Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"At what age?" "In her forties. Forty-five, I think it said in the paper." "Was it drugs?" "No." Amber was fidgeting nervously. "It's something we don't like to talk about. Ask Mary when you see her." Ah! It was AIDS, Qwilleran thought, but immediately changed his mind. That would hardly explain the large bloodstain on the carpet, and people never died "unexpectedly" of AIDS. Or did they? "You say she was the founder of SOCK?" he said.

"Yes, she felt very strongly about the Casablanca," said Amber, relieved to veer away from the unmentionable subject. "Anybody who's ever lived here feels that way - kind of emotional about the old building." "And what happened to your doorman? You said he was shot. What were the circumstances? Was he mixed up in something illegal?" "No, nothing like that," she said, relaxing over her cup of espresso. "Doesn't this have a wonderful aroma?" "So what happened to him? What's the story?" "Well, he was a nice old joe who had lived in the basement forever. Then he went on social security, and we really didn't need a doorman any longer, but he liked to put on his old uniform once in a while and open car doors and collect a few tips. It was a long coachman's coat down to his ankles - made him feel important, I guess. But it had turned green with age, and the gold braid was tarnished, and some of the buttons were missing. Also he'd forget to shave. We called him Poor Old Gus. He was a sad sight, but he sort of fitted the Casablanca image, you know - a character! People used to drive past and laugh. He was written up in the Daily Fluxion once. Then one night some kids - high on something, I guess - drove by and shot Poor Old Gus dead!" Qwilleran frowned and shook his head in abhorrence.

"Is everything all right?" asked an anxious voice at his elbow.

"The food and service were perfection, Miss Roop," he assured her. "Give my compliments to Roberto." "Oh, thank you. That will make him very happy. Do you still have your kitties, Mr. Qwilleran?" "I certainly do! And I brought them to the Casablanca with me." "Would they like a treat from our kitchen?" "I feel safe in saying that they would be overjoyed." Qwilleran and Amber walked home under the gaslights - she carrying a half-empty bottle of wine and he carrying a foil package folded decorously into a cream-colored napkin. They walked along a street almost deserted except for a woman airing a pair of Dobermans and two men walking together with purposeful stride, swinging long-handled flashlights.

"That's our Junktown patrol," Amber said. "They're volunteers. You might like to take a turn some night, just to see what it's like." "Be glad to," said Qwilleran, recognizing a subject for his newspaper column. "Are they ever called upon to handle any... incidents?" "I don't think so. Mostly they discourage crime just by being there. They shine their flashlights, you know, and blow their whistles, and talk on their portable phones." When they reached the Casablanca and entered through the heavy black doors, Qwilleran noticed the black paint-covered brass fittings that the management no longer cared to keep polished. Only the bronze door of the Countess's elevator retained its original burnished beauty.

Amber said, "I'd invite you in for a nightcap, but my apartment's a disaster area. I'm ashamed of it." "Thanks anyway," he said. "I've had a long hard day on the road and in the elevator shaft, and I'm ready to turn in." He was glad of an excuse; he had had enough of Amber's company for one evening. He would have preferred the preppy Mary, or the mysterious Countess, or even the affable, dictatorial Mrs. Tuttle. He pictured her as a subject for his column.

Old Red was in operation, and it took them to the eighth floor, where he walked Amber to her door and said a courteous goodnight, thanking her for her company and the indoctrination.

"Sorry I couldn't give you much information," she said, "but Mary will call you tomorrow. We're awfully glad you're here, Qwill." She gave him a lingering look that he pretended not to notice.

He walked up the remaining flights, and when he arrived at Fourteen (which was really Thirteen), the door of Old Red was slowly closing. Someone was going down... or had just come up. Unlocking his door and reaching for the light switch, Qwilleran discovered that the foyer and other rooms were already lighted, although he distinctly remembered leaving the apartment in darkness, except for the bathroom.

"Who's here?" he demanded.

Koko and Yum Yum came running. They showed no symptoms of terror, no indication that an intruder had threatened them. They were simply aware that Qwilleran was carrying a packet of veal, scallops, and squid. Yum Yum rubbed against his ankles voluptuously, while Koko stood on his hind legs and pawed the air.