The Cat Who Lived High

19

QWILLERAN TORE BACK into the building with two confused Siamese bumping around inside the carrier. "Mrs. Tuttle!" he called out at the desk. "My car is gone! It's been stolen!" "Oh, dearie me!" she said, not as perturbed as he thought she should be. "Did you lock your doors? Someone had cassettes stolen, but he left his doors - " "I always lock my doors!" "Was it a new car?" "No, but it was in excellent condition." Rupert, hearing the commotion, sauntered over and leaned on the counter. "Don't pay to keep a nice car." Mrs. Tuttle offered to call the police.

"Never mind," Qwilleran said in annoyance. "I'll go upstairs and call them myself. I just wanted you to know." Although he had no affection for the Purple Plum, he resented having it stolen.

Riding up in Old Green he said to the occupants of the carrier, "You two will be happy about this development.

Now you don't have to go to the doctor." He telephoned the clinic and canceled his appointment. "My car has been stolen," he explained.

"I've had two stolen," said the receptionist comfortingly. "Now I drive an old piece of junk." Next he called the precinct station, and a bored sergeant took the information, saying they would try to send an officer to the building.

Then he called Mary and broke the news.

"I sympathize," she said. "I don't own a car anymore. I take taxis or rent a car when I need transportation." "They're sending an officer over here." "Don't count on it too much, Qwill." Suddenly he was enormously hungry. He fed the cats hurriedly and went out to dinner, riding down on Old Red.

When it stopped at Four, Yazbro stepped aboard, squinting at Qwilleran with a glimmer of hostile recognition.

"My car has just been stolen," Qwilleran said to enlist the man's sympathy.

Yazbro grunted something unintelligible.

"It was parked in #28, next to your slot. Was it there when you left this morning?" "Di'n't notice." Qwilleran went to the deli for an early dinner. All he wanted was a bowl of chicken soup with matzo balls, a pastrami sandwich two inches thick, a dish of rice pudding, and some time to sort out his feelings about life in the big city.

The Press Club was not what it used to be. The staffers at the Daily Fluxion were all new and uninteresting. There was no one whose company he enjoyed half as much as that of Polly Duncan and Arch Riker, not to mention Larry Lanspeak, Chief Brodie, Junior Goodwinter, Roger MacGillivray, and a dozen others. The Casablanca itself was a disaster, and the Countess would never agree to sell to the Klingenschoen Fund. And the last straw was the theft of his car.

Even the prospect of writing a book on the Casablanca was losing its appeal. At this moment he had only one reason to stay. He wanted to have lunch with Lieutenant Hames as soon as the detective returned to town. He wanted to tell him about Koko's discoveries: first the bloodstain, then the bracelet, and finally the confession on the wall. He would relate how the cat found the exact spot where the artist was said to have jumped from the terrace. Then he would advance his theory that special-interest groups were resorting to criminal means to clear the way for the Gateway Alcazar: knifing the heir to the Casablanca and throwing her lover from the terrace, after drugging them both. But in attempting to frame Ross they had used an unlikely signature on his alleged confession and had misspelled Dianne. Furthermore, one tenant heard screams as the body plummeted to earth. As a newsman Qwilleran had seen suicides jump off high buildings and bridges, and they jumped in desperate silence.

He walked home slowly and found the crumbling front steps a disgrace, the lobby grim, the tenants depressing, and Old Red an affront to human dignity. Koko met him at the door as usual and trotted to the library as usual, where he took up his position on the Van Gogh volume as usual, tensing his taillike a corkscrew.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Qwilleran asked him. "Was that Vincent's favorite perch?" The thought crossed his mind that Vincent had witnessed the murder, and he had an irrational desire to visit the Bessinger-Todd Gallery once more.

When he phoned, he was answered in a hurry. "Is the gallery still open?" he asked. "This is Jim Qwilleran at the Casablanca." "I've just locked the door. This is Jerry Todd. What can I do for you?" "I never had a chance to talk with you about artwork for my barn, and I may be leaving soon." "If you want to come over, I'll wait," the art dealer suggested.

