The Cat Who Turned on and Off (6 page)

There they were—sitting on the two gilt chairs like two reigning heads of state on their thrones—with brown paws tucked fastidiously under white breasts and brown ears worn like two little crowns.

“You guys look pretty contented,” Qwilleran remarked. “Didn’t take you long to feel at home.”

Koko squeezed his eyes and said, “Yow,” and Yum Yum, whose eyes were slightly crossed, peered at Qwilleran with her perpetual I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look and murmured something. Her normal speaking voice was a soprano shriek, but in her softer moments she uttered a high-pitched “Mmmm” with her mouth closed.

The newsman went to work. He opened the typewriter case, hit a few keys on his newly acquired machine and thought, Andy may have been prudent,
ethical, intelligent, and good-looking, but he kept a scruffy typewriter. It was filled with eraser crumbs, and the ribbon had been hammered to shreds. Furthermore, the missing letter was not the expendable Z but the ubiquitous E. Qwilleran began to write:

“Th
^*
spirit of th
^*
lat
^*
Andr
^*
w Glanz hov
^*
r
^*
d ov
^*
r Junktown wh
^*
n th
^*
tr
^*
asur
^*
s of this highly r
^*
sp
^*
ct
^*
d d
^*
al
^*
r w
^*
r
^*
sold at auction to th
^*
cr
^*
am of th
^*
city’s junk
^*
rs.”

He described the cream: their purposely raffish clothes, their wacky conversations, the calculated expressions on their faces. He had made no notes during the day; after twenty-five years of newspapering, his mind was a video tape recorder.

It was slow work, however. The tavern table was rickety. The lack of an E was frustrating, and the asterisks—inserted for the benefit of the typesetter—dazzled his eyes. Between paragraphs, moreover, a pair of piercing eyes kept boring into his consciousness. He knew that kind of stare. It indicated one of two things. The elegant Miss Duckworth was either myopic—or frightened.

At one point Qwilleran was alerted by a low rumble coming from Koko’s throat, and soon afterward he heard footsteps slowly mounting the stairs and entering the front apartment. Some minutes later he heard a telephone ring in the adjoining rooms. Then the heavy footsteps started down the hall again.

Qwilleran’s curiosity sent him hurrying to the door for a close-up of the man who wore a Santa Claus cap. He saw instead a Napoleonic bicorne
perched squarely above a round face that lacked eyebrows.

The man threw up his hands in exaggerated surprise. His small bloodshot eyes stretched wide in astonishment. “Sir! You startled us!” he said in an overly dramatic voice.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to. I just moved in here. My name’s Qwilleran.”

“Welcome to our humble abode,” said the man with a sweeping gesture. He suddenly looked down. “And what have we here?”

Koko had followed Qwilleran into the hall and was rubbing against the stranger’s rubber boots in an affectionate way.

“I’ve never seen him do that before,” Qwilleran said. “Koko usually doesn’t warm up to strangers right away.”

“They know! They know! Ben Nicholas is the friend of bird and beast!”

“You have a shop next door, I understand. I’m with the
Daily Fluxion,
and I’m writing a series on Junktown.”

“Pray visit us and write a few kind words. We need the publicity.”

“Tomorrow,” Qwilleran promised.

“Till then!” With an airy wave of the hand the dealer started downstairs, his ridiculously long scarf dragging on the carpeted treads behind him. “A customer awaits us,” he explained. “We must be off.”

Mrs. Cobb was right, Qwilleran thought. Ben
Nicholas was an idiot, but Koko evidently approved.

Again all was quiet in the hall beyond Qwilleran’s door. Recklessly the newsman wrote about things he did not understand (a M*iss*n armorial sucri*r, *arly Am*rican tr**n, and A Qu*zal compot* in quincunx d*sign), making frequent trips to the dictionary.

After a while, as he sat there pounding out copy with the two long fingers of each hand, he thought he saw—out of the corner of his eye—something moving. He turned his head and looked over his roll-top desk just in time to see the door slowly opening inward. It opened a few inches and stopped.

“Yes? Who is it?” Qwilleran demanded.

There was no answer. He jumped up and went to the door, opening it wide. No one was there, but at the end of the hall, in a jumble of furniture, there was a flicker of movement. Qwilleran pressed his weary eyeballs with his fingers and then stared at the confusion of mahogany, pine, and walnut—legs, lids, drawers, seats, and backs He saw it again—behind a low blanket chest. It was the tip of a brown tail.

