The Cat Who Lived High

4

BEFORE LEAVING FOR dinner with Amberina, Qwilleran made a long-distance phone call. It was Sunday evening, and Polly Duncan would be at home waiting for news. He deemed it advisable to keep the report upbeat: Yes, he had enjoyed the trip... Yes, the cats behaved well... The manager and custodian were helpful. The apartment was spacious and well-furnished, with a magnificent view of the sunset. He mentioned nothing about the malfunctioning elevator nor the leaking skylight nor the bulletproof window at the manager's desk nor the bloodstain on the carpet, and he especially avoided reference to his dinner date with Amberina. Polly was a wonderful woman but inclined to be jealous.

Then he said goodbye to the Siamese, having placed their blue cushion on the bed in the small bedroom. "Be good kids," he said. "Have a nap and stay out of trouble. I'll be back in a couple of hours, perhaps with a doggie bag." He turned off all the lights except the one in the bathroom, where they had their commode, thinking that the darkness would encourage them to nap and stay out of mischief.

Leaving 14-A, he spotted a namecard tacked on the door of 14-B, and he sauntered close enough to read it. His neighbor's name was indeed Keestra Hedrog, as Mrs. Tuttle had said. It looked like something spelled backward and he considered tacking a namecard to his own door: Mij Narelliwq.

What, he asked himself, had happened to nomenclature in recent years? Strange new words had entered the language and strange new names were popping up in the telephone directory. Mary, Betty, and Ann had been replaced by Thedira and Cheryline. Even ordinary names had tricky spellings like Elizabette and Alyce, causing inconvenience to all concerned, not to mention the time lost in explaining and correcting. (His own name, spelled with the unconventional QW, had been the bane of editors, typesetters, and proofreaders for thirty years, but that fact escaped him.) He signaled for the elevator and heard evidence of mechanical torment in the shaft - noises so threatening that he chose to walk downstairs. Feeling his way through the poorly lighted stairwells, he encountered bags of trash, unidentified odors and - between the seventh and sixth floors - a shrouded figure standing alone on the stairs and mumbling.

On the main floor he passed two elderly women ' in bathrobes, huddled in conference. One of them was saying in a croaking voice, "I've been mugged five times. How many times have you been mugged?" "Only twice," said the other, shrilly, "but the second time they knocked me down." Both of them squinted suspiciously at Qwilleranas he passed.

He found Rupert hanging around the manager's desk, still with the red golf hat on the back of his head, while three boisterous students practiced karate chops in front of the elevators.

"Knock it off," Rupert warned them, "or I'll tell Mrs. T." The youths clicked their heels, clasped their hands prayerfully, and bowed low, then made a dash for Old Red when it arrived.

"Crazy college kids," Rupert explained to Qwilleran. "Everything okay on Fourteen?" "So far, so good." He started for the front door - but returned. "There's something I wanted to ask about, Rupert.

In my living room there's a huge piece of furniture - a serving bar - right in the middle of the floor. Do you happen to know why?" "Mrs. T said to put it there," said the custodian. "I didn't ask no questions. Me and the boy had to move the thing.

It's mighty heavy." "How long have you been working here, Rupert?" "Twenty years next March. Good job! Meet lotsa people. And I get an apartment in the basement thrown in." "What will you do if they tear down the building?" "Go on unemployment. Go on welfare, I reckon, if I can't find work. I'm fifty-six." Qwilleran had a long wait for Amberina, but the time was not wasted. While standing at the front door he watched a circus parade of tenants and visitors corning in and going out. He tried not I to stare at the outlandish clothing on the young ones, or the pathetic condition of some of the old ones, or the exotic beauty wearing a sari, or the fellow with a macaw in a cage.

When two well-dressed young men arrived, carrying a small gold tote bag from the city's most exclusive chocolatier, he watched them go to the burnished bronze door and ring for the private elevator, and he began to conjecture about the "Countess." The mysterious seventy-five-year-old who was visited by men wearing dinner jackets or bearing gifts sounded like Lady Hester Stanhope in Kinglake's Eothen, a book he had been reading aloud to the Siamese.

