Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

First he tried to push Koko through the small door, beginning with the forelegs, then the head, but the cat braced his hind legs against the conveyance, straddling the door and lashing his tail like a whip. Even employing all his cunning, Qwilleran still could not engineer four legs, a head, a lashing tail, and a squirming body into the carrier simultaneously. In frustration he abandoned the project and had a dish of ice cream, and when he returned to the scene some minutes later, both animals were huddled in the carrier contentedly, side by side.

"Cats!" Qwilleran grumbled. "CATS!" He carried the coop from the apartment and rang for the elevator.

"Don't shriek when the car is in operation," he cautioned Yum Yum. "You know what happened last time." He held his breath until Old Green landed them safely on the main floor.

"Bye-bye, kitties," called Mrs. Tuttle, looking up from her knitting as they passed the bullet-proof window.

The two old women in quilted robes had their heads together as usual, scowling and complaining. "Moving out?" one of them croaked in a funereal voice.

"No, just going to the doctor," he replied. It was a mission he never accomplished.

A brisk breeze was blowing down Zwinger Boulevard, whipping around the Casablanca and whistling through the cat carrier, and Qwilleran removed his jacket and threw it over the cage. As fast as possible he zigzagged through the parking lot, sidestepping the potholes. Not until the obstacle course was half negotiated did he look up and realize that slot #28 was vacant. The Purple Plum had vanished.

19

QWILLERAN TORE BACK into the building with two confused Siamese bumping around inside the carrier. "Mrs. Tuttle!" he called out at the desk. "My car is gone! It's been stolen!" "Oh, dearie me!" she said, not as perturbed as he thought she should be. "Did you lock your doors? Someone had cassettes stolen, but he left his doors - " "I always lock my doors!" "Was it a new car?" "No, but it was in excellent condition." Rupert, hearing the commotion, sauntered over and leaned on the counter. "Don't pay to keep a nice car." Mrs. Tuttle offered to call the police.

"Never mind," Qwilleran said in annoyance. "I'll go upstairs and call them myself. I just wanted you to know." Although he had no affection for the Purple Plum, he resented having it stolen.

Riding up in Old Green he said to the occupants of the carrier, "You two will be happy about this development.

Now you don't have to go to the doctor." He telephoned the clinic and canceled his appointment. "My car has been stolen," he explained.

"I've had two stolen," said the receptionist comfortingly. "Now I drive an old piece of junk." Next he called the precinct station, and a bored sergeant took the information, saying they would try to send an officer to the building.

Then he called Mary and broke the news.

"I sympathize," she said. "I don't own a car anymore. I take taxis or rent a car when I need transportation." "They're sending an officer over here." "Don't count on it too much, Qwill." Suddenly he was enormously hungry. He fed the cats hurriedly and went out to dinner, riding down on Old Red.

When it stopped at Four, Yazbro stepped aboard, squinting at Qwilleran with a glimmer of hostile recognition.

"My car has just been stolen," Qwilleran said to enlist the man's sympathy.

Yazbro grunted something unintelligible.

"It was parked in #28, next to your slot. Was it there when you left this morning?" "Di'n't notice." Qwilleran went to the deli for an early dinner. All he wanted was a bowl of chicken soup with matzo balls, a pastrami sandwich two inches thick, a dish of rice pudding, and some time to sort out his feelings about life in the big city.

The Press Club was not what it used to be. The staffers at the Daily Fluxion were all new and uninteresting. There was no one whose company he enjoyed half as much as that of Polly Duncan and Arch Riker, not to mention Larry Lanspeak, Chief Brodie, Junior Goodwinter, Roger MacGillivray, and a dozen others. The Casablanca itself was a disaster, and the Countess would never agree to sell to the Klingenschoen Fund. And the last straw was the theft of his car.