The Cat Who Lived High

6

QWILLERAN FELT IN better spirits when he left the Blue Dragon. Koko's discovery was pertinent: 14-A had been the scene of a murder. That cat had an infallible sense when it came to turning up evidence of criminal activity.

Carrying the Grinchman & Hills report Qwilleran headed for home with a brisk step, eager to start reading. Instead of wasting time on dinner in a restaurant, he stopped at the Carriage House Cafe to inquire about take-out food.

"We don't usually... do... take-outs," said the cashier in a distracted way. She was staring at Qwilleran's oversized moustache. "Are you on television?" Regarding her with mournful eyes under drooping lids, he said in a rich, resonant tone reserved for such occasions, "At this moment I am live - in person - talking with an attractive woman behind a cash register, regarding the possibility of a take-out dinner." "I'll see what I can do," she called over her shoulder as she hurried into the kitchen. Immediately a man with long hair and a chef's hat peered through the small window in the kitchen door. Qwilleran gave him a cordial salute.

The cashier returned. "We don't have take-out trays, but the cook will put together a serving of today's special, if you don't mind carrying a regular plate. You can bring it back tomorrow. Are you driving?" "I'm walking but I don't have far to go. What is your special?" "Beef Stroganoff." "It sounds most appetizing." "We'll put some coleslaw and a dinner roll in foil," the cashier volunteered.

While retrieving his bill clip from his pocket, Qwilleran placed the Grinchman & Hills report on the counter and noticed the cashier trying to read it upside down.

"Grinch... man... and... Hills," she read aloud. "Is that the script for a movie?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes, but keep it quiet;" he replied in a low voice with a swift glance to either side. "It's going to be a buddy movie like Bonnie and Clyde or Harold and Maude. I'm playing Grinchman." Leaving a sizable tip for a happy and flustered cashier, he departed with the bulky report under one arm and a plate of hot food covered with foil, on top of which were balanced two foil packets. "Your coleslaw and buttered roll," the cashier told him with an expansive display of hospitality. "Open the door for him," she called to the busboy.

Qwilleran covered the distance to the Casablanca quickly, and a young man held the two heavy doors for him, saying, "Somebody's gonna eat tonight." On the main floor there was activity suitable for late afternoon on a Monday. The person seated in the phone booth was telephoning and neither swigging nor snorting. An elderly man using a walker moved down the hall slowly and with extreme concentration. Kitty-Baby, having picked up the scent of the beef Stroganoff, was dogging Qwilleran's feet. In the vicinity of the desk a young man was swinging a mop across the floor, while Mrs. Tuttle sat at her post, knitting, and Rupert lounged about in his red hat. Despite the tools in his jacket pocket, he never seemed to do much work. Among the persons waiting for the elevator were employed tenants with gaunt end-of-day expressions, the Asian mother with her children, elderly souls complaining about Medicare, and students with an excess of youthful energy, talking loudly about bridges, professors, and final exams. Probably engineering students, Qwilleran guessed.

Rupert caught his eye and nodded toward the elevators. "Both workin' today." "A cause for celebration," Qwilleran replied. While the passengers waited in suspense, reassuring knocks and whines could be heard in both elevator shafts. Old Green was the first to appear, immediately filling with passengers and going on its way. Then the door of Old Red opened, and two of the waiting students rushed aboard. Qwilleran stood back, allowing a white-haired woman with a cane to go next. Slowly, one faltering step at a time, she approached the car, and just as her head and one foot were inside, the heavy door started to close.

"Hold it!" he yelled. One student lunged for the door; the other lunged at the woman, pushing her from danger. As she toppled backward, Qwilleran dropped everything and caught her, while Old Red closed its door and took off.

