The Cat Who Played Brahms

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For Jim Qwilleran, veteran journalist, it was one of the most appalling moments of his career. Years before, as a war correspondent, he had been strafed on the beaches; as a crime reporter he had been a target of the Mob. Now he was writing restaurant reviews for a midwestern newspaper, the Daily Fluxion, and he was not prepared for the shocking situation at the Press Club.

The day had started well enough. He had eaten a good breakfast at his boarding house: a wedge of honeydew melon, an omelette fines herbes with sauted chicken livers, cheese popovers, and three cups of coffee. He planned to lunch with his old friend Arch Riker at the Press Club, their favorite haunt.

At twelve noon Qwilleran bounded up the steps of the grimy limestone fortress that had once been the county jail but now dispensed food and drink to the working press. As he approached the ancient nail-studded portal, he sensed that something was wrong. He smelled fresh varnish! His sharp ear detected that the massive door no longer creaked on its hinges! He stepped into the lobby and gasped. The murky, smoky ambience that he loved so well was now all freshness and sparkle.

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