The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (4 page)

Qwilleran alerted Bunsen at his home in Happy View Woods, and within two hours the two newsmen were at Police Headquarters, telling their stories.
One of the detectives said, "What's your newspaper trying to do? Publish blueprints for burglary?" The newsmen told how they had gone about photographing the interior of the house in Muggy Swamp and how Tait had produced a key and supervised the opening of the jade cases. The told how he had wanted the rarest items to be photographed.
"Who else was there when you were taking pictures?" "Tait's decorator, David Lyke... and the houseboy, Paolo... and I caught a glimpse of a servant in the kitchen," said Qwilleran.
"Did you have any contact with the houseboy?" "Oh, sure," said Bunsen. "He worked with me for three hours, helping with the lights and moving furniture. A good kid! I slipped him a couple of bucks." After the brief interrogation Qwilleran asked the detectives some prying questions, which they ignored. It was not his beat, and they knew it.
On the way out of Headquarters, Bunsen said: "Glad that's over! For a while I was afraid they suspected us." "Our profession is above suspicion," said Qwilleran. "You never hear of a newsman turning to crime. Doctors bludgeon their wives, lawyers shoot their partners, and bankers abscond with the assets. But journalists just go to the Press Club and drown their criminal inclinations.' When Qwilleran reached his office, his first move was to telephone the studio of tyke and Starkweather. The rumbling voice of David tyke came quickly on the line.
"Heard the news?" Qwilleran asked in tones of gloom.
"Got it on my car radio, on the way downtown," said Lyke. "It's a rough deal for you people." "But what about Tait? He must be going out of his mind! You know how he feels about those jades!" "You can bet they're heavily insured, and now he can have the fun of collecting allover again." The decorator's lack of sympathy surprised Qwilleran.
"Yes, but losing his wife!" "That was inevitable. Anything could have caused her death at any moment - bad news on the stock market, a gunfight on television! And she was a miserable woman," said Lyke. "She'd been in that wheelchair for years, and all that time she made her husband and everyone else walk a tightrope.... No, don't waste any tears over Mrs. Tait's demise.
You've got enough to worry about. How do you think it will affect Gracious Abodes?" "I'm afraid people will be scared to have their homes published." "Don't worry. I'll see that you get material," Lyke said. "The profession needs a magazine like yours. Why don't you come to my apartment for cocktails this evening? I'll have a few decorators on tap." "Good idea! Where do you live?" "At the Villa Verandah. That's the new apartment house that looks like a bent waffle." Just as Qwilleran hung up, a copyboy threw a newspaper on his desk. It was the Metro edition of the Morning Rampage. The Fluxion's competitor had played up the Tait incident on the front page, and there were pointed references to a detailed description of the jade collection, which appeared in another newspaper on the eve of the burglary." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache vigorously with his knuckles and went to the City Room to see the managing editor, but Percy was in conference with the publisher and the business manager.
Moodily, Qwilleran sat at his desk and stared at his typewriter. He should have been working. He should have been shooting for the next deadline, but something was bothering him. It was the timing of the burglary.
The magazine had been distributed Saturday evening. It was some time during the following night - late Sunday or early Monday - that the burglary occurred. Within a matter of twenty-four short hours, Qwilleran figured, someone had to (a) read the description of the jades and (b) dream up the idea of stealing them and (c) make elaborate preparations for a rather complex maneuver. They had to devise a plan of entering the house without disturbing family or servants, work out a method of silent access to the ingeniously designed glass-covered niches, arrange for fairly careful packing of the loot, provide a means of transporting it from the house, and schedule all this so as to elude the private police. Undoubtedly Muggy Swamp had private police patrolling the community.
There had been very little time for research, Qwilleran reflected. It would require a remarkably efficient organization to carry out the operation successfully... unless the thieves were acquainted with the Tait house or had advance knowledge of the jade story. And if that was the case, had they deliberately timed the burglary to make Gracious Abodes look bad?
As Qwilleran pondered the possibilities, the first edition of the Monday Fluxion came off the presses, and the copyboy whizzed through the Feature Department, tossing a paper on each desk.
The Tait incident was discreetly buried on page four, and it bore an astounding headline. Qwilleran read the six short paragraphs in six gulps. The by-line was Lodge Kendall's; he was the Fluxion's regular man at Police Headquarters.
