The Cat Who Turned on and Off (10 page)

“How come you’re dealing in—”

“In camp? It was my son’s idea. He said I needed a project to keep my mind off myself.” She lighted a cigarette. “Did you know my late husband? He was corporation counsel for the city. My son is in law school . . . . Excuse me, would you like a cigarette?”

Qwilleran declined. “But why camp? Why not something more—”

“More genteel? that’s what all my friends say. But you have to
know something
to deal in genuine antiques. Besides, my son insists that camp is what the public wants. If anything is unattractive, poorly
made, and secondhand, it sells like hot cakes. I really don’t understand it.”

“Then I suppose you didn’t buy anything at—”

“At the auction yesterday?” The woman had a phenomenal knack for reading minds. “Just a small chandelier for my own apartment. When my husband passed away, I gave up the big house in Lost Lake Hills and moved to Skyline Towers. I have a lovely apartment, and it’s not furnished in camp, believe me!”

“How do the Junktown dealers regard your specialty? Have you—”

“Developed a rapport? Definitely! I go to their association meetings, and we get along beautifully. When I first opened the shop, Andrew Glanz took me under his wing and gave me a lot of valuable advice.” She heaved a great sigh. “It was a shock to lose that boy. Did you know Andy?”

“No, I never met him. Was he—?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. He always gave the impression of wearing a white tie and tails, even when he was in dungarees and scraping down a piece of furniture. And he was so good-looking—and intelligent. I always thought it was a pity he never married. What a waste!”

“Wasn’t he more or less engaged to—”

“The Dragon? Not in the formal sense, but they would have made a perfect couple. Too bad he had to get mixed up with that other woman.”

“You mean . . .” said Qwilleran with an encouraging pause.

“Here I am, prattling again! My son says I’ve become an incorrigible gossip since coming to Junktown. And he’s right. I’m not going to say another word.”

And she didn’t.

There were obvious disadvantages to Qwilleran’s position. He was trying to investigate an incident that no one wanted him to investigate, and he was not even sure what he was investigating. Any sensible man would have dropped the matter.

Stroking his moustache thoughtfully, Qwilleran took the next step in his noninvestigation of a questionable crime; he visited the shop called Bit o’ Junk, a choice that he later regretted.

Bit o’ Junk was next door to the Cobb Junkery, sharing the block with The Blue Dragon, Russell Patch’s carriage house, Andy’s place on the corner, and a variety store that catered to the needs of the community with embroidered prayer books and black panties trimmed with red fringe. Ben had his shop on the main floor of a town house that was similar in design to the Cobb mansion, but only half as wide and twice as dilapidated. The upper floors were devoted to sleeping rooms for men only, according to a weather-stained sign on the building.

Qwilleran climbed the icy stone steps and entered
a drab foyer. Through the glass panes of the parlor doors he could see a hodge-podge of cast-offs: dusty furniture, unpolished brass and copper, cloudy glass, and other dreary oddments. The only thing that attracted him was the kitten curled up on a cushion with chin on paw. It was in the center of a table full of breakables, and Qwilleran could imagine with what velvet-footed care the small animal had tiptoed between the goblets and teacups. He went in.

At the sight of the bushy moustache, the proprietor rose from a couch and extended his arms in melodramatic welcome. Ben was wearing a bulky ski sweater that emphasized his rotund figure, and with it he sported a tall silk hat. He swept off the hat and bowed low.

“How’s business? Slow?” Qwilleran asked as he appraised the unappealing shop.

“Weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable,” said the dealer, returning the hat to cover his thinning hair.

Qwilleran picked up a World War I gas mask.

“An historic treasure,” Nicholas informed him. “Came over on the
Mayflower.
” He padded after the newsman in white stockinged feet.

“I hear you used to be in the theatre,” the newsman remarked.

The tubby little dealer drew himself up from five-feet-four to five-feet-five. “Our Friar Laurence on Broadway was acclaimed by critics. Our Dogberry was superb. Our Bottom was unforgettable . . . . How now? You tremble and look pale!”

Qwilleran was staring at the kitten on its cushion. “That—that cat!” he sputtered. “It’s dead!”

“An admirable example of the taxidermist’s art. You like it not?”

“I like it not,” said Qwilleran, and he blew into his moustache. “What’s your specialty, anyway? Do you have a specialty?”

“I am a merry wanderer of the night.”

“Come off it. You don’t have to put on a performance for me. If you want any publicity, give me some straight answers. Do you specialize in anything?”

Ben Nicholas pondered. “Anything that will turn a profit.”

“How long have you been operating in Junktown?”

“Too long.”

“Did you know Andy Glanz very well?”

