The Cat Who Lived High

7

ON AN IMPULSE, after reading the murder-suicide clips in the Fluxion library, Qwilleran walked to the Bessinger-Todd Gallery in the financial district. It had the same address as the old Lambreth Gallery that he knew so well, but the interior had changed dramatically. At that morning hour the place had a vast emptiness, except for a business-suited man supervising a jeans-clad assistant perched on a stepladder. He turned in surprise as Qwilleran entered, saying, "We're closed. I thought the door was locked." "Am I intruding? I'm Jim Qwilleran, formerly of the Daily Fluxion. I used to cover the art beat when Mountclemens was the critic." "How do you do. I'm Jerome Todd. I've heard about Mountclemens, but that was before my time here. I'm from Des Moines." "I've been away for three years. I see you've enlarged the gallery." "Yes, we knocked out the ceiling so we could exhibit larger works, and we added the balcony for crafts objects." Qwilleran said, "I'm retired now and living up north, but I heard about the tragic loss of your partner and wanted to extend my condolences." "Thank you... Is there anything I can do for you?" Todd asked in an abrupt change of subject. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with one disturbing mannerism - the habit of pinching his nose as if he smelled an unpleasant odor.

Qwilleran was adept at inventing impromptu replies. "I happen to be staying at the Casablanca," he said, "and I would like to propose a memorial to Ms. Bessinger that would help the cause she championed." Todd looked, surprised and wary in equal proportions.

"What I envision," Qwilleran went on smoothly as if he had been planning it for months, "is a book about the historic Casablanca, using old photos from the public library. For text I would rely on interviews and research." "That would be costly to put together," said the dealer, withdrawing slightly as he began to anticipate a touch for money.

"There are grants available for publishing books on historical subjects," Qwilleran said coolly, "and revenue from the sale of the books would go to the Bessinger Memorial Fund. My own services would be donated." Instead of being relieved, Todd showed increased wariness. "Who would be interviewed?" he asked sharply.

"Local historians, architects, and persons who have recollections of the early Casablanca. You'll be surprised how many of them will come forward when we broadcast a request. My own attorney remembers eating spinach timbales in the rooftop restaurant as a boy." "I wouldn't want anyone to go digging into the circumstances of my partner's death. There's been too much notoriety and gossip already," the dealer said, pinching his nose.

"There would be nothing like that, I assure you," said Qwilleran. At that moment a glimpse of movement overhead caused him to look up; a Persian cat was walking along the railing of the balcony. "By the way," he said, "I'm subletting Ms. Bessinger's apartment while the estate is in probate, and I admire her taste in furniture and art." Todd nodded in silent agreement. "How long were you in partnership, Mr. Todd?" "Eighteen years. We came here to take over the Lambreth Gallery when Zoe Lambreth moved to California." "Do you happen to have any Rasmus paintings?" "I do not! And I'm weary of the talk about that fellow! There are plenty of living artists." Todd pinched his nose again.

"The only reason I asked is that I'm in the market for large-scale art for a house I'm building up north." Qwilleran was exercising his talent for instant falsehood.

"Then you must come to our opening on Friday night," said the dealer, visibly relieved as he anticipated cash flow.

"We're in the process of mounting the show, so the walls are vacant, but you'll see some impressive works at the vernisage." "I'm converting a barn into a residence," said Qwilleran, embroidering his innocent lie, "so I'll have large wall spaces, and I was hoping for a mushroom painting. Mushrooms seem appropriate for a barn." Stiffly Todd said, "All his work sold out immediately after his suicide. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have held some back, but I was in shock. They didn't sell well at all in June. He's worth more dead than alive. But if you come here Friday night you'll see the work of other artists you might like. What kind of barn are you remodeling?" "An apple barn. Octagonal." The barn on the Klingenschoen property had indeed stored apples, and it really was eight-sided.

"Spectacular! You might consider contemporary tapestries. Do you know the sizes of your wall spaces?" "Actually, the job isn't off the drawing board as yet," said Qwilleran, being completely truthful.

