The Cat Who Lived High

14

Author's note: There is no Chapter 13 in this book.

EARLY SATURDAY MORNING Qwilleran placed a telephone call to the Homicide Squad and left a message for Lieutenant Hames. When the phone rang a few minutes later, he was prepared to greet the detective but heard instead the soothing voice of Polly Duncan.

"Where were you last evening?" she began. "I tried to reach you." "What time did you call?" "At eleven, when the rates dropped." To taunt her he replied, "I was taking a woman home. I met her at an art gallery, and we came here for a few drinks." There was a worried pause. "Who was she?" "An artist." "Did you just... pick her up?" "No, we'd met before. You don't need to worry, Polly. She's eighty years old and crippled with arthritis. Why were you trying to reach me?" "To tell you that I read about you in the Morning Rampage. The library subscribes, you know. But mostly to thank you for the beautiful handbag. It's the nicest I've ever owned! That was very thoughtful of you, dearest, although it only makes me miss you more." "I wanted you to know I'm thinking of you, in spite of being surrounded by female flashers and arthritic octogenarians and eccentric heiresses." He made no mention of Winnie Wingfoot, although he moistened his lips as her image flashed through his mind.

"How's the kitten with a hollow leg?" "Absolutely incorrigible! Last night I brought home two little lamb chops for my dinner, and as Soon as I unwrapped them, he swooped in and dragged one down to the floor." "Any news about the carriage house?" "Yes, Mrs. Gage is letting me have it with the idea that I'll keep an eye on the big house while she's in Florida. So you can have your apartment, Qwill, if you come home. What did you decide?" "I have eighteen more restaurants to try before I can return to face Moose County goulash." "Oh, Qwill! It's not that bad! Where did you have dinner last night?" "At a middle-eastem place downtown - hummus, pita, kabobs and tabbouleh." "Alone?" "Alone, and I have a receipted guest check to prove it." After more affectionate banter Polly said, "Do be careful, dearest. If anything happened to you, it would break my heart, you know that." "I'll be careful," he promised.

When he went out to breakfast, he discovered that Saturday morning was carnival time in the Casablanca lobby as the tenants turned out to shop for groceries, do laundry, pay the rent, pick up their dry cleaning, stock up on videos for the weekend, return books to the library, jog around the vacant lots, and do all the other busywork that occupies working people and students on their day off. Even the old and infirm were circulating; the two elderly women who usually drifted through the halls in quilted robes were fully dressed, explaining to everyone that they were being taken to visit a friend in a nursing home. Mrs. Tuttle was busy handling complaints and writing rent receipts. Rupert was directing a youth who was trying to mop the floor. Napoleon and Kitty-Baby were dodging feet.

After picking up a few treats for his roommates at a neighborhood deli, Qwilleran returned to the building and was heading for the elevator when he encountered the person he least wanted to meet. Surprisingly, Isabelle Wilburton presented a neat and appropriate appearance in a white blouse and khaki skirt. On previous occasions he had seen her in a spotted housecoat or a cocktail dress or a fur coat or less. She was carrying her kitten, nestled in a blue towel.

"Mr. Qwilleran, I took your advice," she said. "Isn't she adorable? Her name is Sweetie Pie." "She's an appealing little cat," he agreed, "and she'll be good company for you." "Would you like to have dinner with us tonight? I'm cooking a pot roast. I hope it will be good. I haven't really cooked anything for ages." "I appreciate the thought," he said, "but I've already accepted another invitation." "How about tomorrow night?" she asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately I've agreed to keep Sunday open for a meeting with the officers of SOCK. You see, I'm writing a book on the historic Casablanca." "Oh, really? I could tell you a lot about that. My grandparents had an apartment here back in the 1920s, when it was so exclusive. My grandmother used to tell me stories about it." "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the suggestion," he said, inwardly recoiling. "Has the mailperson been here?" Isabelle waved an envelope. "Yes, the mail just came in." She appeared quite happy about it. No doubt the envelope contained her subsistence check.

Qwilleran went to the mailroom and found the door blocked by Ferdie Le Bull, his imprinted T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest. He confronted Qwilleran with the menacing scowl that was his idea of social grace. "When you gonna take the pictures?" he demanded.

"Of Miss Plumb's apartment? Whenever she gives her approval." "Any time's okay. She never goes out." "All right. I'll notify the photographer, and he'll call you to make an appointment." "She's all het up about it," said the houseman. "Is he gonna take my picture, too?" He passed a hand over his bald head.

