The Cat Who Lived High

5

"YOU GUYS HAD a picnic last night!" Qwilleran said grudgingly on Monday morning as he opened a can of boned chicken for the Siamese. " After stuffing yourselves with all that food, you don't deserve breakfast!" Yet, Koko was prowling as if he had fasted for a week, and Yum Yum was clawing Qwilleran's pantleg.

"What I want to know is this: Which one of you two turned on all the lights?" While he was dining at Roberto's with Amber, Koko or Yum Yum or both of them had discovered that most of the lamps in 14-A had touch-switches, and the scamps had run from one to the other making them light up. No doubt they expected to make this a nightly romp, but Qwilleran foiled them. Before retiring he cat-proofed all the lamps by turning off thumb-switches or disconnecting plugs, at the same time making the observation that touch-switches were not practical in households dominated by felines.

After that he had some difficulty in falling asleep. He was not accustomed to a waterbed, and he lay there expecting to drown... listening to the periodic clanking of the radiators as the boilers sent up another burst of steam...

hearing the drone of traffic on the nearby freeway... counting the number of police and ambulance sirens... wondering why the helicopter was hovering overhead... recognizing an occasional gunshot. He had lived too long in the country.

Eventually he fell asleep and slept until the yowling outside his bedroom door told him to shuffle out into the kitchen and open that can of boned chicken. While searching for the can opener, he discovered a Japanese slicer with a tapered blade and light wood handle, similar to those in the mushroom paintings. He carried it into the gallery - as he preferred to call the sunken living room - to compare, and he was right. Koko followed him and sniffed the bloodstain, opening his mouth and showing his teeth.

"Get away from that!" Qwilleran ordered, and put his shoulder to the bar once more to cover the stain. Then he changed his mind. It was an awkward location for a bar. He nudged it back again into a more suitable position and covered the stain with a rug from the library - an Indian dhurrie in pale colors that blended with the mushroom carpet.

Shooing the cat from the gallery, he closed the French doors.

Yum Yum was now batting some small object about the floor of the foyer. Koko might have a notably investigative nose, but Yum Yum had a notably meddlesome paw. Rings, watches, and coins - as well as bottle caps and paper clips - were within her realm of interest, and any sudden activity that gave her pleasure was suspect. This time it was an ivory- colored tile less than an inch square - not exactly square but slightly rectangular, and not ivory or ceramic but a light- weight wood in a smooth, pale finish. Qwilleran confiscated it, to Yum Yum's disappointment, and dropped it in his sweater pocket.

While waiting for the computerized coffeemaker to perform its morning magic, he ate a tangerine and speculated that the bowl of fruit had been Mary Duckworth's idea; she remembered that winesaps were his favorite apple and that lobster sent the Siamese into orbit. Did she have romantic memories of their previous association? Or was this thoughtful gesture a political move on behalf of SOCK? He could never be sure about that woman. Circumstances had thrown them together in Junktown three years before, and she was haughty and aloof at first, but she had relaxed briefly on one unforgettable Christmas Eve.

After that they went their separate ways. At what point they would resume their acquaintance remained to be seen. Three years ago he had been a stranger in town, down on his luck and trying to make a comeback. Now he was in a position to buy the entire inventory of her antique shop, as well as the Casablanca and most of Zwinger Boulevard.

When she phoned him that morning, however, there was no hint that she entertained sentimental memories. She greeted him in the crisp, impersonal way that was her normal manner of speech.

"Good to hear your voice, Mary," he said. "How was your Philadelphia trip?" "Immensely successful. And your journey down here, Qwill?" "Not bad. It's hard to get used to the smog, though. I'm used to breathing something called fresh air." "In Junktown," she said loftily, "we don't call it smog. We call it opalescence. Are you comfortably settled in your apartment?" "Settled but not necessarily comfortable. More about that later. But the cats and I appreciate your welcoming gift, and I don't need to tell you that dinner at Roberto's was superb." "Yes, Roberto is a perfectionist. He uses only the best ingredients and takes infinite pains with the preparation. He actually imports water from Lake Como, you know, for baking the rolls." "I noticed the distinction," Qwilleran said, "but I traced it to one of the Swiss lakes. That shows how wrong one's palate can be." He said it facetiously, knowing that the literal antique dealer would take him seriously, and she did.

