The Cat Who Saw Red

The Cat Who Saw Red

Lilian Jackson Braun

Jim Qwilleran slumped in a chair in the Press Club dining room, his six-feet-two telescoped into a picture of dejection and his morose expression intensified by the droop of his oversized mustache.

His depression had nothing to do with the price of mixed drinks, which had gone up ten cents. It had nothing to do with the dismal lightning, or the gloomy wood paneling, or the Monday mustiness that blended Friday’s fish and Saturday’s beer with the body odor of an old building that had once been the county jail. Qwilleran had been stunned by bad news of a more vital nature.

The prize-winning feature writer of the Daily Fluxion and the newspaper’s foremost connoisseur of sixteen-ounce steaks and apple pie ŕ la mode was reading — with horror and dismay — a list printed on a bilious shade of green paper.

Across the table Arch Riker, the Fluxion’s feature editor, said: “What’s everybody going to eat today? I see they’ve got potato pancakes on the menu.”

Qwilleran continued to stare at the sheet of green paper, adjusting his new reading glasses on his nose as if he couldn’t believe they were telling him the truth.

Odd Bunsen, Fluxion photographer, lit a cigar. “I’m having pea soup and short ribs and an order of hash browns. But first I want a double martini.”

In silence Qwilleran finished reading his incredible document and stared again at the top of the list:

NO POTATOES

NO BREAD

NO CREAM SOUPS

NO FRIED FOODS

Riker, who had the comfortably upholstered contours of a newspaper deskman, said: “I want something light. Chicken and dumplings, I guess, and coleslaw with sour cream. What are you having, Qwill?”

NO GRAVY

NO SOUR CREAM

NO DESSERTS

Qwilleran squirmed in his chair and gave his fellow staffers a vinegary smirk. “I’m having cottage cheese and half a radish.”

“You must be sick,” Bunsen said.

“Doc Beane told me to lose thirty pounds.”

“Well, you’re reaching that flaky age,” the photographer said cheerfully. He was younger and thinner and could afford to be philosophical.

In a defensive gesture Qwilleran stroked his large black mustache, now noticeably flecked with gray. He folded his glasses and put them in his breast pocket, handling them gingerly.

Riker, buttering a roll, looked concerned. “How come you went to the doctor, Qwill?”

“I was referred by a veterinarian.” Qwilleran fumbled for his tobacco pouch and started to fill his voluptuously curved pipe. “You see, I took Koko and Yum Yum to the vet to have their teeth cleaned. Did you ever try to pry open the mouth of a Siamese cat? They think it’s an outrageous invasion of privacy.”

“Wish I’d been there with a movie camera,” Bunsen said.

“When Koko realized what we had in mind, he turned into something like a fur tornado. The vet got him around the neck, an assistant grabbed his legs, and I hung on to his tail, but Koko turned inside out. Next thing we knew, he was off the table and headed for the kennel room, with two vets and a kennel boy chasing him around the cages. Dogs barking — cats having fits — people yelling! Koko landed on top of the air conditioner, eight feet off the floor, and looked down and gave us apiece of his mind. And if you’ve never been cursed out by a Siamese, you don’t know what profanity is all about!”

“I know!” said Bunsen. “That cat’s got a voice like an ambulance siren.”

“After that episode I was bushed, and the vet said I needed a physical checkup more than the cats needed a dental prophylaxis. I’ve been short of breath lately, so I took his advice and went to Doc Beane.”

“How’d you get the cat down?”

“We walked away and left him there, and soon he came sauntering into the examination room, hopped on the table, and yawned.”

“Score another one for Koko,” said Riker. “What was the female doing all this time?”

“Yum Yum was sitting in the traveling box waiting her turn.”

“And probably laughing like hell,” said Bunsen.

“So that’s the story,” Qwilleran summed up. “And that’s why I’m on this miserable diet.”

“You’ll never stick with it.”

“Oh, yes I will! I even bought a bathroom scale with some of my prize money — an antique from a country doctor’s office in Ohio.”

