Lillian Braun - The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

She's having hysterics. The man threatens to sue if we publish his house." "I don't know what I can substitute in a hurry," said Qwilleran. "The only spectacular thing I have on hand is a silo painted like a barber pole and converted into a vacation home." "Not exactly the image we want to project for Gracious Abodes," said the editor. "Why don't you ask Fran Unger if she has any ideas?" "Look, Harold!" said Qwilleran with sudden resolve. "I think we should take the offensive!" "What do you mean?" "I mean — conduct our own investigation! I don't buy the police theory. Pinning the crime on the houseboy is too easy. Paolo may have been an innocent dupe. For all anybody knows, he could be at the bottom of the river!" He stopped to get the editor's reaction. Percy only stared at him.

"That was no petty theft," said Qwilleran, raising his voice, "and it was not pulled off by an unsophisticated, homesick mountain boy from an underdeveloped foreign country! Something more is involved here. I don't know who or what or why, but I've got a hunch — " He pounded his moustache with his knuckles. "Harold, why don't you assign me to cover this case? I'm sure I could dig up something of importance." Percy waved the suggestion away impatiently. "I'm not opposed to investigative journalism per se, but we need you on the magazine. We don't have the personnel to waste on amateur sleuthing." "I can handle both. Just give me the credentials to talk to the police — to ask a few questions here and there." "No, you've got enough on your hands, Qwill. Let the police handle crime. We've got to concentrate on putting out a newspaper." Qwilleran went on as if he had not heard. He talked fast. "There's something suspicious about the timing of that incident! Someone wanted to link us with it. And that's not the only strange circumstance! Too much happened too fast yesterday morning. You called me at six thirty. What time did the police call you? And what time did they get the call from Tait?… And if Mrs. Tait heard sounds of prowlers, why didn't she signal her husband? Can you believe there was no intercom in that house? All that plush decorating, and not even a simple buzzer system between the invalid's bed and the sleeping quarters of her devoted husband?" Percy looked at Qwilleran coldly. "If there's evidence of conspiracy, the police will uncover it. They know what they're doing. You keep out of it. We've got troubles enough." Qwilleran calmed his moustache. There was no use arguing with a computer. "Do you think I should make an appearance at the funeral tomorrow?" he asked.

"It won't be necessary. We'll be adequately represented." Qwilleran went back to his office muttering into his moustache: "Play it safe! Don't offend! Support the Advertising Department! Make money!" "Why not?" said Arch Riker. "Did you think we were in business to disseminate news?" At his desk Qwilleran picked up the inoffensive green telephone that was stenciled with the reminder Be Nice to People. He called the Photo Lab.

"When you make those enlargements of the jades," he said to Bunsen, "make a set of prints for me, will you? I've got an idea."

Qwilleran killed the cover story about the car dealer's remodeled stable and started to worry about finding a substitution. He had an appointment that morning with another decorator, but he doubted that she would be able to produce a cover story on short notice. He had talked with her on the telephone, and she had seemed flustered.

"Oh, dear!" Mrs. Middy had said. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Qwilleran went to her studio without any buoyant hope.

The sign over the door, lettered in Spencerian script, said Interiors by Middy. The shop was located near Happy View Woods, and it had all the ingredients of charm: window boxes filled with yellow mums, bay windows with diamond- shaped panes, a Dutch door flanked by picturesque carriage lanterns, a gleaming brass door knocker. Inside, the cozy charm was suffocating but undeniable.

As Qwilleran entered, he heard Westminster chimes, and then he saw a tall young woman emerge from behind a louvered folding screen at the back of the shop. Her straight brown hair fell like a blanket to her shoulders, hiding her forehead, eyebrows, temples and cheeks. All that was visible was a pair of roguish green eyes, an appealing little nose, an intelligent mouth, a dainty chin.

Qwilleran brightened. He said, "I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Mrs. Middy, and I don't think you're Mrs. Middy." "I'm her assistant," said the young woman. "Mrs. Middy is a little late this morning, but then Mrs. Middy is always a little late. Would you care to sit it out?" She waved a hand dramatically around the studio. "I can offer you a Chippendale corner chair, a comb back Windsor, or a mammy settle. They're all uncomfortable, but I'll talk to you and take your mind off your anguish." "Talk to me, by all means," said Qwilleran, sitting on the mammy settle and finding that it rocked. The girl sat in the comb back Windsor with her skirt well above her knees, and Qwilleran was pleased to see that they were leanly upholstered. "What's your name?" he asked, as he filled his pipe and lighted it.

"Alacoque Wright, and you must be the editor of the new Sunday supplement. I forget what you call it." "Gracious Abodes," said Qwilleran.

"Why do newspapers insist on sounding like warmed-over Horace Greeley?" Her green eyes were kidding him, and Qwilleran liked it.

"There's an element of tradition in newspapering." He glanced around the studio. "Same as in your business." "Decorating is not really my business," said the girl crisply. "Architecture is my field, but girl architects are not largely in demand. I took this job with Mrs. Middy in desperation, and I'm afraid these imitation worm-eaten hutches and folksy-hoaxy mammy settles are warping my personality. I prefer design that reflects the spirit of our times. Down with French Empire, Portuguese Colonial and Swahili Baroque!" "You mean you like modern design?" "I don't like to use the word," said Miss Wright. "It's so ambiguous. There's Motel Modern, Miami Beach Modern, Borax Danish, and a lot of horrid mutations. I prefer the twentieth-century classics-the work of Saarinen, Mies van der Rohe, Breuer, and all that crowd. Mrs. Middy doesn't let me meet clients; she's afraid I'll sabotage her work…. And I believe I would," she added with a feline smile. "I have a sneaky nature!" "If you don't meet clients, what do you do?" "Renderings, floor plans, color schemes. I answer the telephone and sort of sweep up…. But tell me about you.

Do you like contemporary design?" "I like anything," said Qwilleran, 'as long as it's comfortable, and I can put my feet on it." The girl appraised him frankly. "You're better looking than your picture in the magazine. You look serious and responsible, but also interesting. Are you married?" "Not at the moment." "You must feel crushed about what happened this weekend." "You mean the theft in Muggy Swamp?" "Do you suppose Mr. Tait will sue the Daily Fluxion?" Qwilleran shook his head. "He wouldn't get to first base. We printed nothing that was untrue or libelous. And, of course, we had his permission to publish his house in the first place." "But the robbery will damage your magazine's image, you must admit," said Miss Wright.

Just then the Dutch door opened, and a voice said,"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Am I late?" "Here comes Mother Middy," said the girl with the taunting eyes.

The dumpling of a woman who bustled into the studio was breathless and apologetic. She had been hurrying, and wisps of gray hair were escaping in all directions from the confinement of her shapeless mouse-gray hat.

"Get us some coffee, dear," she said to her assistant. "I'm all upset. I just got a ticket for speeding. But the officer was so kind! They have such nice policemen on the force." The decorator sat down heavily in a black and gold rocking chair. "Why don't you write a nice article about our policemen, Mr. - Mr. — " "Qwilleran. Jim Qwilleran," he said. "I'm afraid that's not my department, but I'd like to write a nice article about you." "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" said Mrs. Middy, as she removed her hat and patted her hair.