Qwilleran told the photographer, "You should see the bathrooms at the Villa Verandah! Gold faucets!" "How do you walk into these lucky breaks?" Bunsen wanted to know.
"It was Lyke's idea, and Noyton likes to make generous gestures. He likes to be liked, and he's fascinated by newspaper people. You know the type." "Some newspapers wouldn't let you accept a plum like that, but on a Fluxion salary you have to take all you can get, the photographer said. "Was there any conversation about the robbery?" "Not much. But I picked up on the Taits. Did it strike you that Mrs. Tait had a slight foreign accent?" "She sounded as if she'd swallowed her tongue." "I think she was Swiss. She apparently married Tait for his money, although I imagine he was a good-looking brute before he went bald." "Did you notice his arms?" the photographer said. "Hairiest ape I ever saw! Some women go for that." There was a tap on Bunsen's shoulder, and Lodge Kendall sat down on the next stool. "I just knew I'd find you here, said to the photographer. "The detectives on the Tait case would like a set of the photos you took. Enlargements, preferably any shots that show the jades." "How soon do they want them? I've got a lot of printing to do for Sunday." "Soon as you can." Qwilleran said, "Any progress on the case?" "Tait has reported two pieces of luggage missing," said Kendall. "He's going away for a rest after the funeral. He's pretty shook up. And last night he went to the storeroom to get some luggage, and his two large overseas bags were gone. Paolo would need something transport the jade." "I wonder how he'd get a couple of large pieces of luggage to the airport." "He must have had an accomplice with a car. By the time Tait found the stuff missing, Paolo had time to fly to Mexico and disappear forever in the mountains. I doubt whether they'll ever be able to trace the jades down there.
Eventually they may turn up on the market, a piece at a time, but nobody will know anything about anything. You know how it is down there." "I suppose the police have checked the airlines?" "The passenger lists for the Sunday-night flights showed several Mexican or Spanish names. Of course, Paolo would use an alias." Bunsen said: "Too bad I didn't take his picture. Lyke suggested it, but I never gave it another thought." "You photographers are so stingy with your film," Kendall said, "anyone would think you had to buy it yourself." "By the way," said Qwilleran, "exactly when did Tait discover the jades were missing?" "About six o'clock in the morning. He's one of those early risers. He likes to go down into his workshop before breakfast and polish stones, or whatever it is he does. He went into his wife's room to see if she needed anything, found her dead, and called the doctor from the bedside phone. Then he rang for Paolo and got no response. Paolo was not in his room, and there were signs of hurried departure. Tait made a quick check of all the rooms, and that's when he discovered the display cases had been rifled." "After which," said Qwilleran, "he called the police, and the police called Percy, and Percy called me, and it was still only six thirty. It all happened pretty fast. When Tait called the police, did he tell them about the story in Gracious Abodes?" "He didn't have to. The Department had already spotted your story and questioned the advisability of describing valuable objects so explicitly." Qwilleran snorted his disdain. "And where was the cook when all this was happening?" "The housekeeper gets Sundays off, doesn't come back until eight o'clock Monday morning." "And how do they account for Mrs. Tait's heart attack?" "They assume she waked in the night, heard some kind of activity in the living room, and suspected prowlers.
Evidently the fright was enough to stop her ticker, which was in bad shape, I understand." Qwilleran objected. "That's a rambling house. The bedroom wing is half a mile from the living room. How come Mrs.
Tait heard Paolo getting into the display cases — and her husband didn't?" Kendall shrugged. "Some people are light sleepers. Chronic invalids always have insomnia." "Didn't she try to rouse her husband? There must be some kind of buzzer system or intercom between the two rooms." "Look, I wasn't there!" said the police reporter. "All I know is what I hear at Headquarters." He tapped his wristwatch.
"I'm due there in five minutes. See you later…. Bunsen, don't forget those enlargements." When he had gone, Qwilleran said to the photographer, "I wonder where Tait's going for a rest. Mexico, by any chance?" "You do more wondering than any three guys I know," said Bunsen, rising from the lunch counter. "I've got to do some printing. See you upstairs. " Qwilleran could not say when his suspicions first began to take a definite direction. He finished his coffee and wiped his moustache roughly with a paper napkin. Perhaps that was the moment that the gears meshed and the wheels started to turn and the newsman's deliberation began to focus on G. Verning Tait.
