The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (2 page)

That day, during the lunch hour, Qwilleran went out and celebrated the raise in salary. He bought a can of crabmeat for Koko and a new tie for himself. Another red wool plaid.
2
Wearing his new tie and the better of his two suits, Qwilleran set forth with some apprehension for his first visit to a decorating studio, bracing himself for an overdose of the precious and the esoteric.
He found the firm of Lyke and Starkweather in an exclusive shopping area, surrounded by specialty shops, art galleries, and tearooms. The entrance was impressive. Huge double doors of exotically grained wood had silver door handles as big as baseball bats.
The interior displayed furniture in room settings, and Qwilleran was pleased to find one room wallpapered in a red plaid that matched his tie. Moose antlers were mounted above a fireplace made of wormeaten driftwood, and there was a sofa covered in distressed pigskin, like the hides of retired footballs. A slender young man approached him, and the newsman asked to see Mr. Lyke or Mr. Starkweather. After a delay that seemed inauspicious, a gray-haired man appeared from behind an Oriental screen at the rear of the shop. He had a bland appearance and a bland manner.
"Mr. Lyke is the one you should talk to, if it's about publicity," he told Qwilleran, "but he's busy with a client. Why don't you just look around while you're waiting?" "Are you Mr. Starkweather?" Qwilleran asked.
"Yes, but I think you should talk to Mr. Lyke. He's the one...." "I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me about these displays while I'm waiting." Qwilleran motioned toward the moose antlers.
"There isn't much to tell," said Starkweather with a helpless gesture.
"What's selling these days?" "Just about everything." "Is there any particular color that's popular?" "No. They're all good." "I see you have some modern stuff over there." "We have a little of everything." Qwilleran's interviewing technique was not working. "What do you call that thing?" he asked, pointing to a tall secretary-desk with a bulbous base and an inlaid design of exotic birds and flowers.
"It's a desk," said Starkweather. Then his expressionless face brightened a fraction of a degree. "Here comes Mr.
Lyke." From behind the Oriental screen came a good-looking man in his early thirties. He had his arm around an elaborately hatted middle-aged woman who was smiling and blushing with pleasure.
Lyke was saying in a deep, chesty voice: "You go home, dear, and tell the Old Man you've got to have that twelve- foot sofa. It won't cost him a cent more than the last car he bought. And remember, dear, I want you to invite me to dinner the next time you're having that superb chocolate cake. Don't let your cook bake it. I want you to bake it yourself-for David." While he talked, David Lyke was walking the woman rapidly toward the front door, where he stopped and kissed her temple. Then he said a beautifully timed goodbye, meaningful but not lingering.
When he turned toward Qwilleran, he recomposed his face abruptly from an expression of rapture to one of businesslike aplomb, but he could not change his eyes. He had brooding eyes with heavy lids and long lashes. Even more striking was his hair-snow white and somewhat sensational with his young suntanned face.
"I'm David Lyke," he growled pleasantly, extending a cordial hand. His eyes flickered downward for only a second, but Qwilleran felt they had appraised his plaid tie and the width of his lapel. "Come into my office, and we'll talk." The newsman followed him into a room that had deep-gray walls. A leopard rug sprawled on the polished ebony floor. Lounge chairs, square and bulky and masculine, were covered in fabric with the texture of popcorn. On the back wall was a painting of a nude figure, her skin tones a luminous blue-gray, like steel.
Qwilleran found himself nodding in approval.
"Nice office." "Glad you like it," the decorator said. "Don't you think gray is terribly civilized? I call this shade Poppy Seed. The chairs are sort of Dried Fig. I'm sick to death of Pablum Beige and Mother's Milk White." He reached for a decanter. "How about a splash of cognac?" Qwilleran declined. He said he would rather smoke his pipe. Then he stated his mission, and Lyke said in his rumbling voice: "I wish you hadn't called your magazine Gracious Abodes. It gives me visions of lavender gloves and pˆche Melba." "What kind of decorating do you do?" the newsman asked.
"All kinds. If people want to live like conquistadors or English barons or little French kings, we don't fight it." "If you can find an important house for us to photograph, we'll put it on the cover of our first issue." "We'd like the publicity," said the decorator, "but I don't know how our clients will react. You know how it is; whenever the boys in Washington find out a taxpayer has wall-to-wall carpet in his bathroom, they audit his tax returns for the last three years." He was flipping through a card index. "I have a magnificent Georgian Colonial job, done in Champagne and Cranberry, but the lamps haven't arrived.... And here's an Edwardian town house in Benedictine and Plum, but there's been a delay on the draperies; the fabric manufacturer discontinued the pattern." "Could the photographer shoot from an angle that would avoid the missing drapes?" Lyke looked startled, but he recovered quickly and shook his head. "No, you'd have to include the windows." He browsed through the file and suddenly seized an index card. "Here's a house I'd like to see you publish! Do you know G.