Qwilleran had won $1,000 in a Daily Fluxion writing contest, and the entire staff was waiting to see how the frugal bachelor would spend it.

“What did you do with the rest of the dough?” Riker asked with gentle sarcasm. “Send it to your ex-wife?”

“I sent Miriam a couple of hundred, that’s all.”

“You chump!”

“She’s sick.”

“And your in-laws are rich,” Arch reminded him. “You should be buying a car for yourself — or some furniture so you can get a decent place to live.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my apartment in Junktown.”

“I mean you should get married again — start buying a house in the suburbs — settle down.”

Qwilleran cringed at the suggestion. After lunch, when the three men walked back to the office, he continued to cringe inwardly — for several reasons. In the first place, he loathed cottage cheese. Also, Riker had been goading him gently throughout the lunch hour, and Qwilleran had let him get away with it because they were old friends. The third reason for his discomfort was a summons from the managing editor to attend an afternoon meeting. An invitation from the boss was usually bad news, and the man himself riled Qwilleran; he had a synthetic camaraderie that he turned on and off to suit his purpose at the moment.

Qwilleran reported to the front office at the appointed time, accompanied by Riker, his immediate superior.

“Come in, Arch. Come in, Qwill,” said the editor — in the syrupy voice he reserved for certain occasions. “Did you fellows have a good lunch? I saw you at the club living it up.”

Qwilleran grunted.

The boss motioned them to seats and settled into his high-backed executive chair, beaming with magnanimity. “Qwill, we’ve got a new assignment for you,” he said, “and I think you’re going to like it.”

Qwilleran’s face remained impassive. He would believe it when he heard the details.

“Qwill, everyone seems to think you’re the champion trencherman on the staff, and that fact per se qualifies you for a job we’re creating. In addition, we know you can give us the meaty writing we’re constantly striving for on this paper. We’re assigning you, my friend, to the new gourmet beat.”

“What’s that all about?” The question came out gruffly.

“We want you to write a regular column on the enjoyment of good food and wine. We want you to dine at all the outstanding restaurants — on an expense account, of course. The Fluxion will pay expenses for two. You can take a guest.” The editor paused and waited for some expression of joy.

Qwilleran merely swallowed and stared at him.

“Well, how does it sound, Qwill?”

“I don’t know,” Qwilleran replied slowly. “You know I’ve been on the wagon for two years… and today I started a low-calorie diet. Doc Beane wants me to lose thirty pounds.”

The boss was nonplussed for only the fraction of a second. “Naturally there’s no need to eat everything,” he said. “Just sample this and that, and use your imagination. You know the tricks of the trade. Our cooking editor can’t boil and egg, but she puts out the best recipe page in the country.”

“Well….”

“I see no reason why you can’t handle it.” The managing editor’s brief show of goodwill was fading into his usual expression of preoccupation. “We plan to start next Monday and give the column a send-off in Sunday’s paper — with your photograph and a biography. Arch tells me you’ve eaten all over Europe.”

Qwilleran turned to his friend. “Did you know about this, Arch?”

The feature editor nodded guiltily. He said, “Better get that mustache trimmed and have a new picture taken. In your old photo you look as if you have bleeding ulcers.”

The boss rose and consulted his watch. “Well, that’s the story. Congratulations, Qwill!”

On the way back to the feature department Riker said, “Can’t you defer that diet a few weeks? This bright idea of Percy’s will blow over like all the rest of them. We’re only doing it because we found out the Morning Rampage is starting a gourmet column in two weeks. Meanwhile, you can live like a king — entertain a different date every night — and it won’t cost you a cent. That should appeal to your thrifty nature. You’re Scotch, aren’t you?”

“Scottish,” Qwilleran grumbled. “Scotch comes in bottles.”

He went first to the barber and then to the photo lab to have his picture taken and to complain to Odd Bunsen about the new assignment.

“If you need company, I’m available,” the photographer volunteered, “I’ll eat, and you can take notes.” He seated Qwilleran on a stool in a backbreaking position and tilted his head at an unnatural angle.

