"Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 004 - The Cat Who Saw Red" - читать интересную книгу автора (Braun Lillian Jackson)

Qwilleran merely swallowed and stared at him.

“Well, how does it sound, Qwill?”

“I don’t know,” Qwilleran replied slowly. “You know I’ve been on the wagon for two years . . . and today I started a low-calorie diet. Doc Beane wants me to lose thirty pounds.”

The boss was nonplussed for only the fraction of a second. “Naturally there’s no need to eat everything,” he said. “Just sample this and that, and use your imagination. You know the tricks of the trade. Our cooking editor can’t boil and egg, but she puts out the best recipe page in the country.”

“Well . . . .”

“I see no reason why you can’t handle it.” The managing editor’s brief show of goodwill was fading into his usual expression of preoccupation. “We plan to start next Monday and give the column a send-off in Sunday’s paper, with your photograph and a biography. Arch tells me you’ve eaten all over Europe.”

Qwilleran turned to his friend. “Did you know about this, Arch?”

The feature editor nodded guiltily. He said, “Better get that mustache trimmed and have a new picture taken. In your old photo you look as if you have bleeding ulcers.”

The boss rose and consulted his watch. “Well, that’s the story. Congratulations, Qwill!”

On the way back to the feature department Riker said, “Can’t you defer that diet a few weeks? This bright idea of Percy’s will blow over like all the rest of them. We’re only doing it because we found out the Morning Rampage is starting a gourmet column in two weeks. Meanwhile, you can live like a king, entertain a different date every night, and it won’t cost you a cent. That should appeal to your thrifty nature. You’re Scotch, aren’t you?”

“Scottish,” Qwilleran grumbled. “Scotch comes in bottles.”

He went first to the barber and then to the photo lab to have his picture taken and to complain to Odd Bunsen about the new assignment.

“If you need company, I’m available,” the photographer volunteered, “I’ll eat, and you can take notes.” He seated Qwilleran on a stool in a backbreaking position and tilted his head at an unnatural angle.

“Riker says you should make me look like a bon vivant,” Qwilleran said with a frown.

Bunsen squinted through the viewfinder of the portrait camera. “With that upside-down mustache you’ll never look like anything but a hound dog with a bellyache. Let’s have a little smile.”

Qwilleran twitched a muscle in one cheek.

“Why don’t you start by eating at the Toledo Tombs? That’s the most expensive joint. Then you can do all the roadhouses.” Bunsen stopped to twist Qwilleran’s shoulders to the left and his chin to the right. “And you ought to write a column on the Heavenly Hash Houses and tell people how rotten they are.”

“Who’s running the gourmet column? You or me?”

“Okay, now. A little smile.”

The muscle twitched again.

“You moved! We’ll have to try another . . . Say, wait till your crazy cats hear about the new assignment! Think about all the doggie bags you can take home to those brats.”

“I never thought of that,” Qwilleran murmured. His face brightened, and Bunsen snapped the picture.

The Fluxion’s new gourmet reporter had every intention of starting his tour of duty at the exclusive Toledo Tombs, although not with Odd Bunsen. He telephoned Mary Duckworth, the most glamorous name in his address book.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m leaving for the Caribbean, and I’ve already declined an invitation to attend a Gourmet Club dinner tonight. Would you like to go in my place? You could write a column on it.”

“Where’s the dinner?”