The Cat Who Lived High

11

RIDING OLD RED up to Yazbro's apartment on Four, Qwilleran had plenty of time to plan his confrontation with the man who had deflated his tires. He had dealt with villains before, and he knew how to bring them to their knees without incurring hostility. He was a good actor and could always carry it off. The trick was to open with. friendly small talk, throw in a little prevarication, and then catch them off-base with an accusation and a warning that was sinister but not too threatening. He knocked on the door of 4-K with authority but not belligerence; that was another important detail. Then he waited. He knocked again.

A voice from within shouted, "Who zat?" "Your neighbor, Mr. Yazbro," he replied in an ingratiating voice.

Qwilleran, standing six feet two and weighing a solid two twenty, did not consider himself a small man, but the giant with bulging muscles and aggressive jaw who answered his knock-totally filling the doorway, grasping a beer bottle by the neck, and stripped to the waist - made him feel like a pygmy.

"Mr. Yazbro?" he asked with poise that was admirable.

"Yeah." "Do you drive a minivan and park in #27?" "Yeah." No one had ever called Qwilleran a coward, but he knew the better part of valor, and he was a master at inventing the quick lie. "I believe you left your parking lights on," he said agreeably. "Just thought you'd like to know." Then, without waiting to hear Yazbro's grunts of rage, he walked casually to the elevator and pressed the UP button for Old Green. The giant soon followed, rattling his car keys and muttering to him- self, and pressed the DOWN button for Old Red.

"We've had a lot of rain lately," Qwilleran said pleasantly.

"Yeah," said Yazbro, as Old Green opened its door and transported Qwilleran, inch by groaning inch, to Fourteen.

The Siamese met him at the door. "Time for dinner?" he asked them.

A reply of sorts rattled in Koko's throat; "Rrrrrrrrrrrr." "Does that mean you want roast raccoon rare... or ragout of rabbit?" "Rrrrrrrrrr," Koko gargled, and Qwilleran opened a can of red salmon, reflecting that he might have to take the cat to the veterinarian for a laryngoscopy.

While they devoured the salmon with rapt concentration, he analyzed Koko's current behavior. Besides making ugly noises in his throat, he prowled restlessly and followed Qwilleran everywhere, patently bored. It was understandable.

Yum Yum was sleeping a lot and providing little companionship; there were no pigeons for entertainment; and Qwilleran himself had been absent a great deal or preoccupied with matters like Scrabble or the Grinchman & Hills report.

"Okay, you guys," he said. "Let's have some fun." He produced the new leather harnesses, jiggling them tantalizingly.

Koko had been harnessed before and was eager to buckle up, but Yum Yum resisted the collaring and girdling.

Although usually susceptible to blandishments, she disregarded remarks that the blue leather matched her eyes and enhanced her fawn-colored fur. She squirmed; she kicked; she snapped her jaws. When Qwilleran tugged the leash, she refused to walk or even to stand on her four feet. He tugged harder and she played dead. When he picked her up and set her on her feet, she toppled over as if there were not a bone or muscle in her body and lay there, inert, not moving a whisker.

"You're an uncooperative, unappreciative, impossible wench!" he said. "I'll remember this the next time you want to take possession of my lap." Meanwhile Koko was prancing about the room, dragging his leash. He was a veteran at this. Some of his greatest adventures had happened at the end of a twelve-foot nylon cord. Now he made it clear that he wanted to explore the terrace.

"It'll be cold," Qwilleran warned him.

"Yow," Koko replied.

"And there are no pigeons." "Yow!" "And it's getting dark." "YOW!" Koko said vehemently, tugging toward the exit.

On the terrace he led the way impatiently, pulling Qwilleran toward the front of the building and then all the way back to the rear. At one point the cat stopped abruptly and turned toward the parapet. Qwilleran tightened his hold on the leash as Koko prepared to jump on the stone baluster. Teetering on the railing with his four feet bunched together, he peered over the edge. Holding the leash taut, Qwilleran also looked over the railing. Directly below was parking slot #18, the number painted on the tarmac in faded yellow paint.

