The Cat Who Lived High

18

EARLY MONDAY MORNING Qwilleran received a phone call from Homicide, but it was not Lieutenant Hames on the line.

It was the nasal voice of his partner, Wojcik, a by-the-book cop who lacked Hames's imagination and had a lip-curling scorn for meddling journalists and psychic cats.

"Wojcik here," he snapped. "You called Hames. Anything urgent?" "I owe him a lunch, that's all. Is he around?" "Out of town for a couple of days." "Thanks for letting me know. I'll call him later." It was a promise Qwilleran was destined not to keep.

For the cats' breakfast he minced baked shrimp stuffed with lump crabmeat and placed the plate on the floor.

"Gamberi ripieni alla Roberto," he announced, "with the compliments of the chef. Buon appetito!" The Siamese plunged into their breakfast with gusto. Their current behavior might be abnormal, but there was nothing wrong with their gustatory connoisseurship.

As he watched them devour the repast with gurgling murmurs of ecstasy, there was a knock at the door. Before he could respond, a key turned in the lock, the door opened, and a gray-haired rosy-cheeked woman in a faded denim smock bustled into the foyer.

"Oh, you still here? Mornin' to you. I be Mrs. Jasper," she said. "Mrs. Tuttle said I were to clean on Mondays." "Happy to have you. I'm on my way out to breakfast, so I won't be in your way. Do you know where everything is?" "That I do! I cleaned for Miss Bessinger, and I handle every thin' careful, like she said, and clean the rugs with attachments, them bein' handmade. You moved one!" she exclaimed with a frown, as she peered into the gallery where the dhurrie covered the bloodstain.

"I prefer to have it there," Qwilleran said. "Will you water the trees? They haven't had any attention for a week." "Water trees, change beds, put sheets and towels through laundry, turn on dishwasher, push vac around, and dust a bit," she recited. "I don't do windows." She marched into the kitchen and poked her head into the dishwasher, which was empty.

"I take my meals out," Qwilleran explained. "That's the cats' plate on the floor. There may be some cat hairs around the apartment. I have two Siamese." It hardly needed mentioning. Koko was circling the woman with intense interest and sniffing her shoes.

"No bother. Miss Bessinger had a Persian, and I have a tom of my own, though his tomcattin' days be over.

You've seen Napoleon, like as not. We live on the main floor, and he be a sociable critter." She headed for the gallery with the vacuum cleaner and attachments, which Qwilleran offered to carry. Her regional speech reminded him of certain longtime residents of Moose County. "May I ask where you came from originally, Mrs. Jasper? You're not city bred." "Aye, I come from a small town up north, name of Chipmunk. My paw had a potato farm." "I know Chipmunk very well," he said. "I live in Pickax City." "Aye, Pickax! Paw used to drive the wagon to Pickax to buy feed and seed. Sundays we went fishin' at Purple Point. Once we see'd a minstrel show at Sawdust City. It were good livin' up there, it were. A body felt safe. On the radio this mornin' they was three people shot to death at the Penniman Hotel, and a man in a car shot another driver on the freeway. It warn't like that in Chipmunk!" "When did you leave Moose County?" Qwilleran asked as he plugged in the vacuum for her.

"I were fifteen year old. I be seventy-six next birthday but more strong and able than some young ones be. On the farm I hoed potatoes and kept chickens and milked the cow and growed vegetables for the table - afore I were ten year old." "Why did you leave Chipmunk?" "I were itchin' to see the big city, so my paw let me come and live with my aunt Florrie. She were a cook for some folks livin' here, and she got me a job as a housemaid. Worked here seven year afore I married my Andrew and raised a family. He were a mailman. Three boys and two girls we had, and one born dead. I cooked and cleaned and washed and ironed and made every thin' they wore on their backs till they growed up and moved away. Then I went back to housekeepin' for folks, and when my Andrew died - that good man! - I moved in here, main floor, and kep' right on workin'." "Was Miss Bessinger nice to work for?" "Aye, she were very tidy. Some folks is terrible messy, but not her! It were a great pity what happened." "Did you clean for the man next door also?" "Aye. He were messy, but he were a nice man. Come from the country, he did. Them tubs of dirt on the porch - he growed tomatoes, com, and beans out there last summer, and the hellycopter were always flyin' over, disturbin' the peace. Didn't know corn plants when they saw 'em." "Were you shocked to hear he had murdered Miss Bessinger?" "I were that! I were up late that night, watchin' TV, and I heard screamin' outside the window and then a big bang.

That were when he landed on a car. I looked out, but it were dark back there. Then the police and ambulance come, and I went out in the hall - everybody out there in their nightclothes and Mrs. Tuttle tellin' them to go back to bed. It were awful!

No one knowed she were lyin' dead upstairs." Mrs. Jasper turned on the vacuum cleaner, putting an end to her monologue and Qwilleran went in search of the Siamese. Yum Yum was on the waterbed, gazing into middle distance; Koko was prowling restlessly, talking to himself in guttural rumblings and curling his tail into a corkscrew - something he had never done before. Qwilleran called the desk and inquired about an animal clinic.