The dealer folded his hands and rolled his eyes upward. “Noble, wise, valiant, and honest,” he intoned. “It was a sad day for Junktown when Saint Andrew met his untimely end.” Then he hitched his trousers and said roguishly, “How about a tankard of sack at the local pub?”

“No, thanks. Not today,” said Qwilleran. “What’s this? A folding bookrack?” He had picked up a hinged contraption in brassbound ebony. “How much do you want for it?”

“Take it—take it—with the compliments of jolly old St. Nicholas.”

“No, I’ll buy it if it isn’t too expensive.”

“We have been asking fifteen, but allow us to extend the favor of a clergyman’s discount. Eight simoleons.”

At this point another customer, who had entered the shop and had been thoroughly ignored, said impatiently, “Got any horse brasses?”

“Begone, begone!” said the dealer, waving the man away. “This gentlemen is from the press, and we are being interviewed.”

“I’m through. I’m leaving,” said the newsman. “I’ll send a photographer Monday to get a picture of you and your shop,” and he paid for the bookrack.

“I humbly thank you, sir.”

Nicholas doffed his silk topper and held it over his heart, and that was when Qwilleran noticed the small red feather stuck in the hat. It was
his feather!
There was no doubt about it; it had a perforation near the quill. In a playful moment two weeks before, he had plucked it from his hatband to tickle Koko’s nose, but the cat’s jaws were faster than the man’s hand, and Koko had punctured the feather with the snap of a fang.

Qwilleran walked slowly from the shop. He stood at the top of the stone steps, wondering how that feather had made its way to Ben’s topper.

As he stood there, frowning, Qwilleran was suddenly struck down. All creation descended on him, and he fell to his knees on the stone stoop. There was a rush and a roar and a crash, and he was down on hands and knees in snow and ice.

In a matter of seconds Ben Nicholas came rushing
to his aid. “A bloody avalanche!” he cried, helping the newsman to his feet. “From the roof of this benighted establishment! We shall sue the landlord.”

Qwilleran brushed the snow from his clothes. “Lucky I was wearing a hat,” he said.

“Come back and sit down and have a wee drop of brandy.”

“No, I’m okay. Thanks just the same.”

He picked up his bookrack and started down the stone steps, favoring his left knee.

When Qwilleran reached his apartment, having ascended the stairs with difficulty, he was greeted by a rampaging Koko. While Yum Yum sat on the bookcase with her shoulder blades up, looking like a frightened grasshopper, Koko raced from the door to the desk, then up on the daybed and back to the roll-top desk.

“So! Those monkeys installed my phone!” Qwilleran said. “I hope you bit the phone company’s representative on the ankle.”

Koko watched with interest and wigwagging ears while Qwilleran dialed the
Fluxion
Photo Lab and requisitioned a photographer for Monday morning. Then the cat led the way into the kitchen with exalted tail and starched gait to supervise the preparation of his dinner. With his whiskers curved down in anticipation, he sat on the drainboard and watched the chopping of chicken livers, the slow cooking in butter, the addition of cream, and the dash of curry powder.

“Koko, I’ve joined the club,” the man told him.
“The landlady has a wrenched back, Russ Patch has a broken leg, the redhead’s in a cast, and now I’ve got a busted knee! I won’t be cutting any rugs at the Press Club tonight.”

“Yow,” said Koko in a consoling tone.

Qwilleran always spent Saturday evenings at the Press Club, most recently in the company of a young woman who wrote with brown ink, but she was out of the picture now. On a bold chance he looked up The Three Weird Sisters in the phone book and dialed their number. Most women, he was aware, jumped at the chance to dine at the Press Club. Unfortunately, there was no answer at the antique shop.

He then called a girl who worked in the Women’s Department at the
Fluxion
—one of the society writers.

“Wish I could,” she said, “but I’ve got to address Christmas cards tonight if I want them to be delivered before New Year’s.”

“While I have you on the line,” he said, “tell me what you know about the Duxbury family.”

“They do their bit socially, but they avoid publicity. Why?”

“Do they have any daughters?”

“Five—all named after English queens. All married except one. She came out ten years ago and . . .”

“And what?”

“Went right back in, I guess. You never see her—or hear of her.”

“What’s her name?”

“Mary. She’s the oddball of the family.”

“Thanks,” said Qwilleran. He went to the Press Club alone.

The club occupied the only old building in the downtown area that had escaped the wrecking ball. A former county jail, it was built like a medieval fortress with turrets, crenelated battlements, and arrow slots. Whenever the city proposed to condemn it for an expressway or civic mall, a scream of outrage went up from the
Daily Fluxion
and the
Morning Rampage,
and no elected or appointed official had dared to campaign against the wrath of the united press.

