Cats are perverse and unpredictable, like wives." "Are you married?" Matt asked.
"I was at one time." "For how long?" "Long enough to become an authority on the subject." The young reporter said, "I just got married last June and I think it's the only way to live." "Good for you!" The roast beef sandwiches were served, and Qwilleran had to ask for horseradish a second time.
He said to Matt, "Where are you living?" "Happy View Woods." All young couples, Qwilleran had discovered, were paying mortgages in Happy View Woods, raising families, and worrying about crabgrass in their lawns. He himself had always preferred to live in apartments or hotels, being somewhat of a gypsy at heart. He said, "I'm staying in the penthouse apartment at the Casablanca. Does that ring a bell?" "That's where the art dealer was murdered a couple of months ago." "Did you see the scene of the crime?" "No, the coverage was cut-and-dried," said the police reporter. 'The murderer left a confession and killed himself.
Also, there was a major airline crash at the airport on the same day, and that took precedence over everything for two weeks." "Do you know anything about the murderer?" "His name was Ross Rasmus, an artist. He specialized in painting mushrooms. Can you swallow that? He must have been crazy to begin with! He daubed his confession on a wall with red paint." "Which wall?" "I don't think anyone ever mentioned which wall." The chances were, Qwilleran reasoned, that the artist went back to his studio, where he kept his paints, and daubed it on his own wall. That would be 14-B. Keestra Hedrog might know something about it. "Was there any speculation about motive?" he asked Matt.
"Well, they were lovers, you know. That was pretty well-known. She liked to discover young talent-young male talent. Everybody figured she discovered a successor to Ross Rasmus, and he was jealous. The autopsy turned up evidence of drugs. He was stoned when he did it." "What was the weapon?" "I don't believe the actual weapon was ever identified." "The reason I ask: The penthouse has a lot of his paintings on the walls, each with a knife included with the mushrooms. It's a Japanese slicer, and there's one exactly like it in the kitchen." "Oh, yeah," said Matt. "There's plenty of those around. My wife has one. She's into stir-fry." They munched their sandwiches in silence, Qwilleran wishing he had some horseradish. After a while he said, "The artist's body landed on some guy's car. He was quoted in your story. Do you remember the name?" "Gosh, no, I don't. That was two months ago." At that moment a young woman in boots and a long skirt wandered over to their table, and Matt introduced her as Sasha Crispen-Schmitt of the Morning Rampage.
Qwilleran rose and said cordially but not truthfully that he had read her column and enjoyed it.
"Thanks. Please sit down," she said, looking at his moustache. "I've heard about you. Don't you live up north in a town with a funny name?" "Pickax, population three thousand. And if you think that's funny, we also have a Sawdust City, Chipmunk, and Brrr, spelled B-r-r-r. Will you join us for coffee or a drink?" "Wish I could," said Ms. Crispen-Schmitt, "but I have to get back to the office for another paralyzing meeting.
What are you doing down here?" "I just wanted to spend one winter away from ten-foot snowbanks and wall-to-wall ice." Matt said, "He's staying at the old broken-down Casablanca." "Really?" she said. "I lived there for a while myself. Why did you choose that grungy place?" "They allow cats," Qwilleran said, "and I have two Siamese." "How do you like the building?" "It's interesting, if you're a masochist." "What floor are you on?" "Fourteen." "Well, it's better if you're high up." "Not when both elevators are out of order at the same time," Qwilleran told her.
"Isn't Fourteen where they had a murder couple of months ago?" "So they tell me." "Well, look, I'd love to stay, but... maybe we can have lunch while you're here." "By all means," said Qwilleran. When she had walked away, he said to Matt, "Attractive girl. Married?" The reporter nodded. "To one of our sportswnters." "Shall we have dessert, Matt? Today's special is pumpkin pie with whipped cream. I wonder if it's the real thing.
One gets spoiled living half a mile from a dairy farm." The waitress who had not brought his horseradish was now unable to say whether the whipped cream was actually from a cow.
"If you don't know, it probably isn't," Qwilleran said. "Bring me apple pie with cheese. Is it real cheese? Never mind; I'm sure it isn't. Bring me frozen yogurt." After coffee and dessert they left the Press Club, Matt to return to police headquarters and Qwilleran to ride the Zwinger bus to the Casablanca.
"Thanks," said Matt. "I enjoyed the lunch." "My pleasure," said Qwilleran. "And say, would you do me a favor? Check your story on the Bessinger murder and see whose car was damaged in the parking lot, will you? Then give me a ring. Here's my number." It was quiet around the Casablanca in the early afternoon. Before climbing the crumbling steps he had a look at the parking lot. The Purple Plum was safe in slot #28, but what he really wanted to check was the row of parking spaces adjacent to the building. They were numbered 1 to 20, and directly above them was the parapet of the terrace from which Ross had jumped. Slots 21 to 40 were on the west side of the lot. Both rows were inadequately lighted after dark; a single floodlight was mounted on the side of the building midway between front and back-only one light for a very large lot. It was another management economy.
Qwilleran could not say why, but his hand went to his moustache. This luxuriant facial feature was notable not only for its size but for its response to various stimuli. Reactions of doubt or apprehension or suspicion were always accompanied by a tremor on his upper lip. He pounded his moustache with his fist as he entered the building.
Upstairs he found another envelope under his door, and he groaned, presuming that Isabelle had been there again, but this time it was a heavy ivory-colored envelope with his name inscribed in very proper handwriting. Perhaps it was from Winnie Wingfoot, he thought hopefully as he tore it open. The message, obviously written with a fountain pen and not a ballpoint, read as follows: "Would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight at seven o'clock? - Adelaide Plumb." In the lower left-hand corner she specified RSVP and gave a telephone number.
Somewhat deflated, Qwilleran called to accept. Ferdie Le Bull answered. "Okay, I'll tell her," said the houseman.
"She's having her nap. It'll be chicken hash tonight. D'you like chicken hash? I don't call that real food, but she always has chicken hash on Thursday." "Whatever the menu, Ferdinand, please convey my message: Mr. Qwilleran accepts with pleasure." Hanging up the phone he called out to the Siamese, "You guys will eat better than I will tonight... Where are you?" Koko was sitting quietly in the foyer, gazing out the French doors to the terrace, waiting patiently for the pigeons that never came in for a landing. Yum Yum was asleep on the waterbed; she slept entirely too much since arriving at the Casablanca, Qwilleran thought.
In preparation for his soiree with the Countess he threw some shirts and socks into a shopping bag and ventured down to the basement laundry room for the first time. As Old Red slowly descended he read the following notices on the bulletin board:
WANTED TO BUY - guitar - Apt. 2-F.
FREE KITTENS - Apt. 9-B.
REWARD! Who stole cassettes from parking lot? See mgr.
At the fourth floor Old Red carne to a grinding stop, and a woman carrying a laundry bag started to board the car.