Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

"We're from out of town, and since arriving in the city the cats have not been themselves. I want to be sure there's nothing radically wrong with them. They're very important to me." "In that case we could squeeze you in this afternoon - say, at four o'clock. What are their names?" "Koko and Yum Yum. My name is Qwilleran. I'm at the Casablanca." "We have a lot of patients from there." "See you at four." It was another promise he would not keep. Before going to breakfast he tuned in the radio - not only for the weathercast but to corroborate Mrs. Jasper's report about three murders at the Penniman Plaza. Oddly, the shooting on the freeway was mentioned, but there was no word about the triple killing at the hotel. His mounting curiosity led him to the Plaza for breakfast. On a newsstand he picked up a copy of the Morning Rampage and found that the paper had not covered the incident. Not all the homicides in a large city are reported in the press - of that he was well aware - but when three persons are shot to death in a large downtown hotel with deluxe pretensions, it should be front-page news.

At the coffee shop he ordered a combination of steak, eggs, and potatoes that would have been called a Duck Hunter's Breakfast in Moose County; at the Penniman Plaza it was the Power Brunch. He waited until the waitress had poured his third cup of coffee before he asked her about the triple killing. She had no idea what he was talking about.

On the way out of the building he stopped at the bar. It opened at eleven, and Randy Jupiter was in the process of setting up. Qwilleran perched on a barstool. "I hear you had some excitement here over the weekend, Randy." "We did? I've been off since Saturday afternoon." "There were three murders in the hotel. Didn't you hear about it?" The bartender shook his head. "It was on the radio." "Are you sure? It could've been some other hotel." Jupiter glanced quickly around the bar and then wrote "can't talk" on a cocktail napkin. He said, "The coffee's brewing. Want a cup?" "No, thanks," said Qwilleran. "I had three in the coffee shop." He slid off the stool. "If you're still interested in a jazz session, how about tonight?" "Sure! Any requests?" "Your choice, but no screaming trumpet. It sends the cats into fits. I like sax myself. Shall we say eight o'clock?" Before stepping onto the escalator Qwilleran checked the vicinity for possible hazards, then rode slowly down on the moving stairs, reflecting that the radio station he had tuned in, as well as the Morning Rampage, were Penniman- owned. For information on the triple murder he would have to wait for the Daily Fluxion to hit the street, or for the bartender to arrive with his jazz recordings, or for Hames to come back to town.

Returning to 14-A he found Mrs. Jasper in the kitchen, with Koko watching her every move.

"The boss, he be tellin' me what to do," she said. "Now I'll take the towels and things down to the laundry and have a bit of lunch afore I come up again." Qwilleran went into the library to peruse his notes gleaned from photo captions at the public library. Koko followed and leaped to the library table, where he took up his post on the volume of Van Gogh reproductions. He could have chosen Cezanne, Rembrandt, or one of the other masters, but he always elected to sit on the Van Gogh, complacently washing up. It occurred to Qwilleran that Vincent, the Bessinger Persian, might have elected to sit in that spot while waiting to steal a Scrabble tile.

From his notes he could reconstruct the romantic past of the Palm Pavilion. Harrison Plumb had celebrated his daughter's birthday with a musicale featuring a string quartet from the Penniman Conservatory. The Wilburtons hosted a reception for a visiting professor of anthropology who was lecturing at the university. The Pennimans entertained the French ambassador. Mr. and Mrs. Duxbury gave a dinner for the governor. No amount of restoration and no amount of Klingenschoen money, he had to admit, would ever recall the magic of the Casablanca's first quarter of a century. It could only be captured in a book, with pictures and text, a thought which reminded him to line up the photographer. He called Sorg Butra's number and was informed that the photographer was out of town on assignment. Qwilleran left a message for Butra to call him.

It was a call he would never receive.