Instantly Mrs. Tuttle and Rupert were on the scene, the custodian retrieving the woman's cane and the manager saying, "Are you all right, Mrs. Button?" Set back on her feet but shaking violently, the woman raised her cane as if to strike and screamed in a cracked voice, "That man grabbed me!" "He saved you, Mrs. Button," explained the manager. "You could have fallen and broken your hip." "He grabbed me!" "Wheelchair," Mrs. Tuttle mumbled, and Rupert quickly brought one from the office and took the offended victim upstairs in Old Green, while Qwilleran surveyed the gooey hash on the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Qwilleran," said Mrs. Tuttle. "Is that your dinner?" "It was my dinner. Anyway, the plate didn't break, but I'm afraid I messed up your floor." "Don't worry about that. The boy will take care of it." "I don't think that will be necessary," he said. Kitty-Baby had been joined by Napoleon and two other cats, and the quartet was lapping it up, coleslaw and all.

"At least let me wash your plate," Mrs. Tuttle offered.

"It looks as if Old Red is my nemesis," said Qwilleran as he nodded his thanks to a child who handed him his buttered roll and a man who picked up the Grinchman & Hills report, straightening its rumpled pages.

"Could the boy go out and bring you something to eat?" the manager suggested.

"I think not, thank you. I'll go upstairs and feed the cats and then go out to dinner." When he opened the door of 14-A, Koko and Yum Yum came forward nonchalantly.

"How about showing some concern?" he chided them. "How about displaying a little sympathy? I've just had a grueling experience." They followed him into the kitchen and watched politely as he opened a can of crabmeat.

They were neither prowling nor yowling nor ankle-rubbing, and Qwilleran realized that they were not hungry.

"Has someone been up here?" he demanded.

"Did they give you something to eat?" When he placed the plate of food on the floor, the cats circled it and sniffed from all angles before consenting to nibble daintily. Then Qwilleran was sure someone had been feeding them. He inspected the apartment for signs of intrusion and found no evidence in the library or in either bedroom. The doors to the terrace were locked. Both bathrooms were undisturbed. Only in the gallery was there anything different, and he could not imagine exactly what it was. The Indian dhurrie still covered the bloodstain on the carpet; no artwork was missing; the potted trees had all their leaves, but something had been changed.

At that moment Koko entered the gallery and embarked on a businesslike program of sniffing. He sniffed at the foot of the stairs, alongside the sofa, on the gallery level between trees, and in front of the stereo.

"The pails!" Qwilleran shouted. "Someone took the pails!" He hurried to the housephone in the kitchen and said to a surprised Mrs. Tuttle, "What happened to my pails?" "Your what?" she asked. "This is Qwilleran in 14-A. There were plastic pails standing around my living room to catch drips when the skylight leaks. What happened to them? It might rain!" "Oh, I forgot to tell you," she apologized. "The man was here to fix the skylight today, so Rupert collected the pails. I forgot to tell you during the trouble with Mrs. Button." "I see. Sorry to bother you." He tamped his moustache. He would have to speak firmly to Rupert about feeding the animals. But his annoyance at the custodian was erased by his admiration for Koko. That cat had known the exact location of every pail!

Now Qwilleran was twice as hungry. Carrying the clean plastic plate he returned to the Carriage House Caf‚.

"Oh, it's you again!" cried the cashier in delight. "How did you like the special? You didn't need to bring the plate back right away." "It was so good," Qwilleran said, "that I'd like to do it all over again, including that delicious coleslaw and perhaps two rolls if you can spare them." He sat on a stool at the counter, and the cashier insisted on serving him herself, while the cook waved a friendly hand in the small window of the kitchen door and later sent out a complimentary slice of apple pie.

Thus fortified, Qwilleran returned to the Casablanca, where he found the red-hatted Rupert sitting at the manager's desk, reading a comic book. "I notice that the skylight's been repaired," he said to the custodian.

"Yep. No more leaks." The man held up crossed fingers.

"How did you get along with the cats when you picked up the pails?" "Okay. I gave 'em a jelly doughnut. They gobbled it up." "Jelly doughnut!" Qwilleran was aghast.

Rupert, misunderstanding his reaction, excused the apparent extravagance by explaining that it was a stale doughnut that had been lying around the basement for several days.

