "She couldn't be in love with him," she announced. "She's a witch!

  Cluthra says so! And everybody knows witches can't fall in love." "I must say you have a colorful collection of characters in Junktown. What do you know about Russell Patch
?" "I used to like him before he bleached his hair. I kind of think he's mixed up in some kind of racket, like — I don't know…" "Who's his roommate?" "Stan's hairdresser at Skyline Towers. You know all those rich widows and kept women that live there? They tell Stan all their secrets and give him fabulous presents. He does Cluthra's hair. She pretends it's natural, but you should see how gray it is when it starts to grow out." "Sylvia Katzenhide lives in the same building, doesn't she?" The girl nodded and reflected. "Cluthra says she'd be a brilliant success at blackmail. Sylvia's got something on everybody." "Including Ben Nicholas and Hollis Prantz?" "I don't know." Ivy sipped her Coke while she toyed with the possibilities. "But I think Ben's a dope addict. I haven't decided about the other one. He may be some kind of pervert." Later, when the garlands were festooned on the fireplace wall and Ivy had departed with her staple gun, Qwilleran said to Koko: "Out of the mouths of babes come the damnedest fabrications!" Furthermore, the experiment had cost him ten dollars, and the decorations only served to enshrine the bad-dispositioned old lady hanging over the fireplace. He determined to substitute the Mackintosh coat of arms as soon as he could get some assistance in hoisting it to the mantel.

  Before going downtown to hand in his copy, he made two phone calls and wangled some invitations. He told Cluthra he wanted to see how antique dealers live, what they collect, how they furnish their apartments. He told Russell Patch he had a Siamese cat who was crazy about music. And he told Ben he wanted to have the firsthand experience of scrounging. He also asked him to change a five-dollar bill.

  "Alas," said Ben, "if we could change a fin, we would retire from this wretched business." At the Daily Fluxion that afternoon Qwilleran walked into the Feature Department with its even rows of modem metal desks that had always looked so orderly and serene, and suddenly he found the scene cold, sterile, monotonous, and without character.

  Arch Riker said, "Did you see how we handled the auction story in today's paper? The boss liked your copy." "The whole back page! That was more than I expected," Qwilleran said, tossing some triple-spaced sheets on the desk, "Here's the second installment, and I'll have more tomorrow. This morning I interviewed a man who sells some absurd junk called tech-tiques." "Rosie told me about him. He's new in Junktown." "He's either out of his mind or pulling a hoax, In fact, I think Hollis Prantz is a fraud, He claims to have a weak heart, but you should have seen him running up stairs two at a time! I'm discovering all kinds of monkeyshines in Junktown." "Don't get sidetracked," Riker advised him. "Bear down on the writing." "But, Arch! I've unearthed some good clues in the Andy Glanz case! I also have my suspicions about Cobb's death." "For Pete's sake, Qwill, the police called them accidents. Let's leave it that way." "That's one reason I'm suspicious. Everyone in Junktown is busy explaining that the two deaths were accidents.

  They protest too much." "I can understand their position," Riker told him. "If Junktown gets a reputation as a high-crime neighborhood, the junkers will stay away in droves…. Look here, I've got five pages to layout. I can't argue with you all day." "If there's been a crime committed, it should be exposed," Qwilleran persisted.

  "All right," said Riker. "If you want to investigate, go ahead. But do it on your time and wait until after Christmas.

  The way your antique series is shaping up, you've got a good chance to win first prize." By the time Qwilleran returned to Junktown, Ivy had spread the word that he was a private detective operating with two evil-eyed Siamese cats who were trained to attack.

  "Is it true?" asked the young man in sideburns and dark glasses at the Junque Trunque.

  "Is it true?" asked the woman who ran the shop called Nuthin' But Chairs.

  "I wish it were," Qwilleran said. "I'm just a newspaperman, doing a job that isn't very glamorous." She half closed her eyes. "I see you as a Yorkshire Windsor. Everyone resembles some kind of chair. That dainty little Sheraton is a ballet dancer. That English Chippendale looks just like my landlord. You're a Yorkshire Windsor….

  Think about it for a while, and all your friends will turn into chairs." After listening to this woman's conversation and Ivy's speculations and Hollis Prantz's dubious theories, Qwilleran was relieved to meet Mrs. McGuffey. She seemed to be a sensible sort.

  He asked about the name of her shop, and she explained, "They're all wooden containers. The noggin has a handle like a cup. The piggin has a stave, and it's used as a dipper. The firkin is for storage." "Where do you get your information?" "From books. When I have no customers, I sit here and read. Nice work for a retired schoolteacher. If there's any book on American history or antiques that you'd like to borrow, just ask." "Do you have anything on the history of Junktown? I'm especially curious about the Cobb mansion." "Most important house on our street! Built by William Towne Spencer, the famous abolitionist, in 1855. He had two younger brothers, James and Philip, who built smaller replicas next door. Also a spinster sister, Mathilda, blind from birth and killed at the age of thirty-two when she fell down the stairs of her brother's house." She spoke with an authority that Qwilleran welcomed. He had had his fill of hearsay and addled theories.

