Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Lived High

"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.