Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Turned On and Off

"My first husband. I knew something tragic was going to happen. I'd seen it in his hand. I used to read palms — just as a hobby, you know. Would you like me to read your palm?" "I don't have much faith in palmistry," Qwilleran said, beginning to edge out of the deep-cushioned Morris chair.

"Oh, be a sport! Let me read your future. I won't tell you if it's anything really bad. You don't have to move an inch.

You sit right where you are, and I'll perch on the ottoman." She plumped her round hips down beside his propped foot and gave his leg a cordial pat, then reached for his hand. "Your right hand, please." She held it in a warm moist grasp and stroked the palm a few times to straighten the curled and uncooperative fingers.

Trapped in the big chair, he wriggled uncomfortably and tried to devise a tactful escape.

"A very interesting palm," she said, putting on one pair of glasses.

She was stroking his hand and bending her head close to study the lines when the room exploded in a frenzy of snarling and soprano screams. Koko had pounced on Yum Yum with a savage growl. Yum Yum shrieked and fought back. They rolled over and over, locked in a double stranglehold.

Mrs. Cobb jumped up. "Heavens! They'll kill each other!" Qwilleran yelled, smacked his hands at them, struggled to his feet and whacked the nearest cat's rump. Koko gave a nasty growl, and Yum Yum broke away. Immediately Koko gave chase. The little female went up over the desk, round the Morris chair, under the tea table — with Koko in pursuit. Round and round the room they went, with Qwilleran shouting and Mrs. Cobb squealing. On the fourth lap of the flying circus, Yum Yum ducked under the tea table and Koko sailed over it. Qwilleran made a lucky grab for the coffee pot, but Koko skidded on the tray and sent the cream and sugar flying.

"The rug!" the landlady cried. "Get a towel, quick! I'll get a sponge." She ran from the apartment just as the dealers came hurrying down from Hernia Heaven.

"What's the uproar?" they said. "Who's getting murdered?" "Only a family quarrel," Qwilleran explained, jerking his head toward the cats.

Koko and Yum Yum were sitting quietly in the Morris chair together. She was looking sweet and contented, and Koko was licking her face with affection.

Cobb snored again that night. Qwilleran, waked at three o'clock by the pain in his knee, took some aspirin and then listened to the muffled snorts coming through the wall. He wished he had an ice pack. He wished he had never moved to Junktown. The whole community was accident prone, and it seemed to be contagious. Why had he paid a month's rent in advance? No matter; he could stay long enough to complete the Junktown series and then move out, chalking it up to experience: Beware of prospective landladies who give you homemade apple pie. Yes, that was the smart thing to do- concentrate on writing a good series and quit snooping into the activities of a deceased junk dealer.

Then Qwilleran felt a familiar tingling sensation in the roots of his moustache, and he began to argue with himself.

— But you've got to admit there's something dubious about the setup in Andy's workroom.

— So he was murdered. So it was a prowler. Attempted robbery.

— A prowler would whack him on the head and then run. No, the whole incident looked staged. Staged, I said. Did you hear that?

— If you're thinking about the retired actor, forget it. He's a harmless old codger who likes animals. Koko took to him right away.

— Don't forget how that avalanche slid off the roof at the appropriate moment. One of those icicles could have brained you. As for Koko, he can be remarkably subjective. He rejected Mrs. Cobb simply because she squeaked at him.

— Still, it would be interesting to know how she wrenched her back two months ago.

— Now you're grabbing at straws. She doesn't have the temperament for murder. It takes someone like Mary Duckworth-ice cold, single-minded, extremely capable.

— You're wrong about her. She can be warm and com- passionate. Besides, she would have no motive.

— Oh, no? She had quarreled with Andy. Who knows how serious it might have been?

Undoubtedly they quarreled about the other woman in his life-still no motive for murder, if she loved him.

— Perhaps he was threatening to do something that would hurt her more deeply than that.

— But Mary insists he was kind and thoughtful.

— He was also dogmatic and intolerant. He might be "doing his duty" again. That kind of person is a classic heel.

— I wish you'd shut up and let me go to sleep.

Eventually Qwilleran slept, and in the morning he was waked by two hungry cats, playing hopscotch on his bed and miraculously missing his sore knee. Cats had a sixth sense, he noted, that prevented them from hurting the people they liked. He gave them a good breakfast of canned crabmeat.

Later he was applying cold wet towels to his knee when he heard a knock. He took a deep breath of exasperation and moved painfully to open the door.

Iris Cobb was standing there, wearing her hat and coat and holding a plate of coffeecake. "I'm on my way to church," she said. "Would you like some cranberry twists? I got up early and made them. I couldn't sleep." "Thanks," said Qwilleran, "but I'm afraid you're trying to fatten me up." "How does the rug look this morning? Did the cream leave a spot?" "Not bad, but if you want to send it out and have it cleaned, I'll pay for it." "How's your knee? Any better?" "These injuries are always worse in the morning. I'm trying cold compresses." "Why don't you have dinner with us around seven o'clock, and then you won't have to go out of the house….

C.C. can tell you some interesting stories about Junktown," she added when Qwilleran hesitated. "We're having pot roast and mashed potatoes — nothing fancy. Just potatoes whipped with sour cream and dill. And a salad with Roquefort dressing. And coconut cake for dessert." "I'll be there," said Qwilleran.

As soon as he was dressed, he limped to the drugstore, being unable to survive Sunday without the Sunday papers. At the lunch counter he choked down two hard-boiled eggs that were supposed to be soft-boiled and gave himself indigestion by reading Jack Jaunti's new column. Jaunti, who was half Qwilleran's age, now had the gall to write a column of wit and wisdom from the Delphic heights of his adolescent ignorance.

The newsman spent the rest of the day nursing his crippled knee and pecking at his crippled typewriter, and his ailment activated the Florence Nightingale instinct that is common to cats. Every time he sat down, Yum Yum hopped on his lap, while Koko hovered nearby, looked concerned, spoke softly, and purred whenever Qwilleran glanced in his direction.

When seven o'clock arrived, whiffs of beef simmering with garlic and celery tops beckoned the newsman across the hall to the Cobbs' apartment. C.C., shirtless and shoeless, sat with one leg thrown over the arm of his chair and a can of beer in his hand. He grunted at the arriving guest — a welcome more cordial than Qwilleran had expected — and Mrs.

Cobb turned joyous eyes on her tenant and ushered him to a stately wing chair.

"It's Charles II," she said. "Best thing we own." She pointed out other treasures, which he admired with reserve: a stuffed owl, a wood carving of an adenoidal eagle, an oil portrait of an infant with a bloated forty-year-old face, and an apothecary desk with two dozen tiny drawers of no use to anyone but an apothecary. A radio on the desk top pounded out a senseless, ceaseless beat.

Mrs. Cobb, playing the fussy hostess, passed a platter of tiny meat turnovers and served small glasses of cranberry juice cocktail on plates with lace paper doilies.

C.C. said, "Who you trying to impress with this fancy grub?" "Our new tenant, of course. I wouldn't slave over piroshki for a slob like you," she said sweetly.