As the newsmen drove away from Muggy Swamp, Bunsen said: "Don't forget to give me a credit line on these pictures. This job was a blinger! Do you realize I worked for three hours without a smoke? And that biddy in the wheelchair was the last straw! Besides, I don't like to photograph cats." "That animal was unusually nervous," Qwilleran said.
"Paolo was a big help. I slipped him a couple of bucks." "He seemed to be a nice kid." "He's homesick. He's saving up to go back to Mexico. I'll bet Tait pays him in peanuts." "Lyke told me the jades are worth $750,000." "That burns me," said Bunsen. "A man like Tait can squander millions on teapots, and I have trouble paying my milk bill." "You married guys think you've got all the problems," Qwilleran told him. "At least you've got a home! Look at me — I live in a furnished apartment, eat in restaurants, and haven't had a decent date for a month." "There's always Fran Unger." "Are you kidding?" "A man your age can't be too fussy." "Huh!" Qwilleran contracted his waistline an inch and preened his moustache. "I still consider myself a desirable prospect, but there seems to be a growing shortage of women." "Have you found a new place to live yet?" "I haven't had time to look." "Why don't you put that smart cat of yours to work on it?" Bunsen suggested. "Give him the classified ads and let him make a few phone calls." Qwilleran kept his mouth shut.
4
The first issue of Gracious Abodes went to press too smoothly. Arch Riker said it was a bad omen. There were no ad cancellations, the copy dummied in perfectly, cutlines spaced out evenly, and the proofs were so clean it was eerie.
The magazine reached the public Saturday night, sandwiched between several pounds of Sunday paper. On the cover was an exclusive Muggy Swamp residence in bright Parsley Green and Mushroom White. The editorial pages were liberally layered with advertisements for mattresses and automatic washers. And on page two was a picture of the Gracious Abodes editor with drooping moustache and expressionless eyes — the mug shot from his police press card.
On Sunday morning David Lyke telephoned Qwilleran at his apartment. "You did a beautiful job of writing," said the decorator in his chesty voice, "and thanks for the overstuffed credit line. But where did they get that picture of you? It makes you look like a basset hound." For the newsman it was a gratifying day, with friends calling constantly to offer congratulations. Later it rained, but he went out and bought himself a good dinner at a seafood restaurant, and in the evening he beat the cat at the word game, 20 to 4. Koko clawed up easy catchwords like block and blood, police and politely It was almost as if the cat had a premonition; by Monday morning Gracious Abodes was involved with the law.
The telephone jolted Qwilleran awake at an early hour. He groped for his wristwatch on the bedside table. The hands, after he had blinked enough to see them, said six thirty. With sleep in his bones he shuffled stiffly to the desk.
"Hello?" he said dryly.
"Qwill! This is Harold!" There was a chilling urgency in the managing editor's voice that paralyzed Qwilleran's vocal cords for a moment. "Is this Qwilleran?" shouted the editor.
The newsman made a squeaking reply. "Speaking." "Have you heard the news? Did they call you?" The editor's words had the sound of calamity.
"No! What's wrong?" Qwilleran was awake now.
"The police just phoned me here at home. Our cover story — the Tait house — it's been burglarized!" "What!… What did they get?" "Jade! A half million dollars' worth, at a rough guess. And that's not the worst. Mrs. Tait is dead…. Qwill! Are you there? Did you hear me?" "I heard you," Qwilleran said in a hollow voice, as he lowered himself slowly into a chair. "I can't believe it." "It's a tragedy per se, and our involvement makes it even worse." "Murder?" "No, thank God! It wasn't quite as bad as that. Apparently she had a heart attack." "She was a sick woman. I suppose she heard the intruders, and — " "The police want to talk to you and Odd Bunsen as soon as possible," said the editor. "They want to get your fingerprints." "They want our fingerprints? They want to question us?" "Just routine. They said it will help them sort out the prints they find in the house. When were you there to take pictures?" "Monday. Just a week ago." Then Qwilleran said what they were both thinking. "The publicity isn't going to do the magazine any good." "It could ruin it! What have you got lined up for next Sunday?" "An old stable converted into a home. It belongs to a used-car dealer who likes to see his name in the paper. I've found a lot of good houses, but the owners don't want us to use their names and addresses — for one reason or another." "And now they've got another reason," said the editor. "And a damn good one!" Qwilleran slowly hung up and gazed into space, weighing the bad news. There had been no interference from Koko during this particular telephone conversation. The cat was huddled under the dresser, watching the newsman intently, as if he sensed the gravity of the situation.
Qwilleran alerted Bunsen at his home in Happy View Woods, and within two hours the two newsmen were at Police Headquarters, telling their stories.
One of the detectives said, "What's your newspaper trying to do? Publish blueprints for burglary?" The newsmen told how they had gone about photographing the interior of the house in Muggy Swamp and how Tait had produced a key and supervised the opening of the jade cases. The told how he had wanted the rarest items to be photographed.
"Who else was there when you were taking pictures?" "Tait's decorator, David Lyke… and the houseboy, Paolo… and I caught a glimpse of a servant in the kitchen," said Qwilleran.
"Did you have any contact with the houseboy?" "Oh, sure," said Bunsen. "He worked with me for three hours, helping with the lights and moving furniture. A good kid! I slipped him a couple of bucks." After the brief interrogation Qwilleran asked the detectives some prying questions, which they ignored. It was not his beat, and they knew it.
On the way out of Headquarters, Bunsen said: "Glad that's over! For a while I was afraid they suspected us." "Our profession is above suspicion," said Qwilleran. "You never hear of a newsman turning to crime. Doctors bludgeon their wives, lawyers shoot their partners, and bankers abscond with the assets. But journalists just go to the Press Club and drown their criminal inclinations. When Qwilleran reached his office, his first move was to telephone the studio of tyke and Starkweather. The rumbling voice of David tyke came quickly on the line.
"Heard the news?" Qwilleran asked in tones of gloom.
"Got it on my car radio, on the way downtown," said Lyke. "It's a rough deal for you people." "But what about Tait? He must be going out of his mind! You know how he feels about those jades!" "You can bet they're heavily insured, and now he can have the fun of collecting allover again." The decorator's lack of sympathy surprised Qwilleran.
"Yes, but losing his wife!" "That was inevitable. Anything could have caused her death at any moment — bad news on the stock market, a gunfight on television! And she was a miserable woman," said Lyke. "She'd been in that wheelchair for years, and all that time she made her husband and everyone else walk a tightrope…. No, don't waste any tears over Mrs. Tait's demise.