Lillian Braun - The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

"I used to have a beautiful orange cat named Frankie," she told Qwilleran sadly. "I still carry his picture in my handbag." She extracted a wad of cards and snapshots from her wallet and sorted them on the seat of the sofa, then proudly held up a picture of a fuzzy orange blob.

"It's out of focus, and the color has faded, but it's all I have left of Frankie. He lived to be fifteen years old. His parentage was uncertain, but — " "Koko!" shouted Qwilleran. "Get away!" The cat had silently crept up on the sofa, and he was manipulating his long pink tongue.

Qwilleran said, "He was licking that picture." "Oh!" said Cokey, and she snatched up a small glossy photograph of a man. She slipped it into her wallet but not before Qwilleran had caught a glimpse of it. He frowned his displeasure as she went on talking about cats and grinding nutmeg into their cocktails.

"Now, tell me all about your moustache," Cokey said. "I suppose you know it's terribly glamorous." "I raised this crop in Britain during the war," said Qwilleran, "as camouflage." "I like it." It pleased him that she had not said "Which war?" as young women were inclined to do. He said: "To tell the truth, I'm afraid to shave it off. I have a strange feeling that these lip whiskers put me in touch with certain things — like subsurface truths and imminent happenings." "How wonderful!" said Cokey. "Just like cats' whiskers." "I don't usually confide this little fact. I wouldn't want it to get noised around." "I can see your point." "Lately I've been getting hunches about the theft of the Tait jades." "Haven't they found the boy yet?" "You mean the houseboy who allegedly stole the stuff? That's one of my hunches. I don't think he's the thief." Cokey's eyes widened. "Do you have any evidence?" Qwilleran frowned. "That's the trouble; I don't have a thing but these blasted hunches. The houseboy doesn't fit the role, and there's something fishy about the timing, and I have certain reservations about G. Verning Tait. Did you ever hear anything about a scandal in the Tait family?" Cokey shook her head.

"Of course, you were too young when it happened." Cokey looked at her watch. "It's getting late. I should be going home." "One more drink?" Qwilleran suggested. He went to the bar with its vast liquor supply and took the cream and ginger ale from the compact refrigerator.

Cokey began walking around the room and admiring it from every angle. "Everywhere you look there's beautiful line and composition," she said with rapture in her face. "And I love the interplay of textures — velvety, sleek, woolly, shaggy. And this rug! I worship this rug!" She threw herself down on the tumbled pile of the luxurious rug. She lay there in ecstasy with arms flung wide, and Qwilleran combed his moustache violently. She lay there, unaware that the cat was stalking her. With his tail curled down like a fishhook and his body slung low, Koko moved through the shaggy pile of the rug like a wild thing prowling through the underbrush. Then he sprang!

Cokey shrieked and sat up. "He bit me! He bit my head!" Qwilleran rushed to her side. "Did he hurt you?" Cokey ran her fingers through her hair. "No. He didn't actually bite me. He just tried to take a little nip. But he seemed so… hostile! Qwill, why would Koko do a thing like that?"

Qwilleran would have slept until noon on Sunday, if it had not been for the Siamese Whisker Torture. When Koko decided it was time to get up, he hopped weightlessly and soundlessly onto the sleeping man's bed and lightly touched his whiskers to nose and chin. Qwilleran opened his eyelids abruptly and found himself gazing into two enormous eyes, as innocent as they were blue.

"Go 'way," he said, and went back to sleep. Again the whiskers were applied, this time to more sensitive areas — the cheeks and forehead.

Qwilleran winced and clenched his teeth and his eyes, only to feel the cat's whiskers tickling his eyelids. He jumped to a sitting position, and Koko bounded from the bed and from the room, mission accomplished.

When Qwilleran shuffled out of the bedroom, wearing his red plaid bathrobe and looking aimlessly for his pipe, he surveyed the living room with heavy-lidded eyes. On the coffee table were last night's champagne glasses, the Sunday paper, and Koko, diligently washing himself allover.

"You were a bad cat last night," Qwilleran said. "Why did you try to nip that pleasant girl who's so fond of cats?

Such bad manners!" Koko rolled over and attended to the base of his tail with rapt concentration, and Qwilleran's attention went to the rug. There, in the flattened pile, was a full-length impression of Cokey's tall, slender body, where she had sprawled for one dizzy moment. He made a move to erase the imprint by kicking up the pile with his toe, but changed his mind.

Koko, finished with his morning chore, sat up on the coffee table, blinked at the newsman, and looked angelic.

"You devil!" said Qwilleran. "I wish I could read your mind. That photograph you licked — " The telephone rang, and he went to answer it with pleased anticipation. He remembered the congratulatory calls of the previous Sunday. Now a new issue of Gracious Abodes had reached the public.

"Hello-o?" he said graciously.

"Qwill, it's Harold!" The tone was urgent, and Qwilleran cringed. "Qwill, have you heard the news?" "No, I just got out of bed — " "Your cover story in today's paper — your residence for professional girls — haven't you heard?" "What's happened?" Qwilleran put a hand over his eyes. He had visions of mass murder — a houseful of innocent girls murdered in their beds, their four-poster beds with pink side curtains.

"The police raided it last night! It's a disorderly house!" "What!" "They planted one of their men, got a warrant, and knocked the place off." Qwilleran sat down unexpectedly as his knees folded. "But the decorator told me — " "How did this happen? Where did you get the tip on this — this house?" "From the decorator. From Mrs. Middy, a nice little motherly woman. She specializes in — well — residences for girls. Dormitories, that is, and sorority houses. And this was supposed to be a high-class boardinghouse for professional girls." "Professional is the word!" said Percy. "This is going to make us look like a pack of fools. Wait till the Morning Rampage plays it up." Qwilleran gulped. "I don't know what to say." "There's nothing we can do about it now, but you'd better get hold of that Mrs. Biddy — " "Middy." " — whatever she calls herself — and let her know exactly how we feel about this highly embarrassing incident….

It's an incredible situation per se, and on the heels of the Muggy Swamp mess it's too much!" Percy hung up, and Qwilleran's stunned mind tried to remember how it had happened. There must be an explanation. Then he grabbed the telephone and dialed a number.

"Yes?" said a sleepy voice.

"Cokey!" said Qwilleran sternly. "Have you heard the news?" "What news? I'm not awake yet." "Well, wake up and listen to me! Mrs. Middy has got me in a jam. Why didn't you tip me off?" "About what?" "About Mrs. Allison's place." Cokey yawned. "What about Mrs. Allison's place?" "You mean you don't know?" "What are you talking about? You don't make sense." Qwilleran found himself with a death grip on the receiver. He took a deep breath. "I've just been notified that the police raided Mrs. Allison's so-called residence for professional girls last night…. It's a brothel! Did you know that?" Cokey shrieked. "Oh, Qwill, what a hoot!" "Did you know the nature of Mrs. Allison's house?" His voice was gruff.

"No, but I think the idea's a howl!" "Well, I don't think it's a howl, and the Daily Fluxion doesn't think it's a howl. It makes us look like saps. How can I get hold of Mrs. Middy?" Cokey's voice sobered. "You want to call her?