"Incredible!" said Qwilleran.

"Rrrrrrrrrm," said Koko.

"Let's go inside. It's chilly." Koko refused to move, and when Owilleran grabbed him about the middle, his body was tense and his tail curled stiffly.

Why, Qwilleran wondered as he carried the cat back indoors, did Ross walk, run, or stagger a hundred feet down the terrace in order to jump on Yazbro's car? Even more mystifying was the next question: How did Koko know the exact spot where it happened?

Back in the apartment he found Yum Yum asleep on the waterbed - harness, leash and all. Gently Qwilleran rolled her over, unbuckling the strap and drawing the collar over her head. Without opening her eyes she purred. And why not? She had won the argument. She had had the last word.

"Just like a female!" Qwilleran muttered.

It was time to dress for dinner with the Countess, and he brought his dark blue suit and white shirt from the closet, marveling that he had worn suits twice in two days. In Moose County he had worn them twice in three years, once for a wedding and once for a funeral. To his funeral suit he now added a red tie to elevate its mood. A striped shirt would have had more snap, but sartorial niceties were not in Qwilleran's field of interest.

This social event was one he hardly approached with keen anticipation. Nevertheless, years of carrying out unattractive assignments for tyrannical editors had disciplined him into automatic performance of duty. Also, there was the prospect of a book on the Casablanca-a coffee-table book in folio format with large photographs on good paper. The K Fund would underwrite it.

This was the afternoon, he remembered, that the Klingenschoen board was scheduled to meet, Hasselrich presenting the Casablanca proposition with quivering excitement and anecdotes about spinach timbales. As if his thoughts were telepathic, the phone rang at that moment, and Hasselrich was on the line, advising him that the board had voted unanimously to foot the bill for saving the Casablanca, leaving the amount entirely to Qwilleran's discretion.

"This may not be the last," said the attorney. "A resolution was passed to pursue similar ventures in the public interest as a means of enhancing the Klingenschoen image." Qwilleran consulted his watch. The invitation was for seven o'clock, and it was not yet six. He telephoned Mary Duckworth. "Are you busy? Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to drop in for a briefing before I ascend to Art Deco heaven in the rosewood chariot. Also, I have good news!" "Yes! Come along," she said. "Ring the bell. The shop's closed." In his dark blue suit, with a raincoat over his arm, Qwilleran rode down on Old Green. A red-haired woman boarded the car at Nine, and he could feel her staring at him. He straightened his shoulders and concentrated on watching the floor indicator. Since some of the lights were inoperative, the car descended from eight to five to two to one.

In the lobby Mrs. Tuttle looked up from her knitting with a smile of admiration. Two old ladies in quilted bathrobes squinted at him without scowling. It was the dark suit, he decided; he should wear it more often instead of waiting for another funeral.

As he strode down Zwinger Boulevard toward the Blue Dragon, he was stopped by a woman walking a Dalmatian. "Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" she asked.

"My watch says six-ten." "You're new in the neighborhood." "Just visiting," he said as he saluted courteously and went on his way.

Next it was Mary Duckworth's turn to exclaim. "You look tremendously attractive, Qwill!" she said. "Adelaide will be swept off her feet! She phoned me today - first time she has ever called - and said how much she enjoyed your company. She thanked me for taking you to tea." "It's only because I play Scrabble." "No, I think she liked your moustache. Or it was the Bosc pear. Whatever it was, you've kindled a light in the old girl's eyes." "From the appearance of the old girl's eyes," Qwilleran said, "she has cataracts. Why doesn't she have surgery?" "It may be that she doesn't want to see any better than she does. Did you notice that the windows have frosted glass? She wants time to stand still, circa 1935. But she can see the playing cards well enough - and the game board!...

