Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Turned On and Off

The club occupied the only old building in the downtown area that had escaped the wrecking ball. A former county jail, it was built like a medieval fortress with turrets, crenelated battlements, and arrow slots. Whenever the city proposed to condemn it for an expressway or civic mall, a scream of outrage went up from the Daily Fluxion and the Morning Rampage, and no elected or appointed official had dared to campaign against the wrath of the united press.

As Qwilleran limped up the steps of the dismal old. building, he met Lodge Kendall, a police reporter, on his way out.

"Come on back, and I'll buy you a drink," Qwilleran said.

"Can't, Qwill. Promised my wife we'd shop for a Christmas tree tonight. If you don't pick one out early, you're out of luck. I hate a lopsided tree." "Just one question, then. What section of town has the highest crime rate?" "It's a tossup between the Strip and Sunshine Gardens. Skyline Park is getting to be a problem, too." "How about Zwinger Street?" "I don't hear much about Zwinger Street." "I've taken an apartment there." "You must be out of your mind! That's a slum." "Actually it's not a bad place to live." "Well, don't unpack all your gear-because the city's going to tear it down," Kendall said cheerfully as he departed.

Qwilleran filled a dinner plate at the buffet and carried it to the bar, which was surprisingly vacant. "Where's everybody?" he asked Bruno, the bartender.

"Christmas shopping. Stores are staying open till nine." "Ever do any junking, Bruno? Are you a collector?" the newsman asked. The bartender was known for his wide range of interests.

"Oh, sure! I collect swizzle sticks from bars allover the country. I've got about ten thousand." "That's not what I mean. I'm talking about antiques. I just bought part of an iron gate from a castle in Scotland. It's probably been around for three centuries." Bruno shook his head. "That's what I don't like about antiques. Everything's so old." Qwilleran finished eating and was glad to go home to Junktown, where there were more vital interests than lopsided Christmas trees and swizzle sticks. No one at the Press Club had even noticed he was limping.

On the steps of the Cobb mansion he looked up at the mansard roof punctuated by attic windows. Its slope still held its load of snow. So did the roof of Mary's house. Only Ben's building, though of identical style, had produced an avalanche.

In his apartment Qwilleran found the cats presiding on their gilded thrones with a nice understanding of protocol; Yum Yum as always on Koko's left. The man cut up the slice of ham he had brought them from the Press Club buffet, then went to the typewriter and worked on the Junktown series. After a while Koko jumped on the tavern table and watched the new mechanical contraption in operation — the type flying up to hit the paper, the carriage jerking across the machine. And when Qwilleran stopped to allow a thought to jell, Koko rubbed his jaw against a certain button and reset the margin.

There were two other distractions that evening. There was an occasional thumping and scraping overhead, and there were tantalizing smells drifting across the hall — first anise, then a rich buttery aroma, then chocolate.

Eventually he heard his name called outside his door, and he found the landlady standing there, holding a large brass tray.

"I heard you typing and thought you might like a snack," she said. "I've been doing my Christmas baking." On her tray were chocolate brownies, a china coffee service, and two cups.

Qwilleran was irked at the interruption, but mesmerized by the sight of the frosted chocolate squares topped with walnut halves, and before he could reply, Mrs. Cobb had bustled into the room.

"I've spent the whole evening over a hot stove," she announced. "All the dealers are upstairs making plans for the Christmas Block Party. C.C. has the third floor fixed up kind of cute for meetings. He calls it Hernia Heaven. You know, antique dealers are always — Oh, my! You're limping! What happened?" "Bumped my knee." "You must be careful! Knees are pesky things," she warned him. "You sit in the Morris chair and put your leg up on the ottoman, and I'll put the goodies on the tea table between us." She plopped her plumpness into the rocking chair made of bent twigs, unaware that Koko was watching critically from the mantelshelf.

For someone who had spent several hours slaving in the kitchen, Iris Cobb was rather festively attired. Her hair was carefully coifed. She wore a bright pink dress, embroidered with a few sad glass beads, and her two dangling pairs of eyeglasses, one of which was studded with rhinestones.

Qwilleran bit into a rich, dark chocolate square — soft and still warm from the oven and filled with walnut meats while Mrs. Cobb rocked industriously in the twiggy rocking chair.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," she said.

"What I said about Andy's horoscope — I really wasn't serious. I mean I never actually thought there was anything in it. I wouldn't want to stir up any trouble." "What kind of trouble?" "Well, I just heard that you're a crime reporter, and I thought you might be here to — " "That's ancient history," Qwilleran assured her. "Who told you?" "The Dragon. I went over to borrow some beeswax, and she told me you were a famous crime reporter in New York or somewhere, and I thought you might be here to snoop around. I honestly never thought Andy's fall was anything but a misstep on that ladder, and I was afraid you might get the wrong idea." "I see," said Qwilleran. "Well, don't worry about it. I haven't had an assignment on the crime beat in a dog's age." "That's a load off my mind," she said, and she relaxed and began to survey the apartment with a propriety air.

"Do you care for that papered wall?" she asked with a critical squint. "It would drive me crazy to lie in bed and look at all those printed pages from books. They're applied with peelable paste, so you can pull them off if you object — " "To tell the truth, I rather like that wall," Qwilleran said as he helped himself to a second chocolate brownie. "It's Don Quixote mixed with Samuel Pepys." "Well, everyone to his own taste. Are you going away for Christmas? I'll be glad to look after the cats." "No. No plans." "Do you have a Christmas party at the office?" "Just a Christmas Eve affair at the Press Club." "You must have a very interesting job!" She stopped rocking and looked at him with frank admiration.

"Koko!" Qwilleran shouted. "Stop tormenting Yum Yum." Then he added to Mrs. Cobb, "They're both neutered, but Koko sometimes behaves in a suspicious way." The landlady giggled and poured another cup of coffee for him. "If you're going to be alone for Christmas," she said, "you must celebrate with us. C.C. trims a big tree, and my son comes here from St. Louis. He's sort of an architect.

His father — my first husband — was a school-teacher. I'm an English major myself, although you'd never guess it. I never read any more. In this business you don't have time for anything. We've had this house four years, and there's always something — " She prattled on, and Qwilleran wondered about this fatuous little woman. As a newsman, he was used to being cajoled and plied with food-the latter being one of the fringe benefits of the profession — but he would have preferred a landlady who was a degree less chummy, and he hoped she would leave before the dealers came down from Hernia Heaven.

Her overtures were innocent enough, he was sure. Her exuberance was simply a lack of taste. She was not amply endowed with gray matter, and her attempt to reverse herself about Andy's accident was pathetically transparent.

Had she guessed that her husband might be implicated, if it proved to be murder?

"He died of food poisoning — a rare botulism," Mrs. Cobb was saying.

"Who?" asked Qwilleran.