Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

Perhaps it was the sudden silence that roused the Siamese, or their internal clock told them it was time for their eleven o'clock treat. Whatever alerted them, they wandered out from wherever they had been sleeping and performed the ritual of yawning and stretching, first two forelegs and then one hind leg. Koko jumped to the desktop and nosed the Grinchman & Hills report. Yum Yum stood on her hind legs and placed her paws on the edge of the wastebasket, peering into its depths in hope of finding a crumpled paper or piece of string.

"I don't know about you," Qwilleran said to the pair, "but I've had a most interesting evening. If we do what the architects suggest, this building will no longer look like a refrigerator, and it won't be a sore thumb on Zwinger Boulevard.

The lobby will be a showplace; the apartments will be palatial; the rooftop restaurant will be exclusive; and they'll no longer allow cats. How do you react to that?" "Yow," said Koko, who was now examining the library sofa. It was covered with fake leopard, and he knew it was not the real thing. Industriously, with vertical tail, he sniffed the seams, pawed the button tufting, and reached down behind the seat cushions. Some of his memorable discoveries had been made behind seat cushions: cocktail crackers, paper clips, folding money, pencils, and small articles of clothing. Now he was scrabbling so assiduously that Qwilleran went to his aid. He removed one of the seat cushions, and there - tucked in the crevice between the seat platform and the sofa-back - was an item of gold jewelry.

"Good boy!" he said. "Let me see it." Engraved discs were linked together to make a flexible bracelet, but the clasp was broken. One disc was engraved in cursive script: "To Dianne." Another was inscribed: "From Ross." The remainder bore the numerals: 1-1-4-1, 5-1-1-1, 4-1-3-5, etc. Obviously it was a secret code between the two.

"Okay, this is enough excitement for tonight," Qwilleran said, "but tomorrow we do a little research on the Labor Day incident." On Tuesday morning Qwilleran called Jefferson Lowell at Grinchman & Hills, inviting him to lunch at the Press Club, and the architect accepted. There was a certain mystique about the Press Club, and most persons jumped at an invitation.

Before going out to breakfast, he checked the weather report on the radio and learned that the Narcotics Squad had rounded up fifty-two suspects in a drug bust; a judge had been indicted for accepting bribes; and a cold front was moving in.

On his way out of the building Qwilleran was flagged by the manager. She said, "I'm sorry about that commotion last night. Mrs. Button is very old and a little confused at times." "I understand, Mrs. Tuttle." "Last year she had an attack, and the paramedics gave her CPR. The next day she accused them of rape. It even went to court, but of course it was thrown out." "I'm glad you warned me," Qwilleran said. "Next time I'll let her fall." If Mrs. Tuttle appreciated his sly humor, she gave no indication. "I also wanted to tell you, Mr. Qwilleran, that some of our tenants do cleaning - those that are on social security, you know. They like to keep active and earn a little extra. Let me know if you need help with your apartment." "I'll take you up on that," he said, "but don't send me Mrs. Button." Then he walked downtown. It was a good day for walking - by urban standards; a light breeze diluted the emissions from cars and trucks and diesel vehicles. En route he stopped for pancakes and sausages, observing that they were twice the price of a similar breakfast in Pickax, and the sausages were not half so good. Moose County had hog farms, and independent butchers made their own sausages. He was spoiled.

At the Daily Fluxion he braved the security cordon and gained admittance to the library, where he asked to see clips on the Bessinger murder. The film bank produced three entries, the first dated the day after Labor Day. Although the victim's name was spelled differently in each news item, that was not unusual for the Daily Fluxion.

MURDER-SUICIDE JOLTS ART WORLD The violent deaths of an art dealer and an artist Sunday night, apparently murder and suicide, have shocked the local art world and the residents of the Casablanca apartments.

The body of Diane Bessinger, 45, co-owner of the Bessinger-Todd Gallery, was found in her penthouse apartment Monday morning. Her throat had been cut. The body of Ross Rasmus, 25, a client of Bessinger, was found earlier atop a car in the parking lot below the murdered woman's terrace.

Rasmus apparently jumped to his death after leaving a contrite confession daubed on a wall. His body landed on the roof of a car owned by a Casablanca tenant, who found it at 12:05 A.M. Monday and notified the police.