The Cat Who Lived High

2

THE SENIOR PARTNER of the Pickax firm of Hasselrich Bennett & Barter, legal counsel for the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund, was an elderly man with stooped shoulders and quivering jowls, but he had the buoyant optimism and indomitability of a young man. It was Hasselrich whom Qwilleran chose to approach regarding the Casablanca proposal.

Before discussing business, the attorney insisted on serving coffee, pouring it proudly from his paternal grandmother's silver teapot into his maternal grandmother's Wedgwood cups, which rattled in the saucers as his shaking hands did the honors.

"It appears," Qwilleran began after a respectable interval for pleasantries, "that all of the Fund's ventures are on the East Coast, and it might be advisable to make ourselves known in another part of the country. What I have to suggest is both an investment and a public beneficence." Hasselrich listened attentively as Qwilleran described the gentrification of Junktown, the unique architecture of the Casablanca, and the opportunity for the K Fund to preserve a fragment of the region's heritage. At the mention of the marble lobby and rosewood-paneled elevators, the attorney's jowls quivered with approval. "Many a time I have heard my grandfather extolling that magnificent building. He knew the man who built it," said Hasselrich. "As a young boy I was once treated to lunch in the rooftop restaurant. Unfortunately, I remember nothing but the spinach timbales. I had a juvenile aversion to spinach." Qwilleran said, "The rooftop restaurant is now a penthouse apartment, and I plan to spend some time there, investigating the possibilities and persuading the owner to sell, if it seems wise. You know what will happen if developers are allowed to acquire the property; the building will be razed." "Deplorable!" said Hasselrich. "We must not let that happen. This must be added to the agenda for the directors' meeting next week." "I plan to drive down there in a few days-to beat the snow," said Qwilleran. "If you will be good enough to make the presentation in my absence, I'll supply a fact sheet." He welcomed any excuse to avoid meetings with the board of directors.

"Do you find it quite necessary to attend to this research yourself?" asked the attorney. "There are agencies we might retain to make a feasibility study." "I consider it highly advisable. The owner is being pressured by the developers, and it will require some personal strategy to persuade the lady to sell to us." The elderly attorney's lowered eyes and twitching eyelids were making broad inferences.

"She's seventy-five," Qwilleran added hastily, "and if she dies before deciding in our favor, we're out of luck and the Casablanca is doomed." Hasselrich cleared his throat. "There is one consideration that gives me pause. You have indicated a profound interest in the welfare of Moose County, and that entails a responsibility to remain in good health, so to speak. You under- stand my meaning, do you not?" "Moose County's interest in keeping me alive is no greater than my own desire to live, and I might point out another fact," Qwilleran said firmly. "When I go Down Below I am not a naive tourist from the outback; I've been city-smart since childhood." Hasselrich studied his desktop and shook his jowls. "You seem to have made your decision. We can only hope for your safe return." That same afternoon, the Moose County Something, as.the local newspaper was waggishly named, carried the regular Tuesday column headed "Straight from the Qwill Pen," with an editor's note stating that Jim Qwilleran would be on a leave of absence for an indefinite period, pursuing business Down Below, but he would file an occasional column on city living, to appear in his usual space.

As soon as Qwilleran read this he recognized a conspiracy on the part of Arch Riker, the publisher, and Junior Goodwinter, the managing editor. The two guessed what the result of such an announcement would be, and they were right. Qwilleran's telephone started to ring, and the citizens of Moose County tried to dissuade him from braving the perils Down Below. When told that the trip was important and necessary, they offered advice: "Wear a money belt... Don't take your best watch... Get a burglar alarm for your car... Lock yourself in when you drive in the city." Police Chief Brodie said, "Och, mon, you're a bit daft. I happen to hear a few things that don't get in the papers, but if you insist on going, stay home after dark and buy one of them gadgets that lock the brake pedal to the steering wheel." From Susan Exbridge, a member of the Theatre Club, there was a melodramatic phone call: "Darling, don't walk anywhere! Take a taxi, even if you're only going a block. I have friends Down Below, and they tell me it's hell!" Dr. Goodwinter warned of respiratory ailments caused by airborne pollutants, and Eddington Smith, the timid dealer in secondhand books, offered to lend his handgun.