"Be right there." Qwilleran ran downstairs, thinking it quicker and easier than taking the elevator. He hailed a cab and arrived at the gallery within minutes.

Todd unlocked the door. "That was fast." "I see you've sold a lot of things since Friday night," said Qwilleran, observing the empty walls.

"Very successful opening," the dealer said cheerfully, pinching his nose in the odd way he had. "The Pizza Eaters, The Wing Ding Eaters and The Hot Dog Eaters all went to one buyer, a fastfood chain. They wanted them for their corporate headquarters. It will occupy an entire floor of the Gateway Alcazar. Did you see anything you liked at the opening?" "Nothing suitable for a barn, to tell the truth." "Perhaps you should consider contemporary tapestries if you're going to have a lot of wood surfaces. We have one artist who does abstract weavings in nature themes. I can show you pictures of her work." He produced an album of color slides.

Qwilleran, who truthfully had no plans to convert his barn, was captivated. "How large are they?" "She takes commissions to order, including some huge tapestries for hotel lobbies. You'd never guess it, but she's just a tiny little thing. Here's her picture." The artist had a roguish pixie face that appealed to Qwilleran. "Your suggestion is certainly something for me to consider," he said. "I'll get back to you after I consult my architect." "Architects approve of her tapestries. They complement rather than compete with the architecture, and her perception of dimension is outstanding. She shows great sensitivity with threads, and of course she dyes her own colors." At that moment a mushroom-tinted Persian walked into the room waving a plumed tail. "Is that Vincent?" Qwilleran asked.

"Yes, that's Vincent. He was Dianne's cat and I adopted him. They don't allow pets where I live, but he's happy in the gallery, and customers like him," said Todd, pinching his nose. Vincent circled the two men with dignity and oscillating tail.

"Did he experience any psychological trauma as a result of the Labor Day incident?" "Apparently not. She always locked him up in the bedroom when she had company. He liked the waterbed, so he didn't object. In fact, when he came to live at the gallery, I bought him a cat-size waterbed." "You did? Where did you buy it? I have a cat who'd like a waterbed." "From a mail-order catalogue. I can get the information for you if you're interested." "I'd appreciate that. And by the way, when Vincent lived at the Casablanca, did he make a habit of sitting on any of the art books?" "Not that guy! He always looks for the softest seat in the house!" Qwilleran cleared his throat. "I have something to tell you, Mr. Todd, and I hope it won't be too distasteful. Since living in the penthouse I've found evidence that Ross did not commit the murder and did not take his own life." Todd gulped and pinched his nose. "What kind of evidence?" "That's something I can't discuss until I've talked with my friend at the Homicide Squad." "Oh, God! Does that mean the case will be re-opened? We've had enough notoriety! Nobody knows me as a gallery director anymore; I'm the ex-husband of a murdered woman. I swear there are people who think I did it!" In a kindly vein Qwilleran went on. "I understand there was a cocktail party the evening before Labor Day. If you were there and can recall some of the other guests, it may help corroborate my suspicions." "I was there!" Todd said grimly. "Di had invited a lot of people including the girl from the newspaper, so I felt I should make an appearance. Ylana Targ. She writes the art column." "How late did you stay?" "Till about ten o'clock. I wanted to leave earlier because one fellow had brought jazz records, and jazz drives me up the wall, but it started raining - a real cloudburst. The skylight started leaking, and we had to put pots and pans around to catch the drips." "Who was there when you left?" "Ross, of course. Di and Ylana and Ross and another fellow from the building were playing Scrabble. A few others were in the living room, drinking and passing smokes around. I don't remember who they were." "The fellow who made a fourth for Scrabble - do you know his name, or what he looked like?" "He was slick- looking... well-groomed...sort of like a male model." "Well, I won't detain you any longer," Qwilleran said. "Thanks for staying open. I'll call you about the tapestries when I get back to Pickax. I think we can do business." He returned home, changed into a sweatshirt, track-lighted the gallery, filled the ice bucket on the bar, and put a bowl of cashews on the cocktail table. "Care for a few rounds of Scrabble while we're waiting?" he asked Koko.

