The Cat Who Lived High

10

ON THURSDAY MORNING, when Qwilleran was brushing the Siamese and giving them their daily dose of flattery, he was interrupted by a phone call from Jeff Lowell of Grinchman & Hills. "I hear you're going to do a book on the Casablanca," he said.

"News travels fast." "I saw Mary Duckworth last night. The reason I'm calling-we have photographs in our archives of both exterior and interior, taken in 1901. You're welcome to use them. We even have shots of Harrison Plumb's Moorish suite on Twelve with its carved lattices and decorative tiles and iron gates - fantastic!" "Was the Art Deco renovation ever photographed?" "Not to my knowledge. Our firm wasn't involved with that." "It should be photographed. Could you recommend someone to do it?" "Sure could!" He mentioned a name that sounded like Sorg Butra.

"Spell it," Qwilleran asked.

"S-o-r-g B-u-t-r-a. Want me to tell him you're interested?" "Just give me his phone number. I haven't broached the subject to the Countess as yet. Did Mary mention anything else I discussed? About the Bessinger murder?" "No, I just saw her briefly in a theater lobby." "I have a theory I'd like to try out on you, whenever we can get together." "Well, I'm leaving for San Francisco right now, but I'll get in touch when I get back. Enjoyed lunch on Tuesday, Qwill." "So did I. Have a good trip, Jeff." "Nice guy," he said to the cats when he resumed the brushing. "I never met an architect I didn't like." "Ik ik ik," said Koko.

"Now what does that mean?" The phone rang again, and this time it was from the Daily Fluxion police bureau.

"Sure, Matt, I'm always interested in ideas," Qwilleran said. "What's on your mind?... Well, I don't know about that. Hames is a smart cop, but he goes overboard about Koko... Yes, I admit he's a remarkable cat, but... Okay, Matt, let me think about it. Why don't we have lunch?... See you at the Press Club at noon." "That was Matt Thiggamon," he explained to the cats afterward. "He wants to do a story on you, Koko - on your sleuthing. How does that grab you?" Koko rolled over, thrust one leg skyward, and proceeded to groom the base of his tail.

"I assume you're giving him the leg. I agree with you. We don't want any publicity, but I'm taking him to lunch anyway. I wonder what the weather is going to be." He tuned in the newscast and learned that a law clerk who had been fired returned and shot his boss and the boss's secretary; a city councilman was found to have more than a hundred unpaid parking tickets; and the weather would be cold and overcast with a slight chance of showers. In Pickax, he reflected, WPKX would be announcing that a bow- hunter had bagged an eight-point buck, and a fourteen-year-old girl had won the quilt contest.

To create a stir at the Press Club, Qwilleran wore a plaid flannel shirt, a field jacket, and his Aussie hat. Matt said enviously, "You're really living the life, Qwill!" They sat at a table in a far corner of the bar. "I wish I had a nickel," Qwilleran remarked, "for every time Arch Riker and I had lunch at this table." "I hear he was a great guy," said Matt. "He left just before I joined the staff. What's he doing now?" "He's editor and publisher of our small newspaper up north. It's called the Moose County Something." "And what do you do up there?" "I'm busier in my retirement than I was when I wrote for the Fluxion. Merely keeping up with the local gossip can be a full-time occupation in a small town." They ordered French onion soup and roast beef sandwiches, and Qwilleran specified horseradish. There had been a time when every waitress in the club knew that Qwilleran liked horseradish with beef, but those days were past.

Matt said, "Is that your cat's picture in the lobby?" "Yes, that's Koko. He's a lifetime member of the Press Club, and he has his own press card signed by the chief of police." "Hames says he's psychic." "All cats are psychic to a degree. If you pick up a can opener, they know whether you're going to open a can of catfood or a can of green beans. They can be sound asleep at the other end of the house, but all you have to do is think about salmon, and they're right there! I have to admit, though," Qwilleran said with thinly veiled pride, "that Koko goes the average cat one better. Perhaps you've heard about the pottery murders on River Road. Koko solved that case before the police knew a crime had been committed. Prior to that there was a major theft in Muggy Swamp, and then a shooting at the Villa Verandah, and later a high death rate among antique dealers in Junktown. Koko investigated all those incidents successfully-not that he did anything uncatlike. He just sniffed and scratched and shoved things around, coming up with pertinent clues. I don't want him to have any publicity, however; it might go to his head and cause him to give up sleuthing.