Controlling himself, Qwilleran said in a friendly way, "I'd rather you wouldn't give the cats any treats if you have occasion to enter the apartment, Rupert. They're on a strict diet because of... because of their kidneys." "Yeah, cats always have trouble with their kidneys, seems if." "But thanks for collecting the pails, friend. You're right on the ball!" Then Qwilleran rode up to Fourteen on Old Red and confronted the Siamese. "Stale jelly doughnut!" he said in indignation. "You ate a stale jelly doughnut! And yet you guys turn up your nose at a fresh can of salmon if it's pink! You hypocrites!" Changing into a warm-up suit, he locked himself into the library to study the Grinchman & Hills report. It appeared to be a formidable task, and he wanted no one sitting on his lap or purring in his ear.

The introduction described the original structure, as Amber had quoted from the SOCK brochure. Then came the chapter on necessary improvements, which Qwilleran condensed on a legal pad as follows:

* Clean and repair exterior and restore ornamentation.

* Restore grassy park on west side and porte cochere on the east.

* Acquire property behind building for parking structure.

* New roof and skylight.

* New triple-glazed windows throughout, custom-made.

* Mechanical update: elevators, heating and air-conditioning, plumbing, wiring, TV cables, and intercom.

* Remove superimposed floorings, false walls, and dropped ceilings.

* Restore former apartment spaces with maids' rooms.

* Update bathrooms in the character of the original.

* Restore marble, woodwork, paneling, mosaic tile.

* Duplicate original light fixtures, custom-made.

* Furnish lobby as before: Spanish furniture, Oriental rugs, oil paintings.

* Reinstate restaurant on Fourteen, converting pool area into sidewalk caf‚.

* Landscape terrace in 1900 style.

* Update basement apartments for staff.

* Redesign kitchen and laundry facilities.

* Preserve owner's apartment on Twelve as refurbished in 1925.

After compiling this ambitious list, Qwilleran blew into his moustache - an expression of incredulity. Turning to the final chapter he had greater cause for disbelief; the bottom line was in nine digits. He emitted an audible gulp! Such a sum was beyond his comprehension. Despite his inheritance, he still bought his shirts on sale and telephoned long distance during the discount hours. Nevertheless, he knew that the Klingenschoen Fund was accustomed to disbursing hundreds of millions without blinking, and he managed not to blink, although he gulped audibly.

As he mused on the possibilities and problems of such an extensive restoration, the hush of the library was broken by the sound of drumbeats. They were coming through the wall from 14-B. Thump thump thump dum-dum thump dum-dum thump BONG! The final beat reverberated like a Chinese gong. Then he heard a shrill voice, although the words were inaudible, followed by a repetition of the drumbeats.

He went out on the terrace and walked past the French doors of 14-B, but the blinds were closed as before. Next he went out to the elevator lobby and listened at his neighbor's door. He could hear a voice chanting, then more thumps and a BONG! He was standing with his ear close to the door when noises in the elevator shaft alerted him, and he sprang back just as Old Red debouched a creature with spiky hair, wearing black tights, black boots, a black poncho, and black eye makeup.

"Good evening," he said to the creature, giving his greeting a neighborly inflection.

Without replying, he or she darted past him, hammered on the door of 14-B, and was admitted amid birdlike shrieks.

The charivari had no effect on the Siamese, who were sleeping soundly somewhere, full of crab-meat and stale jelly doughnut. Qwilleran spent the next two hours in the gallery, however, with the French doors closed and the stereo volume turned to high.

Toward the end of the evening, when the thumps and bongs had subsided, he heard a commotion in the hall: the door of 14-B slamming, a cacophony of shrill voices. He grabbed his wastebasket and opened his front door on the pretext of putting out his rubbish. As he did so, he caught sight of more creatures in black, chattering and shrieking like inhabitants of a rain forest as they boarded Old Red. When they saw him, they fell silent and stared with black-rimmed eyes. The elevator door closed and Old Red descended. Qwilleran told himself with a chuckle that they were members of some kind of satanic cult, and Old Red was taking them down to the infernal regions.

