The Cat Who Lived High

16

WHEN QWILLERAN RUSHED into 14-A and found the bathroom flooded and the culprit sitting on the toilet tank, he had no time to analyze motives. He tore off his shoes and socks, threw bath towels on the floor, then squeezed them out-a performance that Koko found diverting. Qwilleran growled into his moustache but realized the futility of a reprimand. If he said "Bad cat!" Koko would merely gaze at him with that no-speak-English expression.

The mopping job finished, he took the towels to the basement to put in the dryer, but the laundry room was locked for the night. It gave him time, however, as he rode down on sluggish Old Red and up again on laggard Old Green, to think about Koko's misdemeanor. The cat had rubbed his jaw against the lever-type faucet. It was obviously neurotic behavior; he was bored and lonely and wanted to attract attention. With Yum Yum in her indolent mood, Koko missed the chasing, frolicking, wrestling, and mutual grooming sessions that are so important to Siamese pairs.

It's my fault, Qwilleran said to himself; I dragged them to the city when they wanted to stay in the country.

Koko was waiting for him when he returned with the pail of wet towels. "I'm sorry, old friend," he said. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We'll spend the day together. We'll find something interesting to do. If the weather permits, how would you like to go for a walk on the roof?" "Yow," said Koko, squeezing his eyes. He gave the cats a bedtime snack - a morsel of smoked salmon from the deli - and was getting into his pajamas when he had reason to pause and listen. Something could be heard crawling under the floor.

"That's no mouse," he said aloud. "That's a rat!" The cats heard it, too, Koko scurrying around with his nose to the floor, and even Yum Yum sniffing in a lackadaisical way.

Qwilleran strode to the housephone in the kitchen and rang the manager's night number. Rupert answered.

"Rupert! This is Qwilleran on Fourteen. We've got rats up here under the floor!... Rats! That's what I said. R-a-t- s! Yes, I can hear them under the floor in the master bedroom. The cats hear them, too... Oh! Is that so?... Hmmm, I see. That's too bad... Well, sorry to bother you, Rupert. Good night." He returned to the bedroom. "It's a plumber in the crawl space," he informed the Siamese. "He's investigating a leak. Water's dripping down into the Countess's bedroom. Does that make you feel guilty, Koko?" The cat laundered a spot on his chest with exasperating nonchalance.

If it had happened to any apartment but that of the Countess, Qwilleran reflected, the management would have waited until Monday.

True to his word he spent Sunday with the Siamese, first grooming them both with a new rubber-bristled brush he had found in a pet shop. Then he read aloud to them from Eothen, Yum Yum falling asleep on his lap during the chapter on the Cairo plague. Around noontime he strapped the harness on Koko and took him for a walk out of the apartment, across the elevator lobby, through the door marked No Admittance, up two flights of stairs, and out onto the roof, Koko marching with soldierly step and perpendicular tail.

It was glorious on the rooftop. There was a dramatic view of the downtown skyline and the river curving away to the south. The cat sniffed the breeze hungrily and tugged on the leash; he wanted to walk to the edge. Qwilleran had other ideas; he pulled Koko to the skylight and peered down into the penthouse apartment. Although the glass was clouded with age, certain panes had been replaced in recent times, and it was possible to see the long sofa, the large paintings, and some of the potted trees. At night, with the gallery lighted, anyone on the roof could look down and see whatever was happening in the conversation pit.

Qwilleran thought, What if... ? What if someone on the roof had witnessed the murder of Di Bessinger and knew the true identity of the murderer? Why wouldn't he come forward with the information? Because he would fear for his own life, or because he would recognize an opportunity for blackmail? But that was the way it happened in mystery novels, not in real life.

The skylight held no attraction for Koko, who preferred to walk on the low parapet that edged the roof. Together they made one complete turn around the perimeter before going downstairs for the next activity, which was Scrabble.

Hardly had the game started when the telephone rang. Qwilleran hoped it might be Winnie Wingfoot; he had a hunch she would follow up their brief acquaintance of the evening before. Instead, it was the disappointing, reedy voice of Charlotte Roop.