"Come anyway on Friday. There'll be champagne, hors d' oeuvres, live music, and valet parking." "What are the hours?" "From six o'clock until the well runs dry." "Thank you. I'll be here." Qwilleran started toward the door and turned back. "Tell me frankly. How do you feel about the future of the Casablanca?" "It's a lost cause," said Todd without emotion. , "Yet your partner was convinced it could be saved." "Yes... but... the picture has changed. The building is being razed to make way for the new Gateway Alcazar, which will be the missing link between the new downtown and the new Junktown. I'm moving the gallery there. I've signed up to lease space twice the size of what I have here." Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was time to meet the architect at the Press Club. "Well, thanks for your time, Mr.

Todd. I'll see you on Friday." As he walked to the Press Club he told himself that the book project, born on the spur of the moment, was not a bad idea. As for converting the apple barn, that sounded good, too. It would be ten times roomier than his present apartment in Pickax, and the Siamese could climb about the overhead beams.

The Press Club occupied a grimy stone fortress that had once been the county jail, and as a hang-out for the working press it had maintained a certain forbidding atmosphere for many years. The interior had changed, however, since Qwilleran's days at the Daily Fluxion. It had been renovated, modernized, brightened and - in his estimation - ruined. Yet it was a popular place at noon. He waited for the architect in the lobby, observing the lunch-time crowd that streamed through the door: reporters and editors, advertising and PR types, radio and TV personalities.

Eventually a man with a neatly clipped beard entered slowly, appraising the lobby with curiosity and a critical set to his mouth. Qwilleran stepped forward and introduced himself.

"I'm Jeff Lowell," said the man. "So this is the celebrated Press Club. Somehow it's not what I expected." He gestured toward the damask walls and gilt-framed mirrors.

"They redecorated a couple of years ago," said Qwilleran apologetically, "and it's no longer the dismal, shabby Press Club that I loved. Shall we go upstairs?" Upstairs there was a dining room with tablecloths, cloth napkins, and peppermills on the tables instead of paper placemats and squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup. They took a table in a secluded comer.

"So you're interested in the Casablanca restoration," said the architect.

"Interested enough to want to ask questions. I've done my homework. I spent last evening reading the Grinchman & Hills report. You seem quite sanguine about the project." "As the report made clear, it will cost a mint, but it's entirely feasible. It could be the most sensational preservation project in the country," Lowell said.

"What is your particular interest?" "For one thing, I lived in that building for a few years before I was married, and there's something about the place that gets into a person's blood; I don't know how to explain it. But chiefly, my firm is interested because the Casablanca was designed by the late John Grinchman, and we have all the original specs in our archives. Naturally that facilitated the study immeasurably. Grinchman was a struggling young architect at the turn of the century when he met Harrison Plumb.

Plumb had a harebrained scheme that no established architect would touch, but Grinchman took the gamble, and the Casablanca made his reputation. In design it was ahead of its time; Moorish didn't become a fad until after World War One. The walls were built two feet thick at the base, tapering up to eighteen inches at the top. All the mechanical equipment-water pipes, steam pipes, electric conduits-were concentrated in crawl spaces between floors, for easy access and to help soundproof the building. And there was another feature that may amuse you: The occupants could have all the electricity they wanted!" "What do you know about Harrison Plumb?" Qwilleran asked.

"His family had accumulated their fortune in railroads, but he was not inclined to business. He was a dreamer, a dilettante. He studied for a while at L 'Ecole des Beaux Arts, and while he was in Paris he saw the nobility living in lavish apartments in the city. He brought the idea home. He dreamed of building an apartment-palace." "What was the reaction from the local elite?" "They tumbled for it! It was a smash hit! For families there were twelve-room apartments with servants' quarters.

