Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"It appears," Qwilleran began after a respectable interval for pleasantries, "that all of the Fund's ventures are on the East Coast, and it might be advisable to make ourselves known in another part of the country. What I have to suggest is both an investment and a public beneficence." Hasselrich listened attentively as Qwilleran described the gentrification of Junktown, the unique architecture of the Casablanca, and the opportunity for the K Fund to preserve a fragment of the region's heritage. At the mention of the marble lobby and rosewood-paneled elevators, the attorney's jowls quivered with approval. "Many a time I have heard my grandfather extolling that magnificent building. He knew the man who built it," said Hasselrich. "As a young boy I was once treated to lunch in the rooftop restaurant. Unfortunately, I remember nothing but the spinach timbales. I had a juvenile aversion to spinach." Qwilleran said, "The rooftop restaurant is now a penthouse apartment, and I plan to spend some time there, investigating the possibilities and persuading the owner to sell, if it seems wise. You know what will happen if developers are allowed to acquire the property; the building will be razed." "Deplorable!" said Hasselrich. "We must not let that happen. This must be added to the agenda for the directors' meeting next week." "I plan to drive down there in a few days-to beat the snow," said Qwilleran. "If you will be good enough to make the presentation in my absence, I'll supply a fact sheet." He welcomed any excuse to avoid meetings with the board of directors.

"Do you find it quite necessary to attend to this research yourself?" asked the attorney. "There are agencies we might retain to make a feasibility study." "I consider it highly advisable. The owner is being pressured by the developers, and it will require some personal strategy to persuade the lady to sell to us." The elderly attorney's lowered eyes and twitching eyelids were making broad inferences.

"She's seventy-five," Qwilleran added hastily, "and if she dies before deciding in our favor, we're out of luck and the Casablanca is doomed." Hasselrich cleared his throat. "There is one consideration that gives me pause. You have indicated a profound interest in the welfare of Moose County, and that entails a responsibility to remain in good health, so to speak. You under- stand my meaning, do you not?" "Moose County's interest in keeping me alive is no greater than my own desire to live, and I might point out another fact," Qwilleran said firmly. "When I go Down Below I am not a naive tourist from the outback; I've been city-smart since childhood." Hasselrich studied his desktop and shook his jowls. "You seem to have made your decision. We can only hope for your safe return." That same afternoon, the Moose County Something, as.the local newspaper was waggishly named, carried the regular Tuesday column headed "Straight from the Qwill Pen," with an editor's note stating that Jim Qwilleran would be on a leave of absence for an indefinite period, pursuing business Down Below, but he would file an occasional column on city living, to appear in his usual space.

As soon as Qwilleran read this he recognized a conspiracy on the part of Arch Riker, the publisher, and Junior Goodwinter, the managing editor. The two guessed what the result of such an announcement would be, and they were right. Qwilleran's telephone started to ring, and the citizens of Moose County tried to dissuade him from braving the perils Down Below. When told that the trip was important and necessary, they offered advice: "Wear a money belt... Don't take your best watch... Get a burglar alarm for your car... Lock yourself in when you drive in the city." Police Chief Brodie said, "Och, mon, you're a bit daft. I happen to hear a few things that don't get in the papers, but if you insist on going, stay home after dark and buy one of them gadgets that lock the brake pedal to the steering wheel." From Susan Exbridge, a member of the Theatre Club, there was a melodramatic phone call: "Darling, don't walk anywhere! Take a taxi, even if you're only going a block. I have friends Down Below, and they tell me it's hell!" Dr. Goodwinter warned of respiratory ailments caused by airborne pollutants, and Eddington Smith, the timid dealer in secondhand books, offered to lend his handgun.