“Riker says you should make me look like a bon vivant,” Qwilleran said with a frown.

Bunsen squinted through the viewfinder of the portrait camera. “With that upside-down mustache you’ll never look like anything but a hound dog with a bellyache. Let’s have a little smile.”

Qwilleran twitched a muscle in one cheek.

“Why don’t you start by eating at the Toledo Tombs? That’s the most expensive joint. Then you can do all the roadhouses.” Bunsen stopped to twist Qwilleran’s shoulders to the left and his chin to the right. “And you ought to write a column on the Heavenly Hash Houses and tell people how rotten they are.”

“Who’s running the gourmet column? You or me?”

“Okay, now. A little smile.”

The muscle twitched again.

“You moved! We’ll have to try another… Say, wait till your crazy cats hear about the new assignment! Think about all the doggie bags you can take home to those brats.”

“I never thought of that,” Qwilleran murmured. His face brightened, and Bunsen snapped the picture.

The Fluxion’s new gourmet reporter had every intention of starting his tour of duty at the exclusive Toledo Tombs — although not with Odd Bunsen. He telephoned Mary Duckworth, the most glamorous name in his address book.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m leaving for the Caribbean, and I’ve already declined an invitation to attend a Gourmet Club dinner tonight. Would you like to go in my place? You could write a column on it.”

“Where’s the dinner?”

“At Maus Haus. Do you know the place?”

“Mouse House?” Qwilleran repeated. “Not a very appetizing name for a restaurant.”

“It’s not a restaurant,” Mary Duckworth explained. “It’s the home of Robert Maus, the attorney M-a-u-s, but he uses the German pronunciation. He’s a superb cook — the kind who locks up his French knives every night, and whips up a sauce with thirty-seven ingredients from memory, and grows his own parsley. They say he can tell the right wing from the left wing of the chicken by its taste.”

“Where is… Maus Haus?”

“On River Road. It’s a weird building that’s connected with a famous suicide mystery. Maybe you can solve it. Wouldn’t that be a scoop for the Daily Fluxion?”

“When did the incident happen?”

“Oh, before I was born.”

Qwilleran huffed into his mustache. “Not exactly hot news.”

“Don’t discuss it at the dinner table,” Mary warned. “Robert is thoroughly weary of the subject. I’ll phone and tell him you’ll be there.”

Qwilleran went home early that afternoon to change into his good suit and to feed the cats, first stopping at the grocery to buy them some fresh meat. With their catly perception they knew he was coming even before he climbed the stairs. Waiting for him, they looked like two loaves of homemade bread. They sat facing the door — two bundles of pale toasty fur with brown legs tucked out of sight. But the brown ears were alert, and two pairs of blue eyes questioned the man who walked into the apartment.

“Greetings,” he said. “I’m early tonight. And wait till you kids see what I’ve brought you!”

The two cats rose as one. “Yow!” said Koko in a chesty baritone. “Mmmm!” said Yum Yum in a soprano squeal of rapture.

She leaped on the unabridged dictionary and started scratching its tattered cover for joy, while Koko sailed onto the desk in a demonstration of effortless levitation and stepped on the tabulator key of the typewriter, making the carriage jump.

Qwilleran stroked each cat in turn, massaging Koko’s silky back with a heavy hand and caressing Yum Yum’s paler fur with tenderness. “How’s the little sweetheart?” He spoke to Yum Yum with an unabashed gentleness that his cronies at the Press Club would not have believed and that no woman in his life had ever heard.

“Chicken livers tonight,” he told the cats, and Koko expressed his approval by resetting the left-hand margin on the typewriter. His mechanical ability was a newfound talent. He could operate wall switches and open doors, but most of all he was fascinated by the typewriter with its abundance of levers, knobs, and keys.

Qwilleran had mentioned this development to the veterinarian, who had said, “Animals go through phases of interest, like children. How old are the cats?”

“I have no idea. They were both full-grown when I adopted them.”