There were smaller apartments for bachelors and mistresses. Horses and carriages were stabled in the rear and available at a moment's notice, like taxis. Curiously there were no kitchens, but there was the restaurant on the top floor, and the residents either went upstairs to the dining room or had their meals sent down." "What about the swimming pool?" "That was for men only-and somewhat of a conceit. On the main floor they had a stockbroker, jeweler, law firm, and insurance agency. In the basement there were laundresses and cobblers. Barbers, tailors, seamstresses, and hair- dressers were on call to the apartments." "And Plumb kept the best apartment for himself?" "The entire twelfth floor. It was designed to his specifications in Spanish style and then redesigned in the 1920s in the French Modern of its day. If the building is restored, the Plumb suite could eventually be a private museum; it's that spectacular!" Qwilleran said, "Suppose the Klingenschoen Fund undertook to restore the Casablanca to its original character, would there be a demand for the apartments?" "I have no doubt." "I suppose you've met Harrison Plumb's daughter?" "Only twice," said Lowell. "The first time was when I asked permission to make the study. I buttered up the old girl, invoked the memory of her dear father, indulged in some architectural double-talk, and got her okay. The second time was when I presented her with a copy of the report-leather-bound, mind you-which I'm sure she hasn't opened, even though we bound in a photo of her father, arm in arm with John Grinchman. Unfortunately, I'm not a bridge player, so I was never invited back." "I have yet to meet the lady," said Qwilleran. "What is she like?" "Nice enough, but an absurd anachronism, living in a private time capsule. She doesn't give a damn if the front steps are pulverizing and the tenants' elevators are shot. If someone doesn't shake some sense into her, she'll hang on to the place until she dies, and that'll be the end of the Casablanca. I don't want to be there on the day they blast." They ordered the Press Club's Tuesday special, pork chops, and talked about the metamorphosis of Zwinger Boulevard, the proposed Gateway AIcazar, and the gentrification of Junktown. Then over cheesecake and coffee they reverted to the subject of the Casablanca.

"Let's draw up the battlelines," said Qwilleran. "On the one side, the developers and the city fathers want to see it demolished." "Also the financial backers for the Gateway Alcazar. Also the realty firm that manages the Casablanca. The building is a headache for them; in spite of the low rents, it's only half-occupied, and the mechanical equipment is constantly breaking down because of age and mishandling." "Okay. And on the other side we have SOCK and G&H, right?" "Plus the art and academic sector. Plus an army of former tenants in all walks of life who've contributed to SOCK for the campaign. Strange as it may seem, there are people who are sentimental about the Casablanca in the same way they love the memory of - say - Paris. It has almost a living presence. It's too bad what happened to Di Bessinger. She had a lot of drive and - as you probably know - she was set to inherit the building." "That's news to me," Qwilleran said.

"You might say she had a vested interest in the Casablanca. That's not to discount her genuine love for it, of course." "Are you telling me that the Countess had named Bessinger in her will?" "Yes, Di spent a lot of time up on Twelve, and it must have been appreciated by the older woman, who - let's face it - lives a lonely life." "Tell me this," said Qwilleran. "If the Klingenschoen Fund makes an offer - and at this point I'm not sure they will - can we be certain that the Countess will sell?" "That I can't answer," said the architect. "Mary Duckworth thinks the woman is craftily playing cat and mouse with both sides. She can't possibly want to see her home demolished, and yet she's related to the Pennimans on her mother's side, and they're financial backers for the Gateway. Do you know the Pennimans?" "I know they own the Morning Rampage," said Qwilleran, "and as an alumnus of the Daily Fluxion I don't think highly of their paper." "Also they're big in radio, television, and God knows what else. Penniman is spelled P-O-W-E-R in this town. It would give me personally a lot of satisfaction to see that crew get their blocks knocked off." "This is going to be an interesting crusade," said Qwilleran. "You understand, of course, that the Klingenschoen board doesn't meet till Thursday, and at this point it's just pie in the sky." The two men shook hands and promised to keep in touch.

From the Press Club Qwilleran wandered over to the public library, one of the few buildings in town that had not changed, except for the addition of a parking structure. It was forty times the size of the library in Pickax, and he wondered if Polly Duncan had ever seen it. She crossed his mind more often than he imagined she would. What would she think of the Casablanca elevators? The tenants? The conversation pit? The mushroom paintings? The gold faucets?

The waterbed? He doubted that she had the objectivity to appreciate a building that looked like a refrigerator.

Browsing through the library's local history collection, he was gratified to find abundant material on the Casablanca in the years when Zwinger Boulevard was crowded with horses and carriages - later with Stanley Steamers and Columbus Electrics. Photos in sepia or black and white depicted presidents, financial wizards, and theater greats standing on the front steps of the building, or stepping from a Duesenberg with the assistance of a uniformed doorman, or dining in the Palm Pavilion on the roof. Women in satin hobble skirts and furs, escorted by men in opera cloaks and top hats, were shown departing for a charity ball. In the grassy park adjoining the building a bevy of nursemaids aired infants in perambulators, and overdressed children batted shuttlecocks with battledores. There was even a photo of the undersized swimming pool with male bathers wearing long-legged bathing suits.