There was no reference to the Gracious Abodes story. The estimated value of the stolen jades was omitted. And there was an incredible statement from the Police Department. Qwilleran read it with a frown, then grabbed his coat and headed for the Press Club.
The Press Club occupied a soot-covered lime- stone fortress that had once been the county jail. The windows were narrow and barred, and mangy pigeons roosted among the blackened turrets. Inside, the old wood-paneled walls had the lingering aroma of a nineteenth-century penal institution, but the worst feature was the noise. Voices swooped across the domed ceiling, collided with other voices, and bounced back, multiplying into a deafening roar. To the newsmen this was heaven.
Today the cocktail bar on the main floor resounded with discussion and speculation on the happening in Muggy Swamp. Jewel thefts were crimes that civilized newsmen could enjoy with relish and good conscience. They appealed to the intellect, and as a rule nobody got hurt.
Qwilleran found Odd Bunsen at that end of the bar traditionally reserved for Fluxion staffers. He joined him and ordered a double shot of tomato juice on the rocks.
"Did you read it?" he asked the photographer.
"I read it," said Bunsen. "They're nuts." They talked in subdued tones. At the opposite end of the mahogany bar the voices of Morning Rampage staffers suggested undisguised jubilation. Qwilleran glanced with annoyance at the rival crew.
"Who's that guy down there in the light suit - the one with the loud laugh?" he demanded.
"He works in their Circulation Department," Bunsen said. "He played softball against us this summer, and take my word for it - he's a creep." "He irritates me. A woman is dead, and he's crowing about it." "Here comes Kendall," said the photographer. "Let's see what he thinks about the police theory." The police reporter - young, earnest, and happy in his work - was careful to exhibit a professional air of boredom.
Qwilleran beckoned him to the bar, and said, "Do you believe that stuff you wrote this morning?" "As far as the police are concerned," said Kendall, "it's an open-and-shut case. It had nothing to do with your publication of the Tait house. It had to be an inside job. Somebody had to know his way around." "I know," said Qwilleran. "That's what I figured. But I don't like their choice of suspect. I don't believe the houseboy did it." "Then how do you explain his disappearance? If Paolo didn't swing with the jades and take off for Mexico, where is he?" Bunsen said: "Paolo doesn't fit the picture. He was a nice kid - quiet and shy - very anxious to help. He's not the type." "You photographers think you're great judges of character," Kendall said. "Well, you're wrong! According to Tait, the boy was lazy, sly, and deceitful. On several occasions Tait threatened to fire him, but Mrs. Tait always came to Paolo's defense. And because of her physical condition, her husband was afraid to cross her." Bunsen and Qwilleran exchanged incredulous glances, and Kendall wandered away to speak to a group of TV men.
For a while Qwilleran toyed with the jade but- ton that Tait had given him. He kept it in his pocket with his loose change. Finally he said to Bunsen, "I called David Lyke this morning." "How's he taking it?" "He didn't seem vitally upset. He said the jades were insured and Mrs. Tait was a miserable creature who made her husband's life one long hell." "I'll buy that. She was a witch-and-a-half. What did he think about Paolo being mixed up in it?" "At the time I talked to Lyke, that hadn't been announced. " Bruno, the Press Club bartender, was hovering in the vicinity, waiting for the signal.
"No more," Qwilleran told him. "I've got to eat and get back to work." "I saw your magazine yesterday," the bartender said. "It gave me and my wife a lot of decorating ideas. We're looking forward to the next issue." "After what happened in Muggy Swamp, you may never see a next issue," Qwilleran said. "Nobody will want to have his house published." Bruno gave the newsman a patronizing smile. "Maybe I can help you. If you're hard up for material, you can photograph my house. We did it ourselves." "What kind of place have you got?" Qwilleran waited warily for the answer. Bruno was known as the poor man's Leonardo da Vinci. His talents were many, but slender.
"I have what they call a monochromatic color scheme," said the bartender. "I've got Chartreuse carpet, Chartreuse walls, Chartreuse drapes, and a Chartreuse sofa." "Very suitable for a member of your profession," said Qwilleran, "but allow me to correct you on one small detail.
We never call draperies drapes."
5
Before going to the cocktail party at David Lyke's apartment, Qwilleran went home to change clothes and give the cat a slice of corned beef he had bought at the delicatessen.
