The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern (14 page)

The interior of the Sorbonne Studio was an awesome assemblage of creamy white marble, white carpet, white furniture, and crystal chandeliers. The carpet, thick and carved, looked like meringue. Qwilleran stepped on it cautiously.
There was an upholstered hush in the place until a dark-skinned young woman of rare beauty appeared from behind a folding screen and said, "Bonjour, m'sieu. May I 'elp you?" "I have an appointment with Mr. Boulanger," said Qwilleran. "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Ah, oui. Monsieur Boulanger is on the telephone with a client, but I will announce your presence." With a sinuous walk she disappeared behind the folding screen, which was mirrored, and Qwilleran caught a reflection of himself looking smugly appreciative at her retreating figure.
In a moment a handsome Negro, wearing a goatee, came striding out from the inner regions. "Hello, there," he said with a smile and an easy manner. "I'm Jack Baker." "I have an appointment with Mr. Boulanger," said Qwilleran.
"I'm your man," said the decorator. "Jacques Boulanger to clients, Jack Baker to my relatives and the press.
Come into my office, s'il vous plait." Qwilleran followed him into a pale-blue room that was plush of carpet, velvety of wall, and dainty of chair. He glanced uneasily at the ceiling, entirely covered with pleated blue silk, gathered in a rosette in the center.
"Man, I know what you're thinking." Baker laughed. "This is a real gone pad. Mais malheureusement, it's what the clients expect. Makes me feel like a jackass, but it's a living." His eyes were filled with merriment that began to put Qwilleran at ease. "How do you like the reception salon? We've just done it over." "I guess it's all right if you like lots of white," said Qwilleran.
"Not white!" Baker gave an exaggerated shudder. "It's called Vichyssoise. It has an undertone of Leek Green." The newsman asked: "Is this the kind of work you do for your customers? We'd like to photograph one of your interiors for Gracious Abodes. I understand you do a lot of interiors in Muggy Swamp." The decorator hesitated. "I don't want to seem uncooperative, vous savez, but my clients don't go for that kind of publicity. And, to be perfectly frank, the designing I do in Muggy Swamp is not, qu'est-ce qu'on dit, newsworthy. I mean it!
My clients are all squares. They like tired cliches. Preferably French cliches, and those are the worst! Now, if I could show you design with imagination and daring. Not so much taste, but more spirit." "Too bad," said Qwilleran. "I was hoping we could get an important society name like Duxbury or Penniman." "I wish I could oblige," said the decorator. "I really do. I dig the newspaper scene. It was an American newsman in Paris who introduced me to my first client - Mrs. Duxbury, as a matter of fact." He laughed joyously. "Would you like to hear the whole mad tale? C'est formidable!" "Go ahead. Mind if I light my pipe?" Baker began his story with obvious relish. "I was born right here in this town, on the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks, if you know what I mean. Somehow I made college on a scholarship and came out with a Fine Arts degree, which entitled me - ma foi! - to work for a decorating studio, installing drapery hardware. So I saved my pennies and went to Paris, to the Sorbonne. C'est bien ‡a." The decorator's face grew fond." And that's where I was discovered by Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury, a couple of beautiful cats." "Did they know you were from their own city?" "Mais non! For kicks I was speaking English with a French accent, and I had grown this picturesque beard. The Duxburys bought the whole exotic bit - bless them! - and commissioned me to come here and do their thirty-room house in Muggy Swamp. I did it in tones of Oyster, Pistachio, and Apricot. After that, all the other important families wanted the Duxburys' Negro decorator from Paris. I had to continue the French accent, vous savez." "How long have you kept the secret?" "It's no secret any longer, but it would embarrass too many people if we admitted the truth. So we all enjoy the harmless little divertissement. I pretend to be French, and they pretend they don't know I'm not. C'est parfait!" Baker grinned with pleasure as he related it.
The young lady with the ravishing face and figure walked into the office carrying a golden tray. On it were delicate teacups, slices of lemon, a golden teapot.
"This is my niece, Verna," said the decorator.
"Hi!" she said to Qwilleran. "Ready for your fix? Lemon or sugar?" There was no trace of a French accent. She was very American and very young, but she poured from the vermeil teapot with aristocratic grace.
Qwilleran said to Baker, "Who did the decorating in Muggy Swamp before you arrived on the scene?" The decorator gave a twisted smile. "Eh bien, it was Lyke and Starkweather." He waited for Qwilleran's reaction, but the newsman was a veteran at hiding reactions behind his ample moustache.
