Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

Conversation at the table halted when the Japanese chef appeared-an imposing figure in his stovepipe hat, two feet tall, and his leather knife holster. He bowed curtly and whipped out his steel spatulas, which he proceeded to wield with the aplomb of a symphony percussionist. The audience was speechless as he manipulated the splash of egg, the hill of sliced mushrooms, and the mountain of rice. Steaks, seafood, and chicken breasts sizzled in butter and were doused with seasonings and flamed in wine. Then the chef drew his formidable knife, cubed the meat and served the food on rough-textured gray plates. With a quick bow he said, "Have a nice evening," and disappeared.

Qwilleran was the only one who used chopsticks, having acquired virtuosity when he was an overseas correspondent.

Watching him in admiration, the bride said, "You're good at that." "I've been practicing," he said. "Is this your first time here?" "Yes," she said. "We think it's neat, don't we, honey?" "Yeah, it's neat," said her groom. When Qwilleran left the restaurant it was dark, and he took the precaution of hailing a taxi. It was mid-evening now, and the main floor of the Casablanca was deserted. Most of the tenants were eating dinner or watching TV. The students were doing their homework, and the old folks had retired for the night.

As Qwilleran waited for Old Red, the door opened. The young woman who stepped out could only be described as a vision! She had a model's figure and an angel's face, enhanced by incredibly artful makeup. He stared after her and confirmed that she had also a model's walk and an heiress's clothing budget. He blew copiously into his moustache.

After Old Red, scented with expensive perfume, had transported him to Fourteen, which was really Thirteen, he greeted the Siamese in a daze, saying, "You wouldn't believe what I've just seen!" "Yow!" said Koko, rising on his hind legs. "Sorry. No samples tonight. How's the temperature? A little better? I apologize for the sauna. How would you guys like a read?" Shedding his street clothes gratefully and getting into his pajama bottoms, Qwilleran intended to read another chapter of Kinglake's Eothen. It may have been his imagination, but the Siamese seemed to enjoy the references to camels, goats, and beasts of burden. Their ears always twitched and their whiskers curled. It was uncanny. So the three of them filed into the library, Koko leading the way with tail erect as a flagpole, followed by Yum Yum slinking sinuously, one dainty foot in front of the other, exactly like that girl in the lobby, Qwilleran thought. He brought up the rear, wearing the bottoms of the Valentine-red pajamas that Polly had given him the previous February.

The library was the most livable room in the apartment, made friendly with shelves of art books and walls of paintings. The furniture was contemporary teakwood and chrome created by big-name designers whose names Qwilleran had forgotten. He dropped into an inviting chair and turned to chapter ten, while Yum Yum turned around three times on his lap and settled down with chin on paw. Koko had just assumed his posture of eager listener when a slight noise elsewhere catapulted both cats out of the library and into the foyer. Qwilleran followed and found Koko scratching at something under the door. An envelope had been pushed halfway underneath.

There was no name on it, but it contained a sheet of heavy notepaper embossed with a W, and the following message had been written with an unsteady hand: "Welcome to the Casablanca. Come down and have a drink with me - any time." It was signed by Isabelle Wilburton of apartment 10-F, the one who wanted to sell her baby grand piano.

Qwilleran growled into his moustache and tossed the note into the wastebasket, being careful not to crumple it.

Crumpled paper was like catnip to Yum Yum, and she would retrieve it in three seconds. All his life it had been his compulsive habit to crumple paper before discarding it, but those days were gone forever. Amazing, he thought, how one adjusts to living with cats. A few years before, if anyone had suggested such a thing, he would have called that person a blasted fool.

Back in the library he turned once more to chapter ten, but a slight quiver on his upper lip caused him to put the book down. He passed a hand over his moustache as if to calm the disturbing sensation. "Let's sit quietly and think for a while," he said to the waiting listeners. "We've been here for forty-eight hours and I'm getting some vibrations." The fact that someone had been murdered on the premises did not bother Qwilleran; it was Koko's interest in the incident that alerted him. That cat knew everything! First he found the bloodstain under a heavy piece of furniture, and then he found the gold bracelet buried in the upholstery of a sofa. Koko had an instinct for sinister truths hidden beneath the surface.