He said, "The Klingenschoen Fund has given me carte blanche for the Casablanca preservation." "Wonderful! But I'm not surprised. After all, it's your own money, isn't it? My father says that's no secret in financial circles." "It won't actually be mine for another two years. But that's neither here nor there. The crucial question is: Will I be able to convince the Countess to sell?" "The way things look," said Mary, "you should have no problem. Are you looking forward to the evening?" "I find the prospect challenging but the environment depressing, like a glamorous old movie palace that hasn't shown films since World War Two." "You must remember," she said, "that an interior acquires a certain patina after sixty years, and the Plumb apartment is museum quality.
There's a large vase in the drawing room, decorated with flowers and nude women. I don't know whether you noticed it - " "I noticed it." "That piece alone is worth thousands of dollars on today's market. It's a Rene Buthaud." "Spell that." "B-u-t-h-a-u-d. We have a shop in Junktown that specializes in Art Deco, and the lowest price tag is in four figures." "I've been meaning to ask you, Mary," he said. "How long have you known the Countess?" "I didn't meet her until I joined SOCK and Di Bessinger enlisted me for backgammon, but I've heard the Adelaide legend all my life." "And what might that be?" Qwilleran's curiosity caused his moustache to bristle.
"Not anything you'd want to put in your book, but it was common gossip in social circles in the Thirties, according to my mother." "Well, let's have it!" "This is a true story," she began. "Soon after Adelaide made her debut she became affianced to a man who was considered a great catch, provided a girl had money. He was penniless but handsome and charming and from good stock.
Adelaide was the lucky girl and the envy of her set. Then... the economy collapsed, the banks closed, and Harrison Plumb was in desperate straits. He had never been financially astute, my father said, and he had thrown away millions on the Art Deco renovation. But now half the units of Casablanca were vacant, and the remaining tenants lacked the cash to pay the rent. The building had been his passion for thirty years, and he was about to lose it. Suddenly three astounding things happened: Adelaide broke her engagement; her father was solvent once more; and one of her Penniman cousins married the jilted man." "Are the obvious deductions true?" Qwilleran asked.
"There's no doubt about it. Adelaide bartered her fianc‚ for millions to save the Casablanca and save her dear father from ruin. And in those days a million was a lot of money." "That says something about Adelaide, but I'm not sure what," Qwilleran remarked. "Was it noble sacrifice or cold calculation?" "We think it was a painful, selfless gesture; right afterward she dropped out of the social scene completely. Sadly, her father died within months, and the Casablanca never regained its prestige." "How old was she when this happened?" "Eighteen, I believe." "She gives the impression of being satisfied with her choice. Who handles her financial affairs?" "After her father's death her Penniman relatives advised her to invest his life insurance and exploit the Casablanca. Naturally the Pennimans are now advising her to sell - " " - to Penniman, Greystone & Fleudd, of course. And you expect me to buck that kind of competition? You're a dreamer." "You have a strong ally, though, in her love for the building and for her father's memory. You can do it, Qwill!" Huffing into his moustache, he stood up to leave. "Well, wish me luck... What's that thing?" He pointed to a small decorative object.
"It's art glass - a pillbox - Art Deco design, probably seventy-five years old." "Would she like it?" "She'd love it! Even more than the Bosc pear." "I'll buy it," he said.
"Take it, with my compliments." Mary removed the price tag. "I'll put it in a velvet sack." With the velvet sack in his pocket, Qwilleran paid his second visit to the Plumb Palace on Twelve. As he waited for the elevator at the bronze door, the feisty Mrs. Button came hobbling down the hall with her cane.
"My! You do look handsome!" she said in a high, cracked voice. "My late husband always looked handsome in a dark suit. Every Thursday evening he would put on his dinner coat and I would put on a long dress, and we would go to the symphony. We always sat in a first-tier box. Are you going up to play cards with Adelaide? Have a lovely evening." Mrs. Button hobbled as far as the front door, then turned and hobbled back again - one of several ambulatory invalids who took their prescribed exercise in the hallways of the Casablanca. Qwilleran thought, If the building reverts to its original palatial character, what will happen to the old people? And the students? And Isabelle? And Mrs. Tuttle and Rupert?