"You mean you walked away with all their customers?" "C'est la vie. Decorating clients are fickle. They are also sheep, especially in Muggy Swamp." Baker was frank, so Qwilleran decided to be blunt. "How come you didn't get the G. Verning Tait account?" The decorator looked at his niece, and she looked at him. Then Jack Baker smiled an ingratiating smile. "There was some strong feeling in the Tait family," he said, speaking carefully. "Pour-tant, David Lyke did a good job. I would never have used that striped wallpaper in the foyer, and the lamps were out of scale, but David tried hard." His expression changed to sorrow, real or feigned. "And now I've lost my best competition. Without competition, where are the kicks in this game?" "I'm thinking of writing a profile on David Lyke," said Qwilleran. "As a competitor of his, could you make a statement?" "Quotable?" asked Baker with a sly look. "How long had you know Lyke?" "From way back. When we were both on the other side of the tracks. Before his name was Lyke." "He changed his name?" "It was unpronounceable and unspellable. Dave decided that Lyke would be more likable." "Did you two get along?" "Tiens! We were buddies in high school - a couple of esthetes in a jungle of seven-foot basketball players and teen-age goons. Secretly I felt superior to Dave because I had parents, and he was an orphan. Then I came out of college and found myself working for him-measuring windows and drilling screwholes in the woodwork so David Lyke could sell $5,000 drapery jobs and get invited to society debuts in Muggy Swamp. While I'd been grinding my brain at school and washing dishes for my keep, he'd been making it on personality and bleached hair and - who knows what else. It rankled, man; it rankled!" Qwilleran puffed on his pipe and looked sympathetic.
"Dites donc, I got my revenge," Baker smiled broadly. "I came back from Paris and walked away with his Muggy Swamp clientele. And to rub it in, I moved into the same building where he lived, but in a more expensive apartment on a higher floor." "You live at the Villa Verandah? So do I." "Sixteenth floor, south." "Fifteenth floor, north." "Alors, we're a couple of status-seekers," said Baker.
Qwilleran had one more question. "As a competitor of David's, and a former friend, and a neighbor, do you have any educated guesses as to the motive for his murder?" The decorator shrugged. "Qui sait? He was a ruthless man - in his private life as well as in business." "I thought he was the most," said Verna. "Vraiment, ch‚rie, he had a beautiful facade, but he'd cut your throat behind your back, as the saying goes." Qwilleran said, "I've never met anyone with more personal magnetism." "Eh bien!" Baker set his jaw, and looked grim. "Well, I'll probably see you around the mausoleum," said the newsman, as he rose to leave.
"Come up to the sixteenth floor and refuel some evening," the decorator said. "My wife's a real swinger in the kitchen." Qwilleran went back to the office to check proofs, and he found a message to see the managing editor at once.
Percy was in a less than genial mood. "Qwill," he said abruptly, "I know you were not enthusiastic about taking the Gracious Abodes assignment, and I think I was wrong in pressing it on you." "What do you mean?" "I'm not blaming you for the succession of mishaps per se, but it does seem that the magazine has been accident- prone." "I didn't like the idea at the beginning," said Qwilleran, "but I'm strong for it now. It's an interesting beat." "That thing last night," said Percy, shaking his head. "That murder! Why does everything happen on your beat?
Sometimes there are psychological reasons for what we call a jinx. Perhaps we should relieve you of the assignment.
Anderson is retiring October first...." "Anderson!" Qwilleran said with undisguised horror! "The church editor?" "Perhaps you could handle church news, and Gracious Abodes could be turned over to the Women's Department, where it belonged in the first place." Qwilleran's moustache reared up. "If you'd let me dig into these crimes, Harold, the way I suggested, I think I could unearth some clues. There are forces working against us! I happen to know, for example, that the Police Widows' Fund got a sizable donation from the owners of the Morning Rampage around the same time the Vice Squad raided the Allison house." Percy looked weary. "They're getting one from us, too. Every September both papers make a donation." "All right, then. Maybe it wasn't a payoff, but I'll bet the timing wasn't accidental. And I suspect a plot - in the Muggy Swamp incident, too." "On what do you base your suspicions?" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "I can't reveal my source at this time, but with further investigation - " The editor slapped his hand on the desk with finality. "Let's leave it the way I've suggested, I Qwill. You put next Sunday's magazine to bed, and then let Fran Unger take over." "Wait! Give me one more week before you make a decision. I promise there'll be a surprising development." "We've had nothing but surprising developments for the last fifteen days." Qwilleran did not reply, and he did not move away from Percy's desk. He just stared the editor in the eye and waited for an affirmative - a trick he had learned from Koko.
