Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

After picking up a few treats for his roommates at a neighborhood deli, Qwilleran returned to the building and was heading for the elevator when he encountered the person he least wanted to meet. Surprisingly, Isabelle Wilburton presented a neat and appropriate appearance in a white blouse and khaki skirt. On previous occasions he had seen her in a spotted housecoat or a cocktail dress or a fur coat or less. She was carrying her kitten, nestled in a blue towel.

"Mr. Qwilleran, I took your advice," she said. "Isn't she adorable? Her name is Sweetie Pie." "She's an appealing little cat," he agreed, "and she'll be good company for you." "Would you like to have dinner with us tonight? I'm cooking a pot roast. I hope it will be good. I haven't really cooked anything for ages." "I appreciate the thought," he said, "but I've already accepted another invitation." "How about tomorrow night?" she asked hopefully.

"Unfortunately I've agreed to keep Sunday open for a meeting with the officers of SOCK. You see, I'm writing a book on the historic Casablanca." "Oh, really? I could tell you a lot about that. My grandparents had an apartment here back in the 1920s, when it was so exclusive. My grandmother used to tell me stories about it." "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the suggestion," he said, inwardly recoiling. "Has the mailperson been here?" Isabelle waved an envelope. "Yes, the mail just came in." She appeared quite happy about it. No doubt the envelope contained her subsistence check.

Qwilleran went to the mailroom and found the door blocked by Ferdie Le Bull, his imprinted T-shirt stretched across his enormous chest. He confronted Qwilleran with the menacing scowl that was his idea of social grace. "When you gonna take the pictures?" he demanded.

"Of Miss Plumb's apartment? Whenever she gives her approval." "Any time's okay. She never goes out." "All right. I'll notify the photographer, and he'll call you to make an appointment." "She's all het up about it," said the houseman. "Is he gonna take my picture, too?" He passed a hand over his bald head.

"Probably." "Does he play bridge?" "You'll have to ask him," said Qwilleran. Encouraged by this positive development he determined to go ahead seriously with the book. As he waited for the elevator he visualized about thirty-percent text and seventy-percent black- and-white photos: views of the opulent lobby and Palm Pavilion, pictures of celebrities, old cars, and residents in nostalgic fashions - from Edwardian to Flapper Era to Early Thirties. In the center, a color section would feature overall shots of the Art Deco rooms as well as close-ups of the rare vase containing Harrison Plumb's ashes, the Cubist rugs and pillows, a tooled copper screen inset with ebony, tables with angular legs, club chairs with voluptuous curves, and walls of framed French art photos of the 1920s. It was all lush and otherworldly. The frontispiece would be Adelaide St. John Plumb with her plucked and penciled eyebrows and her marcelled hair, sitting on the : overstuffed sofa and pouring tea, looking like a living relic of the Casablanca's dim past. For the text he would like to interview old- timers; surely there were such persons tucked away in odd corners of the building, living in faded splendor. It was a pity that Mrs. Button had not survived a little longer. Even Isabelle Wilburton might have to be interviewed.

As he pondered the possibilities, the door of Old Red opened, and the white-haired manager of Roberto's restaurant stepped from the car, accompanied by a pale-faced man who was much younger. He was the fellow with a bandage where his right ear should be.

Charlotte Roop was looking buoyantly happy. "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran!" she cried. "I want you to meet my friend, Raymond Dimwitty... Ray, this I is Mr. Qwilleran who I've told you so much about." Not believing what he had heard, Qwilleran said, "I didn't catch the last name. Spell it for me." "D-u-n-w-o-o-d-y," said the man.

Qwilleran made heroic attempts not to stare at the ear patch as they exchanged polite words.

Charlotte said, "We always go out to lunch on Saturday and then to a movie. There's a discount if you go early, and I don't have to be at the restaurant until four." "I hope you have an enjoyable afternoon. You have good weather for it," Qwilleran said courteously.

Old Red had gone up without him, and now he waited for Old Green, wondering how this unlikely couple had met: Charlotte with her fluttery, spinsterish manner and white hair like spun sugar, a woman well past retirement age, and Raymond Dunwoody with his ear patch and blank expression, a man not over forty-five. When the elevator arrived and opened its reluctant door, a cheerful passenger with a laundry basket, on her way up from the basement, crowed, "Oh, wow! We have somebody rich and famous living here now!" This was followed by a gusty laugh.