What's your good news?" They sat in the shop, Qwilleran in a genuine: Chippendale corner chair and Mary on a Chinese ebony throne inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

He said, "The Klingenschoen Fund has given me carte blanche for the Casablanca preservation." "Wonderful! But I'm not surprised. After all, it's your own money, isn't it? My father says that's no secret in financial circles." "It won't actually be mine for another two years. But that's neither here nor there. The crucial question is: Will I be able to convince the Countess to sell?" "The way things look," said Mary, "you should have no problem. Are you looking forward to the evening?" "I find the prospect challenging but the environment depressing, like a glamorous old movie palace that hasn't shown films since World War Two." "You must remember," she said, "that an interior acquires a certain patina after sixty years, and the Plumb apartment is museum quality.

There's a large vase in the drawing room, decorated with flowers and nude women. I don't know whether you noticed it - " "I noticed it." "That piece alone is worth thousands of dollars on today's market. It's a Rene Buthaud." "Spell that." "B-u-t-h-a-u-d. We have a shop in Junktown that specializes in Art Deco, and the lowest price tag is in four figures." "I've been meaning to ask you, Mary," he said. "How long have you known the Countess?" "I didn't meet her until I joined SOCK and Di Bessinger enlisted me for backgammon, but I've heard the Adelaide legend all my life." "And what might that be?" Qwilleran's curiosity caused his moustache to bristle.

"Not anything you'd want to put in your book, but it was common gossip in social circles in the Thirties, according to my mother." "Well, let's have it!" "This is a true story," she began. "Soon after Adelaide made her debut she became affianced to a man who was considered a great catch, provided a girl had money. He was penniless but handsome and charming and from good stock.

Adelaide was the lucky girl and the envy of her set. Then... the economy collapsed, the banks closed, and Harrison Plumb was in desperate straits. He had never been financially astute, my father said, and he had thrown away millions on the Art Deco renovation. But now half the units of Casablanca were vacant, and the remaining tenants lacked the cash to pay the rent. The building had been his passion for thirty years, and he was about to lose it. Suddenly three astounding things happened: Adelaide broke her engagement; her father was solvent once more; and one of her Penniman cousins married the jilted man." "Are the obvious deductions true?" Qwilleran asked.

"There's no doubt about it. Adelaide bartered her fianc‚ for millions to save the Casablanca and save her dear father from ruin. And in those days a million was a lot of money." "That says something about Adelaide, but I'm not sure what," Qwilleran remarked. "Was it noble sacrifice or cold calculation?" "We think it was a painful, selfless gesture; right afterward she dropped out of the social scene completely. Sadly, her father died within months, and the Casablanca never regained its prestige." "How old was she when this happened?" "Eighteen, I believe." "She gives the impression of being satisfied with her choice. Who handles her financial affairs?" "After her father's death her Penniman relatives advised her to invest his life insurance and exploit the Casablanca. Naturally the Pennimans are now advising her to sell - " " - to Penniman, Greystone & Fleudd, of course. And you expect me to buck that kind of competition? You're a dreamer." "You have a strong ally, though, in her love for the building and for her father's memory. You can do it, Qwill!" Huffing into his moustache, he stood up to leave. "Well, wish me luck... What's that thing?" He pointed to a small decorative object.

"It's art glass - a pillbox - Art Deco design, probably seventy-five years old." "Would she like it?" "She'd love it! Even more than the Bosc pear." "I'll buy it," he said.

"Take it, with my compliments." Mary removed the price tag. "I'll put it in a velvet sack." With the velvet sack in his pocket, Qwilleran paid his second visit to the Plumb Palace on Twelve. As he waited for the elevator at the bronze door, the feisty Mrs. Button came hobbling down the hall with her cane.

"My! You do look handsome!" she said in a high, cracked voice. "My late husband always looked handsome in a dark suit. Every Thursday evening he would put on his dinner coat and I would put on a long dress, and we would go to the symphony. We always sat in a first-tier box. Are you going up to play cards with Adelaide? Have a lovely evening." Mrs. Button hobbled as far as the front door, then turned and hobbled back again - one of several ambulatory invalids who took their prescribed exercise in the hallways of the Casablanca. Qwilleran thought, If the building reverts to its original palatial character, what will happen to the old people? And the students? And Isabelle? And Mrs. Tuttle and Rupert?

