The Cat Who Lived High

17

THE EGGPLANT-COLOR carpet of Roberto's restaurant continued up the stairs to his apartment. "You'll find that his taste has changed radically, Qwill," said Mary, raising the eyebrows that were so accustomed to being raised. "In Italy he discovered International Modem!" As a purveyor of Chippendale and Ch'ien-lung, she obviously disapproved.

"I like Modem, myself," he said. "I've liked it ever since I sublet Harry Noyton's apartment at the Villa Verandah." "Noyton's place was Victorian Gothic compared to what you are about to see," she replied.

The carpet ended at the top of the stairs, and the floor from there on was a glossy expanse of amber marble.

Here and there on this mirrorlike surface stood constructions of steel rods or tubes combined with geometric elements of glass or leather, apparently tables and chairs. Roberto made his entrance from the far end, where Qwilleran supposed he did his actual living in a baronial snuggery furnished with cushioned couches and red velvet.

This attorney who preferred to be a chef was an impressive figure of a man, his shoulders rounded from bending over lawbooks and the chopping board. In dress he was still conservative, and he still had a slow, judicial manner of speech punctuated by thoughtful pauses, but he used his hands more eloquently, something he had not done before living in Italy for a year.

"Good... to see you again," he said. There was no effusive Continental embrace; that would be too much to expect from the former Robert Maus.

"Roberto, this is a great occasion," Qwilleran said. "It's been three years since we last met, but it seems like three decades. Let me tell you that your restaurant is handsome, and the food is superb." "I have learned a few things," said the host. "Sit you down. We shall have an aperitif... and some private conversation... and then go down to dinner." Qwilleran selected an assemblage of rods and planes that seemed least likely to assault his body and found it not only surprisingly substantial but remarkably comfortable. The other two members of the party seated themselves at some distance from each other and from Qwilleran. Space was part of the design in this cool, calm, empty environment.

"The service downstairs," Qwilleran went on, "is excellent. Where do you find such good waiters?" "Law students," said the restaurateur. "I tell them to consider our customers... as the ladies and gentlemen of the jury." "I'm glad you've hired Charlotte Roop as your manager. She seems very happy and not quite so strait-laced." Mary said, "You can't give all the credit to the job. She has a male companion, probably for the first time in her life." "I know," said Qwilleran. "I've met him. Does anyone know what happened to his ear?" "Dynamite explosion," said Roberto. "The poor fellow... is lucky to be alive." "He's had extensive plastic surgery," Mary added.

They discussed the metamorphosis of Junktown, Zwinger Boulevard, River Road, and the city in general. Then Roberto said, "I understand you have a problem, Mr. Qwilleran... concerning the Casablanca." "I do indeed, and it has nothing to do with ways and means, since the Klingenschoen Fund has agreed to underwrite the restoration. The obstacle is Miss Plumb herself. I thought I had established a rapport with her, but as soon as I mentioned the possibility of a restoration, she dropped the curtain. Perhaps you know how to get through to her. After all, you were her attorney for - how many years?" Roberto took a deep breath and emphasized his words with the hand gestures of desperation. "Twelve years!

Twelve frustrating, thankless years. I much prefer to be... stuffing tortellini." Mary said, "How does she react to your proposal to write a book, Qwill?" "I doubt whether she grasps the concept, but she likes the idea of having her picture taken. Leaving the book aside, there is one aspect of this entire project that alarms me. SOCK has powerful opponents, and now that the news has leaked that SOCK has a source of funding, they may take desperate measures. All they need to do is pray for Miss Plumb's demise, you know, and their goal is accomplished. If their prayers are answered, Providence might deal her a sudden heart attack or a cerebral hemorrhage or salmonella poisoning." "A rather... ghastly... hypothesis," said Roberto.

"Did you know that her maid died suddenly yesterday?" "Elpidia?" Mary asked in surprise.

