Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

They rang for the private elevator at the bronze door and rode up to Twelve in a carpeted car with rosewood walls and a velvet-covered bench. The ride was no faster than Old Red or Old Green, but it was smoother and quieter.

On the way up, Qwilleran mentioned, "You knew that Di Bessinger was going to inherit the Casablanca?" Mary nodded regretfully. "Who gets it now?" "Various charities. Qwill, I don't know what you're expecting, but the Plumb apartment may come as a surprise.

It's done in vintage Art Deco." They stepped off the elevator into a large foyer banded in horizontal panels of coral, burgundy, and bottle green, defined by thin strips of copper, and the floor was ceramic tile in a metallic copper glaze. Everything was slightly dulled with age. A pair of angular chairs flanked an angular console on which were two dozen tea roses reflected in a large round mirror.

Mary pressed a doorbell disguised as a miniature Egyptian head, and they waited before double doors sheathed in tooled copper. When the doors opened, they were confronted by a formidable man in a coral-colored coat.

"Good afternoon, Ferdinand," said Mary. "Miss Adelaide is expecting us. This is Mr. Qwilleran." "Sure. You know where to go." The houseman waved a hamlike hand toward the drawing room. He had the build of a linebacker, with beefy shoulders, a bull neck, and a bald head. The Countess's live-in bodyguard, Qwilleran guessed, doubled as butler. "She was late gettin' up from her nap," the man said, "and then she had to have her hair fixed. She fired the old girl that fixed it, and the new girl is kinda slow." "Interesting," said Mary stiffly. The drawing room was more than Qwilleran could assimilate at a glance. What registered was a peach-colored marble floor scattered with geometric-patterned rugs, and peach walls banded in copper and hung with large round mirrors.

Mary motioned him to sit in a tub-shaped chair composed of plump rolls of overstuffed black leather stacked on chrome legs. "You're sitting in an original Bibendum chair from the 1920s," she said.

His gaze went from item to item: The tea table was tortoiseshell; all lamps had bulbous bases; the windows were frosted glass crisscrossed with copper grillwork. Everything was somewhat faded, and there was a sepulchral silence.

Ferdinand followed them into the drawing room. "You never been here before," he said to Qwilleran.

"This is my first visit." "You play bridge?" "I'm afraid not." "She likes to play bridge." "So I have heard," said Qwilleran with a glance at Mary. She was sitting tight-lipped and haughty.

"She likes all kinds of games," said the houseman. "Is it still raining?" "It stopped about an hour ago." "We had some good weather this week." "Very true." "I used to wrestle on TV," said the big man.

"Is that so?" Qwilleran wished he had brought his pocket tape recorder.

"I was Ferdie Le Bull. That's what they called me." The houseman unbuttoned his coral coat and exhibited a T- shirt stenciled with the name. "You never saw me wrestle?" "I never had that pleasure." "Here she comes now," Ferdinand announced.

Adelaide St. John Plumb was a small unprepossessing woman who carried her head cocked graciously to one side and spoke in a breathy little-girl voice. "So good of you to come." Brown hair plastered flat against her head in uniform waves contrasted absurdly with her pale aging skin, a network of fine wrinkles. So did the penciled eyebrows and red Cupid's-bow mouth. She was wearing a peach chiffon tea gown and long strands of gold beads.

Her guests rose. Mary said, "Miss Plumb, may I present James Qwilleran." "So happy to meet you," said their hostess.