Cats are perverse and unpredictable, like wives." "Are you married?" Matt asked.

"I was at one time." "For how long?" "Long enough to become an authority on the subject." The young reporter said, "I just got married last June and I think it's the only way to live." "Good for you!" The roast beef sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran had to ask for horseradish a second time.

He said to Matt, "Where are you living?" "Happy View Woods." All young couples, Qwilleran had discovered, were paying mortgages in Happy View Woods, raising families, and worrying about crabgrass in their lawns. He himself had always preferred to live in apartments or hotels, being somewhat of a gypsy at heart. He said, "I'm staying in the penthouse apartment at the Casablanca. Does that ring a bell?" "That's where the art dealer was murdered a couple of months ago." "Did you see the scene of the crime?" "No, the coverage was cut-and-dried," said the police reporter. 'The murderer left a confession and killed himself.

Also, there was a major airline crash at the airport on the same day, and that took precedence over everything for two weeks." "Do you know anything about the murderer?" "His name was Ross Rasmus, an artist. He specialized in painting mushrooms. Can you swallow that? He must have been crazy to begin with! He daubed his confession on a wall with red paint." "Which wall?" "I don't think anyone ever mentioned which wall." The chances were, Qwilleran reasoned, that the artist went back to his studio, where he kept his paints, and daubed it on his own wall. That would be 14-B. Keestra Hedrog might know something about it. "Was there any speculation about motive?" he asked Matt.

"Well, they were lovers, you know. That was pretty well-known. She liked to discover young talent-young male talent. Everybody figured she discovered a successor to Ross Rasmus, and he was jealous. The autopsy turned up evidence of drugs. He was stoned when he did it." "What was the weapon?" "I don't believe the actual weapon was ever identified." "The reason I ask: The penthouse has a lot of his paintings on the walls, each with a knife included with the mushrooms. It's a Japanese slicer, and there's one exactly like it in the kitchen." "Oh, yeah," said Matt. "There's plenty of those around. My wife has one. She's into stir-fry." They munched their sandwiches in silence, Qwilleran wishing he had some horseradish. After a while he said, "The artist's body landed on some guy's car. He was quoted in your story. Do you remember the name?" "Gosh, no, I don't. That was two months ago." At that moment a young woman in boots and a long skirt wandered over to their table, and Matt introduced her as Sasha Crispen-Schmitt of the Morning Rampage.

Qwilleran rose and said cordially but not truthfully that he had read her column and enjoyed it.

"Thanks. Please sit down," she said, looking at his moustache. "I've heard about you. Don't you live up north in a town with a funny name?" "Pickax, population three thousand. And if you think that's funny, we also have a Sawdust City, Chipmunk, and Brrr, spelled B-r-r-r. Will you join us for coffee or a drink?" "Wish I could," said Ms. Crispen-Schmitt, "but I have to get back to the office for another paralyzing meeting.

What are you doing down here?" "I just wanted to spend one winter away from ten-foot snowbanks and wall-to-wall ice." Matt said, "He's staying at the old broken-down Casablanca." "Really?" she said. "I lived there for a while myself. Why did you choose that grungy place?" "They allow cats," Qwilleran said, "and I have two Siamese." "How do you like the building?" "It's interesting, if you're a masochist." "What floor are you on?" "Fourteen." "Well, it's better if you're high up." "Not when both elevators are out of order at the same time," Qwilleran told her.

"Isn't Fourteen where they had a murder couple of months ago?" "So they tell me." "Well, look, I'd love to stay, but... maybe we can have lunch while you're here." "By all means," said Qwilleran. When she had walked away, he said to Matt, "Attractive girl. Married?" The reporter nodded. "To one of our sportswnters." "Shall we have dessert, Matt? Today's special is pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I wonder if it's the real thing.

One gets spoiled living half a mile from a dairy farm." The waitress who had not brought his horseradish was now unable to say whether the whipped cream was actually from a cow.

