Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

On the terrace he led the way impatiently, pulling Qwilleran toward the front of the building and then all the way back to the rear. At one point the cat stopped abruptly and turned toward the parapet. Qwilleran tightened his hold on the leash as Koko prepared to jump on the stone baluster. Teetering on the railing with his four feet bunched together, he peered over the edge. Holding the leash taut, Qwilleran also looked over the railing. Directly below was parking slot #18, the number painted on the tarmac in faded yellow paint.

"Incredible!" said Qwilleran.

"Rrrrrrrrrm," said Koko.

"Let's go inside. It's chilly." Koko refused to move, and when Owilleran grabbed him about the middle, his body was tense and his tail curled stiffly.

Why, Qwilleran wondered as he carried the cat back indoors, did Ross walk, run, or stagger a hundred feet down the terrace in order to jump on Yazbro's car? Even more mystifying was the next question: How did Koko know the exact spot where it happened?

Back in the apartment he found Yum Yum asleep on the waterbed - harness, leash and all. Gently Qwilleran rolled her over, unbuckling the strap and drawing the collar over her head. Without opening her eyes she purred. And why not? She had won the argument. She had had the last word.

"Just like a female!" Qwilleran muttered.

It was time to dress for dinner with the Countess, and he brought his dark blue suit and white shirt from the closet, marveling that he had worn suits twice in two days. In Moose County he had worn them twice in three years, once for a wedding and once for a funeral. To his funeral suit he now added a red tie to elevate its mood. A striped shirt would have had more snap, but sartorial niceties were not in Qwilleran's field of interest.

This social event was one he hardly approached with keen anticipation. Nevertheless, years of carrying out unattractive assignments for tyrannical editors had disciplined him into automatic performance of duty. Also, there was the prospect of a book on the Casablanca-a coffee-table book in folio format with large photographs on good paper. The K Fund would underwrite it.

This was the afternoon, he remembered, that the Klingenschoen board was scheduled to meet, Hasselrich presenting the Casablanca proposition with quivering excitement and anecdotes about spinach timbales. As if his thoughts were telepathic, the phone rang at that moment, and Hasselrich was on the line, advising him that the board had voted unanimously to foot the bill for saving the Casablanca, leaving the amount entirely to Qwilleran's discretion.

"This may not be the last," said the attorney. "A resolution was passed to pursue similar ventures in the public interest as a means of enhancing the Klingenschoen image." Qwilleran consulted his watch. The invitation was for seven o'clock, and it was not yet six. He telephoned Mary Duckworth. "Are you busy? Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to drop in for a briefing before I ascend to Art Deco heaven in the rosewood chariot. Also, I have good news!" "Yes! Come along," she said. "Ring the bell. The shop's closed." In his dark blue suit, with a raincoat over his arm, Qwilleran rode down on Old Green. A red-haired woman boarded the car at Nine, and he could feel her staring at him. He straightened his shoulders and concentrated on watching the floor indicator. Since some of the lights were inoperative, the car descended from eight to five to two to one.

In the lobby Mrs. Tuttle looked up from her knitting with a smile of admiration. Two old ladies in quilted bathrobes squinted at him without scowling. It was the dark suit, he decided; he should wear it more often instead of waiting for another funeral.

As he strode down Zwinger Boulevard toward the Blue Dragon, he was stopped by a woman walking a Dalmatian. "Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" she asked.

"My watch says six-ten." "You're new in the neighborhood." "Just visiting," he said as he saluted courteously and went on his way.

Next it was Mary Duckworth's turn to exclaim. "You look tremendously attractive, Qwill!" she said. "Adelaide will be swept off her feet! She phoned me today - first time she has ever called - and said how much she enjoyed your company. She thanked me for taking you to tea." "It's only because I play Scrabble." "No, I think she liked your moustache. Or it was the Bosc pear. Whatever it was, you've kindled a light in the old girl's eyes." "From the appearance of the old girl's eyes," Qwilleran said, "she has cataracts. Why doesn't she have surgery?" "It may be that she doesn't want to see any better than she does. Did you notice that the windows have frosted glass? She wants time to stand still, circa 1935. But she can see the playing cards well enough - and the game board!...

What's your good news?" They sat in the shop, Qwilleran in a genuine: Chippendale corner chair and Mary on a Chinese ebony throne inlaid with mother-of-pearl.