Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"You. may think my suspicions unfounded," Qwilleran went on, "but you said the same thing three years ago on River Road, and you remember what happened there!" "Qwill may be right," Mary said. "I would also like to submit that the ruthless forces endangering the Countess have already committed two murders in pursuit of their goal." "What... are you... saying?" Roberto demanded.

"I have reason to believe that Bessinger, as heir to the Casablanca, was murdered by someone hired to eliminate her, and Ross Rasmus was framed." "What evidence do you have?" "Enough to discuss with a friend of mine at Homicide." Qwilleran smoothed his moustache confidently. "At this particular moment I'm not at liberty to reveal the nature of the evidence or the identity of my source." He had no intention of telling this unimaginative dealer in torts and tortellini about the significant bristling of his moustache or Koko's propensity for unearthing crimes.

At that juncture a waiter appeared and announced that their table was ready, and Roberto ushered them downstairs, obviously relieved to terminate the disagreeable topic of conversation.

In the restaurant, surrounded by other diners - one of whom was a man in a dinner jacket, a man with a long thin face and high cheekbones - they talked about Italian food, the antique show in Philadelphia, and life in Moose County, and at the end of the meal Roberto said, "The matter you mentioned upstairs, Mr. Qwilleran... allow me to give it some thought." As Qwilleran escorted Mary Duckworth back to the Blue Dragon, he was carrying a foil packet wrapped in a napkin. They walked in silence for a while - past a woman walking a Great Dane, past the citizens' patrol swinging flashlights. Then he said, "Tell me about the night she was killed. Who was there playing Scrabble earlier in the evening?" "It was a holiday weekend," Mary said, "and she had invited a lot of people in for snacking and grazing at five o'clock. Roberto refused to go. He is quite opinionated about food, as you know, and he abhors snacking and grazing. So I went alone. Ross was there, of course. And YIana Targ, who writes the art column for the Fluxion. And Jerome Todd.

And Rewayne Wilk, Di's latest discovery; he paints disgusting pictures of people eating. And there were some other artists." She mentioned names that meant nothing to Qwilleran. "And there was that pill, Courtney Hampton, whom I cannot stand! Di thought he was terribly clever. And there were some others who live at the Casablanca." "How long did the party last?" "It started thinning out at eight o'clock, and I left Di wanted me to stay for Scrabble, but I had promised to meet Roberto for dinner. He has become a good and dear friend." Qwilleran told himself that these two stuffed shirts deserved each other. He said, "No one answered my question when I asked about Fleudd. Who is he anyway?" "He's supposed to be an idea man. Penniman & Greystone took him in a few months ago. They were always rather conservative, you know, and Fleudd is supposed to shake them up." "Was the Gateway Alcazar his idea?" "I suppose so." "Does he eat at Roberto's often?" "I don't know. I've never seen him there." "Well, he was there tonight." Qwilleran stroked his moustache as they said goodnight in front of the Blue Dragon, and he made a mental note to call Matt Thiggamon in the morning.

18

EARLY MONDAY MORNING Qwilleran received a phone call from Homicide, but it was not Lieutenant Hames on the line.

It was the nasal voice of his partner, Wojcik, a by-the-book cop who lacked Hames's imagination and had a lip-curling scorn for meddling journalists and psychic cats.

"Wojcik here," he snapped. "You called Hames. Anything urgent?" "I owe him a lunch, that's all. Is he around?" "Out of town for a couple of days." "Thanks for letting me know. I'll call him later." It was a promise Qwilleran was destined not to keep.

For the cats' breakfast he minced baked shrimp stuffed with lump crabmeat and placed the plate on the floor.

"Gamberi ripieni alla Roberto," he announced, "with the compliments of the chef. Buon appetito!" The Siamese plunged into their breakfast with gusto. Their current behavior might be abnormal, but there was nothing wrong with their gustatory connoisseurship.

As he watched them devour the repast with gurgling murmurs of ecstasy, there was a knock at the door. Before he could respond, a key turned in the lock, the door opened, and a gray-haired rosy-cheeked woman in a faded denim smock bustled into the foyer.

"Oh, you still here? Mornin' to you. I be Mrs. Jasper," she said. "Mrs. Tuttle said I were to clean on Mondays." "Happy to have you. I'm on my way out to breakfast, so I won't be in your way. Do you know where everything is?" "That I do! I cleaned for Miss Bessinger, and I handle every thin' careful, like she said, and clean the rugs with attachments, them bein' handmade. You moved one!" she exclaimed with a frown, as she peered into the gallery where the dhurrie covered the bloodstain.