Qwilleran found himself obeying the order punctually. He opened the door, and there stood Kao K'o Kung.
For the first time Qwilleran saw the critic's cat in bright daylight, which streamed through the beveled glass windows of the hall. The light emphasized the luster of the pale fur, the richness of the dark brown face and ears, the uncanny blue of the eyes. Long brown legs, straight and slender, were deflected at the ends to make dainty feet, and the bold whiskers glinted with the prismatic colors of the rainbow. The angle of his ears, which he wore like a crown, accounted for his regal demeanor.
Kao K'o Kung was no ordinary cat, and Qwilleran hardly knew how to address him. Sahib? Your Highness? On impulse he decided to treat the cat as an equal, so he merely said, "Won't you come in?" and stood aside, unaware that he was making a slight bow.
Kao K'o Kung advanced to the threshold and surveyed the apartment carefully before accepting the invitation. This took some time. Then he stalked haughtily across the red carpet and made a routine inspection of the fireplace, the ashtray, the remains of some cheese and crackers on the table, Qwilleran's corduroy coat hanging on the back of a chair, the book on modem art, and an unidentified and almost invisible spot on the carpet. Finally satisfied with everything, he selected a place in the middle of the floor - at a carefully computed distance from the gas fire - and stretched out in a leonine pose.
"Can I get you something?" Qwilleran inquired.
The cat made no reply but looked at his host with a squeezing of the eyes that seemed to denote contentment.
"Koko, you're a very fine fellow," said Qwilleran. "Make yourself comfortable. Do you mind if I finish my reaing?"
Kao K'o Kung stayed half an hour, and Qwilleran relished the picture they made - a man, a pipe, a book, an expensive looking cat - and he was disappointed when his guest arose, stretched, uttered a sharp adieu, and went upstairs to his own apartment.
Qwilleran spent the rest of the weekend anticipating his Monday lunch date with Sandra Halapay. He was circumventing the problem of interviewing her husband by writing a profile of Cal Halapay through the eyes of his family and friends." Sandy was going to steer him to the right people, and she had promised to bring candid snapshots of her husband teaching the children to ski, feeding turkeys on the Oregon farm, and training a Kerry blue to sit up.
All day Sunday Qwilleran felt that his moustache was transmitting messages to him - or perhaps it merely needed clipping. Just the same, its owner sensed that the coming week would be significant. Whether significantly good or significantly bad, the informed source did not reveal.
Monday morning arrived, and with it came an unexpected communication from upstairs.
Qwilleran was dressing and selecting a tie that Sandy might approve (a navy and green wool tartan, made in Scotland) when he first noticed the folded paper on the floor, half pushed under the door.
He picked it up. The handwriting was poor - like a child's scrawl - and the message was terse and abbreviated:
"Mr. Q - Pls del tapes to A.R. Save mess a trip - GBM."
Qwilleran had not seen his landlord since Friday evening. At that time he had moved his two suitcases from the "hotel to the apartment and had paid a month's rent. A vague hope that Mountclemens would invite him to Sunday breakfast - perhaps eggs Benedict or a chicken liver omelet - had evaporated. It appeared that only the cat was going to be sociable.
After deciphering the note, Qwilleran opened the door and found the reels of tape waiting for him on the hall floor. He delivered them to Arch Riker, but he thought the request strange - and unnecessary. The Dispatch Room at the Fluxion had a benchful of messengers who sat around pitching pennies most of the time.
Arch said, "Making any headway with the Halapay profile?"
"I'm taking Mrs. Halapay to lunch today. Will the Flux be willing to pick up the check?"
"Sure, they'll go for a couple of bucks."
"Where's a good place to take her? Somewhere special."
"Why don't you ask the Hungry Photographers? They're always getting people to buy lunch on expense accounts."
In the Photo Lab Qwilleran found six pairs of feet propped on desks, tables, wastebaskets, and filing cabinets - waiting for assignments, or waiting for prints to come off the dryer, or waiting for the dark room buzzer.
