Qwilleran recalled his conversation with Noyton at David's party. The jade theft had been discussed, but the promoter had not mentioned his acquaintance with the late Mrs. Tait. And yet he was an unabashed name-dropper, and the Tait name would have been an impressive one to drop.
Qwilleran closed the book slowly and opened it again quickly. He went through the diary, checking Noyton's appointments day by day. He started with September 20 and worked backward to January 1. There was no entry concerning Signe Tait or Muggy Swamp. But the color of ink changed around the first of September. For most of the year it had been blue. Then Noyton switched to black. Signe Tait's phone number was written in black; it had been added within the last three weeks.
9
Before leaving the apartment for his date with Alacoque Wright, Qwilleran telephoned David Lyke to inquire about Mrs. Tait's funeral.
"You should have been there," said the decorator. "There was enough blue blood to float a ship. All the Old Guard who knew Tait's pappy and grandpappy. You never saw so many pince-nez and Queen Mary hats." "How was Tait taking it?" "I wish I could say he looked pale and haggard, but with that healthy flush of his he always looks as if he'd just won at tennis. Why weren't you there?" "I was working on a cover story. And this afternoon I moved into Harry Noyton's apartment." "Good! We're neighbors," David said. "Why don't you come over Saturday night and meet Natalie Noyton? She just got back from Reno, and I'm having a few people in for drinks." Qwilleran recalled the excellence of the buffet at the decorator's last party and accepted the invitation with alacrity. After that, he prepared a hasty dinner for Koko — half a can of red salmon garnished with a raw egg yolk — and said: "Be a good cat. I'll be home late and fix you a snack." At six o'clock sharp he met Alacoque Wright under the City Hall clock; her punctuality had an architectural precision. She was wearing a curious medley of green skirt, turquoise top, and blue cape in a weave that reminded Qwilleran of dining-room chair seats somewhere in his forgotten past.
"I made it myself — out of upholstery samples," she said, peering at him from under a quantity of glossy brown hair that enveloped her head, shoulders, and much of her face.
He took her to the Press Club for dinner, aware that he was being observed by all the regulars at the bar and would have to account, the next day, for his taste in women. Nevertheless, it had to be the Press Club. He had a charge account there, and payday was not until Friday. He ushered his date — she asked Qwilleran to call her Cokey — upstairs to the main dining room, where the atmosphere was quieter and the rolls were sprinkled with poppy seeds.
"Have a cocktail?" Qwilleran invited. "I'm on the wagon myself, but I'll have a lemon and seltzer to keep you company." Cokey looked keenly interested. "Why aren't you drinking?" "It's a long story, and the less said about it, the better." He put a matchbook under one table leg; all the Press Club tables had a built-in wobble.
"I'm on a yoga kick myself," she said. "No liquor. No meat. But I'll make us one of nature's own cocktails if you'll order the ingredients and two champagne glasses." When the tray arrived, she poured a little cream into each glass, filled it with ginger ale, and then produced a small wooden device from her handbag.
"I carry my own nutmeg and grate it fresh," she said, dusting the surface of the drinks with brown spice. "Nutmeg is a stimulant. The Germans put it in everything." Qwilleran took a cautious sip. The drink had a bite. It was like Cokey — cool and smooth, with an unexpected pepperiness. "How did you decide to become an architect?" he asked.
"Maybe you haven't noticed," said Cokey, "but there are more architects named Wright than there are judges named Murphy. We seem to gravitate to the drafting board. However, the name is getting me nowhere." She stroked her long hair lovingly. "I may have to give up the struggle and find a husband." "Shouldn't be difficult." "I'm glad you're so confident." She set her jaw and ground some more nutmeg on her cocktail. "Tell me what you think of the decorating profession after two weeks in the velvet jungle?" "They seem to be likable people." "They're children! They live in a world of play." A shadow passed over Cokey's face — the sliver of face that was visible. "And, just like children, they can be cruel." She studied the grains of nutmeg clinging to the inside of her empty glass and, catlike, darted out a pink tongue to lick it clean.
A man walked past the table and said, "Hi, there, Cokey." She looked up abruptly. "Well, hello!" she said with meaning in the inflection.
"You know him?" Qwilleran asked in surprise.
"We've met," said Cokey. "I'm getting hungry. May we order?" She looked at the menu and asked for brook trout with a large garnish of parsley, and a small salad. Qwilleran compared her taut figure with his own well-padded beltline and felt guilty as he ordered bean soup, a hefty steak and a baked potato with sour cream.
"Are you divorced?" Cokey asked suddenly.
Qwilleran nodded.
"That's cool. Where do you live?" "I moved into the Villa Verandah today." He waited for her eyes to open wide, and then added in a burst of honesty, "The apartment belongs to a friend who's gone abroad." "Do you like living alone?" "I don't live alone," said Qwilleran. "I have a cat. A Siamese." "I adore cats," Cokey squealed. "What's your cat's name?" Qwilleran beamed at her. People who really appreciated animals always asked their names. "His real name is Kao K'o-Kung, but he's called Koko for everyday purposes. I considered myself a dog man until I met Koko. He's a remarkable animal. Perhaps you remember the murder on Blenheim Place last spring. Koko is the cat who was involved, and if I told you some of his intellectual feats you wouldn't believe me." "Oh, I'd believe anything about cats. They're uncanny." "Sometimes I'm convinced Koko senses what's going to happen." "It's true! Cats tune in with their whiskers." "That's what I've been told," said Qwilleran, preening his moustache absently. "Koko always gives the impression that he knows more than I do, and he has clever ways of communicating. Not that he does anything uncatlike, you understand. Yet, somehow he gets his ideas across…. I'm not explaining this very well." "I know exactly what you mean." Qwilleran looked at Cokey with appreciation. These were matters he could not discuss with his friends at the Fluxion. With their beagles and boxers as a frame of reference, how could they understand about cats? In this one area of his life he experienced a kind of loneliness. But Cokey understood. Her mischievous green eyes had mellowed into an expression of rapport.
He reached over and took her hand — the slender, tapering hand that was playing tiddledywinks with stray poppyseeds on the tablecloth. He said, "Have you ever heard of a cat eating spider webs — or glue? Koko has started licking gummed envelopes. One day he chewed up a dollar's worth of postage stamps." "I used to have a cat who drank soapsuds," Cokey said. "They're individualists. Does Koko scratch furniture? It was noble of your friend to let you move into his apartment with a cat." "Koko does all his scratching on an old unabridged dictionary," Qwilleran said with a note of pride.
"How literary of him!" "It's not really an old dictionary," he explained. "It's the new edition. The man Koko used to live with bought it for himself and then decided he preferred the old edition, so he gave the new one to the cat for a scratching pad." "I admire men who admire cats." Qwilleran lowered his voice and spoke confidentially. "We have a game we play with this dictionary. Koko exercises his claws, and I add a few words to my vocabulary… This is something I wouldn't want to get around the Press Club you understand." Cokey looked at him mistily. "I think you're wonderful," she said. "I'd love to play the game sometime." When Qwilleran arrived home that evening, it was late, and he was exhausted. Girls like Cokey made him realize he was not so young as he used to be.