"And we ran a notice in the sick column that old man Dingleberry is in the hospital for observation." "Of the nurses, no doubt. That old rou‚ is ninety-five and thinks he's twenty-five." "What about you?" asked Riker. "What have you been doing?" "Nothing much. Dropped into the Flux office today... Had lunch twice at the Press Club... Bumped into Lieutenant Hames. There's a whole string of new restaurants on Zwinger that you'd like, Arch. So far I've tried North Italian and Japanese. Why don't you fly down for a few days?" "Can't right now. There's a special edition coming out for deer season, and we're sponsoring a contest for hunters.
What do you think of the Casablanca?" "Not bad for an old building, and the sunsets from the fourteenth floor are spectacular." "That's one thing the city does well," said Riker. "Sunsets! That's because of the dirt in the atmosphere." "My apartment has a skylighted living room, a terrace, a waterbed, gold faucets, and a library of art books that you wouldn't believe." "How do you do it, Qwill? You always luck out. How do the cats react to the altitude?" "No complaints, although I think Koko is disappointed by the scarcity of pigeons." "Have you decided about the restoration?" "I've done some research and had a couple of conferences. Today I met with the architect, and next I'm going to meet the owner of the building, so it's coming right along. You know, Arch, what we have here is King Tut's tomb, waiting to be excavated." "Well, stay out of trouble, chum," said Riker, "and don't forget to send us some copy." After delivering this upbeat report, Qwilleran felt better, and he retired, allowing the Siamese to share the waterbed because of their disturbed state of mind. Yum Yum particularly liked the sensation.
On Wednesday morning he telephoned Mary Duckworth. He said, "I've read the Grinchman report and I'm ready to meet the Countess. When can you arrange it?" "How about this afternoon at four?" "How do I dress?" "I'd suggest a suit and tie. And she doesn't permit smoking." "No problem. I've given up my pipe," Qwilleran said. "I found out the smoke is bad for the Siamese." "I've given up cigarettes," she said. "My doctor finally convinced me the smoke is bad for antique furniture. Have you talked to Jefferson Lowell?" "We had lunch. Nice guy." "Are you convinced, Qwill?" "I don't know as yet. Where shall we meet?" "At the front door a few minutes before four. One is always prompt when calling on the Countess." Before having his hair cut, his moustache trimmed, his good gray suit pressed, and his shoes shined, Qwilleran checked the weather on the radio and learned that a woman shopper had been abducted from a supermarket parking lot; a jogger had been beaten by hoodlums in Penni- man Park; and rain was predicted, clearing in midafternoon. He taxied around town to do his errands, had a quick lunch at the Junktown deli, and returned to 14-A early enough to spend a lit- tle quality time with the Siamese. He proposed another chapter of Eothen, and the cats followed him into the library, but Koko had other ideas. He jumped to the library table and started pawing furiously.
Koko was known to be a bibliophile, and on the six-foot library table there were large-format art books reproducing the work of Michelangelo, Renoir, Van Gogh, Wyeth, and others, although the cat usually preferred small volumes that he could easily knock off a bookshelf.
"What are you doing, you crazy animal?" Qwilleran said.
Koko had found a long flat box among the art books. It looked like leather, and it was labeled "Scrabble." The blank tile found by Yum Yum had obviously strayed from this box. Opening it, Qwilleran found a hundred or so small tiles, each with a single letter of the alphabet. The sight was like a B-12 shot to one who had won all the spelling bees in grade school and had been an orthographic snob ever since. He sat down at the desk, opened the game board, and read the rules out of sheer curiosity.
"This is easy," he said. Scooping up a handful of tiles at random he spelled words like QADI and JAGIR. Years of playing a dictionary game with Koko had given him a vocabulary of esoteric words that he had little opportunity to use.
Soon he was building a crossword arrangement on the board. It began with CAD, grew to CADMIUM, and intercepted with SLUMP. This connected with EGRETS and OLPE.
The Siamese watched, patiently waiting for their quality time, but Qwilleran was fascinated by the lettered tiles and the small numerals that gave the value of each letter. All too soon it was time to put on his gray suit and meet Mary Duckworth on the main floor. Before leaving the apartment, he slipped a piece of fruit in his suitcoat pocket.
"You look splendid!" she said when they met, although she gave a brief qualifying glance at the bulge in his pocket.
They rang for the private elevator at the bronze door and rode up to Twelve in a carpeted car with rosewood walls and a velvet-covered bench. The ride was no faster than Old Red or Old Green, but it was smoother and quieter.
On the way up, Qwilleran mentioned, "You knew that Di Bessinger was going to inherit the Casablanca?" Mary nodded regretfully. "Who gets it now?" "Various charities. Qwill, I don't know what you're expecting, but the Plumb apartment may come as a surprise.
It's done in vintage Art Deco." They stepped off the elevator into a large foyer banded in horizontal panels of coral, burgundy, and bottle green, defined by thin strips of copper, and the floor was ceramic tile in a metallic copper glaze. Everything was slightly dulled with age. A pair of angular chairs flanked an angular console on which were two dozen tea roses reflected in a large round mirror.
Mary pressed a doorbell disguised as a miniature Egyptian head, and they waited before double doors sheathed in tooled copper. When the doors opened, they were confronted by a formidable man in a coral-colored coat.
"Good afternoon, Ferdinand," said Mary. "Miss Adelaide is expecting us. This is Mr. Qwilleran." "Sure. You know where to go." The houseman waved a hamlike hand toward the drawing room. He had the build of a linebacker, with beefy shoulders, a bull neck, and a bald head. The Countess's live-in bodyguard, Qwilleran guessed, doubled as butler. "She was late gettin' up from her nap," the man said, "and then she had to have her hair fixed. She fired the old girl that fixed it, and the new girl is kinda slow." "Interesting," said Mary stiffly. The drawing room was more than Qwilleran could assimilate at a glance. What registered was a peach-colored marble floor scattered with geometric-patterned rugs, and peach walls banded in copper and hung with large round mirrors.
Mary motioned him to sit in a tub-shaped chair composed of plump rolls of overstuffed black leather stacked on chrome legs. "You're sitting in an original Bibendum chair from the 1920s," she said.
His gaze went from item to item: The tea table was tortoiseshell; all lamps had bulbous bases; the windows were frosted glass crisscrossed with copper grillwork. Everything was somewhat faded, and there was a sepulchral silence.
Ferdinand followed them into the drawing room. "You never been here before," he said to Qwilleran.
"This is my first visit." "You play bridge?" "I'm afraid not." "She likes to play bridge." "So I have heard," said Qwilleran with a glance at Mary. She was sitting tight-lipped and haughty.
"She likes all kinds of games," said the houseman. "Is it still raining?" "It stopped about an hour ago." "We had some good weather this week." "Very true." "I used to wrestle on TV," said the big man.
"Is that so?" Qwilleran wished he had brought his pocket tape recorder.
"I was Ferdie Le Bull. That's what they called me." The houseman unbuttoned his coral coat and exhibited a T- shirt stenciled with the name. "You never saw me wrestle?" "I never had that pleasure." "Here she comes now," Ferdinand announced.