Lillian Braun - The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

Qwilleran arrived home from Cokey's apartment earlier than he had expected. Cokey had chased him out. She said they both had to work the next day, and she had to fix her hair and iron a blouse.

When he arrived at the Villa Verandah, Koko greeted him with a table-hopping routine that ended on the desk.

The red light on the telephone was glowing. The phone had been ringing, Koko seemed to be saying, and no one had been there to answer.

Qwilleran dialed the switchboard.

"Mr. Bunsen called you at nine o'clock," the operator told him. "He said to call him at home if you came in before one A.M." Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was not yet midnight, and he started to dial Bunsen's number. Then he changed his mind. He decided Cokey was right about the importance of image. He decided it would not hurt to enhance his own image — the enviable one of a bachelor carousing until the small hours of the morning.

Qwilleran emptied his coat pockets, draped his coat on a chair back, and sat down at the desk to browse through the Tait file of newspaper clippings. Koko watched, lounging on the desk top in a classic pose known to lions and tigers, curving his tail around a Swedish crystal paperweight.

The newsprint was in varying shades of yellow and brown, depending on the age of the news item. Each was rubber-stamped with the date of publication. It was hardly necessary to read the stamp; outmoded typefaces, as well as mellowed paper, gave a clue to the date.

First Qwilleran shuffled through the clippings hastily, hoping to spot a lurid headline. Finding none in a cursory search, he started to read systematically: three generations of Tait history in chronological disorder.

Five years ago Tait had given a talk at a meeting of the Lapidary Society. Eleven years ago his father had died.

There was a lengthy feature on the Tait Manufacturing Company, apparently one of a series on family-owned firms of long standing; organized in 1883 for the manufacture of buggy whips, the company was now producing car radio antennas. Old society clippings showed the elder Taits at the opera or charity functions. Three years ago G. Verning Tait announced his intention of manufacturing antennas that looked like buggy whips. A year later a news item stated that the Tait plant had closed and bankruptcy proceedings were being instituted.

Then there was the wedding announcement of twenty-four years ago. Mr. George Verning Tait, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Verning H. Tait of Muggy Swamp, was taking a bride. The entire Tait family had gone to Europe for,the ceremony.

The nuptials had been celebrated at the home of the bride's parents, the Victor Thorvaldsons of — Qwilleran's eyes popped when he read it. "The Victor Thorvaldsons of Aarhus, Denmark." He leaned back in his chair and exhaled into his moustache.

"Koko," he said, "what do you suppose Harry Noyton is pulling off in Aarhus?" The cat opened his mouth to reply, but there was not enough breath behind his comment to make it audible.

Qwilleran's watch said one o'clock, and he hurried through the rest of the clippings until he found what he was looking for. Then he dialed Odd Bunsen's number excitedly.

"Hope I didn't get you out of bed," he said to the photographer.

"How was your date, you old tomcat?" Bunsen demanded.

"Not bad. Not bad." "What were you doing on Merchant Street this morning?" "How do you know I was on Merchant Street?" "Aha! I saw you waiting for a bus on the southwest corner of Merchant and State at eleven fifty-five." "You don't miss a thing, do you?" Qwilleran said. "Why didn't you stop and give me a lift?" "I was going in the other direction. Brother! You were getting an early start. It wasn't even lunchtime." "I had a doctor's appointment." "On Merchant Street? Ho ho HO! Ho ho HO!" "Is that all you called about? You're a nosy old woman." "Nope. I've got some information for you." "I've got some news for you, too," said Qwilleran. "I've found the skeleton in the Tait closet." "What is it?" "A court trial. G. Verning Tait was involved in a paternity suit!" "Ho ho HO! That old goat! Who was the gal?" "One of the Taits' servants. She got a settlement, too. According to these old clippings it must have been a sensational trial." "A thing like that can be a rough experience." "You'd think a family with the Taits' money and position would settle out of court-at any cost," Qwilleran said. "I covered a paternity trial in Chicago several years ago, and the testimony got plenty raw…. Now, what's on your mind?

What's this information you've got for me?" "Nothing much," said Bunsen, "but if you're going to send those photographs to Tait, you'd better make it snappy.

He's leaving the country in a couple of days." "How do you know?" "I ran into Lodge Kendall at the Press Club. Tait's leaving Saturday morning." "For Mexico?" asked Qwilleran as his moustache sprang to attention.