She said, "You're wonderfully knowledgeable about food, Qwill." "When can you and I get together, Mary. I have a lot of questions to ask." "The sooner the better. Could you come to my shop this afternoon around four o'clock? We can have a private talk. The shop is closed on Mon- days, so we won't be interrupted." Qwilleran agreed. That would give him time to buy supplies for the cats, reorient himself in the city, and have lunch at the Press Club. But before leaving the apartment, he brushed the silky fawn-colored coats of the Siamese, all the while plying them with compliments on their elegantly long brown legs, their gracefully slender brown tails, their incredibly beautiful blue eyes, and their impressively alert white whiskers. They listened with rapture displayed by their waving tails.

Then he tuned in the radio to check the weather prediction. In doing so he learned that four houses on a southside block had been torched by arsonists over the weekend; a co-ed had been strangled backstage at the university auditorium; and a man had killed his wife and three children. The weather would be clear but chilly.

"They call this clear?" Qwilleran said scornfully as he peered out the window at the smog-filtered sunlight.

He walked to the Carriage House Caf‚ for ham and eggs, wearing a Nordic sweater and field jacket and his Aussie hat. Its brim had a dip in the front that complemented his large drooping moustache and made women turn to look at him.

At the restaurant he found not a single familiar face. The patrons - gulping breakfast or reading the Morning Rampage with their coffee - were all strangers, and they were better-dressed than the former denizens of Junktown.

Much had changed in three years, but that was typical of inner cities. In Moose County nothing ever changed unless it blew away in a high wind. The same families went on for generations; the same storekeepers managed the same stores; and everyone knew everyone else. Not only that, but the eggs tasted better up north, and when Qwilleran paid his check at the Carriage House he noted that ham and eggs cost two dollars less in Pickax.

On one of the side streets he found a grocery store where he could buy a ten-pound bag of sterilized gravel for the cats' commode, gourmet canned goods for their meals, and white grapejuice for Koko - further evidence that Junktown had upscaled.

He was becoming accustomed to surprises, but when he walked back to the Casablanca he was shocked to see a painted sign on the vacant property across the street where a row of old buildings had been demolished. The sign featured an artist's rendering of a proposed building spanning Zwinger Boulevard - actually two towers connected by a bridge across the top, somewhat like the Bridge of Sighs in Venice.

"Site of the new Gateway Alcazar," the sign proclaimed. "Offices, stores, and hotel. Space now leasing." One of the two towers obviously occupied the Casablanca site, and Qwilleran considered it an example of gross nerve! He made a note of the firm promoting the project: Penniman, Greystone & Fleudd. He knew of the wealthy Pennimans and the civic-minded Greystones, but Fleudd was a new name to him. He could not even pronounce it.

At the Casablanca a stretcher was being loaded into an ambulance, and Qwilleran inquired about it at the manager's desk.

"An old gentleman on Four had a heart attack," said Mrs. Tuttle as if it were a routine occurrence.

"May I leave my groceries here while I go for a walk?" "Certainly," she said. "Be careful where you go. Stay on the main streets." Qwilleran had acquired the walking habit up north, and he headed for downtown on foot, proceeding at a studious pace in order to evaluate the streetscape. Ahead of him stretched the new Zwinger Boulevard with its trendy buildings: glass office towers like giant mirrors; an apartment building like an armed camp; the new Penniman Plaza hotel like an amusement park. The thought crossed his mind that the Klingenschoen Fund could buy all of this, tear it down, and build something more pleasing to the eye.

He was, of course, the only pedestrian in sight. Traffic shot past him in surges, barreling for the next red light like race horses bursting out of the gate. At one point a police car pulled up. "Looking for something, sir?" asked an officer.

If Qwilleran had said, "I'm thinking of buying all of this and tearing it down," they would have sent him to the psychiatric ward, so he flashed his press card and told them he was reporting on the architecture of inner cities in the northeast central United States.

Next, discovering an office building with shops on the main floor, he bought a handbag for Polly and had it gift- wrapped and shipped with an affectionate enclosure. It was called a "Paris bag," something not to be found in Moose County, where a "Chicago bag" was considered the last word.

He also entered a bookstore called "Books 'n' Stuff," that stocked more videos and greeting cards than books.

Furthermore, its supermarket lighting and background music discouraged browsing. Qwilleran had his own ideas about the correct ambiance for a bookstore: dim, quiet, and slightly dusty.

Downtown he passed the Daily Fluxion and would have dropped in to banter with the staffers, but the formidable new security system in the lobby was inhibiting. He kept going in the direction of the Press Club.

