Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Turned On and Off

"From what I hear," Qwilleran said, "he was a great guy. Not only knowledgeable but generous and civic-minded." "Yeah," the young man said with restraint. "Everyone speaks highly of him." Patch made no comment as he concentrated on making parallel brushstrokes, but Qwilleran noticed the muscles of his jaw working.

"His death must have been a great loss to Junktown," the newsman persisted. "Sorry I never had the opportunity to meet — " "Maybe I shouldn't say this," the refinisher interrupted, "but he was a hard joe to work for." "How do you mean?" "Nobody could be good enough to suit Andy." "He was a perfectionist?" "He was a professional saint, and he expected everybody to operate the same way. I'm just explaining this because people around here will tell you Andy fired me for drinking on the job, and that's a lie. I quit because I couldn't stand his attitude." Patch gave the red chair seat a final brown swipe and dropped the brush into a tomato can.

"He was sanctimonious?" "I guess that's the word. I didn't let it get under my skin, you understand. I'm just telling you to keep the record straight. Everybody's always saying how honest Andy was. Well, there's such a thing as being too honest." "How do you figure that?" Qwilleran asked.

"Okay, I'll explain. Suppose you're driving out in the country, and you see an old brass bed leaning against a barn.

It's black, and it's a mess. You knock on the farm- house door and offer two bucks for it, and most likely they're tickled to have you cart it away. You're in luck, because you can clean it up and make two thousand percent profit…. But not Andy! Oh, no, not Andy! If he thought he could peddle the bed for two hundred dollars, he'd offer the farmer a hundred.

Operating like that, he was spoiling it for the rest of us." The refinisher's frown changed to a grin. "One time, though, we were out in the country together, and I had the laugh on Andy. The farmer was a real sharpie. He said if Andy was offering a hundred dollars, it must be worth a thousand, and he refused to sell…. You want another example? Take scrounging.

Everybody scrounges, don't they?" "What do you mean?" "You know these old houses that are being torn down? After a house is condemned, you can go in and find salable things like fireplaces and paneling. So you salvage them before the demolition crew comes along with the wrecking ball." "Is that legal?" "Not technically, but you're saving good stuff for someone who can use it. The city doesn't want it, and the wreckers don't give a damn. So we all scrounge once in a while — some more than others. But not Andy! He said a condemned house was city property, and he wouldn't touch it. He wouldn't mind his own business, either, and when he squealed on Cobb, that's when I quit. I thought that was a stinkin' thing to do!" Qwilleran patted his moustache. "You mean Andy reported Cobb to the authorities?" Patch nodded. "Cobb got a stiff fine that he couldn't pay, and he would have gone to jail if Iris hadn't borrowed the money. C.C.'s a loud-mouth, but he's not a bad guy, and I thought that was a lousy trick to pull on him. I got a few drinks under my belt and told Andy off." "Does Cobb know it was Andy who reported him?" "I don't think anybody knows it was a tip-off. Cobb was prying a staircase out of the Pringle house — he told us all he was going to do it — and the cops came along in a prowl car and nabbed him. It looked like a coincidence, but I happened to hear Andy phoning in an anonymous tip." The refinisher reached for a wad of steel wool and started streaking the sticky glaze on the chair seat. "I have to comb this now — before it sets up too hard," he explained.

"How about Andy's private life?" Qwilleran asked. "Did he have the same lofty standards?" Russell Patch laughed. "You better ask the Dragon…. About this other thing — don't get me wrong. I didn't have any hard feelings against Andy personally, you under- stand. Some people carry grudges. I don't carry a grudge. I may blow my stack, but then I forget it. You know what I mean?" After Qwilleran left the carriage house, he made a telephone call from the corner drugstore, where he went to buy a new toothbrush. He called the feature editor at his home.

"Arch," he said, "I've run into an interesting situation in Junktown. You know the dealer who was killed in an accident a couple of months ago — " "Yes. He's the one who sold me my Pennsylvania tin coffeepot." "He allegedly fell off a stepladder and allegedly stabbed himself on a sharp object, and I'm beginning to doubt the whole story." "Qwill, let's not turn this quaint, nostalgic Christmas series into a criminal investigation," the editor said. "The boss wants us to emphasize peace-on-earth and goodwill toward advertisers until the Christmas shopping season is over." "Just the same, there's something going on in this quaint, nostalgic neighborhood that bears questioning." "How do you know?" "Private hunch — and something that happened yesterday. One of the Junktown regulars stopped me on the street and spilled it — that Andy had been murdered." "Who was he? Who told you that?" Riker demanded. "Just a neighborhood barfly, but great truths are spoken while under the influence. He seemed to know something, and twelve hours after he talked to me, he was found dead in the alley." "Drunks are always being found dead in alleys. You should know that." "There's something else. Andy's girl friend is obviously living in fear. Of what, I can't find out." "Look, Qwill, why don't you concentrate on writing the antique series and getting yourself a decent place to live?" "I've got an apartment. I've moved into a haunted house on Zwinger Street — over the Cobb Junkery." "That's where we bought our dining room chandelier," said Riker. "Now why don't you just relax and enjoy the holidays and — say! — be sure to visit The Three Weird Sisters. You'll flip! When will you have your first piece of copy?" "Monday morning." "Keep it happy," Riker advised. "And listen, you donkey! Don't waste any time trying to turn an innocent accident into a Federal case!" That directive was all the encouragement Qwilleran needed. It was not for nothing that his old friend called him a donkey.

With a stubborn determination to unearth the truth about the death of Andy Glanz, Qwilleran continued his tour of Zwinger Street. He walked past the Bit o' Junk antique shop (closed) — past The Blue Dragon — past a paint store (out of business) — past a bookstore (pornographic) — until he reached a place called Ann's 'Tiques, a subterranean shop smelling of moldy rugs and rotted wood.

The little old white-haired woman seated in a rocking chair resembled a dandelion gone to seed. She looked at Qwilleran blankly and kept on rocking.

"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Daily Fluxion," the newsman said in his courtliest manner.

"Nope, I haven't had one o' them for years," she replied in a reedy voice. "People like the kind with china handles and a double lid." Qwilleran inspected the litter of indescribable knickknacks and raised his voice. "What's your specialty, Miss Peabody? "No sir! No discounts! If you don't like my prices, leave the things be. Somebody else'll buy 'em." Qwilleran bowed and left the shop. He walked past a billiard hall (windows boarded up) — past a chili parlor with a ventilator exhausting hot breath across the sidewalk (rancid grease, fried onions, sour mop) — until he reached the fruit and tobacco shack of Papa Popopopoulos. There was an aroma of overripe banana and overheated oil stove in the shack. The proprietor sat on an orange crate, reading a newspaper in his native language and chewing a tobacco-stained moustache of great flamboyance.

Qwilleran stamped his feet and clapped his gloved hands together. "Pretty cold out there," he said.

The man listened attentively. "Tobac?" he said.