"If you don't know, it probably isn't," Qwilleran said. "Bring me apple pie with cheese. Is it real cheese? Never mind; I'm sure it isn't. Bring me frozen yogurt." After coffee and dessert they left the Press Club, Matt to return to police headquarters and Qwilleran to ride the Zwinger bus to the Casablanca.

"Thanks," said Matt. "I enjoyed the lunch." "My pleasure," said Qwilleran. "And say, would you do me a favor? Check your story on the Bessinger murder and see whose car was damaged in the parking lot, will you? Then give me a ring. Here's my number." It was quiet around the Casablanca in the early afternoon. Before climbing the crumbling steps he had a look at the parking lot. The Purple Plum was safe in slot #28, but what he really wanted to check was the row of parking spaces adjacent to the building. They were numbered 1 to 20, and directly above them was the parapet of the terrace from which Ross had jumped. Slots 21 to 40 were on the west side of the lot. Both rows were inadequately lighted after dark; a single floodlight was mounted on the side of the building midway between front and back-only one light for a very large lot. It was another management economy.

Qwilleran could not say why, but his hand went to his moustache. This luxuriant facial feature was notable not only for its size but for its response to various stimuli. Reactions of doubt or apprehension or suspicion were always accompanied by a tremor on his upper lip. He pounded his moustache with his fist as he entered the building.

Upstairs he found another envelope under his door, and he groaned, presuming that Isabelle had been there again, but this time it was a heavy ivory-colored envelope with his name inscribed in very proper handwriting. Perhaps it was from Winnie Wingfoot, he thought hopefully as he tore it open. The message, obviously written with a fountain pen and not a ballpoint, read as follows: "Would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight at seven o'clock? - Adelaide Plumb." In the lower left-hand corner she specified RSVP and gave a telephone number.

Somewhat deflated, Qwilleran called to accept. Ferdie Le Bull answered. "Okay, I'll tell her," said the houseman.

"She's having her nap. It'll be chicken hash tonight. D'you like chicken hash? I don't call that real food, but she always has chicken hash on Thursday." "Whatever the menu, Ferdinand, please convey my message: Mr. Qwilleran accepts with pleasure." Hanging up the phone he called out to the Siamese, "You guys will eat better than I will tonight... Where are you?" Koko was sitting quietly in the foyer, gazing out the French doors to the terrace, waiting patiently for the pigeons that never came in for a landing. Yum Yum was asleep on the waterbed; she slept entirely too much since arriving at the Casablanca, Qwilleran thought.

In preparation for his soiree with the Countess he threw some shirts and socks into a shopping bag and ventured down to the basement laundry room for the first time. As Old Red slowly descended he read the following notices on the bulletin board:

WANTED TO BUY - guitar - Apt. 2-F.

FREE KITTENS - Apt. 9-B.

REWARD! Who stole cassettes from parking lot? See mgr.

At the fourth floor Old Red carne to a grinding stop, and a woman carrying a laundry bag started to board the car.

Catching sight of the moustached stranger with a shopping bag, she started to back off but apparently decided to take a chance. There was no eye contact, but roguishly Qwilleran started to breathe heavily, causing her to edge closer to the door. He was feeling playful following his stimulating lunch at the Press Club and his brief dialogue with the Countess's absurd butler. When the elevator reached the bottom with a crash, the other passenger scuttled off the car, and he followed her with deliberately heavy footfalls.

The laundry room was large and dreary with one row of washers and another row of dryers, many of them labeled out of order. The peeling masonry walls had not known a paintbrush for perhaps sixty years. At that time - when family laundresses did the washing, ironing, and mangling - a cheerful environment was not thought necessary. Now the somber workplace was enlivened by a veritable gallery of prohibitions and warnings neatly printed with red and green felt markers and lavished with exclamation marks:

NO SMOKING! NO LOUD RADIO!

NO HORSING AROUND!

HAVE RESPECT FOR OTHERS!

CANADIAN COINS DON'T WORK!

NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST WASH!

STAY WITH YOUR THINGS!!! BALANCE YOUR LOAD!!!

Machines were churning and spinning, and one thumped noisily; not everyone had balanced his or her load.