"Are you busy, Mr. Qwilleran? I hope I'm not interrupting anything." "I was just thinking of going for a walk," he said, "but that's all right." "I wondered if I could go up and see your beautiful pussycats a little later on, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition." She had shown no interest in the Siamese when they lived on River Road. "Sure," he said without enthusiasm.

"What time would be convenient?" "Well, I'm due at the restaurant at four, and if I went up there about three thirty..." "That's good," he said, thinking that she would be unable to stay long. "I'll expect you at three thirty. I'm in 14-A." "Do you mind if I bring my friend?" "Of course I don't mind." What else could he say?

To Koko he said, "Your old pal Charlotte is dropping in at three thirty. Try to act like a gentleman." During their previous acquaintance, which had been brief, the cat had gone out of his way to shock and embarrass the woman.

Charlotte was easily shocked and embarrassed in those days.

They went back to their Scrabble. Koko was partial to the letter O, and Qwilleran was building words like FOOT, ROOF, TOOT, and DODO when the telephone rang again. This time he was sure it was Winnie Wingfoot, but it was Isabelle Wilburton, and she was inebriated.

"Watcha doin'?" she asked in a sleepy voice.

"I'm working at my desk," he said coolly.

"Mind if I... come up?" "I'm afraid this is not a good time to visit. I'm concentrating on a problem." "Wanna come down here?" "I've just told you, Miss Wilburton, that I'm extremely busy and cannot leave my work at this time," he said with a touch of impatience.

"Why don'cha call me Isabelle?" "All right, Isabelle. As I said, I can't interrupt what I'm doing." "Don'cha like me?" He had a great desire to hang up, but he said as graciously as he could, "It's not that I don't like you; it's simply that you are calling at an inopportune time." "Don'cha wanna see my cat?" "I've seen your cat, Isabelle. I saw her in the lobby yesterday. She's a nice little kitten and I told you so." "Wanna come and have dinner?" He tried to speak kindly. "Perhaps you don't remember, but I told you yesterday that I have a dinner meeting with the officers of SOCK." "Nobody wants to eat with me," she whined. "I don't have any friends. I'm gonna jump off the roof." "Now, wait a minute, Isabelle. Don't talk like that. You have a good life ahead of you. How old are you?" "Forty-two. Forty-three. Don't remember." "Do you remember the conversation we had in the laundry room? I had the same experience when I was your age, so I know how you feel and what you're going through. I also know you can get help, the way I did, and start enjoying a good life again. There are groups you can join, where you'll meet people who have the same problem as yours." "Don't have any problem. Just don't have any friends. No reason to live anymore. Gonna go up on the roof and jump off." "Isabelle, the last time I saw you in the lobby you were carrying your kitten in a blue blanket, and you seemed very happy. What's the name of your kitten?" "Sweetie Pie." Her speech was slurred.

"Is she good company?" There was no answer. He thought he heard a glug and a swallow.

"What do you feed her?" "Stuff out of a can." "Do you play with her? Kittens like to play. You should tie a twist of paper on a string and swing it around - let her jump for it and chase it." It was an asinine conversation, but he was trying to distract her from her grisly intention. "Where does she sleep?" "On my bed." "Is she a happy cat?" "Guess so." "Does she purr a lot?" He hoped that something would capture her interest.

"I dunno." "Kittens need love and attention. They like to be brushed, too. Have you tried brushing her?" Qwilleran mopped his brow. Why was he perspiring? Why was he working so hard? She wasn't even listening.

"Wanna come down... have a drink?" she mumbled.

"Have you had anything to eat today, Isabelle?" "Gonna jump off the roof... end it all." "Listen, Isabelle, you can't do that. Think of Sweetie Pie! She needs you! What would she do without you? She's just a helpless kitten." "Gonna take her with me." He paused for an instant. Then, "Hold the line a minute, Isabelle. Don't hang up! I'll be right back!" Hurrying to the kitchen he rang the housephone. "Isabelle Wilburton's threatening to jump off the roof!" he shouted. "I've got her on the phone!" "Keep her on the line," Mrs. Tuttle said. "I'll go up to her apartment." He rushed back to his phone in the library but heard only a dial tone. Was she on the way to the roof-with the kitten? Running out of the apartment and slamming the door, he sprinted up two flights of stairs, three at a time; there was no one up there. He waited for a while, but Isabelle didn't appear. Could she have arrived before him? Impossible! Yet he looked over the edge apprehensively. A wind had sprung up, and he stepped inside the stairwell for protection.