Qwilleran said, "Where's a good place to take someone to lunch for an interview?"
"Who's paying?"
"The Flux."
"Sitting Bull's Chop House," the photographers said in unison.
"The chopped sirloin weighs a pound," said one. "The cheese cake's four inches thick."
"They have a double lamb chop as big as my shoe." It sounded good to Qwilleran.
Sitting Bull's Chop House was located in the packing, house district, and a characteristic odor seeped into the dining room to compete with the cigar smoke.
"Oh, what a fun place," Sandy Halapay squealed. "How clever of you to bring me here. So many men! I adore men."
The men adored Sandy, too. Her red hat topped with a proud black rooster tail was the center of attention. She ordered oysters, which the chop house could not supply, so she contented herself with champagne. But with each sip her laughter grew more shrill, rebounding from the antiseptic white tile walls of the restaurant, and the enthusiasm of her audience dwindled.
"Jim, dear, you must fly down to the Caribbean with me when Cal goes to Europe next week. I'll have the plane all to myself. Wouldn't it be fun?"
But she had forgotten to bring the information Qwilleran needed, and the snapshots of her husband were unusable. The lamb chop was indeed as big as a photographer's shoe and as flavorful. The waitresses, uniformed like registered nurses, were more efficient than cordial.
The luncheon was not a success. Back in the office that afternoon, Qwilleran had to listen to telephone complaints about Mountclemens' review in Sunday's paper. The critic had called a watercolorist a frustrated interior decorator, and the watercolorist's friends and relatives were calling to castigate the Daily Fluxion and cancel their subscriptions.
All together, Monday was not a halcyon day for Qwilleran. At the end of the tedious afternoon he fled to the Press Club for dinner, and Bruno, setting up a tomato juice, said, "I hear you've moved in with Mountclemens."
"I've rented one of his vacant apartments," Qwilleran snapped. "Anything wrong with that?"
"Not until he starts pushing you around, I guess." Then Odd Bunsen stopped long enough to give the newsman an informed grin and say, "I hear old Monty's got you running errands for him already."
When Qwilleran returned home to 26 Blenheim Place, he was in no mood for what he found. There was another note under his door.
"Mr. Q," it read, "Apprec pick up plane ticket - reserv Wed 3 P.M. NY - chg my acct - GBM."
Qwilleran's moustache bristled. It was true that the airline office was across the street from the Daily Fluxion Building, and picking up a plane ticket was a small favor for his landlord to ask in return for a good dinner. What irked him was the abruptness of the request. Or was it an order? Did Mountclemens think he was Qwilleran's boss?
Tomorrow was Tuesday. The plane reservation was for Wednesday. There was no time to make an issue of it, so Qwilleran grumbled to himself and picked up the ticket the following morning on his way to work.
Later in the day Odd Bunsen met him on the elevator and said, "Going away somewhere?"
"No. Why?"
"Saw you going into the airline office. Thought you were skipping town." He added a taunting grin. "Don't tell me you're running errands for Monty again!"
Qwilleran groomed his moustache with his knuckles and tried to reflect calmly that curiosity and a keen sense of observation make a good news photographer.
When he arrived home that evening, the third note was waiting under his door. It was more to his liking:
"Mr. Q - Pls bkfst w me Wed 8:30 - GBM."
Wednesday morning Qwilleran went upstairs with the plane ticket and knocked on Mountclemens' door.
"Good morning, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, extending a thin white hand, his left. "I hope you are not in a hurry. I have a ramekin of eggs with herbs and sour cream, ready to put in the oven, if you can wait. And some chicken livers and bacon en brochette."
"For that I can wait," said Qwilleran.
"The table is set in the kitchen, and we can have a compote of fresh pineapple while we keep an eye on the broiler. I was fortunate enough to find a female pineapple at the market."
