Лилиан Браун: The Cat Who Lived High

Lilian Jackson Braun - The Cat Who Lived High

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THE NEWS THAT reached Pickax City early on that cold November morning sent a deathly chill through the small northern community. The Pickax police chief, Andrew Brodie, was the first to hear about the car crash. It had occurred four hundred miles to the south, in the perilous urban area that locals called Down Below. The metropolitan police appealed to Brodie for assistance in locating the next of kin.

The victim, they said, had been driving through the heart of the city on a four-lane freeway when the occupants of a passing car, according to witnesses, fired shots at him, causing him to lose control of his vehicle, which crashed into a concrete abutment and burned. The driver's body was consumed by the flames, but through the license plates the registration had been traced to James Qwilleran, fifty-two, of Pickax City.

Brodie smashed his leathery fist down on the desk, and his face contorted in grief and anger. "I warned him! I warned him!" he shouted.

Qwilleran had no living relatives; a phone call to his attorney confirmed that fact. His family consisted of two Siamese cats, but his extended family included the entire population of Moose County. The genial personality and quirky philosophy of the retired journalist endeared "Mr. Q" to everyone. The column he wrote for the local newspaper had won him a host of admirers. His luxuriant moustache and drooping eyelids and graying temples were considered sexually attractive by women of all ages. And the fact that he was the richest bachelor in three counties and an unbridled philanthropist made him a civic treasure.

Brodie immediately called Arch Riker, Qwilleran's lifelong friend and current publisher of the Moose County newspaper. "Dammit! I warned him about that jungle!" the chief shouted into the phone. "He's been living up here for three years, and he forgot that life Down Below is like Russian roulette!" Shocked and searching for something to say, Riker mumbled soberly, "Qwill knew all about that. Before moving up here he lived in cities for fifty years. He and I grew up in Chicago." "Things have changed since then," Brodie snapped. "God! Do you know what this means?" The fact was that Qwilleran had inherited vast wealth from the Klingenschoen estate - on one condition: He must live in Moose County for five years. Otherwise, the Klingenschoen millions - or billions - would go to the alternate heirs out of state.

Riker listened glumly to Brodie's tirade and then phoned Polly Duncan, the woman in Qwilleran's life, who was prostrated by the news. He himself made immediate plans to fly down to the city. By the time the publisher had notified his own news desk and the local radio.station, the telephone lines were spluttering with the bad tidings, and Moose County was caught up in a frenzy of horror and grief. Thousands would miss Qwilleran's column on page two of the newspaper.

Hundreds would miss the sight of Mr. Q riding his bicycle on country roads and walking about downtown Pickax with a long stride and a sober expression, answering their greetings with a courteous salute. And everyone realized the community would now lose scholarships, grants, and interest-free loans. Why, they asked each other, had he been so rash as to venture Down Below? Only one person thought to worry about the Siamese. His part-time secretary, Lori Bamba, cried, "What will happen to Koko and Yum Yum?" There were cats galore in Moose County - barn mousers, feral cats, and pampered pets - yet none so pampered as the two thoroughbreds who lived with Qwilleran, and none quite so remarkable as Kao K'o Kung, whose everyday name was Koko. With his noble whiskers, aristocratic ears, sensitive nose, and inscrutable gaze Koko could see the invisible, hear the inaudible, and sense the unknowable. His companion, Yum Yum, was a charmer who captivated Qwilleran with shameless wiles, reaching out a paw to touch his moustache while squeezing her eyes and purring throatily. They were a handsome pair - fawn-furred, with seal-brown extremities and mesmerizing blue eyes. What would happen to them now? Where were they? Would anyone feed them?

Then came the gripping question: Were they still alive? Had they been in the car when it burned?

About two weeks before the metropolitan police called Brodie with the fateful news, Qwilleran and his two feline companions were spending a quiet evening at home in Moose County - the man, a husky six feet two, sprawled in the second - best easy chair with nothing much on his mind; the cats lounging on the best chair, as was their due, meditating and looking exquisite. When the raucous bell of the telephone disturbed the domestic peace, Qwilleran reluctantly hoisted himself to his feet and went to the phone in the adjoining room. It was a long-distance call from Down Below.

He heard an unfamiliar voice say, "Hello, Mr. Qwilleran. You'll never guess who this is!... Amberina, from the Three Weird Sisters in Junktown! Do you remember me?" "Of course I remember you," he said diplomatically, at the same time thinking fast. The three women had an antique shop, but which of the sisters was Amberina? The giddy young blond or the man-crazy redhead or the unimpressive brunette? "How's everything Down Below?" he asked. "I haven't been there for quite a while - three years, as a matter of fact." "You'd never recognize Junktown," she replied. "We're being gentrified, like they say.

People are buying the old townhouses and fixing them up, and we're getting some first-class restaurants and antique shops." "Do you still have your shop?" "No, we gave it up. Ivrene finished art school and got a job in Chicago. Cluthra married money - wouldn't you know? - and moved to Texas. And I'm working for an auction house. From what I hear, Mr.

Qwilleran, your life has changed, too, with the inheritance and everything." "Much to my surprise, yes... By the way, did you hear about Iris Cobb?" "Gosh, were we ever shocked! When she was in Junktown she was such a live wire." "Does Mary Duckworth still have the Blue Dragon?" "She sure does! It's the best antique shop on the street - the most expensive, that is. Robert Maus has opened a classy restaurant, and Charlotte Roop is his manager. You know both of them, I think." Why, Qwilleran thought, is this woman calling me after three years? His momentary silence brought her to the point.

Amberina said, "Mary wanted me to call you because she's going out of town. She has something she'd like to suggest to you." "Well, fire away!" "Do you know the big old white apartment building called the Casablanca? It's sort of rundown, but it's a landmark." "I vaguely remember it." "It's a tall building between Junktown and the reclaimed area where they're putting up the new office towers and condos." "Yes, now I know the one you mean," he said. "Well, to make along story short, some developers want to tear it down, which would be a crime! That building is really built! And it has a lot of history. Junktown has formed a task force called SOCK - Save Our Casablanca Kommittee - spelled with a K, you know." "Does SOCK have any clout?" Qwilleran quipped.

"Not really. That's why we're calling you." "What's the proposition?" She drew a deep breath. "The Casablanca used to be the best address in town. SOCK wants you to buy it and restore it... There! I said it! It wasn't easy." It was Qwilleran's turn to take a deep breath.

"Now wait a minute, Amberina. Let me straighten you out. I'm no financier, and I don't get involved in business ventures. Nothing is further from my mind. In fact, I've turned my inheritance over to the Klingenschoen Memorial Fund. I have nothing to do with it." Actually he made suggestions to the Fund, but he saw no need to mention that.

"We all remember what you did for Junktown when you wrote for the Daily Fluxion, Mr. Qwilleran. Your series of articles in the paper really woke us up and started our comeback." He stroked his moustache as he remembered his memorable winter in that slummy part of town. "I admit my Junktown experience whetted my interest in preservation," he said, "and theoretically I endorse your cause, although I'm in no position to know whether it's feasible." "Oh, but you should see the Casablanca!" she said with enthusiasm. 'The experts tell us it has great possibilities." Qwilleran was beginning to remember her now. Amberina was the least weird of the Three Weird Sisters. "The building used to be very grand," she was saying. "Some changes have been made; but the architects say they're reversible. It could go back to being a fashionable place to live, and that would be a real boost for Junktown. Right now the Casablanca is... well, the tenants are a mixed bag. But they're interesting! Mostly singles, but a few couples, not necessarily married.