Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Thanks. Please sit down," she said, looking at his moustache. "I've heard about you. Don't you live up north in a town with a funny name?" "Pickax, population three thousand. And if you think that's funny, we also have a Sawdust City, Chipmunk, and Brrr, spelled B-r-r-r. Will you join us for coffee or a drink?" "Wish I could," said Ms. Crispen-Schmitt, "but I have to get back to the office for another paralyzing meeting.

What are you doing down here?" "I just wanted to spend one winter away from ten-foot snowbanks and wall-to-wall ice." Matt said, "He's staying at the old broken-down Casablanca." "Really?" she said. "I lived there for a while myself. Why did you choose that grungy place?" "They allow cats," Qwilleran said, "and I have two Siamese." "How do you like the building?" "It's interesting, if you're a masochist." "What floor are you on?" "Fourteen." "Well, it's better if you're high up." "Not when both elevators are out of order at the same time," Qwilleran told her.

"Isn't Fourteen where they had a murder couple of months ago?" "So they tell me." "Well, look, I'd love to stay, but... maybe we can have lunch while you're here." "By all means," said Qwilleran. When she had walked away, he said to Matt, "Attractive girl. Married?" The reporter nodded. "To one of our sportswnters." "Shall we have dessert, Matt? Today's special is pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I wonder if it's the real thing.

One gets spoiled living half a mile from a dairy farm." The waitress who had not brought his horseradish was now unable to say whether the whipped cream was actually from a cow.

"If you don't know, it probably isn't," Qwilleran said. "Bring me apple pie with cheese. Is it real cheese? Never mind; I'm sure it isn't. Bring me frozen yogurt." After coffee and dessert they left the Press Club, Matt to return to police headquarters and Qwilleran to ride the Zwinger bus to the Casablanca.

"Thanks," said Matt. "I enjoyed the lunch." "My pleasure," said Qwilleran. "And say, would you do me a favor? Check your story on the Bessinger murder and see whose car was damaged in the parking lot, will you? Then give me a ring. Here's my number." It was quiet around the Casablanca in the early afternoon. Before climbing the crumbling steps he had a look at the parking lot. The Purple Plum was safe in slot #28, but what he really wanted to check was the row of parking spaces adjacent to the building. They were numbered 1 to 20, and directly above them was the parapet of the terrace from which Ross had jumped. Slots 21 to 40 were on the west side of the lot. Both rows were inadequately lighted after dark; a single floodlight was mounted on the side of the building midway between front and back-only one light for a very large lot. It was another management economy.

Qwilleran could not say why, but his hand went to his moustache. This luxuriant facial feature was notable not only for its size but for its response to various stimuli. Reactions of doubt or apprehension or suspicion were always accompanied by a tremor on his upper lip. He pounded his moustache with his fist as he entered the building.

Upstairs he found another envelope under his door, and he groaned, presuming that Isabelle had been there again, but this time it was a heavy ivory-colored envelope with his name inscribed in very proper handwriting. Perhaps it was from Winnie Wingfoot, he thought hopefully as he tore it open. The message, obviously written with a fountain pen and not a ballpoint, read as follows: "Would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight at seven o'clock? - Adelaide Plumb." In the lower left-hand corner she specified RSVP and gave a telephone number.

Somewhat deflated, Qwilleran called to accept. Ferdie Le Bull answered. "Okay, I'll tell her," said the houseman.

"She's having her nap. It'll be chicken hash tonight. D'you like chicken hash? I don't call that real food, but she always has chicken hash on Thursday." "Whatever the menu, Ferdinand, please convey my message: Mr. Qwilleran accepts with pleasure." Hanging up the phone he called out to the Siamese, "You guys will eat better than I will tonight... Where are you?" Koko was sitting quietly in the foyer, gazing out the French doors to the terrace, waiting patiently for the pigeons that never came in for a landing. Yum Yum was asleep on the waterbed; she slept entirely too much since arriving at the Casablanca, Qwilleran thought.

In preparation for his soiree with the Countess he threw some shirts and socks into a shopping bag and ventured down to the basement laundry room for the first time. As Old Red slowly descended he read the following notices on the bulletin board:

WANTED TO BUY - guitar - Apt. 2-F.

FREE KITTENS - Apt. 9-B.

REWARD! Who stole cassettes from parking lot? See mgr.

At the fourth floor Old Red carne to a grinding stop, and a woman carrying a laundry bag started to board the car.