  "I've noticed that Junktown residents are prone to fall and kill themselves," he said. "Strange that it started way back when." The dealer shook her head mournfully. "Poor Mrs. Cobb! I wonder if she'll be able to continue running the shop without her husband." "He was the sparkplug of Junktown, they tell me." "Probably true… but confidentially, I abhorred the man. He had no manners! You don't act that way in a civilized society. In my opinion the real loss to the community was Andrew Glanz. A fine young man, with great promise, and a real scholar! I say this with pride, because it was I who taught him to read-twenty-five years ago, up north in Boyerville. My, he was a smart boy! And a good speller. I knew he would turn out to be a writer." The lines in her face were radiant.

  "He wrote features on antiques?" "Yes, but he was also writing a novel, about which I have mixed emotions. He gave me the first ten chapters to read. I refrained from discouraging him, naturally, but… I'm afraid I do not approve of today's sordid fiction. And yet that is what sells, they say." "What was the setting of Andy's novel?" "The setting was authentic — a community of antique dealers similar to ours — but the story involved all sorts of unsavory characters: alcoholics, gamblers, homosexuals, prostitutes, dope peddlers, adulterers!" Mrs. McGuffey shuddered. "Oh, dear! If our street were anything like that book, I believe I would close up shop tomorrow!" Qwilleran stroked his moustache. "You don't think there's anything like that going on in Junktown?" "Oh, no! Nothing at all! Except…" She lowered her voice and glanced toward a customer who had wandered into the store. "I wouldn't want you to repeat this, but… they say that the little old man at the fruit stand is a bookkeeper." "You mean a bookmaker? He takes bets?" "That's what they say. Please don't put it in the paper. This is a respectable neighborhood." The customer interrupted. "Excuse me. Do you have any butter molds?" "Just one moment," the dealer said with a gracious smile, "and I'll be glad to help you." "What happened to Andy's manuscript?" Qwilleran asked as he headed for the door.

  "I believe he gave it to his friend, Miss Duckworth. She was begging to see it, but," Mrs. McGuffey concluded triumphantly, "he wanted his old schoolmarm to read it first."

  17

  With savage glee the humidity decided to turn into a cold ugly rain. Qwilleran hurried to The Blue Dragon as fast as his knee would permit.

  "I'm going to do some illegal scrounging tonight," he announced to Mary Duckworth. "Ben Nicholas is going to show me the ropes." "Where is he taking you?" "To an old theatre on Zwinger Street. He said it's boarded up, but he knows how to get in through the stage door.

  All I want is the experience, so I can write a piece about the preservationists who risk arrest to salvage historic architectural fragments. I think the practice should be publicized with a view to having it sanctioned." Mary beamed her admiration for him. "Qwill, you're talking like a confirmed junker! You've been converted!" "I know a good story when I see one, that's al
l. Mean- while, would you mind lending me the manuscript of Andy's novel'! Mrs. McGuffey was telling me about it, and since it's all about Junktown — " "Manuscript? I have no manuscript." "Mrs. McGuffey said — " "Andy allowed me to read the first chapter, that was all." "What happened to it, then?" "I have no idea. Robert Maus would know." "Will you phone him?" "Now?" Qwilleran nodded impatiently.

  She glanced at the tall-case clock. "This is an inconvenient time to call. He'll be preparing dinner. Is it really so urgent?" Nevertheless, she dialed the number.

  "William," she said, "may I speak with Mr. Maus?… Please tell him it's Mary Duxbury…. That's what I was afraid of. Just a moment." She turned to Qwilleran. "The houseboy says Bob is making hollandaise for the kohlrabi and can't be interrupted." "Tell him the Daily Fluxion is about to print a vile rumor about one of his clients." The attorney came to the telephone (Qwilleran could visualize him, wearing an apron, holding a dripping spoon) and said he knew nothing about a manuscript; nothing had turned up among the papers of the Andrew Glanz estate.

  "Then where is it?" Qwilleran asked Mary. "Do you suppose it was destroyed — by someone who had reason to want it suppressed? What was in the chapter that you read?" "It was about a woman who was plotting to poison her husband. It immediately captured one's interest." "Why didn't Andy let you read more?" "He was quite secretive about his novel. Don't you think most writers are sensitive about their work before it's published?" "Perhaps all the characters were drawn from life. Mrs. McGuffey seemed to think they were wildly imaginary, but I doubt whether she's in a position to know. She's lived a sheltered life. Perhaps Andy's story exposed a few Junktown secrets that would prove embarrassing — or incriminating." "He wouldn't have done anything like that! Andy was so considerate — " Qwilleran clenched his teeth. So considerate, so honest, so clever, so intelligent. He knew it by heart. "Perhaps you were in the story, too," he told Mary. "Perhaps that's why Andy wouldn't let you read farther. You may have been so transparently disguised that your position would be revealed and your family would crack down on you." Mary's eyes flashed. "No! Andy would never have been so unkind." "Well, we'll never know now!" Qwilleran started to leave and then turned back. "You know this Hollis Prantz. He says he used to be in the paint and wallpaper business and he retired because of a weak heart, and yet he's as agile as a fox. He was varnishing display cases when I was there today — " "Varnishing?" Mary asked.