chair, a monstrous dull-orange thing of cotton with big arms. A seaman's chest stood under the curtained window facing the front porch. The oriental rug was worn almost to a single tone and only the hint of a design. The rest of the room was restaurant chairs with knitted antimacassars and a bird cage in which the bird was nibbling on seed and gurgling to itself.
In the dining room sat Mrs. Plaut, Gunther, Mr. Hill the mailman, Miss Reynel, a plate in the center of the table on which rested two huge blood-red muffins, and cups filled with coffee.
'You are tardy,' Mrs. Plaut said, looking at me with the eyes of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Eileen Eck.
'Phone call,' I said, sitting in the open chair, 'sorry.'
'Tardy to the party and you miss the ice cream,' Mrs. Plaut said, reaching over for my plate and putting a muffin on it,
'I was talking to a murderer,' I explained. 'He's killed two men. Plans to kill two more before he comes after me and Clark Gable.'
This information did not appear to get through to anyone but Miss Reynel, who put down her blue-on-white coffee cup and smiled at my dark but pointless humor. Miss Reynel was a ballroom-dancing instructor at Arthur Murray's. She was recently divorced, pretty of painted face, sultry of red hair, the far side of forty-five, and far too skinny for me to dream about. Mr. Hill, however, looked at the recent addition to our happy home as a vision in the mold of Katharine Hepburn. Mr. Hill spoke of this affliction only with his eyes. Mr. Hill was seldom heard to speak, though at Mrs. Plaut's annual eggnog and family New Year's party he was known to wind up his courage, drink himself into a state which he called happiness, and sing Irish ballads with remarkably little skill.
'Coffee's great,' I said, looking down at the muffin.
'Great,' echoed Miss Reynel, who was dressed for Monday morning in a don't-touch-me yellow suit with Joan Crawford shoulders.
'Try the muffin,' Mrs. Plaut said.
I looked around the table. All but Gunther had, if the crimson crumbs told the truth, consumed at least one of the massive lumps. Gunther's was untouched.
'How are you this morning?' I asked Gunther, pulling the plate a little closer to me.
'Without appetite,' he said, gazing at the muffin in front of him, which approximated the size of his head.
'You'll like it,' said Mrs. Plaut.
'Why is it red?' I asked.
'You wouldn't want it its natural color,' Mrs. Plaut explained as I tore off a piece and started to raise it to my mouth. I took a tentative bite and washed it down with some coffee.
'Not bad,' I said.
Mr. Hill smiled. Miss Reynel carefully dabbed the corners of her mouth for crumbs.
'It's supposed to be better than bad,' Mrs. Plaut said. 'It is supposed to be good.'
'It's good,' I said.
'Ingredients are difficult to obtain,' she said, placing her hands palm-down on the table, ready for business.
'I can appreciate that,' I said, taking some more orange snail muffin.
All eyes were on me. I had the feeling I was supposed to say something, but I had no idea what it was.
'We have all agreed, Mr. Peelers,' Mrs. Plaut said, 'to pool our ration-book resources and comply with the point system which is effective today.'
Mrs. Plaut looked around the table for confirmation. She got it from Mr. Hill and Miss Reynel. Gunther was looking at the muffin before him as if it were a ruby crystal ball that would tell him how Gwen and her old boyfriend were getting along in San Francisco.
'The goal of point rationing,' Mrs. Plaut said, pouring me more coffee, 'is to give us as wide a choice as possible within any group of rationed commodities and to encourage the use of more plentiful foods in preference to the scarcer items.'
'Sounds good to me,' I said.
'War Ration Book Two will allow each person, including infants, forty-eight points during the first period, for most canned goods and processed soups, vegetables and fruits, and dried beans and peas. More scarce canned foods will require more points.'
'Fascinating,' I said, working on my muffin.
'The government has urged us to use more fruits and vegetables, spaghetti, and other foods for which no ration stamps are required.'
'I see,' I said.
'If you did not get your Book Two last week at the school, you can pick it up between three and five Friday. You have to have Book One with you, however. If you lost Book One you have to apply in writing to the ration board. At the time of registering for Book Two you must declare all the coffee you have on hand in excess of one point per person over fourteen years of age when rationing went into effect November 28 of last year. For each excess pound of coffee, one stamp will be taken from Book One. However, Stamp Twenty-five in Book One is good for one pound of coffee through March 21, which means it must last six weeks instead of five, as before. Stamp Eleven in Book One is good for three pounds of sugar through March 15.'
'Could you go over that one more time?' I asked, showing my slightly gap-toothed but reasonably Teel-white teeth.
'You are joshing me,' Mrs. Plaut said seriously. 'A man in your business has little room for levity.'
I was not quite sure what business she was referring to. At various times, Mrs. Plaut believed I was an exterminator or a book editor. I was and had been editing Mrs. P.'s family memoirs for over a year, chapter by chapter as she completed them.
'You are right,' I said.
'As I see it, you have an obligation to contribute.'
'You can have half my food-ration stamps,' I said. 'I'm keeping my A, B, and C unit coupons for gas and tires.'
'Period Four Coupons,' Mrs. Plaut parried.
'Period Four?' I asked, backing up.
'Fuel oil,' she said triumphantly.
'They're yours.'
She sat back and looked at her boarders; the conquering hero.
'It's been a long war,' I said.
'Particularly hard on a sweet tooth,' Mrs. Plaut said with a sigh. 'More coffee? Another muffin?'
Sweet tooth. I'd forgotten Shelly Minck. I looked at my watch, which told me it was eight. I refused its sprung lies and asked Gunther the time. Without taking his eyes from the muffin, he pulled out his pocket watch and turned it to me. Ten.
' 'Scuse me,' I said, getting up and moving fast toward the door.
'Don't forget,' Mrs. Plaut said. 'The book.'
'I won't,' I said, not knowing whether she meant the chapter of her book I was supposed to be reading or the ration book she had wheedled out of me.
I went up the stairs fast in spite of the fact that going upstairs fast has thrown my back out six times. As I ran, I pulled a nickel from my pocket and was reaching for the coin slot on the upstairs pay phone while I was still moving. I dialed Shelly's and my office. The phone rang. I let it ring. A dozen times. No answer. Maybe good. If I couldn't reach him, maybe Chief G. Lane Price of the Glendale Police couldn't either. I hung the phone up and started down the stairs. Gunther stood at the bottom looking up.
'I've thought about this ca-gee,' he said. 'The one in the note you gave me.'
I stopped when I got to the bottom and looked at him expectantly.
'It could be the Hungarian word for bad spring wine,' he said.
'Doesn't fit,' I said, walking toward the front door with Gunther at my side.
'Kah-Chee,' he tried. 'The Nepalese chant of extreme contrition.'
'Not likely,' I said, opening the door. The sun was shining.
'Then simply cagey,' Gunther went on. 'The American slang word for protectively cautious and clever.'