"Nope. Nothing as obvious as that! You'd like it if he was heading for Mexico, wouldn't you?" the photographer teased.

"Well, where is he going?" "Denmark!"

Qwilleran waked easily the next morning after a night of silly dreams that he was glad to terminate. In one episode he dreamed he was flying to Aarhus to be best man at the high-society wedding of two neutered cats.

Before leaving for the office, he telephoned Tait and offered to deliver the photographs of the jade the next day.

He also inquired about the female cat and was appalled to hear that Tait had put her out of the house to fend for herself.

"Can you get her back?" Qwilleran asked, controlling his temper. He had a particular loathing for people who mistreated animals.

"She's still on the grounds," Tait said. "She howled all night. I'll let her come back in the house…. How many photos do you have for me?" Qwilleran worked hard and fast at the office that day, while the clerk in the Feature Department intercepted all phone calls and uninvited visitors with the simple explanation that permits no appeal, no argument, no exceptions. "Sorry, he's on deadline." Only once did he take time out, and that was to telephone the Taits' former housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hawkins," he said, taming his voice to an aloof drawl, "this is an acquaintance of Mr. Tait in Muggy Swamp.

I am being married shortly, and my wife and I will need a housekeeper. Mr. Tait recommends you highly — " "Oh, he does, does he?" said a musical voice with impudence in the inflection.

"Could you come for an interview this evening at the Villa Verandah?" "Who'll be there? Just you? Or will the lady be there?" "My fiancee is unfortunately in Tokyo at the moment, and it will be up to me to make the arrangements." "Okey doke. I'll come. What time?" Qwilleran set the appointment for eight o'clock. He was glad he was not in need of a housekeeper. He wondered if Mrs. Hawkins was an example of Tait's ill-advised economies.

By the time Mrs. Hawkins presented herself for the interview, the rain had started, and she arrived with dripping umbrella and a dripping raincoat over a gaudy pink and green dress. Qwilleran noted that the dress had the kind of neckline that slips off the shoulder at the slightest encouragement, and there was a slit in the side seam. The woman had sassy eyes, and she flirted her shoulders when she walked. He liked sassy, flirtatious females if they were young and attractive, but Mrs. Hawkins was neither.

With exaggerated decorum he offered her a glass of sherry "against the weather," and poured a deep amber potion from Harry Noyton's well-stocked bar. He poured an exceptionally large glass, and by the time the routine matters had been covered — experience, references, salary — Mrs. Hawkins had relaxed in the cushions of a suede sofa and was ready for a chatty evening.

"You're one of the newspaper fellows that came to the house to take pictures," she announced at this point, with her eyes dancing at him. "I remember your moustache." She waved an arm at the appointments of the room. "I didn't know reporters made so much money." "Let me fill your glass," said Qwilleran. "Aren't you drinking?" "Ulcers," he said with a look of self-pity. "Lordy, I know all about them!" said Mrs. Hawkins. "I cooked for two people with ulcers in Muggy Swamp. Sometimes, when Mr. Tait wasn't around, she would have me fix her a big plate of French fried onion rings, and if there's anything that doesn't go with ulcers, it's French fried onion rings, but I never argued. Nobody dared argue with her. Everybody went around on tippy-toe, and when she rang that bell, everybody dropped everything and rushed to see what she wanted. But I didn't mind, because — if I have my druthers — I druther cook for a couple of invalids than a houseful of hungry brats. And I had help out there. Paulie was a big help. He was a sweet boy, and it's too bad he turned out to be no good, but that's the way it is with foreigners. I don't understand foreigners. She was a foreigner, too, although it was a long time ago that she came over here, and it wasn't until near the end that she started screaming at all of us in a foreign language. Screaming at her husband, too. Lordy, that man had the patience of a saint! Of course, he had his workshop to keep him happy. He was crazy about those rocks! He bought a whole mountain once — some place in South America. It was supposed to be chock-full of jade, but I guess it didn't pan out. Once he offered me a big jade brooch, but I wouldn't take it. I wasn't having any of that!" Mrs. Hawkins rolled her eyes suggestively. "He was all excited when you came to take pictures of his knickknacks, which surprised me because of the way he felt about the Daily Fluxion." She paused to drain her glass. "This is good! One more little slug? And then I'll be staggering home." "How did Mr. Tait feel about the Fluxion?" Qwilleran asked casually, as he refilled Mrs. Hawkins's glass.