Verning Tait? I did his house in French Empire with built-in vitrines for his jade collection." "Who is this Tait?" Qwilleran asked. "I'm new in this city." "You don't know the Taits? They're one of the old families living in pseudocastles down in Muggy Swamp. You know Muggy Swamp, of course - very exclusive." The decorator made a rueful face. "Unfortunately, the clients with the longest pedigrees are the slowest to pay their bills." "Are the Taits very social?" "They used to be, but they live quietly now. Mrs. Tait is unwell, as they say in Muggy Swamp." "Do you think they'd let us photograph?" "People with Old Money always avoid publicity on their real estate," Lyke said, "but in this case I might be able to use a little persuasion." Other possibilities were discussed, but both the decorator and newsman agreed the Tait house would be perfect: important name, spectacular decor, brilliant color, and a jade collection to add interest.
"Besides that," said Lyke with a smug smile, "it's the only job I've succeeded in getting away from the Sorbonne Studio. It would give me a lot of satisfaction to see the Tait house on the cover of Gracious Abodes." "If you succeed in lining it up, call me immediately," Qwilleran said. "We're working against time on the first issue. I'll give you my home phone." He wrote his number on a Daily Fluxion card and stood up to leave.
David Lyke gave him a parting handshake that was hearty and sincere. "Good luck with your magazine. And may I give you some fatherly advice?" Qwilleran eyed the younger man anxiously.
"Never," said Lyke with an engaging smile, "never call draperies drapes." Qwilleran returned to his office, pondering the complexities of his new beat and thinking fondly of lunch in the familiar drabness of the Press Club, where the wall color was Sirloin, Medium Rare.
On his desk there was a message to call Fran Unger. He dialed her number reluctantly.
"I've been working on our project," said the women's editor, "and I have some leads for you.
Have you got a pencil ready?... First, there's a Greek Revival farmhouse converted into a Japanese teahouse.
And then there's a penthouse apartment with carpet on the walls and ceiling, and an aquarium under the glass floor. And I know where there's an exciting master bedroom done entirely in three shades of black, except for the bed, which is brass.
... That should be enough to fill the first issue!" Qwilleran felt his moustache bristling. "Well, thanks, but I've got all the material I need for the first book," he said, aware that it was a rash lie.
"Really? For a beginner you're a fast worker. What have you lined up?" "It's a long, involved story," Qwilleran said vaguely.
"I'd love to hear it. Are you going to the Press Club for lunch?" "No," he said with hesitation. "As a matter of fact, I'm having lunch... with a decorator... at a private club." Fran Unger was a good newspaperwoman, and not easy to put down. "In that case, why don't we meet for drinks at the Press Club at five thirty?" "I'm sorry," Qwilleran said in his politest voice, "but I've got an early dinner date uptown." At five thirty he fled to the sanctuary of his apartment, carrying a chunk of liver sausage and two onion rolls for his dinner. He would have preferred the Press Club. He liked the dingy atmosphere of the club, and the size of the steaks, and the company of fellow newsmen, but for the last two weeks he had been driven to avoiding his favorite haunt. The trouble had started when he danced with Fran Unger at the Photographers' Ball. Apparently there was some magic in Qwilleran's vintage fox trot that gave her aspirations. She had been pursuing him ever since.
"I can't get rid of that woman!" he told Koko, as he sliced the liver sausage. "She's not bad-looking, but she isn't my type. I've had all the bossy females I want! Besides, I like zebra fur on zebras." He cut some morsels of the sausage as an appetizer for Koko, but the cat was busy snapping his jaws at a thin skein of spider web that stretched between two chair legs.
Only when the telephone rang, a moment later, did Koko pay attention. Lately he had shown signs of jealousy toward the phone. Whenever Qwilleran talked into the instrument, Koko un- tied his shoelaces or bit the telephone cord.
Some- times he jumped on the desk and tried to nudge the receiver away from Qwilleran's ear.
The telephone rang, and the newsman said to the mouthpiece, "Hello?... Yes! What's the good news?" Immediately Koko jumped to the desk top and started making himself a pest. Qwilleran pushed him away.
