This social event was one he hardly approached with keen anticipation. Nevertheless, years of carrying out unattractive assignments for tyrannical editors had disciplined him into automatic performance of duty. Also, there was the prospect of a book on the Casablanca-a coffee-table book in folio format with large photographs on good paper. The K Fund would underwrite it.
This was the afternoon, he remembered, that the Klingenschoen board was scheduled to meet, Hasselrich presenting the Casablanca proposition with quivering excitement and anecdotes about spinach timbales. As if his thoughts were telepathic, the phone rang at that moment, and Hasselrich was on the line, advising him that the board had voted unanimously to foot the bill for saving the Casablanca, leaving the amount entirely to Qwilleran's discretion.
"This may not be the last," said the attorney. "A resolution was passed to pursue similar ventures in the public interest as a means of enhancing the Klingenschoen image." Qwilleran consulted his watch. The invitation was for seven o'clock, and it was not yet six. He telephoned Mary Duckworth. "Are you busy? Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to drop in for a briefing before I ascend to Art Deco heaven in the rosewood chariot. Also, I have good news!" "Yes! Come along," she said. "Ring the bell. The shop's closed." In his dark blue suit, with a raincoat over his arm, Qwilleran rode down on Old Green. A red-haired woman boarded the car at Nine, and he could feel her staring at him. He straightened his shoulders and concentrated on watching the floor indicator. Since some of the lights were inoperative, the car descended from eight to five to two to one.
In the lobby Mrs. Tuttle looked up from her knitting with a smile of admiration. Two old ladies in quilted bathrobes squinted at him without scowling. It was the dark suit, he decided; he should wear it more often instead of waiting for another funeral.
As he strode down Zwinger Boulevard toward the Blue Dragon, he was stopped by a woman walking a Dalmatian. "Excuse me, do you know what time it is?" she asked.
"My watch says six-ten." "You're new in the neighborhood." "Just visiting," he said as he saluted courteously and went on his way.
Next it was Mary Duckworth's turn to exclaim. "You look tremendously attractive, Qwill!" she said. "Adelaide will be swept off her feet! She phoned me today - first time she has ever called - and said how much she enjoyed your company. She thanked me for taking you to tea." "It's only because I play Scrabble." "No, I think she liked your moustache. Or it was the Bosc pear. Whatever it was, you've kindled a light in the old girl's eyes." "From the appearance of the old girl's eyes," Qwilleran said, "she has cataracts. Why doesn't she have surgery?" "It may be that she doesn't want to see any better than she does. Did you notice that the windows have frosted glass? She wants time to stand still, circa 1935. But she can see the playing cards well enough - and the game board!...
What's your good news?" They sat in the shop, Qwilleran in a genuine: Chippendale corner chair and Mary on a Chinese ebony throne inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
He said, "The Klingenschoen Fund has given me carte blanche for the Casablanca preservation." "Wonderful! But I'm not surprised. After all, it's your own money, isn't it? My father says that's no secret in financial circles." "It won't actually be mine for another two years. But that's neither here nor there. The crucial question is: Will I be able to convince the Countess to sell?" "The way things look," said Mary, "you should have no problem. Are you looking forward to the evening?" "I find the prospect challenging but the environment depressing, like a glamorous old movie palace that hasn't shown films since World War Two." "You must remember," she said, "that an interior acquires a certain patina after sixty years, and the Plumb apartment is museum quality.
There's a large vase in the drawing room, decorated with flowers and nude women. I don't know whether you noticed it - " "I noticed it." "That piece alone is worth thousands of dollars on today's market. It's a Rene Buthaud." "Spell that." "B-u-t-h-a-u-d. We have a shop in Junktown that specializes in Art Deco, and the lowest price tag is in four figures." "I've been meaning to ask you, Mary," he said. "How long have you known the Countess?" "I didn't meet her until I joined SOCK and Di Bessinger enlisted me for backgammon, but I've heard the Adelaide legend all my life." "And what might that be?" Qwilleran's curiosity caused his moustache to bristle.
"Not anything you'd want to put in your book, but it was common gossip in social circles in the Thirties, according to my mother." "Well, let's have it!" "This is a true story," she began. "Soon after Adelaide made her debut she became affianced to a man who was considered a great catch, provided a girl had money. He was penniless but handsome and charming and from good stock.
Adelaide was the lucky girl and the envy of her set. Then... the economy collapsed, the banks closed, and Harrison Plumb was in desperate straits. He had never been financially astute, my father said, and he had thrown away millions on the Art Deco renovation. But now half the units of Casablanca were vacant, and the remaining tenants lacked the cash to pay the rent. The building had been his passion for thirty years, and he was about to lose it. Suddenly three astounding things happened: Adelaide broke her engagement; her father was solvent once more; and one of her Penniman cousins married the jilted man." "Are the obvious deductions true?" Qwilleran asked.
"There's no doubt about it. Adelaide bartered her fianc‚ for millions to save the Casablanca and save her dear father from ruin. And in those days a million was a lot of money." "That says something about Adelaide, but I'm not sure what," Qwilleran remarked. "Was it noble sacrifice or cold calculation?" "We think it was a painful, selfless gesture; right afterward she dropped out of the social scene completely. Sadly, her father died within months, and the Casablanca never regained its prestige." "How old was she when this happened?" "Eighteen, I believe." "She gives the impression of being satisfied with her choice. Who handles her financial affairs?" "After her father's death her Penniman relatives advised her to invest his life insurance and exploit the Casablanca. Naturally the Pennimans are now advising her to sell - " " - to Penniman, Greystone & Fleudd, of course. And you expect me to buck that kind of competition? You're a dreamer." "You have a strong ally, though, in her love for the building and for her father's memory. You can do it, Qwill!" Huffing into his moustache, he stood up to leave. "Well, wish me luck... What's that thing?" He pointed to a small decorative object.
"It's art glass - a pillbox - Art Deco design, probably seventy-five years old." "Would she like it?" "She'd love it! Even more than the Bosc pear." "I'll buy it," he said.
"Take it, with my compliments." Mary removed the price tag. "I'll put it in a velvet sack." With the velvet sack in his pocket, Qwilleran paid his second visit to the Plumb Palace on Twelve. As he waited for the elevator at the bronze door, the feisty Mrs. Button came hobbling down the hall with her cane.
"My! You do look handsome!" she said in a high, cracked voice. "My late husband always looked handsome in a dark suit. Every Thursday evening he would put on his dinner coat and I would put on a long dress, and we would go to the symphony. We always sat in a first-tier box. Are you going up to play cards with Adelaide? Have a lovely evening." Mrs. Button hobbled as far as the front door, then turned and hobbled back again - one of several ambulatory invalids who took their prescribed exercise in the hallways of the Casablanca. Qwilleran thought, If the building reverts to its original palatial character, what will happen to the old people? And the students? And Isabelle? And Mrs. Tuttle and Rupert?