Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"Are you also in the restaurant business?" Qwilleran asked the man.

"No, I work for the city." "He's an engineer," said Charlotte proudly.

"How do you like living in the country, Mr. Qwilleran?" "Now that I've adjusted to the fresh air, safe streets, and lack of traffic, I like it." "I've always lived in the city. So has Raymond, haven't you, dear?" She turned and beamed at her companion.

Qwilleran resisted a desire to look at his watch. "How long have you lived at the Casablanca?" "Ever since they tore down our old building on River Road. Raymond moved in... when did you move in, dear?" "Four months ago." "It's convenient to our work," she explained.

"That's a definite advantage," said Qwilleran.

"The bus stops in front." This was Dunwoody's contribution.

The three looked at each other, Qwilleran trying desperately to think of something to say. It was the longest ten minutes in his memory.

Dunwoody spoke again. "What's that cat doing?" Koko was burrowing under the dhurrie in front of the bar.

"Stop that, Koko!" Qwilleran scolded. He dragged the cat from under the rug and straightened it to cover the bloodstain. "It's a bad habit he's picked up. Another beer, Mr. Dunwoody?" "It's time for me to go to work," said Charlotte. "Come, Raymond. Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran." "My pleasure, I assure you. It's fortunate that you happened along when you did." He had been so relieved to see them arrive, and now he was so relieved to see them leave!

His guests climbed out of the conversation pit, murmured their goodbyes, and left the apartment. If Qwilleran had been a drinking man, he would have poured a double scotch. Instead he scooped a large dishful of Neapolitan ice cream for himself and a spoonful for the Siamese. They lapped up the vanilla but showed their disapproval of the chocolate and strawberry by pawing the air in sign language that said, "Take it and bury it!" Considering the events of the afternoon, Qwilleran was glad when it was time to dress and go to dinner at Roberto's. Out came the gray suit again, and at six thirty he walked to the Blue Dragon to pick up Mary Duckworth.

On the way to the restaurant she said, "'Will you explain something, Qwill? Last Monday you told me you didn't play table games, and three days later you were beating the Countess at Scrabble." "It astounds me, too, Mary. First, Yum Yum found that blank tile, and then Koko found the Scrabble box, so I read the instructions and decided to give it a try. If I happened to win, it was beginner's luck," he said modestly. "Incidentally, there are several tiles missing in the Scrabble set. I wonder what happened to them." "Di had a cat who used to steal them and push them under the refrigerator," she said.

"I didn't know she had a cat." "A Persian named Vincent-after Van Gogh, you know." "What happened to him?" "Her ex-husband took him. Vincent lives at the gallery now." "Did she like Scrabble, or did she play to humor the Countess?" "She was an avid player. It was a Sunday night ritual. I used to make a foursome occasionally." "Were you there... on the Sunday night... when she died?" Mary nodded. "That's a painful memory. When I left the party around eight o'clock, everything was fine." Qwilleran had another question to ask, but they had arrived at the restaurant, and two other couples were preceding them up the steps, creating congestion in the foyer where Charlotte was official greeter.

"We'll go right upstairs, Charlotte," said Mary.

17

THE EGGPLANT-COLOR carpet of Roberto's restaurant continued up the stairs to his apartment. "You'll find that his taste has changed radically, Qwill," said Mary, raising the eyebrows that were so accustomed to being raised. "In Italy he discovered International Modem!" As a purveyor of Chippendale and Ch'ien-lung, she obviously disapproved.

"I like Modem, myself," he said. "I've liked it ever since I sublet Harry Noyton's apartment at the Villa Verandah." "Noyton's place was Victorian Gothic compared to what you are about to see," she replied.

The carpet ended at the top of the stairs, and the floor from there on was a glossy expanse of amber marble.

Here and there on this mirrorlike surface stood constructions of steel rods or tubes combined with geometric elements of glass or leather, apparently tables and chairs. Roberto made his entrance from the far end, where Qwilleran supposed he did his actual living in a baronial snuggery furnished with cushioned couches and red velvet.

This attorney who preferred to be a chef was an impressive figure of a man, his shoulders rounded from bending over lawbooks and the chopping board. In dress he was still conservative, and he still had a slow, judicial manner of speech punctuated by thoughtful pauses, but he used his hands more eloquently, something he had not done before living in Italy for a year.

"Good... to see you again," he said. There was no effusive Continental embrace; that would be too much to expect from the former Robert Maus.