Several persons were patiently staying with their things: an old man jabbering to himself, the woman with two small children - speaking in their native tongue - another woman in a housedress and sweater, glowering at a student with his nose in a textbook who had not balanced his load. Qwilleran studied the signs for instructions: TOO MUCH SOAP MESSES UP MACHINES!

DON'T FEED THE MICE!

MOTHERS WITH BABIES - NO DIAPERING ON MACHINES! USE RESTROOM!!

Although no stranger to laundromats, Qwilleran found sadistic pleasure in asking his fearful fellow passenger from Old Red how to use the washer, explaining in a graveyard voice that he was new in the building. She obliged without looking at him, then moved away quickly.

He balanced his load, inserted a coin, and studied the posted messages for further inspiration, no doubt from the motherly Mrs. Tuttle:

BE A GOOD NEIGHBOR! CLEAN LINT TRAP!

DON'T HOG THE DRYERS!! NO LIQUOR! NO LOITERING!

THIS IS NOT A SOCIAL HALL!

ONLY ONE PERSON AT A TIME IN THE RESTROOM OR IT WILL BE LOCKED!!!

The benches were hard and backless and not likely to encourage loitering, but Qwilleran sat down and scanned the newspapers he had brought along until - from the corner of his eye - he caught a flash of red. Rupert had sauntered into the room and was surveying it for violations.

Qwilleran beckoned to him and asked, "May I ask a question, Rupert? Why are there no pigeons on the terrace?

My cats like to watch pigeons." "Them dirty birds!" said the custodian in disgust. "Lady that lived there before, she used to feed' em, and the parkers in the lot raised holy hell. Don't let Mrs. T catch you feedin' 'em or she'll be after you with a rollin' pin!" Qwilleran resumed reading Sasha Crispen-Schmitt's column in the Morning Rampage, a shallow recital of gossip and rumors. When another tenant entered the room carrying a laundry basket, he made the mistake of looking up. It was Isabelle Wilburton, wearing a soiled housecoat.

She came directly to him. "Sorry if I offended you last night." "No harm done," he said, returning to his newspaper.

She loaded one of the washers, and he wondered if she would remove her housecoat and throw it in, but she was still decently clothed when she sat down beside him on the uncomfortable bench.

"I get so lonely," she said. "That's my trouble. I don't have any friends except the damned rum bottle." "The bottle can be your worst enemy. Take it from one who's been there." "I used to have a wonderful job. I was a corporate secretary." "What happened?" "My boss was killed in a plane crash." "Couldn't you get another job?" "I didn't... I couldn't... The heart went out of me. I'd been with him twenty years, ever since business school. He was more than a boss. We used to go on business trips together, and a lot of times we'd work late at the office and have dinner sent in. I was so happy in those days." "I suppose he was married," Qwilleran said.

Isabelle heaved an enormous sigh. "I used to shop for gifts for his wife and children. When he died, everybody felt sorry for them. Nobody felt sorry for me. Twenty years! I used to have beautiful clothes. I still have the cocktail dresses he bought me. I put them on and sit at my kitchen table and drink rum." "Why aren't you drinking today?" "My check hasn't come yet." "Did he leave you a trust?" She shook her head sadly. "It comes from my family." "Where do they live?" "In the suburbs. They have a big house in Muggy Swamp." "Apparently you haven't sold your piano." "Winnie Wingfoot looked at it, but she can't make up her mind. Do you know Winnie?" "I've seen her in the parking lot," Qwilleran said.

"Isn't she gorgeous? If I had her looks, I'd have a lot of friends. Of course, she's younger. Could you use a piano?" "I'm afraid not." "Is that your washer? It stopped," Isabelle informed him.

Qwilleran transferred his clothes to a dryer and returned to the bench. "Aren't you friendly with your family?" "They won't have anything to do with me. I guess I embarrass them. Do you have a family?" "Only a couple of cats, but the three of us are a real family. Did you ever think of getting a cat?" "There are lots of them around the building, but... I've never had a pet," she said with lack of interest.

"They're good company when you live alone - almost human." Isabelle turned away. She looked at her fingernails. She looked at the ceiling.