"Probably." "Does he play bridge?" "You'll have to ask him," said Qwilleran. Encouraged by this positive development he determined to go ahead seriously with the book. As he waited for the elevator he visualized about thirty-percent text and seventy-percent black- and-white photos: views of the opulent lobby and Palm Pavilion, pictures of celebrities, old cars, and residents in nostalgic fashions - from Edwardian to Flapper Era to Early Thirties. In the center, a color section would feature overall shots of the Art Deco rooms as well as close-ups of the rare vase containing Harrison Plumb's ashes, the Cubist rugs and pillows, a tooled copper screen inset with ebony, tables with angular legs, club chairs with voluptuous curves, and walls of framed French art photos of the 1920s. It was all lush and otherworldly. The frontispiece would be Adelaide St. John Plumb with her plucked and penciled eyebrows and her marcelled hair, sitting on the : overstuffed sofa and pouring tea, looking like a living relic of the Casablanca's dim past. For the text he would like to interview old- timers; surely there were such persons tucked away in odd corners of the building, living in faded splendor. It was a pity that Mrs. Button had not survived a little longer. Even Isabelle Wilburton might have to be interviewed.

As he pondered the possibilities, the door of Old Red opened, and the white-haired manager of Roberto's restaurant stepped from the car, accompanied by a pale-faced man who was much younger. He was the fellow with a bandage where his right ear should be.

Charlotte Roop was looking buoyantly happy. "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!" she cried. "I want you to meet my friend, Raymond Dimwitty... Ray, this I is Mr. Qwilleran who I've told you so much about." Not believing what he had heard, Qwilleran said, "I didn't catch the last name. Spell it for me." "D-u-n-w-o-o-d-y," said the man.

Qwilleran made heroic attempts not to stare at the ear patch as they exchanged polite words.

Charlotte said, "We always go out to lunch on Saturday and then to a movie. There's a discount if you go early, and I don't have to be at the restaurant until four." "I hope you have an enjoyable afternoon. You have good weather for it," Qwilleran said courteously.

Old Red had gone up without him, and now he waited for Old Green, wondering how this unlikely couple had met: Charlotte with her fluttery, spinsterish manner and white hair like spun sugar, a woman well past retirement age, and Raymond Dunwoody with his ear patch and blank expression, a man not over forty-five. When the elevator arrived and opened its reluctant door, a cheerful passenger with a laundry basket, on her way up from the basement, crowed, "Oh, wow! We have somebody rich and famous living here now!" This was followed by a gusty laugh.

"If I were rich and famous, I wouldn't be living at Ye OIde Broken-down Casablanca," Qwilleran said with forced geniality that concealed his irritation. He disembarked at Three and walked.the rest of the way up to Fourteen, silently cursing Sasha what's her name for revealing his financial status. He enjoyed the role of a retired journalist; he did not enjoy the role of a millionaire. Briefly, he considered moving to the Penniman Plaza until he remembered that hotels did not accept cats.

On the way upstairs he heard an ambulance siren winding down in front of the building. Another casualty! Who was it this time?

Arriving at 14-A he found a newspaper clipping under his door with a note from Amber scrawled in the margin: "Did you see this?" It came from the business page of Saturday's Morning Rampage - an interview with one of the principals of Penniman, Greystone & Fleudd. Rexwell Fleudd stated that the proposed Gateway Alcazar was fifty percent leased, and ground would be broken sooner than expected. A one-column head shot of the developer showed a long narrow face with high cheekbones and blow-dried hair. Qwilleran crumpled it in disgust and tossed it in the wastebasket.

Immediately the delicate thud of velvet paws could be heard, bounding out of the bedroom, and Yum Yum, the sleeping beauty, made a nose-dive into the wastebasket to retrieve the crumpled clipping. The crumpling of paper was a sound she could hear in her dreams. Qwilleran took it away from her, not wanting her to chew it and ingest printer's ink.

As he did so, he had another look at that arrogant face and wondered where he had seen it before.

Yum Yum was peeved, and to assuage her ruffled feelings he stroked her fur and paid her a few lavish compliments on her pulchritude, her sweetness of disposition, and her nobility of character. She purred - and went back to bed.

Why does she loll around so much? he asked himself. Is it the smog? Or some kind of stress?

Meanwhile, Koko was waiting for action on the Scrabble table, and he won the first few draws so handily that Qwilleran changed the rules to permit proper nouns, slang, and foreign words. Even with a handicap the cat won, but the man had the satisfaction of spelling such words as IXION, MERCI, CIAO, and SNAFU. Toward the end of the game he spelled a word that proved to be prophetic: OOPS.