The critic was wearing silk trousers and a short Oriental coat tied with a sash around his remarkably thin midriff. There was a scent of lime peel. His thong sandals slapped as he led the way down a long hall to the kitchen.
The walls of the corridor were completely covered with tapestries, scrolls, and framed pictures. Qwilleran remarked about the quantity.
"Also quality," said Mountclemens, tapping a group of drawings as he walked past them. "Rembrandt... Holbein. Very fine... Millet."
The kitchen was large, with three tall narrow windows. Bamboo blinds kept the light subdued, but Qwilleran peered through them and saw an exterior stairway - evidently a fire escape - leading down to a brick-walled patio. In the alley beyond the high wall he could see the top of a station wagon.
"Is that your car?" he asked.
"That grotesquery," said Mountclemens with an implied shudder, "belongs to the junk dealer across the alley. If I kept a car, it would have some felicity of design - a Karmann Ghia, or a Citroen. As it is, I dissipate my fortune in taxicabs."
The kitchen had a mellow clutter of antiques, copper utensils, and clumps of dried vegetation.
"I dry my own herbs," Mountclemens explained. "Do you appreciate a little mint marinated with the pineapple? I think it gives the fruit another dimension. Pineapple can be a little too direct. I grow the mint in a pot on the windowsill - chiefly for Kao K'o Kung. His idea of a choice plaything is a bouquet of dried mint leaves tied in the toe of a sock. In a moment of rare wit we have named his toy Mintie Mouse. A rather free abstraction of a mouse, but that is the sort of thing that appeals to his artistic intellect."
Mountclemens was putting individual baking dishes into the oven one at a time, using his left hand.
"Where is Koko this morning?" Qwilleran asked.
"You should be able to feel his gaze. He is watching you from the top of the refrigerator - the only down, cushioned refrigerator west of the Hudson River. It is his bed. He refuses to sleep anywhere else."
The aroma of bacon, herbs, and coffee was beginning to swirl about the kitchen, and Koko - on a blue cushion that matched his eyes - raised his nose to sniff. So did Qwilleran.
He said, "What do you do about the cat when you go to New York?"
"Ah, that is the problem," said the critic. "He requires a certain amount of attention. Would it be an imposition if I asked you to prepare his meals while I am away? I'll be gone less than a week. He takes only two meals a day, and his diet is simple. There is raw beef in the refrigerator. You merely carve it in small pieces the size of a lima bean, put it in a pan with a little broth, and warm it gently. A dash of salt and a sprinkling of sage or thyme will be appreciated."
"Well - " said Qwilleran, spooning up the last of the minted pineapple juice. "To make it easier for you in the mornings, when you are headed for the office, he could have a slice of pƒt‚ de la maison for breakfast instead of beef. It makes a welcome change for him. Would you like your coffee now or later?"
"Later," said Qwilleran. "No - I'll take it now."
"And then there is the matter of his commode." "What's that?"
"His commode. You'll find it in the bathroom. It needs very little attention. He is an immaculate cat. You will find the sand for the commode in the Chinese tea chest at the foot of the bathtub. Do you take sugar or cream?"
"Black."
"If the weather is not too inclement, he can take a little exercise in the patio, provided you accompany him. Normally he gets sufficient exercise by running up and down the front stairs. I leave my apartment door ajar for his comings and goings. To be on the safe side, I shall also give you a key. Is there anything I can do for you in New York?"
Qwilleran had just experienced the first forkful of chicken livers rolled in bacon and seasoned with a touch of basil, and he rolled his eyes gratefully heavenward. In doing so, he caught the gaze of Kao K'o Kung, perched on the refrigerator. The cat slowly and deliberately closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.
"I have a complaint," Qwilleran told Arch at the Press Club on Wednesday night.
-7-
"I know what it is. Your name was spelled with a U yesterday, but we caught it in the second edition. You know what's going to happen, don't you? The next time the typographers' union meets with management, the spelling of your name is going to be one of their grievances."