Koko greeted him by flying around the room in a catly expression of joy - over chairs, under tables, around lamps, up to the top of the bookshelves, down to the floor with a thud and a grunt - making sharp turns in midair at sixty miles an hour. Lamps teetered. Ashtrays spun around. The limp curtains rippled in the breeze. Then Koko leaped on the dictionary
and scratched for all he was worth-with his rear end up, his front end down, his tail pointed skyward, like a toboggan slide with a flag on top. He scratched industriously, stopped to look at Qwilleran, and scratched again.
"No time for games," Qwilleran said. "I'm going out. Cocktail party. Maybe I'll bring you home an olive." He put on a pair of pants that had just come from the cleaner, unpinned a newly purchased shirt, and looked for his new tie. He found it draped over the arm of the sofa. There was a hole in it, center front, and Qwilleran groaned. That left only one plaid tie in good condition. He whipped it off the doorknob where it hung and tied it around his neck, grumbling to himself. Meanwhile, Koko sat on the dictionary, hopefully preparing for a game.
"No game tonight," Qwilleran told him again. "You eat your corned beef and then have a nice long nap." The newsman set out for the party with three- fold anticipation. He hoped to make some useful contacts; he was curious about the fashionable and expensive Villa Verandah; and he was looking forward to seeing David Lyke again. He liked the man's irreverent attitude. Lyke was not what Qwilleran had expected a decorator to be. Lyke was neither precious nor a snob, and he wore his spectacular good looks with a casual grace.
The Villa Verandah, a recent addition to the cityscape, was an eighteen-story building curved around a landscaped park, each apartment with a balcony. Qwilleran found his host's apartment alive with the sound of bright chatter, clinking glasses, and music from hidden loudspeakers.
In a pleasant rumbling voice Lyke said: "Is this your first visit to the Villa Verandah? We call this building the Architects' Revenge. The balconies are designed to be too sunny, too windy, and too dirty. The cinders that hurtle through my living room are capable of putting out an eyeball. But it's a good address. Some of the best people live in this building, several of them blind in one eye." He opened a sliding glass door in the glass wall and showed Qwilleran the balcony, where metal furniture stood ankle-deep in water and the wind made ripples on the surface.
"The balconies become wading pools for three days after every rain," he said. "When there's a high wind, the railings vibrate and play' Ave Maria' by the hour. And notice our unique view - a panorama of ninety-two other balconies." The apartment itself had a warmly livable atmosphere. Everywhere there were lighted candles, books in good leather bindings, plants of the exotic type, paintings in important frames, and heaps of pillows. A small fountain in one corner was busy splashing. And the wallpaper was the most sumptuous Qwilleran had ever seen - like silver straw with a tracery of peacocks.
The predominant note was Oriental. He noticed an Oriental screen, some bowlegged black tables, and a Chinese rug in the dining room. Some large pieces of Far Eastern sculpture stood in a bed of pebbles, lighted by concealed spotlights.
Qwilleran said to Lyke, "We should photograph this." "I was going to suggest something else in this building," said the decorator. "I did Harry Noyton's apartment - just a pied-…-terre that he uses for business entertaining, but it's tastefully done in wall-to-wall money. And the colors are smart - in a ghastly way. I've used Eggplant, Spinach, and Overripe Melon." "Who is Harry Noyton?" Qwilleran asked.
"The name sounds familiar." "You must have heard of him. He's the most vocal 'silent partner' in town. Harry owns the ballpark, a couple of hotels, and probably the City Hall." "I'd like to meet him." "You will. He's dropping in tonight. I'd really like to see you publish Harry's country house in Lost Lake Hills - all artsy-craftsy contemporary - but there's an awkward situation in the family at the moment, and it might not be advisable..
.. Now, come and meet some of the guests. Starkweather is here - with his lovely wife, who is getting to be a middle- aged sot, but I can't say that I blame her." Lyke's partner was sitting quietly at one end of the sofa, but Mrs. Starkweather was circulating diligently. There was a frantic gaiety in her aging face, and her costume was a desperate shade of pink. She clung to Lyke in an amorous way when he introduced Qwilleran.
"I'm in love with David," she told the newsman, waving a cocktail glass in a wide arc. "Isn't he just too overwhelming? Those eyes! And that sexy voice!" "Easy, sweetheart," said Lyke. "Do you want your husband to shoot me?" He turned to Qwilleran. "This is one of the hazards of the profession. We're so lovable." After Lyke disengaged himself from Mrs. Stark- weather's grip, she clung to Qwilleran's arm and went on prattling.