Lady Hester lived in a crumbling middle-eastern convent, subsisting on milk and enjoying the adulation of desert tribes.

Was the Countess the Lady Hester of the crumbling Casablanca?

His flights of fancy were interrupted when Amberina came running down the hall. "Sorry I'm late. I lost my contact lens, and I couldn't seem to get myself together." He said, "Who are the well-dressed men who ride up and down on the Countess's elevator?" "Her bridge partners," she explained. "She loves to play cards." Amberina had changed since their last meeting three years before. Her strikingly-brunette hair was a different color and a different style-lighter, redder, and frizzier. She had put on weight and her dimples were less beguiling. He was disappointed, but he said, "Good to see you again, Amberina. You're looking great!" "So are you, Mr. Qwilleran, and you look so countrified!" He was wearing his tweed coat with leather patches and his chukka boots.

They left the building and zigzagged down the broken marble slabs with care. "These steps should be repaired before someone trips and sues the Countess," he remarked.

"No point in making repairs when the whole place may be torn down next week," she said with a touch of bitterness. "We're all keeping our fingers crossed that nothing terrible will happen. Mary says the city would love it if the elevator dropped and killed six tenants, or a steam boiler blew up and cooked everyone on the main floor. Then they'd condemn the place and start collecting higher property taxes on a billion-dollar hotel or something. I do hope your people decide to buy the Casablanca, Mr. Qwilleran." Now they were strolling down Junktown's new brick sidewalks, recently planted with small trees and lighted with old-fashioned gaslamps.

Qwilleran said, "This is exactly what C. C. Cobb wanted three years ago, and the city fought him every step of the way." The jerry-built storefronts that previous landlords had tacked on to the front of historic town-houses had been removed. One could never guess where the old fruit and tobacco stand had been, or the wig and fortune-telling shop.

New owners had miraculously restored the original stone steps, iron railings, and impressive entrance doors. A brightly lighted coffee house occupied the premises of the former furniture-refinishing shop in an old stable, now named the Carriage House Cafe.

"Tell me about this restaurant we're going to. What is Roberto's?" Qwilleran asked.

"You know - don't you? - that Robert Maus wanted to open a restaurant when he gave up the law business. Well, he went to Italy and worked in a restaurant in Milan for a year. When he came home he was cooking Italian and had changed his name to Roberto." "I hope he didn't change his last name to 'Mausolini.' " Amberina let out an involuntary shriek. "Wait till Mary hears that! She won't think it's funny. She's very serious, you know." "I know. So is he." "Well, anyway, he opened this Italian restaurant in one of the old townhouses - Mary talked him into it, I think - and he lives upstairs. I've never eaten there - too expensive - but Mary says it's fabulous food." "Everything Robert prepares is fabulous. Will he be there tonight?" "You're supposed to call him Roberto, Mr. Qwilleran. No, he's off on Sundays, and they're closed on Mondays, but he personally supervises the kitchen five nights a week. Imagine! A law degree! And he's cooking spaghetti!" An unobtrusive sign on the iron railing of a townhouse announced "Roberto's North Italian Cuisine." As they climbed the stone steps Qwilleran knew what to expect. He had lived in Junktown long enough to be familiar with old townhouses. Even though they became rooming houses they had high ceilings, carved woodwork, ornate fireplaces (boarded up), and gaslight chandeliers (electrified)-all of these in various degrees of shabbiness. With Robert Maus's taste for English baronial he would add red velvet draperies and leather chairs studded with nailheads. Ecco! North Italian!

Qwilleran was shocked, therefore, when they entered the restaurant. The interior had been gutted. Walls, ceiling, and arches were an unbroken sweep of smooth plaster in a custardy shade of cream. The carpet was eggplant in hue; so was the upholstery of the steel-based chairs. Silk-shaded lamps on the tables and silk-shaded sconces on the walls threw a golden glow over the cream-tinted table linens.

