Free The Cat Who Could Read Backwards by Lilian Jackson Braun Page B

fellow," said Qwilleran. "Make yourself comfortable. Do you mind if I finish my reaing?"
     
     
Kao K'o Kung stayed half an hour, and Qwilleran relished the picture they made - a man, a pipe, a book, an expensive looking cat - and he was disappointed when his guest arose, stretched, uttered a sharp adieu, and went upstairs to his own apartment.
     
     
Qwilleran spent the rest of the weekend anticipating his Monday lunch date with Sandra Halapay. He was circumventing the problem of interviewing her husband by writing a profile of Cal Halapay through the eyes of his family and friends." Sandy was going to steer him to the right people, and she had promised to bring candid snapshots of her husband teaching the children to ski, feeding turkeys on the Oregon farm, and training a Kerry blue to sit up.
     
     
All day Sunday Qwilleran felt that his moustache was transmitting messages to him - or perhaps it merely needed clipping. Just the same, its owner sensed that the coming week would be significant. Whether significantly good or significantly bad, the informed source did not reveal.
     
     
Monday morning arrived, and with it came an unexpected communication from upstairs.
     
     
Qwilleran was dressing and selecting a tie that Sandy might approve (a navy and green wool tartan, made in Scotland) when he first noticed the folded paper on the floor, half pushed under the door.
     
     
He picked it up. The handwriting was poor - like a child's scrawl - and the message was terse and abbreviated:
     
     
"Mr. Q - Pls del tapes to A.R. Save mess a trip - GBM."
     
     
Qwilleran had not seen his landlord since Friday evening. At that time he had moved his two suitcases from the "hotel to the apartment and had paid a month's rent. A vague hope that Mountclemens would invite him to Sunday breakfast - perhaps eggs Benedict or a chicken liver omelet - had evaporated. It appeared that only the cat was going to be sociable.
     
     
After deciphering the note, Qwilleran opened the door and found the reels of tape waiting for him on the hall floor. He delivered them to Arch Riker, but he thought the request strange - and unnecessary. The Dispatch Room at the Fluxion had a benchful of messengers who sat around pitching pennies most of the time.
     
     
Arch said, "Making any headway with the Halapay profile?"
     
     
"I'm taking Mrs. Halapay to lunch today. Will the Flux be willing to pick up the check?"
     
     
"Sure, they'll go for a couple of bucks."
     
     
"Where's a good place to take her? Somewhere special."
     
     
"Why don't you ask the Hungry Photographers? They're always getting people to buy lunch on expense accounts."
     
     
In the Photo Lab Qwilleran found six pairs of feet propped on desks, tables, wastebaskets, and filing cabinets - waiting for assignments, or waiting for prints to come off the dryer, or waiting for the dark room buzzer.
     
     
Qwilleran said, "Where's a good place to take someone to lunch for an interview?"
     
     
"Who's paying?"
     
     
"The Flux."
     
     
"Sitting Bull's Chop House," the photographers said in unison.
     
     
"The chopped sirloin weighs a pound," said one. "The cheese cake's four inches thick."
     
     
"They have a double lamb chop as big as my shoe." It sounded good to Qwilleran.
     
     
Sitting Bull's Chop House was located in the packing, house district, and a characteristic odor seeped into the dining room to compete with the cigar smoke.
     
     
"Oh, what a fun place," Sandy Halapay squealed. "How clever of you to bring me here. So many men! I adore men."
     
     
The men adored Sandy, too. Her red hat topped with a proud black rooster tail was the center of attention. She ordered oysters, which the chop house could not supply, so she contented herself with champagne. But with each sip her laughter grew more shrill, rebounding from the antiseptic white tile walls of the restaurant, and the enthusiasm of her audience dwindled.
     
     
"Jim, dear, you must fly down to the Caribbean with