"Elpidia. Food poisoning, they said. Was it the chicken hash? Or did she sneak some chocolates intended for the Countess?" Roberto said stiffly, "If you suspect attempts on Miss Plumb's life... I see no foundation whatever... for your line of reasoning." "A great many interests would benefit from the Countess's death: the developers, the banks, the city treasury..." "But we are talking about reputable businessmen and civic leaders... not the underworld." "I know the Pennimans and the Greystones are fine old families, patrons of the arts, and all that, but who is Fleudd?" Roberto and Mary exchanged glances but neither ventured a reply. Mary said, "Qwill's hunches have been right in the past, Roberto, even when they seemed farfetched." "I'm not making any accusations," Qwilleran said. "I'm just throwing out a few questions, Who, for example, is the grotesque houseman who works for the Countess? Can he be trusted?" "Ferdinand," Mary said earnestly, "is a very loyal and helpful employee, no matter how absurd he may appear. His mother has been housekeeper for the Countess for years." "And who handles her legal affairs now that you're out of the picture, Roberto? Who drew up her new will after the Bessinger murder?" "My former law firm." "Why did they steer her bequests to miscellaneous charities? Are they unsympathetic to the Casablanca cause?" Mary said, "They were obviously influenced by the Pennimans - " "What I am saying is this," Qwilleran interrupted. "The cards are stacked against us. Ordinarily I don't give up easily, but now I'm convinced that the Casablanca restoration is hopeless. What concerns me is the safety of that pathetic little woman on the twelfth floor. What can be done to protect her?" Roberto was frowning and withdrawing in a display of incredulity.

"You. may think my suspicions unfounded," Qwilleran went on, "but you said the same thing three years ago on River Road, and you remember what happened there!" "Qwill may be right," Mary said. "I would also like to submit that the ruthless forces endangering the Countess have already committed two murders in pursuit of their goal." "What... are you... saying?" Roberto demanded.

"I have reason to believe that Bessinger, as heir to the Casablanca, was murdered by someone hired to eliminate her, and Ross Rasmus was framed." "What evidence do you have?" "Enough to discuss with a friend of mine at Homicide." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache confidently. "At this particular moment I'm not at liberty to reveal the nature of the evidence or the identity of my source." He had no intention of telling this unimaginative dealer in torts and tortellini about the significant bristling of his moustache or Koko's propensity for unearthing crimes.

At that juncture a waiter appeared and announced that their table was ready, and Roberto ushered them downstairs, obviously relieved to terminate the disagreeable topic of conversation.

In the restaurant, surrounded by other diners - one of whom was a man in a dinner jacket, a man with a long thin face and high cheekbones - they talked about Italian food, the antique show in Philadelphia, and life in Moose County, and at the end of the meal Roberto said, "The matter you mentioned upstairs, Mr. Qwilleran... allow me to give it some thought." As Qwilleran escorted Mary Duckworth back to the Blue Dragon, he was carrying a foil packet wrapped in a napkin. They walked in silence for a while - past a woman walking a Great Dane, past the citizens' patrol swinging flashlights. Then he said, "Tell me about the night she was killed. Who was there playing Scrabble earlier in the evening?" "It was a holiday weekend," Mary said, "and she had invited a lot of people in for snacking and grazing at five o'clock. Roberto refused to go. He is quite opinionated about food, as you know, and he abhors snacking and grazing. So I went alone. Ross was there, of course. And YIana Targ, who writes the art column for the Fluxion. And Jerome Todd.

And Rewayne Wilk, Di's latest discovery; he paints disgusting pictures of people eating. And there were some other artists." She mentioned names that meant nothing to Qwilleran. "And there was that pill, Courtney Hampton, whom I cannot stand! Di thought he was terribly clever. And there were some others who live at the Casablanca." "How long did the party last?" "It started thinning out at eight o'clock, and I left Di wanted me to stay for Scrabble, but I had promised to meet Roberto for dinner. He has become a good and dear friend." Qwilleran told himself that these two stuffed shirts deserved each other. He said, "No one answered my question when I asked about Fleudd. Who is he anyway?" "He's supposed to be an idea man. Penniman & Greystone took him in a few months ago. They were always rather conservative, you know, and Fleudd is supposed to shake them up." "Was the Gateway Alcazar his idea?" "I suppose so." "Does he eat at Roberto's often?" "I don't know. I've never seen him there." "Well, he was there tonight." Qwilleran stroked his moustache as they said goodnight in front of the Blue Dragon, and he made a mental note to call Matt Thiggamon in the morning.