He went upstairs to the Feature Department and found the telephone on his desk ringing urgently. It was a green telephone, matching all the desks and typewriters in the room. Suddenly Qwilleran saw the color scheme of the office with new eyes. It was Pea Soup Green, and the walls were painted Roquefort, and the brown vinyl floor was Pumpernickel.
"Qwilleran speaking," he said into the green mouthpiece.
"Oh, Mr. Qwilleran! Is this Mr. Qwilleran himself?" It was a woman's voice, high-pitched and excited. "I didn't think they'd let me talk to you personally." "What can I do for you?" "You don't know me, Mr. Qwilleran, but I read every word you write, and I think your new decorating magazine is simply elegant." "Thanks." "Now, here's my problem. I have Avocado carpet in my dining room and Caramel toiles de Jouy on the walls.
Should I paint the dado Caramel Custard or Avocado? And what about the lambrequins?" When he finally got rid of his caller, Arch Riker signaled to him. "The boss is looking for you. It's urgent." "He probably wants to know what color to paint his dado," said Qwilleran.
He found the managing editor looking thin-lipped. "Trouble!" said Percy. "That used-car dealer just phoned. You have his horse barn scheduled for next Sunday. Right?" "It's a remodeled stable," Qwilleran said. "Very impressive. It makes a good story. The pages are made up, and the pictures have gone to the engraver." "He wants the story killed. I tried to persuade him to let it run, but he insists on withdrawing it." "He was hot for it last week." "Personally he doesn't object. He doesn't blame us for the mishap in Muggy Swamp, but his wife is worried sick.
She's having hysterics. The man threatens to sue if we publish his house." "I don't know what I can substitute in a hurry," said Qwilleran. "The only spectacular thing I have on hand is a silo painted like a barber pole and converted into a vacation home." "Not exactly the image we want to project for Gracious Abodes," said the editor. "Why don't you ask Fran Unger if she has any ideas?" "Look, Harold!" said Qwilleran with sudden resolve. "I think we should take the offensive!" "What do you mean?" "I mean — conduct our own investigation! I don't buy the police theory. Pinning the crime on the houseboy is too easy. Paolo may have been an innocent dupe. For all anybody knows, he could be at the bottom of the river!" He stopped to get the editor's reaction. Percy only stared at him.
"That was no petty theft," said Qwilleran, raising his voice, "and it was not pulled off by an unsophisticated, homesick mountain boy from an underdeveloped foreign country! Something more is involved here. I don't know who or what or why, but I've got a hunch — " He pounded his moustache with his knuckles. "Harold, why don't you assign me to cover this case? I'm sure I could dig up something of importance." Percy waved the suggestion away impatiently. "I'm not opposed to investigative journalism per se, but we need you on the magazine. We don't have the personnel to waste on amateur sleuthing." "I can handle both. Just give me the credentials to talk to the police — to ask a few questions here and there." "No, you've got enough on your hands, Qwill. Let the police handle crime. We've got to concentrate on putting out a newspaper." Qwilleran went on as if he had not heard. He talked fast. "There's something suspicious about the timing of that incident! Someone wanted to link us with it. And that's not the only strange circumstance! Too much happened too fast yesterday morning. You called me at six thirty. What time did the police call you? And what time did they get the call from Tait?… And if Mrs. Tait heard sounds of prowlers
, why didn't she signal her husband? Can you believe there was no intercom in that house? All that plush decorating, and not even a simple buzzer system between the invalid's bed and the sleeping quarters of her devoted husband?" Percy looked at Qwilleran coldly. "If there's evidence of conspiracy, the police will uncover it. They know what they're doing. You keep out of it. We've got troubles enough." Qwilleran calmed his moustache. There was no use arguing with a computer. "Do you think I should make an appearance at the funeral tomorrow?" he asked.
"It won't be necessary. We'll be adequately represented." Qwilleran went back to his office muttering into his moustache: "Play it safe! Don't offend! Support the Advertising Department! Make money!" "Why not?" said Arch Riker. "Did you think we were in business to disseminate news?" At his desk Qwilleran picked up the inoffensive green telephone that was stenciled with the reminder Be Nice to People. He called the Photo Lab.