The cat was more than willing. (No wonder! Qwilleran thought. He always wins!) On this occasion Koko was choosing a preponderance of low-scoring consonants like R, S, L, T, and N, and Qwilleran was considering another change in the rules, when the velvet paw drew forth O, E, V, B, 0, G, and J. Immediately Qwilleran spelled JOVE, which netted fourteen points, leaving only seven for Koko.

"By Jove!" he said to the cat. "I think we've got it!" At that moment there was an awkward knock at the door. He swept the tiles into the Scrabble box and went to admit his guest.

The Penniman bartender was loaded down with cassette-caddies and LPs. "Relax!" he said. "I'm not planning to stay three days. I brought a whole bunch so you can take your pick." "Come in. I've been looking forward to this." "Man, this is not too shabby!" said Jupiter in admiration as he perused the foyer. "And it opens right onto the terrace!" "You've never been here before?" "Never got invited." "Wait till you see the sunken living room." Qwilleran opened the French doors. "The stereo is down in the pit.

Here, let me take some of that load." They carried the recordings into the gallery and piled them on the giant cocktail table. The guest stood in the middle of the pit with his hands in his pockets, staring in every direction. "I should think you'd get fed up with mushrooms." "Don't knock them," said Qwilleran. "Since the scandal, they've become gilt-edged securities. They don't belong to me, of course. I'm just sub-letting. Let's have a drink. What's yours?" Hearing the rattle of icecubes, Koko made his imposing entrance through the open French doors. "Here comes the lord of the manor." "Good-looking cat," said Jupiter. "Better than most of the rat catchers around this building." It was almost as if Koko resented being lumped with rat catchers. From that moment on, he devised ways of tormenting the visitor. But first he had his saucer of white grapejuice.

Jupiter with his vodka on the rocks and Qwilleran with his club soda took seats on the long sofa, and the latter said, "They stole my car from the parking lot today." "Par for the course," said the other with a shrug.

"You people around here are so damned casual about car theft!" Qwilleran complained. "Even the old ladies in the lobby talk about muggings the way we talk about weather in Moose County." Koko jumped on the back of the long sofa and walked its length like a model on a runway. On the way back he stopped to sniff the guest's hair.

"Hey, what's going on back there?" Jupiter said, slapping the back of his head.

"Sorry," said Qwilleran, pushing the cat off the sofa. "He likes your shampoo... Now, can you tell me what happened at the hotel over the weekend?" "It was in the Fluxion this afternoon, so it's no secret any more. Two men and a woman in a suite on the top floor were gunned down execution-style, so you know it's drug-related. The hotel always tries to put the lid on anything like that. They think it'll scare off the tourists and conventions... Hey, what's he doing?" Koko was on the cocktail table, biting the corners of record jackets. Qwilleran sent him flying with a gentle backhand, and the cat spent the next ten minutes licking his damaged ego.

"How'd you get your big jazz collection, Randy?" "I was lucky. I had an uncle who was a bebop drummer-never made it big, but he got me hooked, and then he died and left me all his records. D'you have any requests?" "Well, I told you I like sax - Sidney Bechet, Jimmy Dorsey, Stan Getz, Charlie Parker, Coltrane. If I could play an instrument, that's what I'd like to play. It's almost like the human voice." "Okay, we'll start with Charlie... What's that thumping noise?" "That's Keestra Hedrog and her Gut Dancers. They rehearse in 14-B every Monday night. I'll close the doors and it won't bother us." Koko was standing in the doorway, half in and half out of the room, and when Qwilleran climbed out of the pit and tried to close the double doors, the cat stood as if glued to the threshold. "Are you coming in or staying out?" Qwilleran asked.

