Lillian Braun - The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

With Koko at his heels, yowling imperious Siamese commands, Qwilleran searched the premises. He thought wistfully of all the long, slender implements he could use: tree branch, fly swatter-buggy whip.

Eventually he lowered himself to the floor. Lying flat, he reached under the low chest and gingerly extracted a penny, a gold earring, an olive pit, a crumpled scrap of paper, several dust- balls, and finally a familiar gray wad of indefinite, shape.

Koko pounced on his mouse, sniffed it once without much interest, and gave it a casual whack with his paw. It went back under the Spanish chest, and Koko sauntered away to get a drink of water before retiring for the night.

But Qwilleran stayed up smoking his pipe and thinking about many things: Cokey and nutmeg cocktails, Gracious Abodes and Mrs. Middy's lace collar, buggy whips and the situation in Muggy Swamp. Once he went to the wastebasket and fished out the crumpled paper he had found beneath the Spanish chest. There was only a name on it: Arne Thorvaldson. He dropped it in the basket again. The gold earring he tossed in the desk drawer with the paper clips.

On the day following the funeral, Qwilleran telephoned G. Verning Tait and asked if he might call and deliver the books on jade. He said he always liked to return borrowed books promptly.

Tait acquiesced in a voice that was neither cold nor cordial, and Qwilleran could imagine the crimping of the mouth that accompanied it.

"How did you get this number?" Tait asked.

Qwilleran passed a hand swiftly over his face and hoped he was saying the right thing. "I believe this is — yes, this must be the number that David Lyke gave me." "I was merely curious. It's an unlisted number." Qwilleran put Noyton's address book away in the desk, stroked Koko's head for luck, and drove to Muggy Swamp in a company car. It was a wild shot, but he was hoping to see or hear something that would reinforce his hunch — his vague suspicion that all was not exactly as represented on the police record.

He had planned no particular approach-just the Qwilleran Technique. In twenty-five years of newspapering around the country he had enjoyed astounding success in interviewing criminals (described as tight-lipped), old ladies (timid), politicians (cautious), and cowboys (taciturn). He asked no prying questions on these occasions. He just smoked his pipe, murmured encouraging phrases, prodded gently, and wore an expression of sympathetic concern, which was enhanced by the sober aspect of his moustache.

Tait himself, wearing his usual high color and another kind of silk sports shirt, admitted the newsman to the glittering foyer. Qwilleran looked inquiringly toward the living room, but the double doors were closed.

The collector invited him into the library. "Did you enjoy the books?" he said. "Are you beginning to feel the lure of jade? Do you think you might like to collect?" "I'm afraid it's beyond my means at the moment," said Qwilleran, adding a small falsehood: "I'm subletting Harry Noyton's apartment at the Villa Verandah, and this little spree is keeping me broke." The name brought no sign of recognition. Tait said: "You can start collecting in a modest way. I can give you the name of a dealer who likes to help beginners. Do you still have your jade button?" "Carry it all the time!" Qwilleran jingled the contents of his trouser pocket. Then he asked solemnly, "Did Mrs. Tait share your enthusiasm for jade?" The corners of Tait's mouth quivered. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Tait never warmed to the fascination of jade, but collecting it and working with it have been a joy and a comfort to me for more than fifteen years. Would you like to see my workshop?" He led the way to the rear of the house and down a flight of basement stairs.

"This is a rambling house," said Qwilleran. "I imagine an intercom system comes in handy." "Please excuse the appearance of my shop," the collector said. "It is not as tidy as it should be. I've dismissed the housekeeper. I'm getting ready to go away." "I suppose you'll be traveling to jade country," said Qwilleran hopefully.

His supposition got no verification.

Tait said: "Have you ever seen a lapidary shop? It's strange, but when I am down here in this hideaway, cutting and polishing, I forget everything. My back ailment gives me no discomfort, and I am a happy man." He handed the newsman a small carved dragon. "This is the piece the police found behind Paolo's bed when they searched his room. It's a fairly simple design. I've been trying to copy it." "You must feel very bitter about that boy," Qwilleran said.

Tait averted his eyes. "Bitterness accomplishes nothing." "Frankly, his implication came as a shock to me. He seemed an open, ingenuous young man." "People are not always what they seem." "Could it be that Paolo was used as a tool by the real organizers of the crime?" "That is a possibility, of course, but it doesn't bring back my jades." "Mr. Tait," said Qwilleran,"for what it is worth, I want you to know I have a strong feeling the stolen objects will be found." "I wish I could share your optimism." Then the collector showed a spark of curiosity. "What makes you feel that way?" "There's a rumor at the paper that the police are on the track of something." It was not the first time Qwilleran had spread the rumor of a rumor, and it often got results.

"Strange they have not communicated with me," said Tait. He led the way up the stairs and to the front door.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have mentioned it," Qwilleran said. Then casually he remarked, "That housekeeper of yours- would she take a temporary job while you're away? A friend of mine will need a housekeeper while his wife is in the hospital, and it's hard to get good help on a short-term basis. " "I have no doubt that Mrs. Hawkins needs work," said Tait.

"How long before you'll be needing her again?" "I don't intend to take her back," said Tait. "Her work is satisfactory, but she has an unfortunate personality." "If you don't mind, then, I'd like to give her phone number to my friend." Tait stepped into his library and wrote the information on a slip of paper. "I'll also give you the name and address of that jade dealer in Chicago," he said, "just in case you change your mind." As they passed the living room Qwilleran looked hungrily at the closed doors. "Did Paolo do any damage in opening the cases?" "No. No damage. It's small comfort," Tait said sadly, "but I like to think the jades were taken by someone who loved them." As Qwilleran drove away from Muggy Swamp, he felt that he had wasted a morning and two gallons of Daily Fluxion gas. Yet, throughout the visit, he had felt a teasing discomfort about the upper lip. He thought he sensed something false in the collector's pose. The man should have been sadder — or madder. And then there was that heart- wringing curtain line: "I like to think the jades were stolen by someone who loved them." "Oh, brother!" Qwilleran said aloud. "What a ham!" His morning of snooping had only whetted his curiosity, and now he headed for the place where he might get some answers to his questions. He drove to the shop called PLUG on River Street.

It was an unlikely spot for a decorating studio. PLUG looked self-consciously dapper among the dilapidated storefronts devoted to plumbing supplies and used cash registers.

The merchandise in the window was attractively arranged against a background of kitchen oilcloth in a pink kitten design. There were vases of ostrich plumes, chunks of broken concrete painted in phosphorescent colors, and bowls of eggs trimmed with sequins. The price tags were small and refined, befitting an exclusive shop: $5 each for the eggs, $15 for a chunk of concrete.

Qwilleran walked into the shop (the door handle was a gilded replica of the Statue of Liberty), and a bell announced his presence by tinkling the four notes of "How Dry I Am." Immediately, from behind a folding screen composed of old Reader's Digest covers, came the genial proprietor, Bob Orax, looking more fastidious than ever among the tawdry merchandise. There were paper flowers pressed under glass, trays decorated with cigar bands, and candelabra made out of steer horns, standing on crocheted doilies. One entire wall was paved with a mosaic of pop-bottle caps. Others were decorated with supermarket ads and candy-bar wrappers matted in red velvet and framed in gilt.