Lillian Braun: The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

"To tell the truth, all we do is sit around with a bottle and shoot the breeze. You ought to come up and join us some time…. By the way, I'm Harry Noyton." They shook hands, and Qwilleran said, "David tells me you have a house that might make good story material for the Fluxion's new decorating magazine." Noyton stared at his shoes for a long minute before answering. "Come in the other room where it's quiet," he said.

They went into the breakfast room and sat at a marble-topped table — the promoter with his high-ball glass and Qwilleran with a plate of shrimp and mushrooms.

Noyton said: "Whatever you've heard about my house in the Hills is no lie. It's terrific! And I give David all the credit — that is, Dave and my wife. She's got talent. I don't have any talent myself. All I did was go to engine college for a couple of years." He paused and gazed out the window. "But Natalie is artistic. I'm proud of her." "I'd like to see this house." "Well… here's the problem," said Noyton, taking a long drink from his glass. "The house is going to be sold. You see, Natalie and I are getting a divorce." "Sorry to hear it," said Qwilleran. "I've been over that course myself." "There's no trouble between us, you understand. She just wants out! She's got this crazy idea that she wants an artistic career. Can you imagine that? She's got everything in the world, but she wants to be creative, wants to starve in an attic studio, wants to make something of her life. That's what she says. And she wants it bad! Bad enough to give up the boys. I don't understand this art bug that gets into women these days." "You have children?" "Two sons. Two fine boys. I don't know how she can have the heart to get up and walk away from them. But those are my terms: I get complete custody of the boys, and the divorce is forever. No willy-wagging. She can't change her mind and decide to come back after a couple of months. I won't play the fool for anyone! Especially not a woman…. Tell me, am I right?" Qwilleran stared at the man — aggressive, rich, lonely.

Noyton drained his drink, and said, "I'll send the boys to military school, of course." "Is Mrs. Noyton a painter?" Qwilleran asked.

"No, nothing like that. She's got these big looms, and she wants to weave rugs and things for decorators to sell. I don't know how she's going to make a living. She won't take any money from me, and she doesn't want the house. Know anybody wants a quarter-million dollars' worth of real estate?" "It must be quite a place." "Say, if you want to write it up for the paper, it might help me to unload the joint. I'm leveling with you, understand." "Is anyone living there now?" "Caretaker, that's all. Natalie's in Reno. I'm living here at the Villa Verandah… Wait'll I flavor these ice cubes." Noyton dashed to the bar, and while he was gone the Japanese caterer quietly removed Qwilleran's plate and replaced it with another, piled high.

"Like I was saying," Noyton went on, "I have this apartment that Dave decorated. That boy's got taste! Wish I had that boy's taste. I've got a wood floor imported from Denmark, a built-in bar, a fur rug — the works!" "I wouldn't mind seeing it." "Come on and have a look. It's right here on this floor, in the north wing." They left the party, Noyton carrying his high-ball glass. "I should warn you," he said as they walked around the curving corridor, "the colors are kind of wild." He unlocked the door to 15-F and touched a wall switch. Qwilleran gasped.

Pleasant music burst forth. Rich colors glowed in pools of light. Everything looked soft, comfortable, but rugged.

"Do you go for this modern stuff?" Noyton asked. "Expensive as hell when it's done right." With awe in his voice Qwilleran said: "This is great! This really gets to me." The floor consisted of tiny squares of dark wood with a velvety oiled finish. There was a rug as shaggy as unmown grass and half as big as a squash court.

"Like the rug?" Noyton asked. "Genuine goat hair from Greece." It was surrounded on three sides by a trio of sofas covered in natural tan suede. A chair with inviting body curves was upholstered in something incredibly soft.

"Vicuna," said Noyton. "But try that green chair. That's my favorite." When Qwilleran relaxed in the green chair and propped his feet on the matching ottoman, an expression of beatitude spread over his face. He stroked the sculptured woolly arms. "I'd sure like to have an apartment like this," he murmured.

"And this is the bar," said Noyton with unconcealed pride as he splashed some liquor in his glass. "And the stereo is in that old Spanish chest — the only antique in the place. Cost me a fortune." He sank into the vicuna chair. "The rent for this apartment is nothing to sneeze at, either, but some good people live in this building-good people to know." He named two judges, a banker, the retired president of the university, a prominent scientist. "I know them all. I know a lot of people in this town. Your managing editor is a good friend of mine." Qwilleran's eyes were roving over the wall of cantilevered bookshelves, the large desk topped with rust-colored leather, the sensuous rug, and the three — not one, but three-deep-cushioned sofas.

"Yes, Lyke did a great job on the decorating," he said.

"Say, you look like a regular guy," Noyton remarked with a crafty look. "How are you getting along with these decorators?" "They seem to be a congenial bunch," said Qwilleran, ignoring the innuendo.

"That's not what I mean. Have you met Bob Orax? He's got a real problem." "I'm used to meeting all kinds," Qwilleran said, more curtly than he had intended. He had a newsman's capacity for identifying with his beat and defending its personnel, and he resented Noyton's aspersions.

Noyton said, "That's what I admire about you news guys. Nobody throws you. You take everything in your stride." Qwilleran swung his feet off the ottoman and hoisted himself out of the green chair. "Well, what do you say? Shall we go back where the action is?" They returned to the party, Noyton carrying two bottles of bourbon from his own stock, which he added to Lyke's supply.

Qwilleran complimented the decorator on the Noyton job. "Wish I could afford an apartment like his. What does a layout like that cost, anyway?" "Too much," said the decorator. "By the way, if you ever need anything, I'll get it for you at cost, plus freight." "What I need," said Qwilleran, "is a furnished apartment. The place where I live is being torn down to make a parking lot, and I've got to be out in ten days." "Why don't you use Harry's apartment for a few weeks — if you like it so much?" Lyke suggested. "He's leaving for Europe, and he'll be gone a month or more." Qwilleran blinked. "Do you think he'd be willing to sublet — at a price I could afford?" "Let's ask him." Noyton said, "Hell, no, I won't sublet, but if you want to use the joint while I'm gone, just move in." "No, I'd insist on paying rent," Qwilleran said.

"Don't give me that integrity jive! I've had a lot of good treatment from the papers, and this'll give me a chance to say thanks. Besides, it's no skin off my back. Why should I take your money?" Lyke said to Qwilleran, "There's a catch, of course. He'll expect you to forward his mail and take telephone messages." Qwilleran said, "There's another catch, too. I've got a cat." "Bring him along!" said Noyton. "He can have his own room and bath. First class." "I could guarantee that he wouldn't scratch the furniture." "It's a deal. I'm leaving Wednesday. The keys will be at the manager's desk, including the one for the bar. Help yourself to anything. And don't be surprised if I call you twice a day from Europe. I'm a telephone bug." Later, Lyke said to the newsman: "Thanks for getting me off the hook. Harry was expecting me to do his secretary service. I don't know why, but clients think they've hired a wet nurse for life when they call in a decorator." It had happened so fast that Qwilleran could hardly believe his good fortune. Rejoicing inwardly, he made two more trips to the buffet before saying good night to his host.