Before he could splutter a comment, a white-haired woman armed with menus approached in a flurry of excitement. "Mr. Qwilleran! Do you remember me? I'm Charlotte Roop," she said in a reedy voice.

She had been his neighbor three years before on River Road - a strait-laced, spinsterish woman obsessed with crossword puzzles - but she had changed drastically. Where was her disapproving scowl? Her tightly pursed lips? Had she had a face-lift? Could she possibly have found love and happiness with a good man? Qwilleran chuckled at the idea.

Instead of her usual nondescript garb smothered in costume jewelry, she was wearing a simple beige dress with a cameo at the throat - a cameo brought from Italy by her new boss, Qwilleran assumed.

"Of course I remember you!" he exclaimed. "You're looking... you're looking... What's a six-letter word for beautiful?" "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, you remembered!" she cried with pleasure, adding in a lower voice, "But I don't do crossword puzzles anymore. I have a gentleman friend." She flushed.

"Good for you! He's a lucky fellow!" Miss Roop touched the cameo self-consciously. "I'm the one who's lucky. I have a lovely apartment at the Casablanca and a lovely job with our wonderful Roberto. Let me show you to our best table." "This is a handsome place," Qwilleran said.

"Very warm, very friendly, yet surprisingly modern." "Roberto wanted it to be the color of zabaglione. He brought Italian artisans over to do the plastering." She handed them menus and recommended the tagliatelle con salmone affumicato and the vitello alla griglia. Her boss, always a perfectionist, had coached her on the pronunciation. She added, "Roberto wishes you to be our guests tonight.

Would you like something from the bar?" Considering Miss Roop's former attitude toward anything stronger than weak tea, this was a right-about-face. She suggested Pinot Grigio as an aperitif. Amberina shrugged and accepted. Qwilleran asked for mineral water with lemon.

Meanwhile, a waiter displaying professional ‚clat draped napkins across their laps - heated napkins.

"Real flowers," Amberina whispered as she fingered the rosebuds in a Venetian glass vase. "I wonder how many of these vases they lose." There was little general conversation as they adjusted to the elegance of the room and the awesomeness of the menu. Finally she said, "Tell me honestly, Mr. Qwilleran. What do you think of the Casablanca?" "It's a dump! Does anyone really think it's worth restoring? Does anyone think it's even possible to restore such a ruin?" "SOCK is positive," she replied earnestly. "Mary Duckworth and Roberto are officers, and you know they don't waste their time on a lot of baloney. They've had an architect make a study for SOCK, and he knows exactly what has to be done and how to do it and how much it will cost. I don't have the exact facts, but Mary can fill you in on that stuff." "Where is she?" "Right now she's flying back from Philadelphia. There was a big antique show there, and she took a double booth.

Her porters drove a truckload down, and she expected it would return empty. Mary has that snooty manner, you know, and she can sell anything and get a good price for it. People believe her! I wish I had her class. But that's the way it goes!

The rich get richer. Her family is in banking, you know." "Does she still wear kimonos embroidered with dragons when she waits on customers?" "No, she's gone back to being preppy, pearls and everything... EEK! Did you see these prices?" she squealed when she saw the right-hand side of the card. "I'm glad I'm not paying for this! I'm going to order the most expensive thing on the menu. The chances are I'll never come here again." They each ordered an antipasto, soup, and a veal dish. Then Qwilleran said, "I have a few questions to ask, Amberina. Is the elevator service always as bad as it was today?" "I wish you'd call me Amber," she said. " And you seem to have forgotten that you used to call me Qwill." "I didn't forget," she said sheepishly, "but now that you've got all that money, I thought I should call you mister...

