Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"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.

He also entered a bookstore called "Books 'n' Stuff," that stocked more videos and greeting cards than books.

Furthermore, its supermarket lighting and background music discouraged browsing. Qwilleran had his own ideas about the correct ambiance for a bookstore: dim, quiet, and slightly dusty.

Downtown he passed the Daily Fluxion and would have dropped in to banter with the staffers, but the formidable new security system in the lobby was inhibiting. He kept going in the direction of the Press Club.

This venerable landmark on Canard Street had been remodeled and redecorated. It was no longer the hangout where he and Arch Riker used to lunch almost every day at the same table in the same comer of the bar, served by the same waitress who knew exactly how they liked their burgers. None of the old crowd was there. Everyone seemed younger, and there was a preponderance of ad salesmen and publicity hacks on expense accounts - a suit-and-tie crowd.

He was the only one in the place who looked as if he had arrived on horseback. He ate at the bar, but the corned beef sandwich was not as good as it used to be. Bruno, the bartender, had quit, and no one remembered Bruno or knew where he had gone.

As Qwilleran was leaving the bar, he recognized one familiar face. The portly and easygoing Lieutenant Hames of the Homicide Squad was lunching with someone who was obviously a newsman and probably the new reporter on the police beat; Qwilleran could identify the breed instantly. He stopped at their table.

"What brings you down from the North Pole?" the detective asked in his usual jocular style.

"The developers are evicting me from my igloo," Qwilleran replied. "They're building air-conditioned condos." "Do you guys know each other?" Hames introduced Matt something or other from the Fluxion's police bureau. The name sounded like Thiggamon.

"Spell it," Qwilleran requested as he shook hands with the young reporter.

"T-h-i-double g-a-m-o-n." "What happened to Lodge Kendall?" "He went out west to work on some new magazine," said Matt. "Aren't you the one who gave the big retirement bash for Arch Riker? I missed it by two days." "You're entitled to a raincheck." "What are you doing here anyway?" asked Hames.

"Spending the winter with crime and pollution instead of snowdrifts and icebergs. I'm staying at the Casablanca." "Are you nuts? They're getting ready to bulldoze that pile of rubble. Do you still have your smart cat?" "I sure do and he's getting smarter every day." "I suppose you still indulge his taste for lobster and frog legs." Qwilleran said, "I admit that he lives high, for a cat, but he saved my neck a couple of times, and I owe him." Hames turned to the new reporter. "Qwill has this cat that can dig up clues better than the whole Homicide Squad.