What am I doing here at the Casablanca? he asked himself. It had been nothing but stress in the last week: cranky elevators, cold showers, runaway radiators, the Gut Dancers, trouble in the parking lot, the crazy Countess, and now Isabelle! After ten or fifteen minutes he was sure she had been intercepted, and he started downstairs. At the bottom of the second flight he received a harsh surprise. The steel door shutting off the stairwell was locked!

At first he refused to believe it. Then he realized that Mrs. Tuttle had sent Rupert up to lock the door and foil the would - be suicide. He banged on the door with a fist, hoping that Keestra Hedrog would be spending a quiet Sunday afternoon at home and would hear him. The only response was a muffled "Yow!" from behind the door of 14-A. Koko knew he was in trouble, but a lot of good that did!

Qwilleran returned to the roof and looked over the edge, doubting that he could signal for help from that height.

There was no one in the parking lot, Sundays at the Casablanca being as quiet as Saturdays were hectic. He circled the roof, hoping to see a pedestrian walking a dog on Zwinger Boulevard, or a jogger behind the building, or someone throwing rubbish into the dumpster. There was no one in sight, and it was getting cold.

Slowly he started down the two flights to Fourteen. In the stairwell he could hear the machinery in the elevator housing, as well as a certain familiar clanking and banging that meant Old Red or Old Green was approaching Fourteen.

He ran down the stairs and was pounding on the door and calling for help when the elevator arrived.

"Oh, dear!" said a timid voice. "Who's that?" "I'm locked in the stairwell! Get the manager to open the door!" "Oh, dear! This is Charlotte, Mr. Qwilleran. We were just coming to see you... Raymond, go down to the desk and tell them. I'll stay here." There were sounds of an elevator descending. "How did you get locked in there, Mr. Qwilleran?" asked the reedy voice that now sounded so welcome, so comforting.

"You'll never believe my story," he said on the other side of the door. "I'll tell you when I get out." "Roberto is expecting you for dinner tonight. He said to send you up to his apartment when you arrive." "Am I holding you up? I don't want you to be late for work." "Oh, no, it's only twenty-five minutes to four. I'm sure Raymond will get someone right away." Qwilleran had always found conversation with Charlotte to be strained, even without a heavy door between them, and he was relieved when the elevator made its noisy arrival and Rupert unlocked the door.

"Nobody told me you was on the roof," he said.

"Nobody knew. Thanks, Rupert. I wasn't looking forward to spending the night in the stairwell. You'll have to let me into 14-A, too. I forgot my key." Standing by were Charlotte Roop and her friend with the ear patch. Qwilleran felt momentarily grateful to both of them, and he felt a flash of sympathy for Dunwoody, wondering why he wore such a noticeable badge of his deformity.

Perhaps he could not afford a prosthetic ear.

"'Come in," he said. "Welcome to the garden spot of the Casablanca." The two entered, gazing in wonder.

"Were you never here before?" he asked.

"No," said Charlotte. "I never was." "Where did it happen?" Dunwoody asked.

"Where did what happen?" "The murder." "I don't know," Qwilleran said untruthfully. He opened the French doors to the gallery. "This is the former swimming pool, now a combination living room and art gallery. Won't you go in and sit down? Be careful going down the steps. I'll try to find the cats." Awestruck, the couple wandered into the sky- lighted wonderland of potted trees and gargantuan mushrooms.

Qwilleran found Yum Yum in the bedroom, dozing on the waterbed, and he found Koko in the bathroom, sitting in the turkey roaster - just sitting there. "No comment, please," he said to the cat. When he returned to the gallery with an animal under each arm, his visitors were huddled close together on the twenty-foot sofa like babes in the wilderness.

"Here they are! This one is Koko, the male, and this is Yum Yum, the female," he said, aware of the inanity of the statement.

"What kind are they?" asked Dunwoody.