"Are the kitties sick?" Mrs. Tuttle asked.

"No, just acting moody, and I want to have them checked." "The nearest vet is out River Road eight miles." She gave the name and number of the clinic. "You have to call for an appointment. How is Mrs. Jasper doing?" "She's a vigorous woman for her age." "Don't know where she gets her pep. She'll talk your ear off, too, if you let her. Hope there's nothing wrong with the kitties." He called the clinic and said he would like the doctor to examine two Siamese.

"What is the nature of the problem?" asked the receptionist.

"We're from out of town, and since arriving in the city the cats have not been themselves. I want to be sure there's nothing radically wrong with them. They're very important to me." "In that case we could squeeze you in this afternoon - say, at four o'clock. What are their names?" "Koko and Yum Yum. My name is Qwilleran. I'm at the Casablanca." "We have a lot of patients from there." "See you at four." It was another promise he would not keep. Before going to breakfast he tuned in the radio - not only for the weathercast but to corroborate Mrs. Jasper's report about three murders at the Penniman Plaza. Oddly, the shooting on the freeway was mentioned, but there was no word about the triple killing at the hotel. His mounting curiosity led him to the Plaza for breakfast. On a newsstand he picked up a copy of the Morning Rampage and found that the paper had not covered the incident. Not all the homicides in a large city are reported in the press - of that he was well aware - but when three persons are shot to death in a large downtown hotel with deluxe pretensions, it should be front-page news.

At the coffee shop he ordered a combination of steak, eggs, and potatoes that would have been called a Duck Hunter's Breakfast in Moose County; at the Penniman Plaza it was the Power Brunch. He waited until the waitress had poured his third cup of coffee before he asked her about the triple killing. She had no idea what he was talking about.

On the way out of the building he stopped at the bar. It opened at eleven, and Randy Jupiter was in the process of setting up. Qwilleran perched on a barstool. "I hear you had some excitement here over the weekend, Randy." "We did? I've been off since Saturday afternoon." "There were three murders in the hotel. Didn't you hear about it?" The bartender shook his head. "It was on the radio." "Are you sure? It could've been some other hotel." Jupiter glanced quickly around the bar and then wrote "can't talk" on a cocktail napkin. He said, "The coffee's brewing. Want a cup?" "No, thanks," said Qwilleran. "I had three in the coffee shop." He slid off the stool. "If you're still interested in a jazz session, how about tonight?" "Sure! Any requests?" "Your choice, but no screaming trumpet. It sends the cats into fits. I like sax myself. Shall we say eight o'clock?" Before stepping onto the escalator Qwilleran checked the vicinity for possible hazards, then rode slowly down on the moving stairs, reflecting that the radio station he had tuned in, as well as the Morning Rampage, were Penniman- owned. For information on the triple murder he would have to wait for the Daily Fluxion to hit the street, or for the bartender to arrive with his jazz recordings, or for Hames to come back to town.

Returning to 14-A he found Mrs. Jasper in the kitchen, with Koko watching her every move.

"The boss, he be tellin' me what to do," she said. "Now I'll take the towels and things down to the laundry and have a bit of lunch afore I come up again." Qwilleran went into the library to peruse his notes gleaned from photo captions at the public library. Koko followed and leaped to the library table, where he took up his post on the volume of Van Gogh reproductions. He could have chosen Cezanne, Rembrandt, or one of the other masters, but he always elected to sit on the Van Gogh, complacently washing up. It occurred to Qwilleran that Vincent, the Bessinger Persian, might have elected to sit in that spot while waiting to steal a Scrabble tile.

From his notes he could reconstruct the romantic past of the Palm Pavilion. Harrison Plumb had celebrated his daughter's birthday with a musicale featuring a string quartet from the Penniman Conservatory. The Wilburtons hosted a reception for a visiting professor of anthropology who was lecturing at the university. The Pennimans entertained the French ambassador. Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury gave a dinner for the governor. No amount of restoration and no amount of Klingenschoen money, he had to admit, would ever recall the magic of the Casablanca's first quarter of a century. It could only be captured in a book, with pictures and text, a thought which reminded him to line up the photographer. He called Sorg Butra's number and was informed that the photographer was out of town on assignment. Qwilleran left a message for Butra to call him.

It was a call he would never receive.