Pondering this he rode up to Twelve in the rosewood elevator and was admitted by Ferdinand, looming huge in his coral-colored coat. "It's not gonna be chicken hash," were the houseman's first words. "It's gonna be shrimp. I dunno why. It's always chicken hash on Thursday." The hostess came forward with hands extended and head tilted prettily to one side. She had been tilting her head prettily for so many years that one shoulder was now higher than the other. Yesterday Qwilleran thought her posturings and obsessions were ludicrous; today, having heard the Adelaide legend, he found her a pathetic figure, despite her turquoise chiffon hostess gown with floating scarfs and square-cut onyx and diamond jewelry.

"So good to see you again, Mr. Qwillen," she said.

He sat in the Bibendum chair, and Ferdinand served heavily watered grapejuice in square-cut stemware.

Qwilleran raised his glass in a toast. "To gracious ladies in enchanted palaces!" The sad little Countess inclined her head in acknowledgment. "Have you had an interesting day?" she asked.

"I spent the day looking forward to this evening and selecting this trinket for you." He presented the velvet sack.

With cries of delight she extracted the Art Deco pillbox. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Qwillen! It's French Modern! I shall put this in my boudoir." "I thought it would be in keeping with the stunning ambiance you have created. Is that a Rene Buthaud vase on the mantel?" he asked, flaunting his newly acquired knowledge.

"Yes, and it means so much to me. It contains the ashes of my dear father. He was such a handsome and cultivated gentleman! How he loved to take me to Paris - to the opera and museums and salons!" "Did you meet Gertrude Stein?" "We attended her salon. I was a very young girl, but I remember meeting some dashing young men. I think they were writers." "Hemingway? Fitzgerald?" She raised her hands in a gracefully helpless gesture. "That was so long ago. Forgive me if I don't remember." At that moment Ferdinand made his menacing appearance and announced in a muscle-bound growl, "Dinner's served." It was served on square-cut dinnerware on a round ebony table in a circular dining room paneled in black, turquoise, and mirror, its perimeter lighted with torchSres. The entr‚e was shrimp Newburgh, preceded by a slice of pate and followed by that favorite of the Twenties, Waldorf salad. Then Ferdinand prepared bananas Foster in a chafing dish with heavy-handed competence and a disdainful expression meaning that this was not real food.

During dinner the conversation lurched rather than flowed, their voices sounding hollow in the vaultlike room.

Qwilleran was relieved when they moved to the library for coffee and Scrabble. Here he proceeded to amaze his hostess by spelling such high-scoring words as ZANY and QIVIUT, and once he retripled. She was a good player and she seemed to relish the challenge. She was a different woman at the game table.

At the end she said, "This has been a most enjoyable evening. I hope you will come again, Mr. Qwillen." "Enough of formality," he said. "Could you bring yourself to call me Qwill. It's good for seventeen points." "I must correct you," she said merrily. "Fourteen points." "Seventeen," he insisted. "I spell it with a QW." "Then you must call me Zizou, my father's pet name for me. It's worth twenty-three!" Her laughter was so giddy that Ferdinand made an alarmed appearance in the doorway.

"May I beg a favor of you, Zizou?" Qwilleran asked, taking advantage of her happy mood. "Yesterday I mentioned writing a book about the Casablanca. Would you consent to having your apartment photographed?" "Would you take my picture, too?" she answered coyly.

