Lillian Braun: The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

As he left the apartment, he felt a tug at his sleeve. The caterer was standing at his elbow, smiling.

"You got a doggie at home?" he asked the newsman.

"No," said Qwilleran, "but — " "Doggie hungry. You take doggie bag," said the caterer, and he pushed a foil-wrapped package into Qwilleran's hand.

"Koko, old fellow, we're moving!" Qwilleran announced happily on Tuesday morning, as he took the doggie bag from the refrigerator and prepared a breakfast for the cat and himself. Reviewing the events of the previous evening, he had to admit that the decorating beat had its advantages. Never had he received so many compliments or tasted such good food, and the offer of an apartment was a windfall.

Koko was huddling on a cushion on top of the refrigerator — the blue cushion that was his bed, his throne, his Olympus. His haunches were sticking up like fins. He looked uncomfortable, apprehensive.

"You'll like it at the Villa Verandah," Qwilleran assured him. "There are soft rugs and high bookshelves, and you can sit in the sun on the balcony. But you'll have to be on your best behavior. No flying around and busting lamps!" Koko shifted weight. His eyes were large troubled circles of blue.

"We'll take your cushion and put it on the new refrigerator, and you'll feel right at home." At the Daily Fluxion an hour later, Qwilleran reported the good news to Odd Bunsen. They met in the employees' lunchroom for their morning cup of coffee, sitting at the counter with pressmen in square paper hats, typesetters in canvas aprons, rewrite men in white shirts with the cuffs turned up, editors with their cuffs buttoned, and advertising men wearing cufflinks.

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.