Qwilleran said, "Someone on Nine is offering free kittens." "If I just had one friend, I'd be all right," she said. "I wouldn't drink. I don't know why I don't have any friends." "I can tell you why," he said, lowering his voice. "I had the same problem a few years ago." "You did?" Although he had a healthy curiosity about the secrets of others, Qwilleran was loathe to discuss his own personal history, but he recognized this was an exception. "Drinking ruined my life after I'd had a successful career in journalism." "Did you lose someone you loved?" she asked with sympathy in her bloodshot eyes.

"I made a bad marriage and went through a shattering divorce. I started drinking heavily, and my ex-wife cracked up. Two lives ruined! So then I had a load of guilt added to my disappointment and resentment and murderous hate for my meddling in-laws. I lost my friends and couldn't hold a job. No newspaper would hire me after a couple of bad incidents, and I didn't have any convenient checks coming in the mail." "What did you do?" "It took a horrifying accident to make me realize I needed help. I was living like a bum in New York, and one night I was so drunk I fell off a subway platform. I'll never forget the screams of onlookers and the roar of the train coming out of the tunnel. They hauled me out just in time! Believe me, that was a sobering experience. It was also the turning point. I took the advice that had been given me and got counseling. The road back was slow and painful, but I made it! And I've never again touched alcohol. That's my story." Isabelle's eyes were filled with tears. "Would you like to have dinner at my place tonight?" she asked hopefully. "1 could thaw some spaghetti." "I appreciate the invitation," he said, "but I have an important dinner date - so important," he added with an attempt at drollery, "that I'm washing my shirt and socks." He was relieved to see his dryer stop churning. Putting his shirts on hangers and throwing his socks and undershorts in the shopping bag, he escaped from the laundry room.

His telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door to 14-A. The caller was Matt Thiggamon. "Sorry to take so long," he said. "I got the guy's name. It's Jack Yazbro." "Spell it." "Y-a-z-b-r-o." "Thanks a lot, Matt." "Any time." Qwilleran lost no time in going downstairs to the desk. "Mrs. Tuttle," he said, "I want to compliment you on the way you run this building. I've seen you handle a variety of situations in a very competent manner and deal with all kinds of tenants." "Thank you," she said with her hearty smile, although it was partially canceled out by her intimidating gimlet stare.

"I do my best but I didn't think anyone ever noticed." "Even your signs in the laundry room are done with a certain flair." "Oh, my! That makes me feel real good. Is everything all right on Fourteen?" "Everything's fine. The skylight doesn't leak. The radiators are behaving. The sunsets are spectacular. Too bad this building is going to be tom down. Do you know when?" She shrugged. "Nobody tells me a thing! I just take one day at a time and trust in the Lord." "One question: Do you happen to know where Mr. Yazbro parks his car?" "Wait a bit. I'll look it up in the rent book." She leafed through a loose-leaf ledger. "I remember he changed his parking space a while back.

He always liked to park against the building, but..." "But what?" Qwilleran asked when she failed to finish the sentence.

"Something fell on his car, and he asked to be changed." "Do things often drop on cars parked near the building?" he asked slyly.

Mrs. Tuttle glanced up sharply from the ledger. "We used to have trouble with pigeons. Don't you go feeding them, now! Here it is - Mr. Yazbro. He was in #18. Now he has #27." She slapped the book shut.

Twenty-seven, she said. "Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle. Keep up the good work!" Qwilleran made a beeline for the parking lot. He had been parked in #27 when someone tampered with his tires.

Now there was a minivan parked there. The slot had been vacant during the afternoon. Yazbro had just come home from work - that is, if the minivan belonged to Yazbro. It was impossible to be certain considering the disorganized parking system. He recorded the license number on a scrap of paper and returned to the front desk, waving it at Mrs. Tuttle.

"Sorry to bother you again," he said, "but is this Mr. Yazbro's license number?" She consulted the ledger again, and the two numbers tallied. "Is anything wrong?" she asked.

"There certainly is! Yazbro is the snake who let the air out of my tires yesterday, and I'd like to discuss it with him.

What's his apartment number?" "He's in 4-K. I hope there won't be any trouble, Mr. Qwilleran. Do you want Rupert to go up with you?" "No, thank you. It won't be necessary."