“Koko!” he said sharply.

There was no reply from the cat.

“Koko, come back here!” He knew it was Koko; there was no kink in the tail tip.

The cat ignored him, as he customarily did when concentrating on important business of his own.

Qwilleran strode down the hall and saw Koko
disappear behind the parlor organ. The man could guess how the cat had managed to get out. Old houses had loosely fitting doors with weak latches, or else they had swollen doors, thick with paint, that refused to close at all. Koko had pulled the door open with his claws. He was clever about doors; he knew when to pull and when to push.

The man leaned over a marble-topped commode and peered behind the parlor organ. “Get out of there, Koko! It’s none of your business.”

The cat had leaped to a piano stool. He was sniffing intently. With whiskers back, he moved his nose like a delicate instrument up and down the length of a sharp metal object with a brass ball at its base.

Qwilleran’s moustache bristled. The cat had walked out of the apartment and had gone directly to the finial. He was sniffing it with mouth open and fangs bared, a sign of repugnance.

Qwilleran reached behind the organ and grabbed Koko around the middle. The cat squawked as if he were being strangled.

“Mrs. Cobb!” the man called through the open door of his landlady’s apartment. “I’ve changed my mind. I want a key.”

While she rummaged through the keybox, he touched his moustache gingerly. There was an odd feeling in the roots of it—a tingling sensation he had experienced several times before. It always happened when there was murder in the air.

Late that evening Qwilleran sampled the abolitionist’s library and became fascinated by a volume of bound copies of
The Liberator,
and it was after midnight when he realized he had nothing in the apartment for breakfast. He had noticed an all-night grocery on the corner, so he put on his overcoat and the latest acquisition in his wardrobe, a porkpie hat in black and white checked tweed with a rakish red feather. It was the reddest red feather he had ever seen, and he liked red.

He locked the door with a four-inch key and went down the squeaking stairs. Snow had begun to fall—
in a kindly way this time, without malice—and Qwilleran stood on the front steps to enjoy the scene. Traffic was sparse, and with the dimness of the outdated streetlights and the quaintness of the buildings and the blessing of the snow, Junktown had an old-time charm. The snow sugared the carved lintels of doors and windows, voluted iron railings, tops of parked cars, and lids of trash cans.

At the nearby intersection there was a glow on the whitened sidewalks, spilling out from the grocery, the drugstore, and the bar called The Lion’s Tail. A man came out of the bar, walking with uncertain dignity and clutching for a handrail that did not exist. A girl in tight trousers and spotted fur jacket sauntered past the Cobb mansion, staring at passing cars. Catching sight of Qwilleran, she slithered in his direction. He shook his head. Ben Nicholas emerged from his shop next door and walked toward the bar, slowly and solemnly, moving his lips and paying no attention to the newsman on the steps.

Turning up his coat collar, Qwilleran went to Lombardo’s grocery. It was an old-fashioned market with $4.95 Christmas trees heaped on the sidewalk and, inside, a smell of pickles, sausage, and strong cheese. He bought instant coffee and a sweet roll for his breakfast and some round steak and canned consommé for the cats. He also selected some cheese—Cheddar for himself, cream cheese for Yum Yum, and a small wedge of blue for Koko, wondering if the domestic product would be acceptable; Koko was used to genuine Roquefort.

Just as the newsman was leaving the store, the eyes that had been haunting his thoughts all evening materialized in front of him. The blue-white porcelain complexion was wet with snow, and the lashes were spangled with snowflakes. The girl stared and said nothing.

“Well, as you can see, I’m still hanging around the neighborhood,” he said to break the silence. “I’ve moved into the Cobb mansion.”

“You have? You really have?” Miss Duckworth’s expression brightened, as if living in Junktown constituted an endorsement of character. She pushed her fur hood back from her blue-black hair, now piled in a ballerina’s topknot.

“The auction was an interesting experience. A lot of dealers were there, but I didn’t see you.”

She shook her head wistfully. “I thought of going, but I lacked the courage.”

“Miss Duckworth,” said Qwilleran, coming boldly to the point, “I’d like to write a tribute to Andy Glanz, but I need more information. I wish you’d fill me in.” He could see her shrinking from the suggestion. “I know it’s a painful subject for you, but Andy deserves the best we can give him.”

