Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Lived High

"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."

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.