"Great! How soon can we take pictures?" Koko was pacing back and forth on the desk, looking for further mischief.
Somehow he got his leg tangled in the cord, and howled in indignation.
"Sorry, I can't hear you," said Qwilleran. "The cat's raising the roof.... No, I'm not beating him. Hold the line." He extricated Koko and chased him away, then wrote down the address that David Lyke gave him. "See you Monday morning in Muggy Swamp," Qwilleran said. "And thanks. This is a big help." The telephone rang once more that evening, and the friendly voice of Fran Unger came on the wire. "Well, hello!
You're home!" "Yes," said Qwilleran. "I'm home." He was keeping an eye on Koko, who had leaped up on the desk.
"I thought you had a big date tonight." "Got home earlier than I expected." "I'm at the Press Club," said the sugary voice. "Why don't you come over? We're all here, drinking up a storm." "Scram!" said Qwilleran to Koko, who was trying to dial the phone with his nose.
"What did you say?" "I was talking to the cat." Qwilleran gave Koko a push, but the cat slanted his eyes and stood his ground, looking determined as he devised his next move.
"By the way," the wheedling voice was saying, "when are you going to invite me up to meet Koko?" "YOW!" said Koko, aiming his deafening howl directly into Qwilleran's right ear.
"Shut up!" said Qwilleran.
"What?" "Oh, hell!" he said, as Koko pushed an ashtray full of pipe ashes to the floor.
"Well!" Fran Unger's voice became suddenly tart. "Your hospitality overwhelms me!" "Listen, Fran," said Qwilleran. "I've got a mess on my hands right now." He was going to explain, but there was a click in his ear. "Hello?" he said.
A dead silence was his answer, and then a dial tone. The connection had been cut. Koko was standing with one foot planted firmly on the plunger button.
3
When Qwilleran reported to the Photo Lab on Monday morning to pick up a man for the Muggy Swamp assignment, he found Odd Bunsen slamming gear into a camera case and voicing noisy objections. Bunsen was the Daily Fluxion's specialist in train wrecks and five-alarm fires, and he had just been assigned on a permanent basis to Gracious Abodes.
"It's an old man's job," he complained to Qwilleran. "I'm not ready to come down off the flagpoles yet." Bunsen, who had recently climbed a skyscraper's flagpole to get a close-up of the Fourth of July fireworks, had an exuberance of qualities and defects that amused Qwilleran. He was the most oaring of the photographers, had the loudest voice, and smoked the longest and most objectionable cigars. At the Press Club he was the hungriest and the thirstiest.
He was raising the largest family, and his wallet was always the flattest.
"If I wasn't broke, I'd quit," he told Qwilleran as they walked to the parking lot. "For your private information, I hope this stupid magazine is a fat flop." With difficulty and mild curses he packed the camera case, tripod, lights and light stands in his small foreign two-seater.
Qwilleran, jackknifing himself into the cramped space that remained, tried to cheer up the photographer. He said, "When are you going to trade in this sardine can on a real car?" "This is the only kind that runs on lighter fluid," said Bunsen. "I get ten miles to the squirt." "You photographers are too cheap to buy gas." "When you've got six kids and mortgage payments and orthodontist bills..." "Why don't you cut out those expensive cigars?" Qwilleran suggested. "They must cost you at least three cents apiece." They turned into Downriver Road, and the photographer said, "Who lined up this Muggy Swamp assignment for you? Fran Unger?" Qwilleran's moustache bristled. "I line up my own assignments." "The way Fran's been talking at the Press Club, I thought she was calling the plays." Qwilleran grunted.
"She does a lot of talking after a couple of martinis," said Bunsen. "Saturday night she was hinting that you don't like girls. You must have done something that really burned her up." "It was my cat! Fran called me at home, and Koko disconnected the phone." "That cat's going to get you into trouble," the photographer predicted.
They merged into the expressway traffic and drove in speed and silence until they reached the Muggy Swamp exit.
Bunsen said, "Funny they never gave the place a decent name." "You don't understand upper-class psychology," said Qwilleran. "You probably live in one of those cute subdivisions." "I live in Happy View Woods. Four bedrooms and a big mortgage." "That's what I mean. The G. Verning Taits wouldn't be caught dead in a place called Happy View." The winding roads of Muggy Swamp offered glimpses of French chateaux and English manor houses, each secluded in its grove of ancient trees. The Tait house was an ornate Spanish stucco with an iron gate opening into a courtyard and a massive nail-studded door flanked by iron lanterns.