What were we talking about?" "The elevators." "Oh, yes... You just happened to hit a bad weekend. Usually they break down one at a time, and that's not so bad. Or if it happens during the week, we're in luck, because the serviceman comes right away - if it's during the day. It's time and a half after five o'clock, you know, and the management doesn't go for that." "I should have taken an apartment on a lower floor," Qwilleran said. "Another question: What's the meaning of the notice in the elevator about cats and spraying? It doesn't sound good." "Oh, that! Mrs. Tuttle posts a notice every time the exterminator is scheduled. He sprays the hallways, plus any apartments that request it, so people keep their cats locked up on Spray Day." "My cats never go out under any circumstances." "That's a good idea. They can get on the elevator and just... disappear. There's a big turnover in cats at the Casablanca." "Do you have one?" "No, I have fish. They're cheaper and they don't have to go to the vet. They just die." "Frankly, I fail to understand the roving-cat policy at the Casablanca." "It's for rodent control." "Does the building have rats in addition to everything else?" "Only around the back street, where they keep the dumpsters. I've had mice in my apartment, athough. I don't know how mice get up to the eighth floor." "On Old Red," Qwilleran suggested. The antipasti were served: breaded baby squid with marinara sauce, and roasted red peppers with anchovies and onion.

"I wish my sisters could see me now!" said Amber. "Eating squid at Roberto's with a millionaire!" "Getting back to the notices in the elevator," he said, "is there a large market for baby grand pianos at the Casablanca?" "You'd be surprised! There's still some money floating around the building - and a few good-sized apartments.

We have elderly widows who are loaded! They don't move out because they've always lived here." "Who's selling the piano? The sign says apartment 10-F." "That's Isabelle Wilburton. Her rooms are crammed with family heirlooms, and she sells them off one at a time to buy booze." "What does she look like? I saw a middle-aged woman in a cocktail dress, tippling in the phone booth when I moved in." "That's our Isabelle! Her family made a killing in the furniture business, and they pay her basic living expenses, so long as she stays out of their sight. I warn you! Don't let Isabelle latch onto you! She'll drive you crazy." The antipasto plates were whisked away, and the proficient waiter - who was always there when needed and absent when not - served the soup, a rich chicken broth threaded with egg and cheese.

"What do they call this?" Amber asked Qwilleran. "I wish I had written it down so I can tell my sisters." "Stracciatella alla romana. What will happen to tenants like Isabelle if the building is restored to its original grandeur?" "What will happen to any of us?" said Amber with a shrug. "I'll have to find a rich husband and move to the country. Maybe he'll set me up in a shop of my own." She had a suggestive twinkle in her eyes, which he ignored.

He said, "You had a husband the last time I saw you." She twisted her lips in an unattractive smirk. "Husbands come and go like the Zwinger Boulevard bus." "You've changed your hair color, too." "This is my natural color. I dyed it for him because he liked brunettes. I suppose you're having a tough time staying single now that you've got all that money." "So far I've been successful without trying very hard," he said, and then added to keep the record straight, "but I have a good friend up north who shares my interests and tastes. I hope she'll come down for a visit while I'm here." "That must be nice," said Amber. "We weren't so compatible. I don't know why we ever happened to get married.

I'm a slob around the house, but my ex liked everything just so. A place for everything and everything in its place, you know. If he repeated that remark once more, I swore I'd shoot him, and I didn't want to go to prison, so I filed for divorce. I hope he marries a computer. Mary tells me you're divorced." "Right." He popped a chunk of crusty roll into his mouth to preclude further elaboration.

Amber was not easily put off, however. "What happened?" "Nothing worth mentioning." He gobbled another morsel. "What do you do at the auction house?" "Just clerical work. It doesn't pay much, but I'm working with antiques, so I like it. You should come to one of our auctions. Last month a painting went for $2.3 million - right in your class, Qwill." He huffed into his moustache and ignored the remark. "Here comes the veal." She had ordered the top-price rib chop with wine and mushroom sauce, and now she asked for a bottle of Valpolicella, explaining, "What I don't drink, I can take home." As Qwilleran knifed his medium-priced vitello alla piccata, sauteed with lemon and capers, he inquired about Mrs.