This venerable landmark on Canard Street had been remodeled and redecorated. It was no longer the hangout where he and Arch Riker used to lunch almost every day at the same table in the same comer of the bar, served by the same waitress who knew exactly how they liked their burgers. None of the old crowd was there. Everyone seemed younger, and there was a preponderance of ad salesmen and publicity hacks on expense accounts - a suit-and-tie crowd.

He was the only one in the place who looked as if he had arrived on horseback. He ate at the bar, but the corned beef sandwich was not as good as it used to be. Bruno, the bartender, had quit, and no one remembered Bruno or knew where he had gone.

As Qwilleran was leaving the bar, he recognized one familiar face. The portly and easygoing Lieutenant Hames of the Homicide Squad was lunching with someone who was obviously a newsman and probably the new reporter on the police beat; Qwilleran could identify the breed instantly. He stopped at their table.

"What brings you down from the North Pole?" the detective asked in his usual jocular style.

"The developers are evicting me from my igloo," Qwilleran replied. "They're building air-conditioned condos." "Do you guys know each other?" Hames introduced Matt something or other from the Fluxion's police bureau. The name sounded like Thiggamon.

"Spell it," Qwilleran requested as he shook hands with the young reporter.

"T-h-i-double g-a-m-o-n." "What happened to Lodge Kendall?" "He went out west to work on some new magazine," said Matt. "Aren't you the one who gave the big retirement bash for Arch Riker? I missed it by two days." "You're entitled to a raincheck." "What are you doing here anyway?" asked Hames.

"Spending the winter with crime and pollution instead of snowdrifts and icebergs. I'm staying at the Casablanca." "Are you nuts? They're getting ready to bulldoze that pile of rubble. Do you still have your smart cat?" "I sure do and he's getting smarter every day." "I suppose you still indulge his taste for lobster and frog legs." Qwilleran said, "I admit that he lives high, for a cat, but he saved my neck a couple of times, and I owe him." Hames turned to the new reporter. "Qwill has this cat that can dig up clues better than the whole Homicide Squad.

When I told my wife about him, she bugged me until I got her a Siamese, but ours is more interested in breaking the law than enforcing it. Pull up a chair, Qwill. Have some coffee. Have dessert. The Fluxion's picking up the tab." Qwilleran declined, saying that he had an appointment, and went on his way, thinking about the proliferation of Hedrogs and Thiggamons, like" names out of science fiction. Moreover, the bylines at the Fluxion were getting longer and more complicated. Fran Unger had been replaced by Martta Newton-Ffiske. At the Morning Rampage Jack Murphy's gossip column was now written by Sasha Crispen-Schmitt. Try saying that fast, he thought: Try saying it three times.

In a critical and slightly grouchy mood he pushed through the lunch-hour crowds on the street, finding most of the pedestrians to be in a mad rush, tense, and rude. The women he evaluated as chic, glamorous, and self-consciously thin, though not as pretty or as healthy-looking as those in Moose County.

Returning to the Casablanca too early for his. appointment with Mary Duckworth, he went for a ride, extricating the Purple Plum from the parking lot's tire-bashing cracks and craters and driving to River Road, his last address before moving up north. His old domicile and the tennis club next-door had been replaced by a condo complex and marina, and he could hardly remember how either of the original buildings looked. Too bad! He chalked up another score for the developers and drove back to the Casablanca, hoping it would still be there. What he found was a revised situation in the parking lot. His official slot, #28, was still occupied - not by the green Japanese car but by a decrepit station wagon with a New Jersey license plate. Someone else had pulled into #29, so he wheeled the Purple Plum into #27. After a morning of disappointment, indignation, and other negative reactions, Qwilleran was none too happy when he left for Mary Duckworth's antique shop.

The Blue Dragon still occupied a narrow townhouse, handsomely preserved, and a large blue porcelain dragon (not for sale) still dominated the front window bay. That much had not changed. Nor had the entrance hall with its Chinese wallpaper, Chippendale furniture, and silver chandeliers. There was a life-size ebony carving of a Nubian slave with jeweled turban that had not yet sold, and Qwilleran glanced at the price tag to see if it had been marked down. It had gone up another two thousand dollars, Mary's credo being: If it doesn't sell, raise the price.