Koko deliberated, unable to make up his mind, until a slight tap from a size twelve shoe sent him catapulting into the gallery-down into the pit, up onto the rim, circling it like an indoor track, picking up speed and flying across the cocktail table, scattering cassettes in all directions.

"Cripes! He's like a tornado!" Jupiter said as he retrieved his collection.

"Sorry, he's wound up tonight for some reason.... Koko! You behave, or leave the room!" The cat jumped to the top of the bar, among the bottles and decanters, where he could keep the visitor under surveillance, and the evening progressed uneventfully for a while.

Jupiter played a program that went from bebop to swing to Chicago jazz to big band to Dixieland to blues to rag.

After his third drink he pantomimed a bebop drummer in sync with a recording, and the frenetic performance sent Koko burrowing under the dhurrie.

"Now what's he doing?" the man wanted to know.

"That rug covers the stain where Dianne Bessinger bled to death." "No kidding!" "I believe it was Labor Day weekend. How long have you lived here?" "I moved in... let's see... Memorial weekend." "Did you get to know Dianne or Ross?" "No, they never came into the bar, and I don't go for this kind of stuff." Jupiter waved an arm around the gallery walls.

Qwilleran said, "Since moving into this apartment I've discovered some new twists regarding the murder. Did you know that there are prominent men in town who would profit by Dianne's death?" "No kidding!" "It's a fact." Jupiter said he'd like another drink, and after pouring it Qwilleran said, "What's more, I hap- pen to have evidence that Ross did not kill Dianne." "You're kidding!" Koko had returned to the sofa-back and was sniffing the bartender's head again. His neck was reddening. He brushed the cat away like an annoying fly.

"Yes, there's no doubt in my mind that it was a frame-up. In fact, I have an appointment at the Homicide Squad tomorrow - to turn my information over to the detectives." "How'd you find out?" The vodka was coloring Jupiter's face to match his moustache.

"I have a snoopy nature and a little experience in criminal investigation. There are tenants who heard screams just before Ross landed on Yazbro's car. Dianne's murderer tossed the artist over the parapet, after dragging him down to the dark end of the terrace." Qwilleran kept a sharp eye on his guest and saw his hand go into his sweater pocket. "Want any more ice?" he asked as he carried his own glass to the bar. Feeling secure behind the massive piece of furniture, he went on. "But here's the clincher: You see that skylight up there? Someone was on the roof when it happened. There was a witness!" Jupiter struggled to his feet. Qwilleran thought, he's half-bombed! The man walked unsteadily to the bar and stood on the dhurrie, his hand still in his pocket. Wordlessly the two of them faced each other across the bar, until the heavy silence was broken by a clatter of glassware as something dropped between them. Koko had flown through the air, landing on the bar with arched back, bushed tail, flattened ears, and bared fangs.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Jupiter sneaked around the end of the bar, snatching a small tube from his pocket. As he raised it there was a click and a knifeblade shot out. Qwilleran, without taking his eye off the knife, grabbed a bottle by the neck. For one frozen moment they faced each other. At the same time a blur of fur passed between the two men, landing on the assailant's shoulder. A whiplike tail flicked twice.

There was a yell of pain, and the man put a hand to his eyes. The other hand wavered, and Qwilleran smashed down hard on the knife, then brought the bottle down on Jupiter's head. As he collapsed, Qwilleran kicked the knife away and stood over him with the bottle.

The French doors burst open! Two figures appeared on the level above. One of them had a gun.

"Hold it! I got you covered!" Qwilleran started to raise his hands before he realized that the man with the handgun was wearing a red golf hat. The man behind him had the paunchy figure of Arch Riker.

"Call the police!" Qwilleran yelled.

Riker's ruddy face turned pale. "Qwill! You're supposed to be dead!"