What interested Qwilleran most were the pictures of Harrison Plumb with his little moustache, probably a souvenir of his Paris days. He was shown sometimes with his friend Grinchman, often with visiting dignitaries, frequently with his wife and three children, the boys in knee pants and little Adelaide with ringlets cascading below the brim of a flower-laden hat. In later photos Adelaide and her father posed in a Stutz Bearcat or at a tea table on the terrace. Qwilleran recalled hearing that the personalities and events of the past seep into the brick and stones and woodwork of an old building, giving it an aura. If true, that accounted for the Casablanca magic that Lowell had tried to describe.

Following his two-hour immersion in the gentle, elegant past, Qwilleran found the whizzing traffic hard to take. He walked home briskly because a cold breeze was blowing, and Zwinger Boulevard, with its high buildings, functioned as a wind tunnel. It had been called Eat Street by the Fluxion food editor, and Qwilleran counted a dozen ethnic restaurants not to be found in Moose County: Polynesian, Mexican, Japanese, Hungarian, Szechuan, and Middle Eastern, to name a few.

He intended to try them all. He wished Polly were with him.

It was the end of the day, and tenants were converging on the Casablanca by car, bus, and taxi. Qwilleran, the only one to arrive on foot, checked the parking lot, hoping that his space might be vacant, but this time a 1975 jalopy was parked in #28.

As he joined the miscellaneous crew trooping through the front door, a man with a reddish moustache hailed him.

"Hi! Did you move in?" "Yes, I've joined the happy few," Qwilleran acknowledged.

"What floor?" "Fourteen." "Does the roof still leak?" "I'll know better when it rains, but they claim to have fixed it yesterday." "You must have connections. They never fix anything around here." He ran ahead to catch the elevator, and only then did Qwilleran realize that he was the friendly jogger who had helped him on his arrival Sunday afternoon.

In the lobby were workmen in coveralls carrying six-packs, boisterous students with bookbags, women dressed for success and carrying briefcases, and elderly inmates with canes and bandages and swollen legs. Together they created the atmosphere of a bus terminal and a hospital corridor.

Most tenants stopped in the mailroom to unlock their mailboxes, after which they looked sourly at what they found there. Upon entering the crowded cubicle, Qwilleran had to dodge a large hairless man wearing a T-shirt imprinted "Ferdie Le Bull." Next, a middle-aged woman in a sequin-studded black cocktail dress, looking anxiously at a handful of envelopes, collided with him.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"Well, hello!" she said in a girlish voice, regarding his moustache appreciatively. "Where have they been hiding you?" There was no mail in Qwilleran's box. It was too soon to hear from Polly, and other letters were being intercepted by his part-time secretary.

Rupert was standing by as if expecting an emergency, his red hat having the visibility of a fire hydrant. Mrs. Tuttle was sitting behind her desk, knitting, but keeping a stern eye on the engineering students. And among those waiting for the elevator was Amber, carrying a bag of groceries and looking tired.

Qwilleran asked her, "Is there an engineering school in the vicinity? These kids are always talking about bridges." "They're from the dental school," she said. "Qwill, meet my neighbor on Eight, Courtney Hampton. Courtney, this is Jim Qwilleran. He's got Di's apartment on Fourteen." The young man she introduced had square shoulders, slim hips, and a suit of the latest cut. He glanced at Qwilleran's boots and tweeds and said with a nasal twang, "Just in from the country?" Amber said, "Courtney works at Kipper & Fine, the men's clothing store. What have you been doing all day, Qwill?" "Walking around. Getting oriented. Everything has changed." "The Casablanca will be the next to go," her neighbor predicted. "Don't unpack your luggage." "I wonder what's on TV tonight?" Amber said with a weary sigh.

"As for me," said Courtney with a grandiose flourish of eyebrows, "if anyone is interested, I... am playing bridge.

