Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"By all means. Sitting on the sofa, pouring tea." "That would be quite exciting. What should I wear?" "You always look beautiful, whatever you wear." "Do you have a camera?" "Yes, but not good enough for this. I'd hire an architectural photographer. He could take some striking views of these rooms." "Would he photograph all of them?" "All that you wish to have photographed." "Oh, dear! I wonder if my dear father would approve." Qwilleran launched his proposal. "He would approve enthusiastically, and there is something else that your father would want you to do. He would realize that buildings, like people, get tired in their old age. They need rejuvenation. If he were here, he would know that the Casablanca is , from the roof to the basement." Shocked at the suggestion, the Countess fluttered her hands about her jewelry. "I find my suite quite - quite satisfactory." "That's because you don't venture beyond your magnificent copper doors, Zizou. This may be painful for you to contemplate, but your palace is in bad condition, and there are people who think it should be torn down." She stiffened. "That will never happen!" "Some of the people who play bridge with you are asking to buy the building, are they not? If you sell to them, they'll tear it down. To save the Casablanca you need a partner - someone who appreciates the building as much as you do." (Careful, he thought; it sounds like a marriage proposal. Ferdie Le Bull was around the corner, listening.) "You need a financial partner," he went on, "who will put money into its renovation and restore it to its original beauty. Your father would approve of a partnership. When he built this palace in 1901, he had an architect for a partner. A financial partner would be the beginning of a new life for the Casablanca." The expression in her clouded eyes told him that the concept was beyond her comprehension. Her brain was geared for grand slams and retripIes. Her face was a blank. She was withdrawing.

As if sensing a crisis, Ferdinand made his clumsy entrance. "Want me to bring the tea?" Once more the Countess cocked her head prettily and said in her debutante voice, "Would you like a cup of camomile tea before you leave, Mr. Qwillen?" "No, thank you," he said rising. "It has been an enjoyable evening, but I must say good night, Miss Plumb." He bowed out, and the glowering houseman showed him to the door.

Nibbling at his moustache, Qwilleran rode down to the main floor in luxury and rode up to Fourteen in the dismal clutches of Old Green. Ignoring Koko's greeting at the door he went directly to the telephone and called Polly Duncan.

"I crashed!" he announced without preamble. "I broached the subject of restoration to the Countess and hit a stone wall." "That's too bad," she said soothingly but not earnestly.

"She's been out-of-touch for sixty years. She doesn't know what's happening and doesn't want to know. One can't reason with her." "Perhaps you should consider this setback a signal from your tutelary genius, telling you to forget the Casablanca and come home." "I can't give up so easily. The K Fund okayed the investment today, and it would be embarrassing - " "Sleep on it," Polly advised. "Tomorrow it will be clear what you should do, but I wish you would seriously consider coming home. Today on the radio they reported a shooting in an office building down there. A man killed a lawyer and his secretary." "That was a disgruntled law clerk who had been fired," Qwilleran explained.

"Next time it could be a disgruntled motorist who doesn't like the way you change lanes on the freeway," she said sharply. "You have a duty to play it safe, like English royalty." "Hmff," Qwilleran grumbled. He took time to groom his moustache with his fingertips before changing the subject.

"How's everything with you?" "I may have some good news, Qwill. There's a chance that old Mrs. Gage on Goodwinter Boulevard will rent her carriage house." "What about Bootsie?" "She doesn't object to cats. How are the Siamese?" "Yum Yum is rather lethargic and Koko is acting strangely," he said.

"They're homesick for Pickax," Polly said cunningly, adding weight to her argument. She knew he would return for the cats' well-being if not for his own. "What else did you do today?" "I had lunch at the Press Club, but the service was terrible, and the food isn't as good as it used to be. I took Koko for a walk on the terrace, and I did some laundry in the basement of the building." They rambled on like comfortable old marrieds until Polly ended the conversation with, "Think about what I said, dearest, and call me about your decision." She knew that Qwilleran liked to limit his long-distance calls to five minutes.