As Qwilleran limped up the steps of the dismal old building, he met Lodge Kendall, a police reporter, on his way out.

“Come on back, and I’ll buy you a drink,” Qwilleran said.

“Can’t, Qwill. Promised my wife we’d shop for a Christmas tree tonight. If you don’t pick one out early, you’re out of luck. I hate a lopsided tree.”

“Just one question, then. What section of town has the highest crime rate?”

“It’s a tossup between the Strip and Sunshine Gardens. Skyline Park is getting to be a problem, too.”

“How about Zwinger Street?”

“I don’t hear much about Zwinger Street.”

“I’ve taken an apartment there.”

“You must be out of your mind! That’s a slum.”

“Actually it’s not a bad place to live.”

“Well, don’t unpack all your gear—because the city’s going to tear it down,” Kendall said cheerfully as he departed.

Qwilleran filled a dinner plate at the buffet and carried it to the bar, which was surprisingly vacant. “Where’s everybody?” he asked Bruno, the bartender.

“Christmas shopping. Stores are staying open till nine.”

“Ever do any junking, Bruno? Are you a collector?” the newsman asked. The bartender was known for his wide range of interests.

“Oh, sure! I collect swizzle sticks from bars all over the country. I’ve got about ten thousand.”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about antiques. I just bought part of an iron gate from a castle in Scotland. It’s probably been around for three centuries.”

Bruno shook his head. “That’s what I don’t like about antiques. Everything’s so
old.
”

Qwilleran finished eating and was glad to go home to Junktown, where there were more vital interests than lopsided Christmas trees and swizzle sticks. No one at the Press Club had even noticed he was limping.

On the steps of the Cobb mansion he looked up at the mansard roof punctuated by attic windows. Its slope still held its load of snow. So did the roof of Mary’s house. Only Ben’s building, though of identical style, had produced an avalanche.

In his apartment Qwilleran found the cats
presiding on their gilded thrones with a nice understanding of protocol; Yum Yum as always on Koko’s left. The man cut up the slice of ham he had brought them from the Press Club buffet, then went to the typewriter and worked on the Junktown series. After a while Koko jumped on the tavern table and watched the new mechanical contraption in operation—the type flying up to hit the paper, the carriage jerking across the machine. And when Qwilleran stopped to allow a thought to jell, Koko rubbed his jaw against a certain button and reset the margin.

There were two other distractions that evening. There was an occasional thumping and scraping overhead, and there were tantalizing smells drifting across the hall—first anise, then a rich buttery aroma, then chocolate.

Eventually he heard his name called outside his door, and he found the landlady standing there, holding a large brass tray.

“I heard you typing and thought you might like a snack,” she said. “I’ve been doing my Christmas baking.” On her tray were chocolate brownies, a china coffee service, and two cups.

Qwilleran was irked at the interruption, but mesmerized by the sight of the frosted chocolate squares topped with walnut halves, and before he could reply, Mrs. Cobb had bustled into the room.

“I’ve spent the whole evening over a hot stove,” she announced. “All the dealers are upstairs making plans for the Christmas Block Party. C.C. has the
third floor fixed up kind of cute for meetings. He calls it Hernia Heaven. You known, antique dealers are always—Oh, my! You’re limping! What happened?”

“Bumped my knee.”

“You must be careful! Knees are pesky things,” she warned him. “You sit in the Morris chair and put your leg up on the ottoman, and I’ll put the goodies on the tea table between us.” She plopped her plumpness into the rocking chair made of bent twigs, unaware that Koko was watching critically from the mantelshelf.

For someone who had spent several hours slaving in the kitchen, Iris Cobb was rather festively attired. Her hair was carefully coifed. She wore a bright pink dress, embroidered with a few sad glass beads, and her two dangling pairs of eyeglasses, one of which was studded with rhinestones.

Qwilleran bit into a rich, dark chocolate square—soft and still warm from the oven and filled with walnut meats—while Mrs. Cobb rocked industriously in the twiggy rocking chair.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said. “What I said about Andy’s horoscope—I really wasn’t serious. I mean I never actually thought there was anything in it. I wouldn’t want to stir up any trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Well, I just heard that you’re a crime reporter, and I thought you might be here to—”

“That’s ancient history,” Qwilleran assured her. “Who told you?”

“The Dragon. I went over to borrow some beeswax, and she told me you were a famous crime reporter in New York or somewhere, and I thought you might be here to snoop around. I honestly never thought Andy’s fall was anything but a misstep on that ladder, and I was afraid you might get the wrong idea.”

“I see,” said Qwilleran. “Well, don’t worry about it. I haven’t had an assignment on the crime beat in a dog’s age.”