.. with the Countess tonight." "La di da," said Amber. Both elevators arrived simultaneously, and the crowd surged aboard, separating Qwilleran from the other two. As Old Green reluctantly ascended, it performed a sluggish ritual at each floor, first bouncing to a stop, then listlessly opening its door to unload a passenger, after which it waited a long minute, closed its door in slow motion, and crept upward to the next floor. No one spoke. Passengers were holding their collective breath.

It had been a long day, and Qwilleran was glad to be home, but when he opened the door of 14-A he was met by a blast of heat. The radiators were hissing and clanking, and both cats were stretched full-length on the floor, panting.

"What happened?" he demanded. "It must be 110 in here!" He hunted for a thermostat and, finding none, grabbed the housephone. "Mrs. Tuttle! Qwilleran in 14-A. What happened to the furnace? We're suffocating! The cats are half cooked! I expect the window glass to melt!" "Open the windows," she said calmly. "Your side of the building heats up when a cold wind comes from the east.

We don't have much control over it. The apartments on the east side are freezing, and the furnace works overtime to try to get them a little heat. Just open all your windows." He did as he was told, and the Siamese revived sufficiently to sit up and take a little nourishment in the form of a can of red salmon. As for Qwilleran, he lost no time in going out to dinner. It occurred to him that he should invite Amber; she looked too tired to thaw whatever was in her grocery bag, and the temperature in her apartment might be insufferable, whether she lived on the frigid or sweltering side of the building. Yet, he disliked her line of conversation, and he believed that too soon an invitation might encourage her. In his present financial situation he had to be careful. Women used to be attracted to his ample moustache; now he feared they were attracted to his ample bank account.

Feeling guilty, he went to the nearest restaurant on Eat Street, which happened to be Japanese - a roomful of hibachi tables under lighted canopies, against a background of shoji screens and Japanese art. Each table seated eight around a large grill, and Qwilleran was conducted to a table where four persons were already seated.

He often dined alone and entertained himself by eavesdropping and composing scenarios about the other diners.

At the hibachi table he found a young couple sipping tea from handleless gray cups and giggling about the chopsticks.

The man was cloyingly attentive, and his companion kept admiring her ring finger. Newlyweds, Qwilleran decided. From the country. Honeymooning in the big city. They ordered chicken from the low end of the menu.

At the opposite end of the table two men in business suits were drinking sake martinis and ordering the lobster- steak-shrimp combination. On expense accounts, Qwilleran guessed. (He himself ordered the medium-priced teriyaki steak.) Upon further study, pursued surreptitiously, he decided that the man wearing a custom-tailored suit and ostentatious gold jewelry was treating the other man to dinner, his guest being a deferential sort in a suit off the rack and a shirt too loose around the neck. Also, he had a bandage on his ear. They were a curious pair- employer and employee, Qwilleran thought, judging by their respective attitudes. He had a feeling that he had seen that ear patch at the - Casablanca - in the lobby or in the elevator. The man in question suddenly glanced in Qwilleran's direction, then mumbled something to his host, who turned to look at the newcomer with the oversized moustache. All of this Qwilleran observed from the corner of his eye, enjoying it immensely.

Conversation at the table halted when the Japanese chef appeared-an imposing figure in his stovepipe hat, two feet tall, and his leather knife holster. He bowed curtly and whipped out his steel spatulas, which he proceeded to wield with the aplomb of a symphony percussionist. The audience was speechless as he manipulated the splash of egg, the hill of sliced mushrooms, and the mountain of rice. Steaks, seafood, and chicken breasts sizzled in butter and were doused with seasonings and flamed in wine. Then the chef drew his formidable knife, cubed the meat and served the food on rough-textured gray plates. With a quick bow he said, "Have a nice evening," and disappeared.

Qwilleran was the only one who used chopsticks, having acquired virtuosity when he was an overseas correspondent.

Watching him in admiration, the bride said, "You're good at that." "I've been practicing," he said. "Is this your first time here?" "Yes," she said. "We think it's neat, don't we, honey?" "Yeah, it's neat," said her groom. When Qwilleran left the restaurant it was dark, and he took the precaution of hailing a taxi. It was mid-evening now, and the main floor of the Casablanca was deserted. Most of the tenants were eating dinner or watching TV. The students were doing their homework, and the old folks had retired for the night.

