He also inquired about the female cat and was appalled to hear that Tait had put her out of the house to fend for herself.
"Can you get her back?" Qwilleran asked, controlling his temper. He had a particular loathing for people who mistreated animals.
"She's still on the grounds," Tait said. "She howled all night. I'll let her come back in the house…. How many photos do you have for me?" Qwilleran worked hard and fast at the office that day, while the clerk in the Feature Department intercepted all phone calls and uninvited visitors with the simple explanation that permits no appeal, no argument, no exceptions. "Sorry, he's on deadline." Only once did he take time out, and that was to telephone the Taits' former housekeeper.
"Mrs. Hawkins," he said, taming his voice to an aloof drawl, "this is an acquaintance of Mr. Tait in Muggy Swamp.
I am being married shortly, and my wife and I will need a housekeeper. Mr. Tait recommends you highly — " "Oh, he does, does he?" said a musical voice with impudence in the inflection.
"Could you come for an interview this evening at the Villa Verandah?" "Who'll be there? Just you? Or will the lady be there?" "My fiancee is unfortunately in Tokyo at the moment, and it will be up to me to make the arrangements." "Okey doke. I'll come. What time?" Qwilleran set the appointment for eight o'clock. He was glad he was not in need of a housekeeper. He wondered if Mrs. Hawkins was an example of Tait's ill-advised economies.
By the time Mrs. Hawkins presented herself for the interview, the rain had started, and she arrived with dripping umbrella and a dripping raincoat over a gaudy pink and green dress. Qwilleran noted that the dress had the kind of neckline that slips off the shoulder at the slightest encouragement, and there was a slit in the side seam. The woman had sassy eyes, and she flirted her shoulders when she walked. He liked sassy, flirtatious females if they were young and attractive, but Mrs. Hawkins was neither.
With exaggerated decorum he offered her a glass of sherry "against the weather," and poured a deep amber potion from Harry Noyton's well-stocked bar. He poured an exceptionally large glass, and by the time the routine matters had been covered — experience, references, salary — Mrs. Hawkins had relaxed in the cushions of a suede sofa and was ready for a chatty evening.
"You're one of the newspaper fellows that came to the house to take pictures," she announced at this point, with her eyes dancing at him. "I remember your moustache." She waved an arm at the appointments of the room. "I didn't know reporters made so much money." "Let me fill your glass," said Qwilleran. "Aren't you drinking?" "Ulcers," he said with a look of self-pity. "Lordy, I know all about them!" said Mrs. Hawkins. "I cooked for two people with ulcers in Muggy Swamp. Sometimes, when Mr. Tait wasn't around, she would have me fix her a big plate of French fried onion rings, and if there's anything that doesn't go with ulcers, it's French fried onion rings, but I never argued. Nobody dared argue with her. Everybody went around on tippy-toe, and when she rang that bell, everybody dropped everything and rushed to see what she wanted. But I didn't mind, because — if I have my druthers — I druther cook for a couple of invalids than a houseful of hungry brats. And I had help out there. Paulie was a big help. He was a sweet boy, and it's too bad he turned out to be no good, but that's the way it is with foreigners. I don't understand foreigners. She was a foreigner, too, although it was a long time ago that she came over here, and it wasn't until near the end that she started screaming at all of us in a foreign language. Screaming at her husband, too. Lordy, that man had the patience of a saint! Of course, he had his workshop to keep him happy. He was crazy about those rocks! He bought a whole mountain once — some place in South America. It was supposed to be chock-full of jade, but I guess it didn't pan out. Once he offered me a big jade brooch, but I wouldn't take it. I wasn't having any of that!" Mrs. Hawkins rolled her eyes suggestively. "He was all excited when you came to take pictures of his knickknacks, which surprised me because of the way he felt about the Daily Fluxion." She paused to drain her glass. "This is good! One more little slug? And then I'll be staggering home." "How did Mr. Tait feel about the Fluxion?" Qwilleran asked casually, as he refilled Mrs. Hawkins's glass.
"Oh, he was dead set against it! Wouldn't have it in the house. And that was a crying shame, because everybody knows the Fluxion has the best comics, but… that's the way he was! I guess we all have our pecu — peculiarities….
Whee! I guess I'm feeling these drinks." Eventually she lapsed into a discourse on her former husband and her recent surgery for varicose veins. At that point Qwilleran said he would let her know about the housekeeping position, and he marched her to a taxi and gave her a five-dollar bill to cover the fare.
He returned to the apartment just as Koko emerged from some secret hiding place. The cat was stepping carefully and looking around with cautious eye and incredulous ears.
"I feel the same way," Qwilleran said. "Let's play the game and see if you can come up with something useful." They went to the dictionary, and Koko played brilliantly. Inning after inning he had Qwilleran stumped with ebionitism and echidna, cytodiagnosis and czestochowa, onychophore and opalinid.
Just as Qwilleran was about to throw in the sponge, his luck changed. Koko sank his claws into the front of the book, and the page opened to arene and argue. On the very next try it was quality and quarreled. Qwilleran felt a significant vibration in his moustache.
20
The morning after Mrs. Hawkins's visit and Koko's stellar performance with the dictionary, Qwilleran waked before the alarm clock rang, and bounded out of bed. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place.
Tait must have had a grudge against the Fluxion ever since the coverage of the paternity trial. The family had probably tried to hush it up, but the Fluxion would naturally insist that the public has a right to know. None of the agonizing details had been spared. Perhaps the Rampage had dealt more kindly with the Taits; it was owned by the Pennimans, who were part of the Muggy Swamp clique.
For eighteen years Tait had lived with his grudge, letting it grow into an obsession. Despite, his subdued exterior, he was a man of strong passions. He probably hated the Fluxion as fervently as he loved jade. His ulcers were evidence of inner turmoil. And when the Fluxion offered to publish his house, he saw an opportunity for revenge; he could fake a theft, hide the jades, and let them be recovered "after the newspaper had simmered in its embarrassment.
What would be a safe hiding place for a teapot as thin as a rose petal? Qwilleran asked himself as he prepared Koko's breakfast.
But would Tait go to such lengths for the meager satisfaction of revenge? He would need a stronger motive.
Perhaps he was not so rich as his position indicated. He had lost the manufacturing plant; he had gambled on a jade expedition that failed to produce; he owed a large decorating bill. Had he devised a scheme to collect insurance? Had he and his wife argued about it? Had they quarreled on the night of the alleged theft? Had the quarrel been violent enough to cause a fatal heart attack? Qwilleran placed Koko's breakfast on the kitchen floor, slipped into his suit coat, and started filling his pockets. Here and there around the apartment he collected his pipe, tobacco pouch, matches, card case, a comb, some loose silver, his bill clip, and a clean handkerchief, but he could not find the green jade button that usually rattled around in his change pocket. He remembered leaving it on the desk top.
"Koko, did you steal my lucky piece?" Qwilleran said.
"YARGLE!" came the reply from the kitchen, a yowl gargled with a throatful of veal kidneys in cream.