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.
If he heads west, he'll probably wind up in Mexico." "You can also go west by heading east," said Cokey.
Qwilleran reached over and patted her hand. "Smart girl." "Do you think he'd trust the houseboy with the jades?" "You've got a point. Maybe Paolo didn't take the loot. Maybe he was dispatched to Mexico as a decoy. If that's the case, where are the jades hidden?" The answer was a large silence filling the room. Qwilleran clicked his pipe on his teeth. Cokey clicked her knitting needles. The record player clicked as another disc dropped on the turntable. Now it was Brahms.
Finally Qwilleran said, "You know that game Koko and I play with the dictionary?" He proceeded with circumspection. "Lately Koko's been turning up some words that have significance…. I shouldn't talk about it. It's too incredible." "You know how I feel about cats," said Cokey. "I'll believe anything." "The first time I noticed it was last Sunday morning. I had forgotten to fix his breakfast, and when we played the dictionary game he turned up hungerly." Cokey clapped her hands. "How clever!" "On the next try he turned up feed, but I didn't catch on until he produced meadow mouse. Apparently he was getting desperate. I don't think he really cares for mice." "Why, that's like a Ouija board!" "It gives me the creeps," said Qwilleran. "Ever since the mystery in Muggy Swamp, he's been flushing out words that point to G. Verning Tait, like bald and sacroiliac. He picked sacroiliac twice in one game, and that's quite a coincidence in a dictionary with three thousand pages." "Is Mr. Tait bald?" "Not a hair on his head. He also suffers from a back ailment…. Do you know what a koolokamba is?" Cokey shook her head.
"It's an ape with a bald head and black hands. Koko dredged that one up, too." "Black hands! That's poetic symbolism," Coker said. "Can you think of any more?" "Not every word pertains to the situation. Sometimes it's visceripericardial or calorifacient. But one day he found two significant words on one page: rubeola and ruddiness. Tait has a florid complexion, I might add." "Oh, Qwill, that cat's really tuned in!" Coker said. "I'm sure he's on the right track. Can you do anything about it?" "Hardly." Qwillerau looked dejected. "I can't go to the police and tell them my cat suspects the scion of a fine old family…. Still, there's another possibility…." "What's that?" "It may be," said Qwilleran, "that the police suspect Tait, too, and they're publishing the houseboy theory as a cover-up."
19
Qwilleran arrived home from Cokey's apartment earlier than he had expected. Cokey had chased him out. She said they both had to work the next day, and she had to fix her hair and iron a blouse.