Lori Bamba was concerned chiefly about the cats. "If you're taking Koko and Yum Yum," she said, "don't let it be known that you have pedigreed animals. Kitnapping is big business Down Below. Also, you should feed them extra B vitamins to combat stress, because they'll sense menacing elements." Even Qwilleran's cleaning man was worried. "It's prayin' I'll be," said Mr. O'Dell, "until you be comin' safe home, Mr. Q." Nevertheless, Qwilleran stubbornly shopped for the journey. He bought a cagelike cat carrier that was more commodious and better ventilated than the picnic hamper in which the Siamese had formerly traveled. For their meals en route he laid in a supply of canned crabmeat, boned chicken, and red salmon. He also bought two blue leather harnesses - one medium and one large - with matching leashes. For himself he would take whatever he happened to have on hand.

There were two suits in his closet-a gray flannel that he had worn once to a wedding and a dark blue serge that he had worn once as a pallbearer. These - 'with two white shirts, a couple of ties, and a raincoat - were his concessions to city dressing. Otherwise, he would take flannel shirts, sweaters, and his comfortable tweed sports coat with leather patches on the elbows.

During Qwilleran' s final days in Pickax, fare- well scenes with friends and associates had the solemnity of a deathbed vigil. Polly Duncan, on their last evening together, was lachrymose and in no mood to be comforted or to quote Shakespeare, although Qwilleran rose to the occasion with "parting is such sweet sorrow." "Promise you'll call me as soon as you arrive" were her final words. He had hoped for less wifely anxiety and more amorous sentiments.

Even the Siamese sensed that something dire was afoot, and they sulked for twenty-four hours before their departure. When taken for rides in their new carrier, as rehearsal for the trip, they reacted like condemned nobility on the way to the guillotine - stoic, proud, and aloof.

None of this heightened Qwilleran's anticipation of the expedition, but he packed the car on Saturday morning with grim determination. Two suitcases, his typewriter, the unabridged dictionary, and his computerized coffeemaker went into the trunk. On the backseat were two boxes of books, the new cat carrier, and a blue cushion. The cats' water dish and their commode - a turkey roaster with the handles sawed off - were on the floor of the backseat.

The car was a small, energy-efficient, preowned four-door that Qwilleran had bought in a hurry, following his accident on Ittibittiwassee Road. The paint finish, a metallic purplish-blue, was not to his liking, but the used-car dealer assured him it was a color ahead of its time, called Purple Plum, and it would increase in acceptance and popularity.

"It looks better on fruit," Qwilleran remarked. The price was right, however, and the gas mileage was said to be phenomenal, and he had retained thrifty habits despite his new financial status, so he bought it. This was the car he packed for the four-hundred-mile journey, which he intended to stretch over two days for the comfort of the Siamese.

"All aboard the Purple Plum for Lockmaster, Paddockville, and all points south!" he announced to his two reluctant passengers. Grudgingly they allowed themselves to be stuffed into the carrier.

As the three of them pulled away from their home on Park Circle, the pair in the backseat maintained their funereal silence, leaving Qwilleran long, quiet hours to reflect on his sojourn in the north country. Despite the king-size mosquitoes, poison ivy, skunks, and hazardous deer crossings, Moose County afforded a comfortable life among good people. Most of them were rampant individualists and non-stop gossips, but that merely made them more interesting in the eyes of a journalist. How, he questioned, would he adjust to city life with its mask of conformity, guarded privacy, and self-interest?

His ruminations were interrupted by a demanding shriek from the backseat - so loud and so sudden that he gripped the steering wheel to keep the car on the road. Yum Yum was merely making a suggestion. How a creature of such delicacy and gentleness could produce this vulgar screech was beyond his comprehension, but it was effective. At the next crossroads he stopped for a coffee break and released the Siamese from their coop to stretch, peer out the windows, lap a tongueful of water, and examine the gas pedal.