When Mrs. Jasper returned with her laundry basket, he flagged her down at the library door, saying, "When did you first come to work at the Casablanca, Mrs. Jasper?" "Just afore the 1929 Crash. That's when folks was jumpin' off the roof. It were terrible." "Come in and sit down. Do you remember the names of any people you worked for?" She sat on the edge of a chair with the basket on her lap, her rosy cheeks glowing. "I only worked for one family, and they was just two of 'em - father and daughter. He were a nice man with a little moustache. Mr. Plumb were his name." "His daughter still lives here!" "Aye, on Twelve. Miss Adelaide. Her and me was the same age." "Here, let me take that basket. Make yourself comfortable," he said with a sudden surge of hospitality. "Would you like a cup of coffee?" "I just had a nice cup o' tea downstairs, thankee just the same." "What kind of work did you do for the Plumbs?" "I were backstairs maid. I had a room of my own - imagine!-and me just a young girl from Chipmunk. They hired a lot of help in them days. We had a good time." "What was Adelaide like when she was young?" "Oh, she were a sassy girl, that one! Mr. Plumb spoiled her somethin' terrible. Bought her an automobile for her birthday, and the houseman used to drive her up and down Zwinger Boulevard like a princess. I remember her comin'-out party and the dress she wore - all beads and feathers and way up above her knees. That were the style then. After that the young men came callin' and bring-in' chocolates and flowers. First thing we knowed, she were engaged to the handsomest of the lot." Mrs. Jasper shook her head sadly. "But it were too bad the way it worked out." "What happened?" "Well, now, the weddin' were all set, invitations and all, weddin' dress ordered special from Paris. Then somethin' happened suddenlike. Mr. Plumb were upset, and Miss Adelaide were poutin', and the help was tiptoein' around, afraid to open their mouth. I asked Housekeeper and she said Mr. Plumb were short of money. Next thing, he sold the automobile and let some of the help go, and Miss Adelaide stayed in her room and wouldn't come out, no matter what. Housekeeper said Mr. Plumb made her break her engagement. After that he got sickly and died." Mrs. Jasper leaned forward, wide- eyed. "It be my notion that Miss Adelaide poisoned him!" Qwilleran, who had been lulled into a reverie by the singsong quality of the woman's voice, fairly jumped out of his chair. "What makes you think so?" "She talked to me chummylike, us bein' the same age." "What did she tell you?" "Oh, she hated him for what he did! That were what she told me, stampin' her feet and throwin' things and screamin'. She were spoiled. Always got what she wanted and did what she wanted. I wouldn't put it past her to poison her own father." "How would she get her hands on poison?" "There were rat poison in the basement. The janitor had it in his cupboard with a big skull and crossbones on it." "Come on, Mrs. Jasper," Qwilleran chided. "Can you picture the belle of the Casablanca prowling around the basement to steal rat poison?" "Not her. It were the houseman, to my way o' thinkin'. He were a young man what looked like a movie star, and she smiled at him a lot. Housekeeper said no good would come of it." "Very interesting," said Qwilleran, huffing into his moustache. He had a sympathetic attitude that encouraged confidences, true or false, and persons in all walks of life had poured out their secrets, but servants' gossip hardly qualified for the Casablanca history.

"Aye, it were interesting," Mrs. Jasper went on. "After Mr. Plumb died and she got the insurance money, the houseman bought hisself an automobile! Where would a young whippersnapper get money for an automobile in them days?" "How many times have you told this story, Mrs. Jasper?" "Only to my Andrew after we was married, and he said not to talk about it, but the Countess be old now, and it don't matter, and I always wanted to tell somebody." "Well, thank you," he said. "It's after three o' clock now, and I must take the cats to the doctor." "I'll water the trees and then I be through," said Mrs. Jasper.

Qwilleran paid her and said he would see her the following Monday - another promise he would be unable to keep.

Both of the Siamese were on the waterbed. "Everyone up!" he called out cheerfully. "Get your tickets for a ride in the Purple Plum!" He made no mention of the clinic, and yet they knew! No amount of coaxing would convince them to enter the carrier.

First he tried to push Koko through the small door, beginning with the forelegs, then the head, but the cat braced his hind legs against the conveyance, straddling the door and lashing his tail like a whip. Even employing all his cunning, Qwilleran still could not engineer four legs, a head, a lashing tail, and a squirming body into the carrier simultaneously. In frustration he abandoned the project and had a dish of ice cream, and when he returned to the scene some minutes later, both animals were huddled in the carrier contentedly, side by side.

"Cats!" Qwilleran grumbled. "CATS!" He carried the coop from the apartment and rang for the elevator.

"Don't shriek when the car is in operation," he cautioned Yum Yum. "You know what happened last time." He held his breath until Old Green landed them safely on the main floor.

"Bye-bye, kitties," called Mrs. Tuttle, looking up from her knitting as they passed the bullet-proof window.

The two old women in quilted robes had their heads together as usual, scowling and complaining. "Moving out?" one of them croaked in a funereal voice.

"No, just going to the doctor," he replied. It was a mission he never accomplished.

A brisk breeze was blowing down Zwinger Boulevard, whipping around the Casablanca and whistling through the cat carrier, and Qwilleran removed his jacket and threw it over the cage. As fast as possible he zigzagged through the parking lot, sidestepping the potholes. Not until the obstacle course was half negotiated did he look up and realize that slot #28 was vacant. The Purple Plum had vanished.