As Qwilleran waited for Old Red, the door opened. The young woman who stepped out could only be described as a vision! She had a model's figure and an angel's face, enhanced by incredibly artful makeup. He stared after her and confirmed that she had also a model's walk and an heiress's clothing budget. He blew copiously into his moustache.

After Old Red, scented with expensive perfume, had transported him to Fourteen, which was really Thirteen, he greeted the Siamese in a daze, saying, "You wouldn't believe what I've just seen!" "Yow!" said Koko, rising on his hind legs. "Sorry. No samples tonight. How's the temperature? A little better? I apologize for the sauna. How would you guys like a read?" Shedding his street clothes gratefully and getting into his pajama bottoms, Qwilleran intended to read another chapter of Kinglake's Eothen. It may have been his imagination, but the Siamese seemed to enjoy the references to camels, goats, and beasts of burden. Their ears always twitched and their whiskers curled. It was uncanny. So the three of them filed into the library, Koko leading the way with tail erect as a flagpole, followed by Yum Yum slinking sinuously, one dainty foot in front of the other, exactly like that girl in the lobby, Qwilleran thought. He brought up the rear, wearing the bottoms of the Valentine-red pajamas that Polly had given him the previous February.

The library was the most livable room in the apartment, made friendly with shelves of art books and walls of paintings. The furniture was contemporary teakwood and chrome created by big-name designers whose names Qwilleran had forgotten. He dropped into an inviting chair and turned to chapter ten, while Yum Yum turned around three times on his lap and settled down with chin on paw. Koko had just assumed his posture of eager listener when a slight noise elsewhere catapulted both cats out of the library and into the foyer. Qwilleran followed and found Koko scratching at something under the door. An envelope had been pushed halfway underneath.

There was no name on it, but it contained a sheet of heavy notepaper embossed with a W, and the following message had been written with an unsteady hand: "Welcome to the Casablanca. Come down and have a drink with me - any time." It was signed by Isabelle Wilburton of apartment 10-F, the one who wanted to sell her baby grand piano.

Qwilleran growled into his moustache and tossed the note into the wastebasket, being careful not to crumple it.

Crumpled paper was like catnip to Yum Yum, and she would retrieve it in three seconds. All his life it had been his compulsive habit to crumple paper before discarding it, but those days were gone forever. Amazing, he thought, how one adjusts to living with cats. A few years before, if anyone had suggested such a thing, he would have called that person a blasted fool.

Back in the library he turned once more to chapter ten, but a slight quiver on his upper lip caused him to put the book down. He passed a hand over his moustache as if to calm the disturbing sensation. "Let's sit quietly and think for a while," he said to the waiting listeners. "We've been here for forty-eight hours and I'm getting some vibrations." The fact that someone had been murdered on the premises did not bother Qwilleran; it was Koko's interest in the incident that alerted him. That cat knew everything! First he found the bloodstain under a heavy piece of furniture, and then he found the gold bracelet buried in the upholstery of a sofa. Koko had an instinct for sinister truths hidden beneath the surface.

Qwilleran himself, after reading the newspaper I accounts, questioned the motive of the "nice, quiet, young man" who brutally knifed his benefactor, his "best friend," to whom he had given a gold bracelet inscribed with an intimate code.

Ross may have blamed the gallery because his paintings failed to sell, but that was a weak excuse for murder. It was Todd who gave the Fluxion that frail scrap of information, Todd with his nervous habit of nose-pinching. What did that signify?

The news that Di Bessinger had been named heir to the Casablanca also raised suspicions in Qwilleran's mind.

Many powerful interests op- posed her. It was definitely to their advantage to have her out of the picture. Even her own partner disagreed with her on the preservation of the old building and was now planning to move the gallery to the Gateway Alcazar. But none of this explained the role of Ross Rasmus as the hit man.

"What's your opinion, Koko?" Qwilleran asked.

The cat was not listening. He was craning his neck and staring toward the foyer. A moment later there was a frantic banging on the front door. Qwilleran hurried to the scene and yanked the door open, catching a wild-eyed woman with fists raised, ready to pound the door panels again. She screamed, "The building's on fire!"