She hesitated. “You wouldn’t quote me directly, would you?”

“Word of honor!”

“Very well,” she said in a small voice, searching Qwilleran’s face for reassurance. “When?”

“Sooner the better.”

“Would you like to come over to my place tonight?”

“If it isn’t too late for you.”

“I always stay up half the night.” She said it wearily.

“I’ll take my groceries home and be right over.”

A few minutes later Qwilleran went striding through the snow to The Blue Dragon with an elation that was only partly connected with the Andy Glanz story, and he soon found himself sitting on a stiff velvet sofa in the gold and blue living room and enjoying the aroma of sandalwood furniture wax. The belligerent dog had been penned up in the kitchen.

The girl explained, “My family disapproves of this neighborhood, and they insist I keep Hepplewhite for protection. Sometimes he takes his job too seriously.”

“There seems to be a sharp division of opinion about Junktown,” said Qwilleran. “Is it really a bad neighborhood?”

“We have no trouble,” Miss Duckworth said. “Of course, I observe certain precautions, as any woman should if she lives alone.”

She brought a silver coffeepot on a silver tray, and Qwilleran watched her silky movements with admiration. She had the long-legged grace he admired in Koko and Yum Yum. What a sensation she would make at the Press Club on Christmas Eve! he told himself. She was wearing slim, well-fitted trousers in
a delectable shade of blue, and a cashmere sweater dyed to match, probably at great expense.

“Have you ever done any fashion modeling?” he asked.

“No.” She smiled patiently, as if she had been asked a thousand times before. “But I did a great deal of Modern Dance at Bennington.”

She poured one cup of coffee. Then, to Qwilleran’s surprise, she reached for a crystal decanter with a silver label and poured Scotch for herself.

He said, “Well, I rented Mrs. Cobb’s apartment this afternoon and moved in immediately—with my two roommates, a pair of Siamese cats.”

“Really? You hardly look like a man who would keep cats.”

Qwilleran eyed her defensively. “They were orphans. I adopted them—first the male and then, some months later, the female.”

“I’d like to have a cat,” she said. “Cats seem to go with antiques. They’re so gentle.”

“You don’t know Siamese! When they start flying around, you think you’ve been hit by a Caribbean hurricane.”

“Now that you have an apartment, you ought to buy the Mackintosh coat of arms. It would be perfect over your fireplace. Would you like to take it home on approval?”

“It’s rather heavy to be lugging back and forth. In fact,” Qwilleran said, “I was surprised to see you handle it with so much ease this morning.”

“I’m strong. In this business you have to be strong.”

“What do you do for recreation? Lift weights?”

She gave a small laugh. “I read about antiques, attend antiques lectures, and go to exhibits at the historical museum.”

“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”

She looked at him engagingly. “There’s something mystic about antiques. It’s more than intrinsic value or beauty or age. An object that has been owned and cherished by other human beings for centuries develops a personality of its own that reaches out to you. It’s like an old friend. Do you understand? I wish I could make people understand.”

“You explain it very well, Miss Duckworth.”

“Mary,” she said.

“Mary, then. But if you feel so strongly about antiques, why don’t you want to share your interest with our readers? Why don’t you let me quote you?”

She hesitated. “I’ll tell you why,” she said suddenly. “It’s because of my family. They don’t approve of what I’m doing, living on Zwinger Street and peddling—junk!”

“What’s their objection?”

“Father is a banker, and bankers are rather stuffy. He’s also English. The combination is deadly. He subsidizes my business venture on condition that I don’t embarrass the family. That’s why I must decline any publicity.”

She refilled Qwilleran’s coffee cup and poured herself another Scotch.

In a teasing tone he said, “Do you always serve your guests coffee while you drink pedigreed Scotch?”

“Only when they are total abstainers,” she replied with a smug smile.

“How did you know I’m on the wagon?”

She buried her nose in her glass for a few seconds. “Because I called my father this afternoon and had him check your credentials. I found out that you’ve been a crime reporter in New York, Los Angeles, and elsewhere, and that you once wrote an important book on urban crime, and that you’ve won any number of national journalism awards.” She folded her arms and looked triumphant.

Warily Qwilleran said, “What else did you find out?”

“That you had some lean years as a result of an unhappy marriage and a case of alcoholism, but you made a successful recovery, and the
Daily Fluxion
employed you last February, and you have been doing splendidly ever since.”

