Did you hear about that Mrs. Tait that died last week? There was a burglary, and it was in all the papers." "I know a little about it," said Qwilleran. "A sad thing, that was. Mrs. Tait had a Siamese female, and I don't fancy her husband will be keeping the poor puss." "What makes you think so?" "Eee, he doesn't like cats." "How do you know all this?" "The puss came from one of my litters, and the missus-rest her soul! — had to call on me for help. The poor puss was so nervous, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. And now the poor woman's gone, and no telling what will become of the puss…. Let me fill your teacup, love." She poured more of the red-black brew with its swirling garnish of tea leaves.

"And that husband of hers," she went on. "Such a one for putting on airs, but — mind this! — I had to wait a good bit for my fee. And me with all these hungry mouths to feed!" Qwilleran's moustache was signaling to him. He said that, under the circumstances, he would consider adopting the cat. Then he tied the shoelace the cats had untied, and stood up to leave. "How much do I owe you for the consultation?" "Would three dollars be too much for you, love?" "I think I can swing it," he said.

"And if you want to contribute a few pennies for the cup of tea, it goes to buy a bit of a treat for the pussies. Just drop it in the marmalade crock on the hall table." Mrs. Highspight and an entourage of waving tails accompanied Qwilleran to the door, the Siamese kitten rubbing against his ankles and touching his heart. He dropped two quarters in the marmalade jar.

"Call on me any time you need help, love," said Mrs. Highspight.

"There's one thing I forgot to mention," Qwilleran said. "A friend visited me the other evening, and Koko tried to bite her. Not a vicious attack — just a token bite. But on the head, of all places!" "What was the lady doing?" "Cokey wasn't doing a thing! She was minding her own business, when all of a sudden Koko sprang at her head." "The lady's name is Cokey, is it?" "That's what everybody calls her." "You'll have to call her something else, love. Koko thought you were using his name. A puss is jealous of his name, he is. Very jealous." When Qwilleran left the cattery on Merchant Street, he told himself that Mrs. Highspight's diagnosis sounded logical; the token attack on Cokey was motivated by jealousy. At the first phone booth he stopped and called the Middy studio.

On the telephone he found Cokey strangely gentle and amenable. When he suggested a dinner date, she invited him to dinner at her apartment. She said it would be only a casserole and a salad, but she promised him a surprise.

Qwilleran went back to his office and did some writing. It went well. The words flowed easily, and his two typing fingers hit all the right keys. He also answered a few letters from readers who were requesting decorating advice: "May I use a quilted matelass‚ on a small bergSre?" "Is it all right to place a low credenza under a high clerestory?" In his agreeable mood Qwilleran told them all, "Yes. Sure. Why not?" Just before he left the office at five thirty, the Library chief called to say that the Tait clipping file had been returned, and Qwilleran picked it up on his way out of the building.

He wanted to go home and shave before going to Cokey's, and he had to feed the cat. As soon as he stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he could hear paeans of greeting, and when he entered the apartment Koko began a drunken race through the rooms. He went up over the backs of chairs and down again with a thud. He zoomed up on the stereo cabinet and skated its entire length, rounded the dining table in a blur of light fur, cleared the desk top, knocked over the wastebasket — all the while alternating a falsetto howl with a baritone growl.

"That's the spirit!" said Qwilleran. "That's what I like to see," and he wondered if the cat sensed he was getting a playmate.

Qwilleran chopped some chicken livers for Koko and saut‚ed them in butter, and he crumbled a small side order of Roquefort cheese. Hurriedly he cleaned up and put on his other suit and his good plaid tie. Then it was six thirty, and time to leave. For a few seconds he hesitated over the Tait file from the Library — a bulky envelope of old society notes, obsolete business news, and obituaries. His moustache pricked up, but his stomach decided the Tait file could wait until later.

18

Cokey lived on the top floor of an old town house, and Qwilleran, after climbing three flights of stairs, was breathing hard when he arrived at her apartment. She opened the door, and he lost what little breath he had left.

The girl who greeted him was a stranger. She had cheekbones, temples, a jawline, and ears. Her hair, that had formerly encased her head and most of her visage like a helmet of chain mail, was now a swirling frame for her face.

Qwilleran was fascinated by Coker's long neck and graceful chinline.

"It's great!" he said. His eyes followed her as she moved about the apartment doing domestic and unnecessary little tasks.

The furnishings were spare, with an understated Bohemian smartness; black canvas chairs, burlap curtains in the honest color of potato sacks, and painted boards supported by clay plant pots to make a bookcase. Cokey had created a festive atmosphere with lighted candles and music. There were even two white carnations leaning out of a former vinegar bottle.

Her economies registered favorably with Qwilleran. There was something about the room that looked sad and brave to a resident of the Villa Verandah. It touched him in a vulnerable spot, and for one brief moment he had a delirious urge to support this girl for life, but it passed quickly. He pressed a handkerchief to his brow and remarked about the music coming from a portable record player.

"Schubert," she said sweetly. "I've given up Hindemith. He doesn't go with my new hairdo." For dinner she served a mixture of fish and brown rice in a sauce flecked with green. The salad was crunchy and required a great deal of chewing, retarding conversation. Later came ice cream made of yogurt and figs, sprinkled with sunflower seeds.

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.