As for Mary herself, she still had the sleek blue-black hair and willowy figure that he remembered, but the long cigarette holder and the long fingernails were no longer in evidence. Instead of an Oriental kimono, she wore a well- tailored suit and pearls. She shook his hand briefly and glanced at his Nordic sweater and Aussie hat. "You look so sportif, Qwill!" "I see you haven't sold the blackamoor," he said.

"I'm holding it back. Originally it stood in the lobby of the Casablanca, and it will appreciate in value, no matter what happens to the building." "Do you still keep that unfriendly German shepherd?" "Actually," said Mary, "I don't feel the need for a watchdog, considering the new atmosphere in Junktown. I was able to find him a good home in the suburbs, where he's really needed. Come into the office." She motioned him to sit in a wing chair.

Its tall, narrow proportions labeled it an antique, and he glanced at the price tag. He looked twice. At first reading he thought it was $180.00, then realized it was $18,000. He sat down carefully.

"Before we say another word," he began, "would you explain the dark line that makes the Casablanca look like a refrigerator? It's just above the ninth floor." "There was a projecting ledge there," she said, "and the city ordered it removed. Portions of it were falling down on the sidewalk and injuring passersby. Our architect maintains it can be safely restored, and it should be restored, being an integral part of the design. Meanwhile, the building management is reluctant to spend money on cosmetic improvements because - " "Because the building may be torn down next week," Qwilleran interrupted. "Everyone chants that excuse like a Greek chorus, and they may be right. This morning I saw the sign announcing the Gateway Alcazar. The developers seem to be supremely confident." "Aren't you appalled?" Mary said with a shudder. "The audacity of those people is unthinkable! They've even contrived a publicity story in the Morning Rampage comparing their arched monstrosity to the Arc de Triomphe!" "Well, the Pennimans own the Rampage, don't they?" "Nevertheless, Roberto wrote a letter to the editor calling it the' Arc de Catastrophe.' If your Klingenschoen Fund comes to our rescue, we shall be eternally grateful." "What do you know about Penniman, Greystone and F-I-e-u-d-d? I don't know how to pronounce it." "Flood." "What's their track record?" "Fleudd has recently joined them, but the Penniman and Greystone firm has been in real-estate development for years. They're the ones who wanted to tear down the Press Club." "The media clobbered that idea in a hurry," Qwilleran recalled. "Has the Daily Fluxion come to the support of SOCK?" "Not with any conviction. They merely fuel the controversy. The mayor and the city council have made statements in favor of the Gateway Alcazar, but the university and the art community support SOCK." "How about your father? What does he think about saving the Casablanca?" Mary raised her eyebrows expressively. "As you know, he and I are always at odds on every issue, and his bank has already agreed to lease space for a branch office in the Gateway building. Ironic, isn't it?" "Tell me about the Countess," he said. "So far no one has mentioned her name." "She is Adelaide St. John Plumb. Her father was Harrison Wills Plumb, who built the Casablanca in 1901. She was born on the twelfth floor of the Casablanca seventy-five years ago, with a midwife, a nurse, and two doctors in attendance, according to the story she tells and tells and tells. She's inclined to be repetitive." "Did she ever marry?" "No. She was engaged at an early age but broke it off. She adored her father, and they were very close." "I see... How does she react to all this brouhaha over her birthplace?" "That's a curious situation," Mary admitted. "I believe she enjoys being the center of attention. The promoters make her large offers and ply her with gifts, while SOCK appeals to her better instincts and makes pointed references to her father - her 'dear father.' She procrastinates, and we stall for time, hoping to find an angel. Do you play bridge?" Jolted by this non sequitur, Qwilleran said, "Uh... no, I don't." "How about backgammon?" "Frankly, I've never liked games that require any mental effort. What is the reason for this interrogation, may I ask?" "Let me explain," said Mary. "The Countess has one interest in life: table games - cards, Parcheesi, checkers, mah-jongg, anything except chess. Roberto and I stay in her good graces by playing once a week." "Does much money exchange hands?" "There's no gambling. She plays for the pleasure of competition, and she's really very good. She should be! She's been playing daily all her life, beginning as a young child. Did Amber tell you that the Countess is a recluse?" "No, she didn't." Qwilleran's vision of Lady Hester Stanhope flashed across his mind.