As it happened, he intended to spend the afternoon at the library, and on his way downtown he stopped at the Penniman Plaza for lunch. The coffee shop was on the mezzanine, and he was s1epping on the upward-bound escalator when he heard a cracked voice directly behind him crying, "Help me!" He half-turned and caught a glimpse of a dirty white beard. At the same moment someone grabbed his arm. What happened next seemed to be in slow motion: his hand reaching for the handrail... the handrail moving beyond his grasp.

.. his body sinking backward... his feet continuing to move upward... the steps behind him rising to meet his spine...

the whole escalator ascending relentlessly as he lay on his back, riding to the mezzanine feetfirst.

The absurdity of his position stunned him momentarily until screams from onlookers recalled the episode on the subway tracks and marshalled his wits. In a matter of seconds he had to swing his legs around in the narrow space, maneuver his feet lower than his head, scramble to his knees, stand up. Just as the moving steps telescoped into the floor above, he was upright, and hands were helping him step onto terra firma.

"Are you hurt, sir?" a security man asked.

"I don't think so," Qwilleran replied. "Only a trifle surprised." "Let me take you to the manager's office, sir." "First I want to sit down and have a cup of coffee and figure out what happened." "You can get coffee right here in the bar, sir.

Are you sure you're all right?" The uniformed guard conducted Qwilleran into a dimly lighted lounge. "I'll notify the manager, sir. He'll send someone down." "Mr. Qwilleran! What happened?" the bartender called out. He had a reddish moustache, and Qwilleran recognized the jogger from the Casablanca.

"I don't know exactly." Another security guard arrived on the scene. "I was down there. I seen it. One of them kooks that wanders around - kind of unsteady on his feet - wanted to get on the escalator, and I told him not to. He grabbed this man's arm." "I rode up feetfirst," Qwilleran explained to the bartender. "I've gone feetfirst into worse situations than this, but I'll admit this was a peculiar sensation." "You need a stiff drink. What'll it be?" "My days as a stiff drinker are over, but I could use a strong cup of coffee." "Coming right up." Qwilleran sipped the brew gratefully while security personnel hovered about to prevent his escape, pending the arrival of a hotel official. He said to the bartender, "You know my name but I don't know yours." "Randy. Randy Jupiter. I remember reading your column when you wrote for the Fluxion - the reviews about restaurants, I mean. I clipped every one and then checked them out on my day off. You were always right on!" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Having his column clipped was his favorite kind of compliment. "A lot of new eating places have opened since then," he said. "I've been away for three years." "They sure have! It looks like nobody stays home and cooks anymore. How long are you going to be here? I could recommend a few good ones." "My plans aren't definite. I'm here to write a book on the Casablanca, and it will depend on what luck I have with research." "The Rampage said you're going to buy the building," Jupiter said with a grin.

"No one believes the Rampage. Stick with the Fluxion, boy." "Didn't you say you're on Fourteen?" "In 14-A." "That must be the Bessinger apartment. I've never seen it, but I hear it's something else." "It's unique," Qwilleran agreed.

The assistant manager appeared, and Qwilleran assured her he was not hurt and saw no reason to hold the hotel responsible. He willingly supplied the personable young woman with the information she needed for her report and accepted vouchers good for dinner and dry cleaning. When the transaction was completed the bartender said to Qwilleran, "That's not too shabby." "She might have offered to go to dinner with me. Then it would be worth the indignity of riding up feetfirst. How long have you lived at the Casablanca?" "Just a few months. Do you like jazz?" "I was a jazzhound in college but I haven't done much listening lately." Qwilleran felt comfortable with the bartender. It was his private theory that men with large moustaches tend to gravitate toward other men with large moustaches. Likewise, fat men get together. Men with beards or long hair like to talk to men with beards or long hair.

Jupiter said, "I've got a super collection of old jazz artists. Any time you want to hear some great sounds like Jelly Roll, the Duke - " "Do you have Charlie Parker?" "I have everything. Just knock on my door. I'm in 6-A." "My apartment has a fantastic stereo system and spectacular acoustics," Qwilleran said. "Perhaps you'd like to bring some recordings upstairs." "I'd go for that." "I'll get in touch with you." "Call me here or at home." Jupiter scribbled two phone numbers on a cocktail napkin.

"Okay. Now I'm ready for lunch." Lunch at the Penniman coffee shop was agreeably uneventful. Qwilleran also welcomed the scholarly silence of the library's history department, where he selected photos and signed an order for copies to be made.

Back at the Casablanca, 14-A was equally quiet. Too quiet! Koko seemed preoccupied as he waited for the mincing of the roast beef from the deli, and Yum Yum did not report at all until Qwilleran went to the bedroom and said, "Would Cleopatra consent to rise from her divan and repair to the dining salon for a light repast?" He should have known that Koko's distracted demeanor was the countdown before the blast-off.