"Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 014 - The Cat Who Wasn't There (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Braun Lillian Jackson)

"Wasted! If she knew you called her life wasted, she'd tear up your library card! Polly is living a useful and rewarding life.

She's the lifeblood of the library. And she chooses to be independent.

She has her women friends and her bird-watching and a comfortable apartment filled with family heirlooms ..." And she has Bootsie, Qwilleran said to himself as he walked from the police station to the newspaper office. He huffed into his moustache. It was his impression that Polly lavished too much maudlin affection on the two-year-old Siamese. When Bootsie was a kitten, she babied him unconscionably, but now he had outgrown kittenish ways and she still babbled precious nonsense in his ear. In Qwilleran's household, the Siamese were sophisticated companions whom he treated as equals, and they treated him the same way. He addressed them intelligently, and they replied with expressive yips and yowls. When he discussed problems in their presence, he felt their sympathy. He regularly read aloud to them from worthwhile books, news magazines, and, on Sundays, the New York Times.

Kao K'o Kung, the male (called Koko as a handy everyday diminutive), was a gifted animal endowed with highly developed senses quite beyond those of humans and other cats.

Yum Yum was a female who hid her catly wiles under a guise of affectionate cuddling, purring and nuzzling, often extending a paw to touch Qwilleran's moustache. From the police station it was a short walk to the office of the Moose County Something, as the local newspaper was named. (everything in mile-square Pickax was a short walk.) The publication occupied a new building made possible by financial assistance from the Klingenschoen Foundation, and the editor-and-publisher was Qwilleran's longtime friend from Down Below, Arch Riker. In the lobby there were no security guards or hidden cameras such as those employed by the large metropolitan dailies for which Qwilleran had worked. He walked down the hall to Riker's office and found the door open, the desk unoccupied. From the managing editor's office across the hall Junior Goodwinter hailed him.

"Arch went to Minneapolis for a publishers' conference. He'll be back tomorrow. Come on in! Have a chair. Put your feet up. I don't suppose you want a cup of coffee." Recalling the anemic brew he had just swallowed, Qwilleran replied, "I majored in journalism and graduated with a degree in caffeine. Make it black and hot."

Junior's boyish build, boyish countenance, and boyish enthusiasm were now tempered by a newly grown beard.

"How do you like it?" he asked as he stroked his chin.

"Does it make me look older?"

"It makes you look like a young potato farmer. What's your wife's reaction?"

"She likes it. She says it makes me look like a jolly elf.

What brings you home so soon?" he asked as he handed over a steaming cup.

"Polly was frightened by a prowler on Goodwinter Boulevard. I didn't like the sound of it."

"How come we didn't hear about it?"

"She reported it, but there's been no further incident, so far as anyone knows."

"They've got to do something about Goodwinter Boulevard, no kidding,"

said Junior.

"It used to be the best street in town. Now it's getting positively hairy with all those vacant mansions looking like haunted houses. The one where Alex and Penelope lived has been up for sale for years! The one that Van Brook rented is empty again, and it's going begging. Who wants fifteen or twenty rooms nowadays?"

"Rezoning, that's what it needs," Qwilleran said.

"It should be rezoned for apartments, offices, good restaurants, high-class nursing homes, and so forth. Why don't you write an editorial?"

"I'd be accused of special interest," Junior said.

"How do you figure that?"

"Grandma Gage has bought a condo in Florida and wants to deed the mansion to me while she's still living.

What would I do with fifteen rooms? Think of the heating bills and the taxes and all those windows to wash! I'll own just another white elephant on Goodwinter Boulevard." Qwilleran's eyes, known for their doleful expression and drooping lids, roamed over the clutter on the editor's desk, the crumpled paper that had missed the wastebasket, the half-open file drawers, the stacks of out-of-town newspapers.

But he wasn't looking; he was thinking. He was thinking that the Gage mansion occupied the property in front of Polly's carriage house. If he lived there, he could keep a watchful eye on her. Also, it would be convenient for other purposes, like dropping in for dinner frequently.