After six hours of driving (Yum Yum objected to speeds in excess of fifty miles per hour), Qwilleran could not fault his passengers. They were behaving like mature, sophisticated travelers. At the motel that night - a less-than-deluxe establishment that welcomed pets - the Siamese slept soundly throughout the night, although Qwilleran was disturbed by barking dogs, slamming doors, and a growling ice machine outside his room. This appliance was located at the foot of wooden steps, up and down which the second-floor guests thumped frequently, shouting to each other: "Where's the gin?" "In the trunk under the spare tire!" "I can't find the peanuts!" It was Saturday night, and travelers were partying late. They also took an undue number of showers in Qwilleran's estimation. The force of the water hitting the fiberglass tubs in neighboring rooms thundered like Niagara, while he lay awake waiting for the tumult to end.

Meanwhile, the Siamese slept peacefully on top of his feet, and when he wriggled to relieve the numbness, they moved farther up and draped their soft bodies across his knees. Then late arrivals slammed their car doors and ran up the wooden steps, exchanging shouts: "Bring my zipper bag up with you!" "Which one?" "The blue one!" "Do you have the key?" "Yes, but I can't find 203." "Who's going to take Pierre for a walk?" After that they all took showers, and the cascading water in the rooms above drowned out the television in the rooms on either side. Qwilleran heaved the cats off his knees, and they crawled farther up without opening their eyes.

So it continued until four o'clock in the morning, at which time he managed an hour's sleep before the early risers started taking showers, slamming car doors, and revving motors. He could have been excused for greeting the new day with a colossal grouch, but he exhibited a purposeful and admirable calm. All of Moose County had advised against this trip, and he was determined to prove them wrong from start to finish. He was, he told himself repeatedly, having a good time.

On the second day of driving, the panorama of woods and open fields and farmyards gave way to a scattering of billboards, gas stations, auto graveyards, and party stores, followed by strip malls and housing developments with fine- sounding names, and finally the freeway. Heavy traffic and increased speed began to put the backseat passengers on their guard, their noses lifting to register the density of emissions, while Yum Yum complained bitterly. For Qwilleran the sight of sweeping interchanges and incoming jets and the jagged skyline produced an urban high that he had relished in the past and had almost forgotten. Even the Purple Plum looked less offensive in the smoggy atmosphere.

He left the freeway at the Zwinger exit. On this late Sunday afternoon, downtown was virtually deserted. Zwinger Street, formerly a blighted area, was now Zwinger Boulevard-a continuous landscaped park dotted with glass towers, parking structures, and apartment complexes. Then the boulevard narrowed into the nineteenth-century neighborhood known as Junktown, with the Casablanca standing like a sentinel at the approach.

"Oh, no!" Qwilleran said aloud. "It looks like a refrigerator!" The Casablanca was indeed white, although in need of cleaning, and it had the proportions of a refrigerator, with a dark line across the facade at the ninth floor, as if delineating the freezer compartment. Modified Moorish, the SOCK brochure had called it. True, there were some arches and a marquee and two large ornamental lanterns of Spanish persuasion, but on the whole it looked like a refrigerator. Not so in 1901 perhaps, when iceboxes were made of golden oak, but now...

Qwilleran made a U-turn and pulled up to the curb, where the city permitted twenty-minute parking. He unloaded the cat carrier and the turkey roaster and then, taking care to lock all four doors, approached the shabby entrance. Broken glass in the two lanterns exposed the light bulbs, and the glass sidelights of the door were walled up with plywood that no one had bothered to paint. Carefully he picked his way up the cracked marble steps and set down the carrier, opening the heavy black door and holding it with his foot while he maneuvered into the dark vestibule.

"Help ya?" called a voice from the gloom. A jogger was about to leave the building.