Perhaps it was the sudden silence that roused the Siamese, or their internal clock told them it was time for their eleven o'clock treat. Whatever alerted them, they wandered out from wherever they had been sleeping and performed the ritual of yawning and stretching, first two forelegs and then one hind leg. Koko jumped to the desktop and nosed the Grinchman & Hills report. Yum Yum stood on her hind legs and placed her paws on the edge of the wastebasket, peering into its depths in hope of finding a crumpled paper or piece of string.

"I don't know about you," Qwilleran said to the pair, "but I've had a most interesting evening. If we do what the architects suggest, this building will no longer look like a refrigerator, and it won't be a sore thumb on Zwinger Boulevard.

The lobby will be a showplace; the apartments will be palatial; the rooftop restaurant will be exclusive; and they'll no longer allow cats. How do you react to that?" "Yow," said Koko, who was now examining the library sofa. It was covered with fake leopard, and he knew it was not the real thing. Industriously, with vertical tail, he sniffed the seams, pawed the button tufting, and reached down behind the seat cushions. Some of his memorable discoveries had been made behind seat cushions: cocktail crackers, paper clips, folding money, pencils, and small articles of clothing. Now he was scrabbling so assiduously that Qwilleran went to his aid. He removed one of the seat cushions, and there - tucked in the crevice between the seat platform and the sofa-back - was an item of gold jewelry.

"Good boy!" he said. "Let me see it." Engraved discs were linked together to make a flexible bracelet, but the clasp was broken. One disc was engraved in cursive script: "To Dianne." Another was inscribed: "From Ross." The remainder bore the numerals: 1-1-4-1, 5-1-1-1, 4-1-3-5, etc. Obviously it was a secret code between the two.

"Okay, this is enough excitement for tonight," Qwilleran said, "but tomorrow we do a little research on the Labor Day incident." On Tuesday morning Qwilleran called Jefferson Lowell at Grinchman & Hills, inviting him to lunch at the Press Club, and the architect accepted. There was a certain mystique about the Press Club, and most persons jumped at an invitation.

Before going out to breakfast, he checked the weather report on the radio and learned that the Narcotics Squad had rounded up fifty-two suspects in a drug bust; a judge had been indicted for accepting bribes; and a cold front was moving in.

On his way out of the building Qwilleran was flagged by the manager. She said, "I'm sorry about that commotion last night. Mrs. Button is very old and a little confused at times." "I understand, Mrs. Tuttle." "Last year she had an attack, and the paramedics gave her CPR. The next day she accused them of rape. It even went to court, but of course it was thrown out." "I'm glad you warned me," Qwilleran said. "Next time I'll let her fall." If Mrs. Tuttle appreciated his sly humor, she gave no indication. "I also wanted to tell you, Mr. Qwilleran, that some of our tenants do cleaning - those that are on social security, you know. They like to keep active and earn a little extra. Let me know if you need help with your apartment." "I'll take you up on that," he said, "but don't send me Mrs. Button." Then he walked downtown. It was a good day for walking - by urban standards; a light breeze diluted the emissions from cars and trucks and diesel vehicles. En route he stopped for pancakes and sausages, observing that they were twice the price of a similar breakfast in Pickax, and the sausages were not half so good. Moose County had hog farms, and independent butchers made their own sausages. He was spoiled.

At the Daily Fluxion he braved the security cordon and gained admittance to the library, where he asked to see clips on the Bessinger murder. The film bank produced three entries, the first dated the day after Labor Day. Although the victim's name was spelled differently in each news item, that was not unusual for the Daily Fluxion.

MURDER-SUICIDE JOLTS ART WORLD The violent deaths of an art dealer and an artist Sunday night, apparently murder and suicide, have shocked the local art world and the residents of the Casablanca apartments.

The body of Diane Bessinger, 45, co-owner of the Bessinger-Todd Gallery, was found in her penthouse apartment Monday morning. Her throat had been cut. The body of Ross Rasmus, 25, a client of Bessinger, was found earlier atop a car in the parking lot below the murdered woman's terrace.

Rasmus apparently jumped to his death after leaving a contrite confession daubed on a wall. His body landed on the roof of a car owned by a Casablanca tenant, who found it at 12:05 A.M. Monday and notified the police.

