"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.
"What's that? Where did you get that?" Qwilleran demanded. Then his eyes traveled to the wing of the chair.
Across its top a patch of upholstery fabric was missing, and the padding was bursting through.
"Koko!" yelled Qwilleran. "Have you been chewing this chair? This expensive Danish chair?" Koko gave a little cough, and produced another wad of green wool, well chewed.
Qwilleran gasped. "What will Harry Noyton say? He'll have a fit!" Then he raised his voice to a shout, "Are you the one who's been eating my ties?" The cat looked up at the man and purred mightily.
"Don't you dare purr! You must be crazy — to eat cloth! You're out of your mind! Lord! That's all I need — one more problem!" Koko gave another wheezing cough, and up came a bit of green wool, very damp.
Qwilleran dashed to the telephone and dialed a number.
"Connect me with the bartender," he said, and in a moment he heard the hubbub of the Press Club bar like the roar of a hurricane. "Bruno!" he shouted. "This is Qwilleran. How do I reach that doctor? That psycatatrist?"
17
The morning after Koko ate a piece of the Danish chair, Qwilleran telephoned his office and told Arch Riker he had a doctor's appointment and would be late.
"Trouble?" Riker asked.
"Nothing serious," said Qwilleran. "Sort of a digestive problem." "That's a twist! I thought you had a stomach like a billy goat." "I have, but last night I got a big surprise." "Better take care of it," Riker advised. "Those things can lead to something worse." Bruno had supplied Dr. Highspight's telephone number, and when Qwilleran called, the voice of the woman who answered had to compete with the mewing and wailing of countless cats. Speaking with a folksy English accent, she told Qwilleran he could have an appointment at eleven o'clock that morning. To his surprise she said it would not be necessary to bring the patient. She gave an address on Merchant Street, and Qwilleran winced.
He prepared a tempting breakfast for Koko — jellied consomme and breast of Press Club turkey — hoping to discourage the cat's appetite for Danish furniture. He said goodbye anxiously, and took a bus to Merchant Street.
Dr. Highspight's number was two blocks from the Allison house, and it was the same type of out-dated mansion.
Unlike the Allison house, which was freshly painted and well landscaped, the clinic was distinctly seedy. The lawn was full of weeds. There were loose floorboards on the porch.
Qwilleran rang the doorbell with misgivings. He had never heard of a psycatatrist, and he hated the thought of being rooked by a quack. Nor did he relish being made the victim of an- other practical joke.
The woman who came to the door was surrounded by cats. Qwilleran counted five of them: a tiger, an orange nondescript, one chocolate brown, and two sleek black panthers. From there his glance went to the woman's runover bedroom slippers, her wrinkled stockings, the sagging hem of her housedress, and finally to her pudgy middle-aged face with its sweet smile.
"Come in, love," she said, "before the pussies run out in the road." "My name's Qwilleran," he said. "I have an appointment with Dr. Highspight." His nose recorded faint odors of fish and antiseptic, and his eye perused the spacious entrance hall, counting cats. They sat on the hall table, perched on several levels of the stairway, and peered inquisitively through all the doorways. A Siamese kitten with an appealing little smudged face struck a businesslike pose in a flat box of sand that occupied one corner of the foyer.
"Eee! I'm no doctor, love," said the woman. "Just a cat fancier with a bit of common sense. Would you like a cuppa? Go in the front room and make yourself comfy, and I'll light the kettle." The living room was high-ceilinged and architecturally distinguished, but the furniture had seen better days.