Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Turned On and Off

"It was a shock to lose that boy. Did you know Andy?" "No, I never met him. Was he — ?" "Well, I'll tell you. He always gave the impression of wearing a white tie and tails, even when he was in dungarees and scraping down a piece of furniture. And he was so good-looking-and intelligent. I always thought it was a pity he never married. What a waste!" "Wasn't he more or less engaged to — " "The Dragon? Not in the formal sense, but they would have made a perfect couple. Too bad he had to get mixed up with that other woman." "You mean…" said Qwilleran with an encouraging pause.

"Here I am, prattling again! My son says I've become an incorrigible gossip since coming to Junktown. And he's right. I'm not going to say another word." And she didn't.

There were obvious disadvantages to Qwilleran's position. He was trying to investigate an incident that no one wanted him to investigate, and he was not even sure what he was investigating. Any sensible man would have dropped the matter.

Stroking his moustache thoughtfully, Qwilleran took the next step in his noninvestigation of a questionable crime; he visited the shop called Bit o' Junk, a choice that he later regretted.

Bit o' Junk was next door to the Cobb Junkery, sharing the block with The Blue Dragon, Russell Patch's carriage house, Andy's place on the corner, and a variety store that catered to the needs of the community with embroidered prayer books and black panties trimmed with red fringe. Ben had his shop on the main floor of a town house that was similar in design to the Cobb mansion, but only half as wide and twice as dilapidated. The upper floors were devoted to sleeping rooms for men only, according to a weather-stained sign on the building.

Qwilleran climbed the icy stone steps and entered a drab foyer. Through the glass panes of the parlor doors he could see a hodge-podge of cast-offs: dusty furniture, unpolished brass and copper, cloudy glass, and other dreary oddments. The only thing that attracted him was the kitten curled up on a cushion with chin on paw. It was in the center of a table full of breakables, and Qwilleran could imagine with what velvet-footed care the small animal had tiptoed between the goblets and teacups. He went in.

At the sight of the bushy moustache, the proprietor rose from a couch and extended his arms in melodramatic welcome. Ben was wearing a bulky ski sweater that emphasized his rotund figure, and with it he sported a tall silk hat. He swept off the hat and bowed low.

"How's business? Slow?" Qwilleran asked as he appraised the unappealing shop.

"Weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable," said the dealer, returning the hat to cover his thinning hair.

Qwilleran picked up a World War I gas mask.

"An historic treasure," Nicholas informed him. "Came over on the Mayflower. " He padded after the newsman in white stockinged feet.

"I hear you used to be in the theatre," the newsman remarked.

The tubby little dealer drew himself up from five-feet-four to five-feet-five. "Our Friar Laurence on Broadway was acclaimed by critics. Our Dogberry was superb. Our Bottom was unforgettable…. How now? You tremble and look pale!" Qwilleran was staring at the kitten on its cushion. "That — that cat!" he sputtered. "It's dead!" "An admirable example of the taxidermist's art. You like it not?" "I like it not," said Qwilleran, and he blew into his moustache. "What's your specialty, anyway? Do you have a specialty?" "I am a merry wanderer of the night." "Come off it. You don't have to put on a performance for me. If you want any publicity, give me some straight answers. Do you specialize in anything?" Ben Nicholas pondered. "Anything that will turn a profit." "How long have you been operating in Junktown?" "Too long." "Did you know Andy Glanz very well?" The dealer folded his hands and rolled his eyes upward. "Noble, wise, valiant, and honest," he intoned. "It was a sad day for Junktown when Saint Andrew met his untimely end." Then he hitched his trousers and said roguishly, "How about a tankard of sack at the local pub?" "No, thanks. Not today," said Qwilleran. "What's this? A folding bookrack?" He had picked up a hinged contraption in brassbound ebony. "How much do you want for it?" "Take it — take it — with the compliments of jolly old St. Nicholas." "No, I'll buy it if it isn't too expensive." "We have been asking fifteen, but allow us to extend the favor of a clergyman's discount. Eight simoleons." At this point another customer, who had entered the shop and had been thoroughly ignored, said impatiently, "Got any horse brasses?" "Begone, begone!" said the dealer, waving the man away. "This gentleman is from the press, and we are being interviewed." "I'm through. I'm leaving," said the newsman. "I'll send a photographer Monday to get a picture of you and your shop," and he paid for the bookrack.

"I humbly thank you, sir." Nicholas doffed his silk topper and held it over his heart, and that was when Qwilleran noticed the small red feather stuck in the hat. It was his feather! There was no doubt about it; it had a perforation near the quill. In a playful moment two weeks before, he had plucked it from his hat-band to tickle Koko's nose, but the cat's jaws were faster than the man's hand, and Koko had punctured the feather with the snap of a fang.

Qwilleran walked slowly from the shop. He stood at the top of the stone steps, wondering how that feather had made its way to Ben's topper.

As he stood there, frowning, Qwilleran was suddenly struck down. All creation descended on him, and he fell to his knees on the stone stoop. There was a rush and a roar and a crash, and he was down on hands and knees in snow and ice.

In a matter of seconds Ben Nicholas came rushing to his aid. "A bloody avalanche!" he cried, helping the newsman to his feet. "From the roof of this benighted establishment! We shall sue the landlord." Qwilleran brushed the snow from his clothes. "Lucky I was wearing a hat," he said.

"Come back and sit down and have a wee drop of brandy." "No, I'm okay. Thanks just the same." He picked up his bookrack and started down the stone steps, favoring his left knee.

When Qwilleran reached his apartment, having ascended the stairs with difficulty, he was greeted by a rampaging Koko. While Yum Yum sat on the bookcase with her shoulder blades up, looking like a frightened grasshopper, Koko raced from the door to the desk, then up on the daybed and back to the roll-top desk.

"So! Those monkeys installed my phone!" Qwilleran said. "I hope you bit the phone company's representative on the ankle." Koko watched with interest and wigwagging ears while Qwilleran dialed the Fluxion Photo Lab and requisitioned a photographer for Monday morning. Then the cat led the way into the kitchen with exalted tail and starched gait to supervise the preparation of his dinner. With his whiskers curved down in anticipation, he sat on the drain board and watched the chopping of chicken livers, the slow cooking in butter, the addition of cream, and the dash of curry powder.

"Koko, I've joined the club," the man told him. "The landlady has a wrenched back, Russ Patch has a broken leg, the redhead's in a cast, and now I've got a busted knee! I won't be cutting any rugs at the Press Club tonight." "Yow," said Koko in a consoling tone. Qwilleran always spent Saturday evenings at the Press Club, most recently in the company of a young woman who wrote with brown ink, but she was out of the picture now. On a bold chance he looked up The Three Weird Sisters in the phone book and dialed their number. Most women, he was aware, jumped at the chance to dine at the Press Club. Unfortunately, there was no answer at the antique shop.

He then called a girl who worked in the Women's Department at the Fluxion — one of the society writers.

"Wish I could," she said, "but I've got to address Christmas cards tonight if I want them to be delivered before New Year's." "While I have you on the line," he said, "tell me what you know about the Duxbury family." "They do their bit socially, but they avoid publicity. Why?" "Do they have any daughters?" "Five — all named after English queens. All married except one. She came out ten years ago and…" "And what?" "Went right back in, I guess. You never see her — or hear of her." "What's her name?" "Mary. She's the oddball of the family." "Thanks," said Qwilleran. He went to the Press Club alone.