"Siamese. Very intelligent." Yum Yum demonstrated her intelligence by scampering up the stairs, through the French doors and back to the waterbed. Koko scratched his ear with a hind foot, a trick that required him to cross his eyes and show his fangs - the least attractive pose in his entire repertory.

"May I offer you a drink?" Qwilleran asked.

"Nothing for me," said Charlotte.

"Wouldn't mind a beer," Dunwoody said, his impassive face showing a glimmer of interest.

Excusing himself, Qwilleran went to the kitchen and returned with a tray. "Just in case you want to change your mind," he said to Charlotte, "here is a glass of white grapejuice." He refrained from saying that it was Koko's private stock; the notion would have offended her. Dunwoody reached for his glass of beer gingerly; it was doubtlessly the only beer he had ever drunk from Waterford cut crystal. "Cheers!" Qwilleran said grimly as he raised his own glass of grapejuice.

"Unusual room," said Dunwoody. "The entire apartment was created from a former restaurant called the Palm Pavilion. The building has an interesting history. I'm thinking of writing a book about it." Charlotte said to her friend, "Mr. Qwilleran is a brilliant writer." They both gazed on him in wonder.

"Are you also in the restaurant business?" Qwilleran asked the man.

"No, I work for the city." "He's an engineer," said Charlotte proudly.

"How do you like living in the country, Mr. Qwilleran?" "Now that I've adjusted to the fresh air, safe streets, and lack of traffic, I like it." "I've always lived in the city. So has Raymond, haven't you, dear?" She turned and beamed at her companion.

Qwilleran resisted a desire to look at his watch. "How long have you lived at the Casablanca?" "Ever since they tore down our old building on River Road. Raymond moved in... when did you move in, dear?" "Four months ago." "It's convenient to our work," she explained.

"That's a definite advantage," said Qwilleran.

"The bus stops in front." This was Dunwoody's contribution.

The three looked at each other, Qwilleran trying desperately to think of something to say. It was the longest ten minutes in his memory.

Dunwoody spoke again. "What's that cat doing?" Koko was burrowing under the dhurrie in front of the bar.

"Stop that, Koko!" Qwilleran scolded. He dragged the cat from under the rug and straightened it to cover the bloodstain. "It's a bad habit he's picked up. Another beer, Mr. Dunwoody?" "It's time for me to go to work," said Charlotte. "Come, Raymond. Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran." "My pleasure, I assure you. It's fortunate that you happened along when you did." He had been so relieved to see them arrive, and now he was so relieved to see them leave!

His guests climbed out of the conversation pit, murmured their goodbyes, and left the apartment. If Qwilleran had been a drinking man, he would have poured a double scotch. Instead he scooped a large dishful of Neapolitan ice cream for himself and a spoonful for the Siamese. They lapped up the vanilla but showed their disapproval of the chocolate and strawberry by pawing the air in sign language that said, "Take it and bury it!" Considering the events of the afternoon, Qwilleran was glad when it was time to dress and go to dinner at Roberto's. Out came the gray suit again, and at six thirty he walked to the Blue Dragon to pick up Mary Duckworth.

On the way to the restaurant she said, "'Will you explain something, Qwill? Last Monday you told me you didn't play table games, and three days later you were beating the Countess at Scrabble." "It astounds me, too, Mary. First, Yum Yum found that blank tile, and then Koko found the Scrabble box, so I read the instructions and decided to give it a try. If I happened to win, it was beginner's luck," he said modestly. "Incidentally, there are several tiles missing in the Scrabble set. I wonder what happened to them." "Di had a cat who used to steal them and push them under the refrigerator," she said.

"I didn't know she had a cat." "A Persian named Vincent-after Van Gogh, you know." "What happened to him?" "Her ex-husband took him. Vincent lives at the gallery now." "Did she like Scrabble, or did she play to humor the Countess?" "She was an avid player. It was a Sunday night ritual. I used to make a foursome occasionally." "Were you there... on the Sunday night... when she died?" Mary nodded. "That's a painful memory. When I left the party around eight o'clock, everything was fine." Qwilleran had another question to ask, but they had arrived at the restaurant, and two other couples were preceding them up the steps, creating congestion in the foyer where Charlotte was official greeter.

"We'll go right upstairs, Charlotte," said Mary.