Qwilleran flushed. He was used to prying into the lives of others; it was disconcerting to have his own secrets exposed. “I should be flattered that you’re interested,” he said with chagrin. “Who is your father? What’s his bank?”

The girl was enjoying her moment of oneupmanship. She was also enjoying her drink. She slid down
in her chair and crossed her long legs. “Can I trust you?”

“Like a tombstone.”

“He’s Percival Duxbury. Midwest National.”

“Duxbury! Then Duckworth isn’t your real name?”

“It’s a name I’ve taken for professional purposes.”

Qwilleran’s hopes for Christmas Eve soared; a Duxbury would make an impressive date at the Press Club. They immediately crashed; a Duxbury would probably never accept the invitation.

“A Duxbury in Junktown!” he said softly. “That would really make headlines.”

“You promised,” she reminded him, snapping out of her casual pose.

“I’ll keep my promise,” he said. “But tell me: why are you doing business on Zwinger Street? A nice shop like this belongs downtown—or in Lost Lake Hills.”

“I fell in love,” she said with a helpless gesture. “I fell in love with these wonderful old houses. They have so much character and such potential for restoration. At first I was attracted to the idea of a proud old neighborhood resisting modernization, but after I had been here for a few months, I fell in love with the people.”

“The antique dealers?”

“Not exactly. The dealers are dedicated and plucky, and I admire them—with certain reservations—but I’m talking about the people on the street. My heart goes out to them—the working
class, the old people, the lonely ones, foreigners, illiterates, even the shady characters. Are you shocked?”

“No. Surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I think I know what you mean. They’re earthy; they get to you.”

“They’re genuine, and they’re unabashed individualists. They have made my former life seem so superficial and useless. I wish I could do something for the neighborhood, but I don’t know what it would be. I have no money of my own, and Father made me promise not to mix.”

Qwilleran regarded her with a wishful wonder that she misinterpreted.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I think I’ll find us something to eat.”

When she returned with crackers and caviar and smoked salmon, he said, “You were going to tell me about Andy Glanz. What kind of man was he? How did the junkers feel about him?”

The Scotch had relaxed her. She put her head back, gazed at the ceiling and collected her thoughts, her posture and trousered legs jarringly out of tune with the prim eighteenth century room.

“Andy did a great deal for Junktown,” she began, “because of his scholarly approach to antiques. He gave talks to women’s clubs. He convinced the museum curators and the serious collectors to venture into Zwinger Street.”

“Could I call him the major-domo of Junktown?”

“I’d avoid saying that, if I were you. C.C. Cobb
considers himself the neighborhood leader. He opened the first shop and promoted the idea of Junktown.”

“How would you describe Andy as to character?”

“Honest—scrupulously honest! Most of us have a little larceny in our hearts, but not Andy! And he had a great sense of responsibility. I saw him make a citizen’s arrest one night. We were driving past an abandoned house in the reclamation area, and we saw a light inside. Andy went in and caught a man stripping the plumbing fixtures.”

“That’s illegal, I assume.”

“Condemned houses are city property. Yes, it’s technically illegal. Anyone else would have looked the other way, but Andy was never afraid to get involved.”

Qwilleran shifted his position on the stiff sofa. “Did the other dealers share your admiration for Andy’s integrity?”

“Yes-s-s . . . and no,” Mary said. “There’s always jealousy among dealers, even though they appear to be the best of friends.”

“Did Andy have any other friends I could interview?”

“There’s Mrs. McGuffey. She’s a retired schoolteacher, and Andy helped her start her antique shop. He was magnanimous in many ways.”

“Where would I find the lady?”

“At The Piggin, Noggin and Firkin in the next block.”

“Did Andy get along with Cobb?”

She drew a deep breath. “Andy was a diplomat. He knew how to handle C.C.”

“Mrs. Cobb was evidently very fond of Andy.”

“All women adored him. Men were not so enthusiastic, perhaps. It usually happens that way, doesn’t it?”

“How about Ben Nicholas? Did they hit it off?”

“Their relations were amicable, although Andy thought Ben spent too much time at The Lion’s Tail.”

“Is Ben a heavy drinker?”

“He likes his brandy, but he never gets out of line. He used to be an actor. Every city has one antique dealer who used to be on the stage and one who makes it a point to be obnoxious.”

“What do you know about the blond fellow on crutches?”