"When you make those enlargements of the jades," he said to Bunsen, "make a set of prints for me, will you? I've got an idea."
7
Qwilleran killed the cover story about the car dealer's remodeled stable and started to worry about finding a substitution. He had an appointment that morning with another decorator, but he doubted that she would be able to produce a cover story on short notice. He had talked with her on the telephone, and she had seemed flustered.
"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Middy had said. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Qwilleran went to her studio without any buoyant hope.
The sign over the door, lettered in Spencerian script, said Interiors by Middy. The shop was located near Happy View Woods, and it had all the ingredients of charm: window boxes filled with yellow mums, bay windows with diamond- shaped panes, a Dutch door flanked by picturesque carriage lanterns, a gleaming brass door knocker. Inside, the cozy charm was suffocating but undeniable.
As Qwilleran entered, he heard Westminster chimes, and then he saw a tall young woman emerge from behind a louvered folding screen at the back of the shop. Her straight brown hair fell like a blanket to her shoulders, hiding her forehead, eyebrows, temples and cheeks. All that was visible was a pair of roguish green eyes, an appealing little nose, an intelligent mouth, a dainty chin.
Qwilleran brightened. He said, "I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Mrs. Middy, and I don't think you're Mrs. Middy." "I'm her assistant," said the young woman. "Mrs. Middy is a little late this morning, but then Mrs. Middy is always a little late. Would you care to sit it out?" She waved a hand dramatically around the studio. "I can offer you a Chippendale corner chair, a comb back Windsor, or a mammy settle. They're all uncomfortable, but I'll talk to you and take your mind off your anguish." "Talk to me, by all means," said Qwilleran, sitting on the mammy settle and finding that it rocked. The girl sat in the comb back Windsor with her skirt well above her knees, and Qwilleran was pleased to see that they were leanly upholstered. "What's your name?" he asked, as he filled his pipe and lighted it.
"Alacoque Wright, and you must be the editor of the new Sunday supplement. I forget what you call it." "Gracious Abodes," said Qwilleran.
"Why do newspapers insist on sounding like warmed-over Horace Greeley?" Her green eyes were kidding him, and Qwilleran liked it.
"There's an element of tradition in newspapering." He glanced around the studio. "Same as in your business." "Decorating is not really my business," said the girl crisply. "Architecture is my field, but girl architects are not largely in demand. I took this job with Mrs. Middy in desperation, and I'm afraid these imitation worm-eaten hutches and folksy-hoaxy mammy settles are warping my personality. I prefer design that reflects the spirit of our times. Down with French Empire, Portuguese Colonial and Swahili Baroque!" "You mean you like modern design?" "I don't like to use the word," said Miss Wright. "It's so ambiguous. There's Motel Modern, Miami Beach Modern, Borax Danish, and a lot of horrid mutations. I prefer the twentieth-century classics-the work of Saarinen, Mies van der Rohe, Breuer, and all that crowd. Mrs. Middy doesn't let me meet clients; she's afraid I'll sabotage her work…. And I believe I would," she added with a feline smile. "I have a sneaky nature!" "If you don't meet clients, what do you do?" "Renderings, floor plans, color schemes. I answer the telephone and sort of sweep up…. But tell me about you.
Do you like contemporary design?" "I like anything," said Qwilleran, 'as long as it's comfortable, and I can put my feet on it." The girl appraised him frankly. "You're better looking than your picture in the magazine. You look serious and responsible, but also interesting. Are you married?" "Not at the moment." "You must feel crushed about what happened this weekend." "You mean the theft in Muggy Swamp?" "Do you suppose Mr. Tait will sue the Daily Fluxion?" Qwilleran shook his head. "He wouldn't get to first base. We printed nothing that was untrue or libelous. And, of course, we had his permission to publish his house in the first place." "But the robbery will damage your magazine's image, you must admit," said Miss Wright.
Just then the Dutch door opened, and a voice said,"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Am I late?" "Here comes Mother Middy," said the girl with the taunting eyes.
The dumpling of a woman who bustled into the studio was breathless and apologetic. She had been hurrying, and wisps of gray hair were escaping in all directions from the confinement of her shapeless mouse-gray hat.