Tuttle. "She seems to have a remarkable blend of motherly concern and military authority." "Oh, she's wonderful! Can you believe that she was actually born in the Casablanca basement?" Amber replied.

"Her father was the custodian. They lived in the basement, and she grew up playing in the boiler room and on the stairs.

By the time she was twelve she knew the building inside out, and it was always her ambition to be manager. She's very obliging, as long as you don't break the rules. Ask her for anything you need. You may not get it, but she'll smile a lot." "I might need some more pails. The skylight leaks. Also, the hot water in the shower is unpredictable." "We all have that problem," said Amber. "You get used to it." "Do you know the person in 14-B?" "No, she's new, but I've seen her on the elevator-sort of wild-looking." Amber was gobbling her food hungrily.

"I hope she doesn't take too many showers," Qwilleran said. "What can you tell me about the Countess?" "I've never met her. I've never even seen her! I'm not in her class. Mary knows her. Mary gets invited to the twelfth floor because her father is a banker and she went to one of those eastern colleges." Amber was well into her bottle of Valpolicella and was losing what little reticence she had. "When you lived here before, Qwill, we all thought you had a thing for Mary and couldn't get anywhere because you worked for a newspaper and she thought she was too good for you." "It's gratifying to know that all the gossips aren't in Pickax City," he said. "Shall we have dessert? I recommend gelato and espresso." Then he launched the subject that was uppermost in his mind. "Why is the penthouse apartment being sublet - with all those valuable furnishings?" "The former tenant died, and the estate is going through the courts," Amber said. "Mary had to pull strings to get you in there. If it wasn't for all your money - " "Who was the tenant?" "An art dealer - part owner of a gallery in the financial district, Bessinger-Todd." "Apparently he was very successful, although I don't concur with his choice of art." "It was a woman, Qwill. Dianne Bessinger. We called her Lady Di." "Why was she living in a broken-down place like the Casablanca?" "I guess she thought the penthouse was glamorous. She was the one who founded SOCK." "Did you ever see her apartment? It's filled with mushroom paintings." "I know. She gave a party for SOCK volunteers once, and I asked her about the mushrooms. I don't pretend to know anything about art. She said mushrooms are sexy." "What happened to her?" "She... well, she died unexpectedly." For the first time that evening, Amber was speaking guardedly.

"At what age?" "In her forties. Forty-five, I think it said in the paper." "Was it drugs?" "No." Amber was fidgeting nervously. "It's something we don't like to talk about. Ask Mary when you see her." Ah! It was AIDS, Qwilleran thought, but immediately changed his mind. That would hardly explain the large bloodstain on the carpet, and people never died "unexpectedly" of AIDS. Or did they? "You say she was the founder of SOCK?" he said.

"Yes, she felt very strongly about the Casablanca," said Amber, relieved to veer away from the unmentionable subject. "Anybody who's ever lived here feels that way - kind of emotional about the old building." "And what happened to your doorman? You said he was shot. What were the circumstances? Was he mixed up in something illegal?" "No, nothing like that," she said, relaxing over her cup of espresso. "Doesn't this have a wonderful aroma?" "So what happened to him? What's the story?" "Well, he was a nice old joe who had lived in the basement forever. Then he went on social security, and we really didn't need a doorman any longer, but he liked to put on his old uniform once in a while and open car doors and collect a few tips. It was a long coachman's coat down to his ankles - made him feel important, I guess. But it had turned green with age, and the gold braid was tarnished, and some of the buttons were missing. Also he'd forget to shave. We called him Poor Old Gus. He was a sad sight, but he sort of fitted the Casablanca image, you know - a character! People used to drive past and laugh. He was written up in the Daily Fluxion once. Then one night some kids - high on something, I guess - drove by and shot Poor Old Gus dead!" Qwilleran frowned and shook his head in abhorrence.

"Is everything all right?" asked an anxious voice at his elbow.