"I went out for some smokes and beer," said Jack Yazbro, 39, "and the top of my car was all bashed in. He wasn't that big of a guy, but it's a long way down." Bessinger died between 11 P.M. and midnight Sunday, according to the medical examiner, although the body was not discovered until Monday morning when her partner, Jerome Todd, phoned and was un- able to get an answer.

"I heard about Ross's suicide on the radio and tried to call her," Todd said. "When she didn't answer, I got worried and called the building manager." The gallery had mounted a one-man exhibit of Rasmus's mushroom paintings in June.

"They sold poorly," said Todd, "and Ross blamed us for not publicizing the event enough." Rasmus rented a loft apartment adjoining Bessinger's lavish penthouse at the Casablanca. Jessica Tuttle, manager of the building, called him a good tenant. "He was a nice, quiet, serious young man," she said. "We rented to him at Ms. Bessinger's recommendation." It was Tuttle who found the murdered woman's body. "Mr. Todd called me about not getting an answer on the phone. He was sure she was home, because she had guests coming for a holiday brunch. So I took my keys and went up there. Her body was on the living room floor, and there was a lot of blood on the carpet." Bessinger had been in the news frequently in connection with the Save Our Casablanca Kommittee, of which she was founder and leader.

Following the news item, a brief obituary had been published in the Wednesday edition of the Fluxion, with a half- column photo of the de- ceased, a vivacious-looking woman with dark shoulder-length hair. Diane had become Diana.

BESSINGER, DIANA

Diana Bessinger, 45, of the Casablanca apartments died Sunday at her home. She was co-owner of the Bessinger-Todd Gallery, founder of the Save Our Casablanca Kommittee, an officer of the Turp and Chisel Oub, and an active worker in local art projects.

A native of Iowa, she was the daughter of the late Prof. and Mrs. Damon Bessinger.

She is survived by one brother and two daughters.

Private services will be held Thursday. Memorials may be made to the Turp and Chisel scholarship fund.

The following Sunday, the art page of the Fluxion carried a commentary by art writer Ylana Targ, with yet a third spelling of the victim's name. A photo taken by a Fluxion photographer at the Rasmus opening in June showed a smiling "Dianne" Bessinger and a shy Ross Rasmus, posed with one of the mushroom paintings. The byline, Qwil leran noted, was another one of those names that was just as logical spelled backward or forward.

MUSHROOM MURDER HAS NO ANSWERS by Ylana Targ

There is only one topic of conversation in the galleries and studios as Dianne Bessinger is tearfully laid to rest and the ashes of the "mushroom painter" are shipped ignominiously to his hometown - somewhere.

Why did he do it? What caused this talented, thoughtful artist to turn violent and commit such a heinous crime? His suicide is easier to explain; it was the only possible escape from intolerable guilt. Desperate remorse must have driven him over the parapet of the Casablanca terrace.

"Lady Di" was his patron, his enthusiastic press agent, his best friend, who saw merit in his work when no other gallery would take a chance on his monomania for mushrooms.

Once, when asked why he never painted broccoli or crook-neck squash, Ross said meekly, "I haven't said all I have to say about mushrooms." Granted, mushrooms are erotic, and he captured their mushroomness succinctly.

Pairing the fleshy fungus with the razor-edge knife, as he did, bordered on soft porn.

Dianne said in an interview last June, , 'There have been artists who painted soft- ness, crispness, silkiness, or mistiness sublimely, but only Rasmus could paint sharpness so sharp that the viewer cringes." The knife he portrayed in the paintings was always the same - a tapered, pointed Japanese slicer with a pale wooden handle and a provocative shapeliness of its own.

One shudders to think too much about the actual crime. The motive is all one can safely or sanely contemplate, and that is a question that will never be answered.

Dianne Bessinger was the founder and president of SOCK. It was a passion with her, and she would not want her worthwhile cause to be overshadowed by the notoriety surrounding her tragic death. She would say, "Let the matter fade away now, and get on with the business of saving the Casablanca." Qwilleran finished reading the clips and patted his moustache. It would be a challenge, he thought, to uncover that hidden motive. It might be buried in 14-A.