"How do I ring the manager?" Qwilleran inquired.

"Right over here." A young man with a reddish moustache almost as imposing as Qwilleran's pressed a button on the apartment directory panel. "You moving in?" "Yes. Where do you jog around here?" "Around the vacant lots behind the building. Two times around is a mile - and not too much carbon monoxide." "Is it safe?" The man held up a small tube and pointed it at Qwilleran. "Zap!" he said, looking wise. "Hey, nice cats!" he added, squinting at the carrier. When a voice finally squawked on the intercom the obliging jogger yelled, "New tenant, Mrs.

Tuttle." A buzzer released the door, and he sprang to open it. "Manager's desk straight down the hall, opposite the second elevator." "Thanks. Good running!" Qwilleran wished him. The inner door slammed behind him, and he found himself in an empty lobby.

It was narrower than he had expected-a tunnel-like hall with a low ceiling and a lingering odor of disinfectant.

Fluorescent tubes were spaced too far apart to provide effective light. The floor was well-worn vinyl, but clean, and the walls were covered with something that looked like sandpaper. When he reached the first elevator, however, he stopped and stared; the elevator door was burnished bronze sculptured in low relief, representing scenes from Don Quixote and Carmen.

As he studied the unexpected artistry, the door slid open, and a man in black tie and dinner jacket stepped out, saying coolly, "This is a private elevator," at the same time flinging a contemptuous glance at the turkey roaster.

With the top handle of the carrier in one hand and the roaster under the other arm, Qwilleran walked slowly toward the rear of the building, observing and sniffing. Someone on the main floor was cooking, and he knew Portuguese garlic soup when he smelled it. Lined up in the tunnel were a cigarette machine, a soft-drink dispenser, and an old wooden telephone booth. Some attempt had been made to brighten the hall by painting apartment doors in jellybean colors, but the paint was scratched and dreary with age.

As he reached the phone booth, a body tumbled out onto the floor. It was a woman of indefinite age, wearing a red cocktail dress, and she was clutching a pint rum bottle, uncapped. "Oops!" she said.

Gallantly, Qwilleran set down his baggage and went to her assistance. "Hurt yourself?" She slurred an apology as he helped her up, propped her on the seat of the phone booth, and closed her safely inside, leaving only a puddle on the floor. He picked up the cat carrier and commode and walked on. As he approached the manager's desk, there was sudden activity within the carrier, which started jiggling and swinging, the reason being that two felines - a calico and a tiger with a, chewed ear - had wandered out from nowhere and were eyeing the new arrivals.

Although the host cats were not hostile, Qwilleran thought it advisable to place the carrier on the scarred counter where a homemade sign announced: "Mrs. Tuttle, manager. Ring for service." Separating the manager's desk from the tenants' counter was a window of thick, bullet-proof acrylic.

He rang the bell, and a large, powerful-looking woman with a broad smile on her ebony face bounded out from the inner office. "Oh, you've got two Siamese!" she exclaimed joyously. Despite her genial greeting, she studied Qwilleran with a stern and forbidding eye, and he imagined that she tolerated no nonsense from the tenants or the resident cats.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Are you Mrs. Tuttle? My name is Qwilleran. The penthouse apartment has been reserved for me." "Yes, SIR!" she said. "We're expecting you! Glad to have you here. Did you have a good trip?" "Fine, thank you. Do you also have a parking space for me?" "Yes, SIR!" She produced a ledger and flipped the looseleaf pages to Q. "First we need one month security deposit and one month rent, and the parking is payable by the quarter... What are they called?" "Uh... what?" Qwilleran was concentrating on his checkbook. He considered the rent high, even though utilities were included.