"The food and service were perfection, Miss Roop," he assured her. "Give my compliments to Roberto." "Oh, thank you. That will make him very happy. Do you still have your kitties, Mr. Qwilleran?" "I certainly do! And I brought them to the Casablanca with me." "Would they like a treat from our kitchen?" "I feel safe in saying that they would be overjoyed." Qwilleran and Amber walked home under the gaslights - she carrying a half-empty bottle of wine and he carrying a foil package folded decorously into a cream-colored napkin. They walked along a street almost deserted except for a woman airing a pair of Dobermans and two men walking together with purposeful stride, swinging long-handled flashlights.

"That's our Junktown patrol," Amber said. "They're volunteers. You might like to take a turn some night, just to see what it's like." "Be glad to," said Qwilleran, recognizing a subject for his newspaper column. "Are they ever called upon to handle any... incidents?" "I don't think so. Mostly they discourage crime just by being there. They shine their flashlights, you know, and blow their whistles, and talk on their portable phones." When they reached the Casablanca and entered through the heavy black doors, Qwilleran noticed the black paint-covered brass fittings that the management no longer cared to keep polished. Only the bronze door of the Countess's elevator retained its original burnished beauty.

Amber said, "I'd invite you in for a nightcap, but my apartment's a disaster area. I'm ashamed of it." "Thanks anyway," he said. "I've had a long hard day on the road and in the elevator shaft, and I'm ready to turn in." He was glad of an excuse; he had had enough of Amber's company for one evening. He would have preferred the preppy Mary, or the mysterious Countess, or even the affable, dictatorial Mrs. Tuttle. He pictured her as a subject for his column.

Old Red was in operation, and it took them to the eighth floor, where he walked Amber to her door and said a courteous goodnight, thanking her for her company and the indoctrination.

"Sorry I couldn't give you much information," she said, "but Mary will call you tomorrow. We're awfully glad you're here, Qwill." She gave him a lingering look that he pretended not to notice.

He walked up the remaining flights, and when he arrived at Fourteen (which was really Thirteen), the door of Old Red was slowly closing. Someone was going down... or had just come up. Unlocking his door and reaching for the light switch, Qwilleran discovered that the foyer and other rooms were already lighted, although he distinctly remembered leaving the apartment in darkness, except for the bathroom.

"Who's here?" he demanded.

Koko and Yum Yum came running. They showed no symptoms of terror, no indication that an intruder had threatened them. They were simply aware that Qwilleran was carrying a packet of veal, scallops, and squid. Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles voluptuously, while Koko stood on his hind legs and pawed the air.

Ignoring them, he moved from room to room, warily. In the library both the desk lamp and a floor lamp were unaccountably lit - as were a pair of accent lamps on the foyer console, the buffet lamp in the dining room, and the bedlamps in both sleeping rooms. The French doors to the living room were closed, as he had left them, and the area was in darkness, likewise the kitchen. He examined closets, then went out on the terrace and explored its entire length, passing the French doors of 14-B. His neighbor's blinds were closed, but light glowed through dimly. The huddled mass in a dark corner of the terrace turned out to be a cluster of large empty plant pots.

Qwilleran stroked his moustache in puzzlement and returned to 14-A. Who could have entered - and why? Did someone know he was being taken to dinner by SOCK? Did they have a key to his apartment? But why would they leave all the lights blazing?... unless they were interrupted and made a quick getaway.

At that moment he heard the door of 14-B open and close. He rushed out to the elevator lobby, but there was no one there-merely the evidence that Keestra Hedrog had put her rubbish container outside the door.

Mystified, Qwilleran returned to the kitchen to give the Siamese a taste of squid; the chef had wrapped enough food for three days. But he was too late. The cream-colored napkin lay on the floor, and the foil wrapper was open and licked clean, while two satisfied gourmands sat nearby, washing up, with not the slightest indication that they felt any guilt.

On the contrary, they seemed proud of themselves.