"Yes, she lives in a world of her own on the twelfth floor, with three servants." "Surely she goes out occasionally." "She never leaves the building or even her own apartment, which occupies an entire floor. Her doctors, lawyers, hairdresser, dressmaker, and masseuse all make house calls." "What's her problem? Agoraphobia?" "She claims to have trouble breathing if she steps outside her door... You don't play dominoes?" "No! Especially not dominoes." "Scrabble?" He shook his head. "Does this woman know I'm here - and why?" "We told her you're a writer who inherited money and retired to the country, and you're spending the winter here to escape the bad weather up north." "What was her reaction?" "She asked if you play bridge." "Does she know I used to write for the Fluxion?" "There was no point in mentioning it. She never reads newspapers. As I said before, she has created a private world." Qwilleran was convinced he had discovered Lady Hester in the flesh. He said, "Does anyone know of my interest in buying the Casablanca?" "Only Roberto and myself and the architect. And we confided in Amber, of course, when I had to leave town." "Since the Klingenschoen board of directors won't even hear about this until Thursday, I don't want my possible involvement to leak out." "We understand that." "I'll be filing stories for the Moose County paper while I'm here, and I'm thinking that a column on the Casablanca could make a good kickoff. Will the Countess object to being interviewed?" "I'm sure she'll enjoy the attention, although she'll want to talk mostly about her dear father." "'Who handles the business end of the Casablanca?" "A realty firm, with her lawyers as intermediaries." "Is she interested in the tenants?" "Only if they have good manners and good clothes and play bridge. To break the ice, I'd like to take you to tea on Twelve. She pours every afternoon at four." "First," Qwilleran said, "I want to know your architect's appraisal of the building. As of this moment I don't believe it shows much promise." Mary handed him a bound copy of a report. "There it is! Two hundred pages. Most of it is technical, but if you read the first and last chapters, you'll have all the necessary information." Qwilleran noted the name on the cover: Grinchman & Hills, architects and engineers. It was a well-known firm.

Magazines had publicized their projects around the country: an art museum, a university library, the restoration of a nineteenth-century government building. "Not a bad connection," he said. "I'll study this thing, and if I have any questions, whom do I call? Grinchman or Hills?" "They're both deceased," Mary said. "Only the name remains, and the reputation. The man who prepared the report for SOCK, virtually gratis, is Jefferson Lowell. He's totally sympathetic to the cause. You'll like him." Qwilleran rose. "This discussion has been enjoyable and enlightening, Mary. I'll let you know when I'm ready for tea with the Countess." "Time is of the essence," she reminded him. "After all, the woman is seventy-five, and anything can happen." She accompanied him to the door, through a maze of high-priced pedigreed antiques. "Do you still have your Mackintosh coat of arms?" "I wouldn't part with it. It's the first antique I ever bought, and it's incorporated into my apartment up north." He drew a small object from his pocket. "Can you identify this?" "Where did you get it?" "My cat was batting it about the floor in the penthouse." "It's a blank tile from a Scrabble set. Blanks are wild in Scrabble. The former tenant was an avid player." "She was an art dealer, I understand, and that explains some of the peculiar artwork, but why so many mushrooms? Who painted them? They're signed with a double R." Mary's eyes wavered as she replied, "He was a young artist by the name of Ross Rasmus." "Why did he put a knife in every picture?" She hesitated momentarily. "Roberto says there's sensuous pleasure in slicing a mushroom with a sharp knife.

Perhaps that's what it's all about." With a searching look Qwilleran said, "I hear she died unexpectedly. What was the cause of death?" "Really, Qwill, we avoid talking about it," Mary said uncomfortably. "It was rather - -sordid, and that's not the image we want for the Casablanca." "You don't have to be cagey with me, Mary. Since I'm subletting the apartment, I deserve to know." "Well, if you insist... I have to tell you that she was... murdered." He stroked his moustache smugly. "That's what I surmised. There's a sizable bloodstain on the carpet. Someone had placed a piece of furniture over it for camouflage, but Koko found it." "How is Koko?" Mary asked brightly.

"Never mind Koko. Tell me what happened to the art dealer." The words came out reluctantly. "She... her throat was cut." "By the mushroom artist?" She nodded.

"That figures. He was obsessed with knives. When did this happen?" "On Labor Day weekend." "Why is so much of this Ross fellow's work hanging in the apartment?" "Well," said Mary, selecting her words with care, "he was a young artist... and she thought he had promise...

and she promoted him in her gallery. He was her prot‚g‚, you might say." "Uh-huh," said Qwilleran knowingly. "Where is he now? I assume he was convicted." "No," Mary said slowly. "He was never brought to trial... You see, he left a confession... and took his own life."