"Get us some coffee, dear," she said to her assistant. "I'm all upset. I just got a ticket for speeding. But the officer was so kind! They have such nice policemen on the force." The decorator sat down heavily in a black and gold rocking chair. "Why don't you write a nice article about our policemen, Mr. - Mr. — " "Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran," he said. "I'm afraid that's not my department, but I'd like to write a nice article about you." "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Middy, as she removed her hat and patted her hair.
The coffee came in rosebud-covered cups, and Miss Wright served it with her eyebrows arched in disapproval of the design. Then the decorator and the newsman discussed possibilities for Gracious Abodes.
"I've done some lovely interiors lately," said Mrs. Middy. "Dr. Mason's house is charming, but it isn't quite finished.
We're waiting for lamps. Professor Dewitt's house is lovely, too, but the draperies aren't hung." "The manufacturers discontinued the pattern," said Qwilleran.
"Yes! How did you know?" She rocked her chair violently. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What to do?" "The housing?" her assistant whispered.
"Oh, yes, we've just finished some dormitories for the university," Mrs. Middy said, "and a sorority house for Delta Thelta, or whatever it's called. But those are out of town." "Don't forget Mrs. Allison's," said Miss Wright.
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Allison's is really lovely. Would you be interested in a residence for career girls, Mr. Qwillum? It shows what can be done with a boardinghouse. It's one of those turn-of-the-century mansions on Merchant Street — all very gloomy and grotesque before Mrs. Allison called me in." "It looked like a Victorian bordello," said Miss Wright.
"I used crewelwork in the living room and canopied beds in the girls' rooms. And the dining room turned out very well. Instead of one long table, which looks so institutional, I used lots of little skirted tables, like a cafe." Qwilleran had been considering only private residences, but he was willing to publish anything that could be photographed in a hurry.
"What is the color scheme?" he asked.
"The theme is Cherry Red," said Mrs. Middy, "with variations. Upstairs it's all Cherry Pink. Oh, you'll love it! You'll just love it." "Any chance of photographing this afternoon?" "Oh, dear! That's too soon. People like to tidy up before the photographer comes." "Tomorrow morning, then?" "I'll call Mrs. Allison right away." The decorator bustled to the telephone, and Alacoque Wright said to Qwilleran: "Mother Middy has done wonders with the Allison house. It doesn't look like a Victorian bordello any more. It looks like an Early American bordello." While the arrangements were being made, Qwilleran made an arrangement of his own with Miss Wright for Wednesday evening, at six o'- clock, under the City Hall clock, and he left the Middy studio with a lilting s
ensation in his moustache. On the way back to the office he stopped at a gourmet shop and bought a can of smoked oysters for Koko.
That evening Qwilleran packed his books in three corrugated cartons from the grocery store and dusted his two pieces of luggage. Koko watched the process with concern. He had not touched the smoked oysters.
Qwilleran said, "What's the matter? Dieting?" Koko began to prowl the apartment from one end to the other, occasionally stopping to sniff the cartons and utter a long, mournful howl.
"You're worried!" Qwilleran said. "You don't want to move." He picked up the cat and stroked his head reassuringly, then placed him on the open pages of the dictionary. "Come on, let's have a good rousing game to chase away the blues." Koko dug his claws into the pages halfheartedly.
"Balance and bald," Qwilleran read. "Elementary! Two points for me. You'll have to try harder. " Koko grabbed again.
"Kohistani and koolokamba." Qwilleran knew.the definition of the first, but he had to look up koolokamba. "A West African anthropoid ape with the head nearly bald and the face and hands black," he read. "That's great! That'll be a handy addition to my everyday vocabulary. Thanks a lot!" At the end of nine innings Qwilleran had won, 14 to 4. For the most part Koko had turned up easy catchwords like rook and root, frame and frank.
"You're losing your knack," Qwilleran told him, and Koko responded with a long, indignant howl.
8
On Wednesday morning Qwilleran and Bunsen drove to the Allison house on Merchant Street. Qwilleran said he hoped some of the girls would be there. Bunsen said he'd like to photograph one of the canopied beds with a girl in it.
The house was a Victorian monster — the love-song of a nineteenth-century carpenter enamored of his jigsaw — but it was freshly painted, and the windows exhibited perky curtains. Mrs. Middy met them at the door, wearing her shapeless hat and a frilly lace collar.
The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern Page 5