"Do your kitties have names?" "Uh... the larger one is Koko, and the... uh... female is Yum Yum." He had put the turkey roaster on the floor, and it was being sniffed by the calico and the tiger. "I see you have a welcoming committee down on the floor." "That's Napoleon and Kitty-Baby," she said. "They live on the main floor. Your kitties will be the only ones on Fourteen." "Fourteen? I thought the building had thirteen stories." "They skipped Thirteen. Bad luck, you know. On the top floor there are two apartments, 14-A and 14-B. Yours is the nice done, all furnished. You'll be very comfortable. Here is your receipt and your key to 14-A. And here's your mailbox key; the boxes are through the arch. Mail is delivered around three or four o'clock. Your parking slot is #28 on the west side of the lot. The elevator's right behind you. Ring for the one with the red door. Old Red, we call it. A nice old elevator.

Old Green is out of order." "What's the one with the bronze door, near the entrance?" he asked.

"A private elevator for the owner of the building. Bye-bye, kitties! Glad to have you here, Mr. Qwilleran." The Siamese had not uttered a sound. He picked up the roaster and the carrier and moved to the elevator bank, accompanied by Napoleon and Kitty-Baby. Two doors, one painted red and one painted green, were closed, displaying an abstract design of scratches and gouges made by impatient tenants carrying doorkeys. He pressed the button, and noises in the shaft indicated that Old Red was descending... slowly... very slowly. When the car finally arrived, it could be heard bouncing and leveling. Then the door opened with a convulsive jerk, and a tiny Asian woman with two small, doll- like children stepped out and scurried away as if glad to escape safely.

Qwilleran boarded, signaled for the fourteenth floor, and waited for the door to close, while Napoleon and Kitty- Baby stayed in the lobby staring into the car as if they would not be caught dead in Old Red. The Siamese were still ominously silent.

There was a bulletin board on the rear wall of the elevator, where manager and tenants had posted notices, and Qwilleran amused himself while waiting for the door to close by reading the messages. Two signs were neatly lettered with a felt marker and signed "Mrs. T." IF DOOR IS OPEN, DO NOT JUMP! ATTENTION ALL CATS! MONDAY IS SPRAY DAY!

There was also a handwritten message on a note card with an embossed W, offering a baby grand piano for sale in apartment -F. Scribbled on a scrap of brown paper was an ad for a tennis racquet for twenty-five dollars, spelled T-E-N- I-S R-A-C-K-E-T. Qwilleran was a born proofreader.

Mystified by the first two notices and questioning the market for baby grands in such a building, he failed to notice that the elevator door was still standing open. It was hardly the latest model in automatic equipment, and he looked for a suitable button to press. There was one labeled OPEN and a red button labeled HELP; that was all. The red button, he observed, showed signs of wear. Out in the lobby all was quiet. Mrs. Tuttle had left her post behind the bulletproof window, and the only signs of life were Napoleon and Kitty-Baby.

In Qwilleran's lean and hungry days, when he lived for a brief time at the decrepit Medford Manor, there was a stubborn elevator door that responded to a vigorous kick. He tried it, but Old Red only shuddered. Then he heard running footsteps approaching from the front door and a voice calling "Hold it!" A short man in a yellow satin jacket, with the name "Valdez" on the back, slid into view like a base runner approaching first.

"No hurry," Qwilleran told him. "The door won't close." The fellow gave him a scornful glance and jumped up and down on the elevator floor. The door immediately closed, and the car proceeded slowly upward, clanking and shuddering as it passed each floor. Valdez got off at Five, and as he left the car he turned and said, "You jump." Qwilleran jumped, the door closed, and Old Red ascended at the same snail-like pace, with groaning and scraping added to the clanking and shuddering. The Siamese had been patient, but suddenly Yum Yum emitted her earsplitting screech, and immediately the car stopped dead. According to the floor indicator over the door they were not yet at Fourteen. According to the floor indicator they were not anywhere.

"Now what have you done?" Qwilleran scolded.

He pressed the button for his floor, but the car did not budge. He jumped, Valdez-style, and nothing happened.

He pressed the button labeled OPEN, and the door slowly obliged, revealing the black brick wall of the elevator shaft.

"Ye gods!" Qwilleran shouted. "We're trapped between floors!"