"By all means. Sitting on the sofa, pouring tea." "That would be quite exciting. What should I wear?" "You always look beautiful, whatever you wear." "Do you have a camera?" "Yes, but not good enough for this. I'd hire an architectural photographer. He could take some striking views of these rooms." "Would he photograph all of them?" "All that you wish to have photographed." "Oh, dear! I wonder if my dear father would approve." Qwilleran launched his proposal. "He would approve enthusiastically, and there is something else that your father would want you to do. He would realize that buildings, like people, get tired in their old age. They need rejuvenation. If he were here, he would know that the Casablanca is , from the roof to the basement." Shocked at the suggestion, the Countess fluttered her hands about her jewelry. "I find my suite quite - quite satisfactory." "That's because you don't venture beyond your magnificent copper doors, Zizou. This may be painful for you to contemplate, but your palace is in bad condition, and there are people who think it should be torn down." She stiffened. "That will never happen!" "Some of the people who play bridge with you are asking to buy the building, are they not? If you sell to them, they'll tear it down. To save the Casablanca you need a partner - someone who appreciates the building as much as you do." (Careful, he thought; it sounds like a marriage proposal. Ferdie Le Bull was around the corner, listening.) "You need a financial partner," he went on, "who will put money into its renovation and restore it to its original beauty. Your father would approve of a partnership. When he built this palace in 1901, he had an architect for a partner. A financial partner would be the beginning of a new life for the Casablanca." The expression in her clouded eyes told him that the concept was beyond her comprehension. Her brain was geared for grand slams and retripIes. Her face was a blank. She was withdrawing.

As if sensing a crisis, Ferdinand made his clumsy entrance. "Want me to bring the tea?" Once more the Countess cocked her head prettily and said in her debutante voice, "Would you like a cup of camomile tea before you leave, Mr. Qwillen?" "No, thank you," he said rising. "It has been an enjoyable evening, but I must say good night, Miss Plumb." He bowed out, and the glowering houseman showed him to the door.

Nibbling at his moustache, Qwilleran rode down to the main floor in luxury and rode up to Fourteen in the dismal clutches of Old Green. Ignoring Koko's greeting at the door he went directly to the telephone and called Polly Duncan.

"I crashed!" he announced without preamble. "I broached the subject of restoration to the Countess and hit a stone wall." "That's too bad," she said soothingly but not earnestly.

"She's been out-of-touch for sixty years. She doesn't know what's happening and doesn't want to know. One can't reason with her." "Perhaps you should consider this setback a signal from your tutelary genius, telling you to forget the Casablanca and come home." "I can't give up so easily. The K Fund okayed the investment today, and it would be embarrassing - " "Sleep on it," Polly advised. "Tomorrow it will be clear what you should do, but I wish you would seriously consider coming home. Today on the radio they reported a shooting in an office building down there. A man killed a lawyer and his secretary." "That was a disgruntled law clerk who had been fired," Qwilleran explained.

"Next time it could be a disgruntled motorist who doesn't like the way you change lanes on the freeway," she said sharply. "You have a duty to play it safe, like English royalty." "Hmff," Qwilleran grumbled. He took time to groom his moustache with his fingertips before changing the subject.

"How's everything with you?" "I may have some good news, Qwill. There's a chance that old Mrs. Gage on Goodwinter Boulevard will rent her carriage house." "What about Bootsie?" "She doesn't object to cats. How are the Siamese?" "Yum Yum is rather lethargic and Koko is acting strangely," he said.

"They're homesick for Pickax," Polly said cunningly, adding weight to her argument. She knew he would return for the cats' well-being if not for his own. "What else did you do today?" "I had lunch at the Press Club, but the service was terrible, and the food isn't as good as it used to be. I took Koko for a walk on the terrace, and I did some laundry in the basement of the building." They rambled on like comfortable old marrieds until Polly ended the conversation with, "Think about what I said, dearest, and call me about your decision." She knew that Qwilleran liked to limit his long-distance calls to five minutes.

"A bient“t." "A bient“t." His frustration was subsiding, and he was about to relieve it further with a large dish of ice cream, when he received an urgent phone call from Amber, asking if he had seen the night edition of Friday's Morning Rampage. "You're in Sasha Crispen-Schmitt's column!" she announced.

"I haven't seen the paper. Read it to me." "You won't like it," she said, and then read: " 'Guess who's staying at the Casablanca in the penthouse apartment of the late Diane Bessinger! None other than Jim Qwilleran, former Daily Fluxion writer who inherited untold millions and moved to a small town that no one ever heard of. Would anyone care to put two and two together? Our guess: Qwill is here to bankroll the preservation of the Casablanca, which so many local bigwigs want to tear down. Get your ringside tickets for the Battle of the Bucks!' "