The Cat Who Could Read Backwards by Lilian Jackson Braun Page B
Authors: Lilian Jackson Braun
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Fiction - Mystery, Journalists, cats, Mystery And Suspense Fiction, City and Town Life, Siamese Cat, Cat owners, Koko (Fictitious character), Mystery & Detective - Cat Sleuths, Jim (Fictitious character), Qwilleran, Art critics
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For the same reason I am attempting to preserve this fine old house."
Mountclemens - sitting there in his velvet jacket, with Italian pumps on his long narrow feet and a dark red aperitif in his long white fingers - looked smug, sure, safe, and unreal. His nasal voice, the music, the comfortable chair, the warmth of the fire, and the dimness of the room were making Qwilleran drowsy. He needed action. "Mind if I smoke?" he said.
"Cigarettes in that cloisonn‚ box at your elbow."
"I use a pipe." Qwilleran searched for his quarter-bend bulldog and his tobacco pouch and his matches and commenced the ritual of lighting up.
As the flame from his match flared in the darkened room, he jerked his head to the side. He stared at the bookshelves. He saw a red light. It was like a signal. No, it was two red lights. Blazing red- and alive! Qwilleran gasped. The rush of breath extinguished the match, and the red signals disappeared.
"What was - that?" he said, when he stopped spluttering. "Something between the books. Something - "
"It was only the cat," said Mountclemens. "He likes to retire behind the books. The shelves are unusually deep because of my art books, and he can find a sanctum back there. Apparently he has had his afternoon nap behind the biographies. He seems to favor biographies."
"I never saw a cat with blazing red eyes," said Qwilleran.
"You will find that characteristic of Siamese cats. Shine a light in their eyes, and they turn ruby red. Ordinarily they are blue - like the blue in that Van Gogh. See for yourself when the cat decides to flatter us with his presence. For the moment he prefers seclusion. He is busy sensing you. Already he knows several things about you."
"What does he know?" Qwilleran squirmed in his chair.
"Having observed you, he knows you are unlikely to make any loud noises or sudden movements, and that is in your favor. So is your pipe. He likes pipes, and he knew that you smoked one, even before you extracted it from your pocket. He also realizes you are affiliated with a newspaper."
"How does he figure that?"
"Ink. He has quite a nose for printer's ink."
"Anything else?"
"At this moment he is flashing a message. He is telling me to serve the first course, or he will not get his own dinner until midnight."
Mountclemens left the room and returned with a tray of hot tarts.
"If you have no objection," he said, "we shall have the first course in the parlor. I have no servants, and you must forgive me if I employ a few informalities."
The crust was flaky; the filling was a tender custard ~ flecked with cheese and spinach. Qwilleran savored every mouthful.
"You may wonder," said the critic, "why I prefer to manage without servants. I have a morbid fear of robbery, and I want no strangers coming to the house and discovering the valuables I keep on the premises. Please be good enough not to mention my collection downtown."
"Certainly - if that's the way you feel."
"I know how you newspaper people function. You are purveyors of news by instinct and by habit."
"You mean we're a bunch of gossips," said Qwilleran amiably, enjoying the last forkful of cheese custard and wondering what would come next.
"Let us simply say that a great deal of information - correct and otherwise - is exchanged over the tables at the Press Club. Nevertheless, I feel I can trust you."
"Thank you."
" What a pity you don't drink wine. I had planned to celebrate this occasion by opening a bottle of Chateau Cas d'Estournel '45. It was a great vintage - very slow in maturing - even better than the '28's."
"Open it anyway," Qwilleran said. "I'll enjoy watching you enjoy it. Honestly!"
Mountclemens' eyes sparkled. "I need no further encouragement. And I shall pour you a glass of Catawba grape juice. I keep it in the house for -
Mountclemens - sitting there in his velvet jacket, with Italian pumps on his long narrow feet and a dark red aperitif in his long white fingers - looked smug, sure, safe, and unreal. His nasal voice, the music, the comfortable chair, the warmth of the fire, and the dimness of the room were making Qwilleran drowsy. He needed action. "Mind if I smoke?" he said.
"Cigarettes in that cloisonn‚ box at your elbow."
"I use a pipe." Qwilleran searched for his quarter-bend bulldog and his tobacco pouch and his matches and commenced the ritual of lighting up.
As the flame from his match flared in the darkened room, he jerked his head to the side. He stared at the bookshelves. He saw a red light. It was like a signal. No, it was two red lights. Blazing red- and alive! Qwilleran gasped. The rush of breath extinguished the match, and the red signals disappeared.
"What was - that?" he said, when he stopped spluttering. "Something between the books. Something - "
"It was only the cat," said Mountclemens. "He likes to retire behind the books. The shelves are unusually deep because of my art books, and he can find a sanctum back there. Apparently he has had his afternoon nap behind the biographies. He seems to favor biographies."
"I never saw a cat with blazing red eyes," said Qwilleran.
"You will find that characteristic of Siamese cats. Shine a light in their eyes, and they turn ruby red. Ordinarily they are blue - like the blue in that Van Gogh. See for yourself when the cat decides to flatter us with his presence. For the moment he prefers seclusion. He is busy sensing you. Already he knows several things about you."
"What does he know?" Qwilleran squirmed in his chair.
"Having observed you, he knows you are unlikely to make any loud noises or sudden movements, and that is in your favor. So is your pipe. He likes pipes, and he knew that you smoked one, even before you extracted it from your pocket. He also realizes you are affiliated with a newspaper."
"How does he figure that?"
"Ink. He has quite a nose for printer's ink."
"Anything else?"
"At this moment he is flashing a message. He is telling me to serve the first course, or he will not get his own dinner until midnight."
Mountclemens left the room and returned with a tray of hot tarts.
"If you have no objection," he said, "we shall have the first course in the parlor. I have no servants, and you must forgive me if I employ a few informalities."
The crust was flaky; the filling was a tender custard ~ flecked with cheese and spinach. Qwilleran savored every mouthful.
"You may wonder," said the critic, "why I prefer to manage without servants. I have a morbid fear of robbery, and I want no strangers coming to the house and discovering the valuables I keep on the premises. Please be good enough not to mention my collection downtown."
"Certainly - if that's the way you feel."
"I know how you newspaper people function. You are purveyors of news by instinct and by habit."
"You mean we're a bunch of gossips," said Qwilleran amiably, enjoying the last forkful of cheese custard and wondering what would come next.
"Let us simply say that a great deal of information - correct and otherwise - is exchanged over the tables at the Press Club. Nevertheless, I feel I can trust you."
"Thank you."
" What a pity you don't drink wine. I had planned to celebrate this occasion by opening a bottle of Chateau Cas d'Estournel '45. It was a great vintage - very slow in maturing - even better than the '28's."
"Open it anyway," Qwilleran said. "I'll enjoy watching you enjoy it. Honestly!"
Mountclemens' eyes sparkled. "I need no further encouragement. And I shall pour you a glass of Catawba grape juice. I keep it in the house for -
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