He wanted to go home and shave before going to Cokey's, and he had to feed the cat. As soon as he stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he could hear paeans of greeting, and when he entered the apartment Koko began a drunken race through the rooms. He went up over the backs of chairs and down again with a thud. He zoomed up on the stereo cabinet and skated its entire length, rounded the dining table in a blur of light fur, cleared the desk top, knocked over the wastebasket — all the while alternating a falsetto howl with a baritone growl.
"That's the spirit!" said Qwilleran. "That's what I like to see," and he wondered if the cat sensed he was getting a playmate.
Qwilleran chopped some chicken livers for Koko and sauted them in butter, and he crumbled a small side order of Roquefort cheese. Hurriedly he cleaned up and put on his other suit and his good plaid tie. Then it was six thirty, and time to leave. For a few seconds he hesitated over the Tait file from the Library — a bulky envelope of old society notes, obsolete business news, and obituaries. His moustache pricked up, but his stomach decided the Tait file could wait until later.
18
Cokey lived on the top floor of an old town house, and Qwilleran, after climbing three flights of stairs, was breathing hard when he arrived at her apartment. She opened the door, and he lost what little breath he had left.
The girl who greeted him was a stranger. She had cheekbones, temples, a jawline, and ears. Her hair, that had formerly encased her head and most of her visage like a helmet of chain mail, was now a swirling frame for her face.
Qwilleran was fascinated by Coker's long neck and graceful chinline.
"It's great!" he said. His eyes followed her as she moved about the apartment doing domestic and unnecessary little tasks.
The furnishings were spare, with an understated Bohemian smartness; black canvas chairs, burlap curtains in the honest color of potato sacks, and painted boards supported by clay plant pots to make a bookcase. Cokey had created a festive atmosphere with lighted candles and music. There were even two white carnations leaning out of a former vinegar bottle.
Her economies registered favorably with Qwilleran. There was something about the room that looked sad and brave to a resident of the Villa Verandah. It touched him in a vulnerable spot, and for one brief moment he had a delirious urge to support this girl for life, but it passed quickly. He pressed a handkerchief to his brow and remarked about the music coming from a portable record player.
"Schubert," she said sweetly. "I've given up Hindemith. He doesn't go with my new hairdo." For dinner she served a mixture of fish and brown rice in a sauce flecked with green. The salad was crunchy and required a great deal of chewing, retarding conversation. Later came ice cream made of yogurt and figs, sprinkled with sunflower seeds.
After dinner Cokey poured cups of herb tea (she said it was her own blend of alfalfa and bladder wrack) and urged her guest to take the most comfortable chair and prop his feet on a hassock that she had made from a beer crate, upholstering it with shaggy carpet samples. While he lighted his pipe, she curled up on the couch — an awning-striped mattress on legs — and started knitting something pink.
"What's that?" Qwilleran gasped, and almost inhaled the match he intended to blowout.
"A sweater," she said. "I knit all my own sweaters. Do you like the color? Pink is going to be part of my new image, since I had no luck with the old image." Qwilleran smoked his pipe and marveled at the omnipotence of hairdressers. Billions are spent for neurophysiological research to control human behavior, he reflected. Beauty shops would be cheaper.
For a while he watched the angular grace of Cokey's hands as she manipulated the knitting needles, and suddenly he said: "Tell me honestly, Cokey. Did you know the nature of the Allison house when you suggested publishing it?" "Honestly, i didn't," she said.
"Did you happen to mention it to that fellow from the Morning Rampage?" "What fellow?" "Mike Bulmer in their Circulation Department. You seem to know him. You spoke to him at the Press Club." "Oh, that one! I don't really know him. He bought some lamps from Mrs. Middy last spring and gave her a bad check; that's why I remembered him." Qwilleran felt relieved. "I thought you were keeping secrets from me." Cokey stopped knitting. She sighed. "There's one secret I'd better confess, because you'll find out sooner or later.
You're so snoopy!" "Occupational disease," said Qwilleran. He lighted his pipe again, and Cokey watched intently as he knocked it on the ashtray, drew on it, peered into it, filled it, tamped it, and applied a match.
"Well," said Cokey, when that was done, "it's about David Lyke. When you took me to his party and introduced him, I pretended we had never met." "But you had," said Qwilleran. "In fact, you carry his picture in your handbag." "How did you know?" "You spilled everything on my sofa Saturday night, and Koko selected Lyke's picture and started licking it." "You and your psychic cat are a good team!" "Then it's true?" She shrugged helplessly. "I was one of the hordes of women who fell for that man. Those bedroom eyes! And that voice like a roll of drums!… Of course, it never amounted to anything. David charmed everyone and loved no one." "But you still carry his picture." Cokey pressed her lips together, and her eyelashes fluttered. "I tore it up — a few days ago." Then all at once it became necessary for her to repair her lipstick, change the records, snuff the candles on the dinner table, put the butter in the refrigerator. When she had finished her frantic activity, she sat down again with her knitting. "Let's talk about you," she said to Qwilleran. "Why do you always wear red plaid ties?" He fingered his neckwear tenderly. "I like them. This one is a Mackintosh tartan. I had a Bruce and a MacGregor, too, but Koko ate them." "Ate them!" "I was blaming the moths, but Koko was the culprit. I'm glad he didn't get this one. It's my favorite. My mother was a Mackintosh." "I never heard of a cat eating ties." "Wool-eating is a neurotic symptom," Qwilleran said with authority. "The question is: Why didn't he touch the Mackintosh? He had plenty of opportunity. He ruined all the others. Why did he spare my favorite tie?" "He must be a very considerate cat. Has he eaten anything else?" Qwilleran nodded gloomily. "You know that Danish Modern chair in my apartment? He ate a piece of that, too." "It's wool," Cokey said. "Animal matter. Maybe it tastes good to neurotic cats." "The whole apartment is full of animal matter: vicuna chairs, suede sofas, goat-hair rug! But Koko had to pick Harry Noyton's favorite chair. How much will I have to pay to get it reupholstered?" "Mrs. Middy will do it at cost," said Cokey, "but we'll have to order the fabric from Denmark. And how can you be sure Koko won't nibble it again?" Qwilleran told her about Mrs. Highspight and the plan to adopt the Tait cat. "She told me Tait is unfond of cats.
She also said he's slow to pay his bills." "The richer they are, the harder it is to collect," said Cokey.
"But is Tait as rich as people think? David hinted that the decorating bill was unpaid. And when we discussed the possibility of publishing the Tait house, David said he thought he could use persuasion; it sounded as if he had some kind of leverage he could employ. Actually, Tait agreed quite readily. Why? Because he was really broke and inclined to cooperate with his creditor? Or for some other obscure reason?" Qwilleran touched his moustache. "Sometimes I think the Muggy Swamp episode is a frame-up. And I still think the police theory about the houseboy is all wet." "Then what's happened to him?" "Either he's in Mexico," said Qwilleran, "or he's been murdered. And if he's in Mexico, either he went of his own accord or he was sent there by the conspirators. And if he was sent, either he has the jades with him or he's clean. And if he has the jades, I'll bet you ten to one that Tait is planning a trip to Mexico in the near future. He's going away for a rest.