"All right. One more week," said the editor. "And let's hope no one plants a bomb in the Press Room." Qwilleran went back to the Feature Department with hope and doubt battling for position. He dialed the Fluxion's extension at Police Headquarters and talked to Lodge Kendall. "Any news on the murder?" "Not a thing," said the police reporter.
"They're going through Lyke's address book. It's an extensive list." "Did they get any interesting fingerprints?" "Not only fingerprints, but pawprints!" "Let me know if anything breaks," Qwilleran said. "Just between you and me, my job may depend on it." At six o'clock, as Qwilleran was leaving for dinner, he ran into Odd Bunsen at the elevator.
"Hey, do you want those photographs of the Tait house?" Bunsen said. "They've been cluttering up my locker for a week." He went back to the Photo Lab and returned with a large envelope. "I made blowups for you, same as I made for the police. What do you want them for?" "Thought I'd give them to Tait." "That's what I figured. I did a careful job of printing." Qwilleran went to the Press Club, loaded a plate at the all- you-can-eat buffet, and took it to the far end of the bar, where he could eat in solitude and contemplate the day's findings: Lyke's relationship with Cokey, his unfashionable beginnings, the boyhood friendship that went sour, the national treasures that should have stayed in Japan, and the vague status of Yushi. Once during the day Qwilleran had tried to telephone Cuisine lnternationale, but Yushi's answering service had said the caterer was out of town.
While the newsman was drinking his coffee, he opened the envelope. The photographs were impressive. Bunsen had enlarged them to eleven-by-fourteen and let the edges bleed. The bartender was hovering near, wiping a spot on the bar that needed no wiping, showing curiosity.
"The Tait house," Qwilleran said. "I'm going to give them to the owner." "He'll appreciate it. People like to have pictures of their homes, their kids, their pets - anything like that." Bruno accompanied this profound observation with a sage nod.
Qwilleran said: "Did you ever hear of a cat licking glossy photos? That's what my cat does. He also eats rubber bands." "That's not good," said the bartender. "You better do something about it." "You think it's bad for him?" "It isn't normal. I think your cat is, like they say, disturbed." "He seems perfectly happy and healthy." Bruno shook his head wisely. "That cat needs help. You should take him to a psycatatrist." "A psyCATatrist?" said Qwilleran. "I didn't know there was such a thing." "I can tell you where to find a good one." "Well, thanks," said the newsman. "If I decide to take Koko to a headshrinker, I'll check back with you." He went to the buffet for a second helping, wrapped a slice of turkey in a paper napkin, and took a taxi home to the Villa Verandah.
As soon as he stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he started jingling his keys. It was his signal to Koko.
The cat always ran to the door and raised his shrill Siamese yowl of greeting. As part of the ritual, Qwilleran would pretend to fumble with the lock, and the longer he delayed opening the door, the more vociferous the welcome.
But tonight there was no welcoming clamor. Qwilleran opened the door and quickly glanced in Koko's three favorite haunts: the northeast corner of the middle sofa; the glass-topped coffee table, a cool surface for warm days; and the third bookshelf, between a marble bust of Sappho and a copy of Fanny Hill, where Koko retired if the apartment was chilly. None of the three offered any evidence of cat.
Qwilleran went to the kitchen and looked on top of the refrigerator, expecting to see a round mound of light fur curled on the blue cushion - headless, tailless, legless, and asleep. There was no Koko there. He called, and there was no answer. Systematically he searched under the bed, behind the draperies, in closets and drawers, even inside the stereo cabinet. He opened the kitchen cupboards. In a moment of panic he snatched at the refrigerator door. No Koko. He looked in the oven.
All this time Koko was watching the frantic search from the seat of the green wing chair - in plain view but invisible, as a cat can be when he is silent and motionless. Qwilleran gave a grunt of surprise and relief when he finally caught sight of the hump of fur. Then he became concerned. Koko was sitting in a hunched position with his shoulder blades up and a troubled look in his eyes.
"Are you all right?" the man said. The cat gave a mouselike squeak without opening his mouth.
"Do you feel sick?" Koko wriggled uncomfortably and looked in the corner of the chair seat. A few inches from his nose was a ball of fluff. Green fluff.