"I don't know exactly." Another security guard arrived on the scene. "I was down there. I seen it. One of them kooks that wanders around - kind of unsteady on his feet - wanted to get on the escalator, and I told him not to. He grabbed this man's arm." "I rode up feetfirst," Qwilleran explained to the bartender. "I've gone feetfirst into worse situations than this, but I'll admit this was a peculiar sensation." "You need a stiff drink. What'll it be?" "My days as a stiff drinker are over, but I could use a strong cup of coffee." "Coming right up." Qwilleran sipped the brew gratefully while security personnel hovered about to prevent his escape, pending the arrival of a hotel official. He said to the bartender, "You know my name but I don't know yours." "Randy. Randy Jupiter. I remember reading your column when you wrote for the Fluxion - the reviews about restaurants, I mean. I clipped every one and then checked them out on my day off. You were always right on!" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. Having his column clipped was his favorite kind of compliment. "A lot of new eating places have opened since then," he said. "I've been away for three years." "They sure have! It looks like nobody stays home and cooks anymore. How long are you going to be here? I could recommend a few good ones." "My plans aren't definite. I'm here to write a book on the Casablanca, and it will depend on what luck I have with research." "The Rampage said you're going to buy the building," Jupiter said with a grin.
"No one believes the Rampage. Stick with the Fluxion, boy." "Didn't you say you're on Fourteen?" "In 14-A." "That must be the Bessinger apartment. I've never seen it, but I hear it's something else." "It's unique," Qwilleran agreed.
The assistant manager appeared, and Qwilleran assured her he was not hurt and saw no reason to hold the hotel responsible. He willingly supplied the personable young woman with the information she needed for her report and accepted vouchers good for dinner and dry cleaning. When the transaction was completed the bartender said to Qwilleran, "That's not too shabby." "She might have offered to go to dinner with me. Then it would be worth the indignity of riding up feetfirst. How long have you lived at the Casablanca?" "Just a few months. Do you like jazz?" "I was a jazzhound in college but I haven't done much listening lately." Qwilleran felt comfortable with the bartender. It was his private theory that men with large moustaches tend to gravitate toward other men with large moustaches. Likewise, fat men get together. Men with beards or long hair like to talk to men with beards or long hair.
Jupiter said, "I've got a super collection of old jazz artists. Any time you want to hear some great sounds like Jelly Roll, the Duke - " "Do you have Charlie Parker?" "I have everything. Just knock on my door. I'm in 6-A." "My apartment has a fantastic stereo system and spectacular acoustics," Qwilleran said. "Perhaps you'd like to bring some recordings upstairs." "I'd go for that." "I'll get in touch with you." "Call me here or at home." Jupiter scribbled two phone numbers on a cocktail napkin.
"Okay. Now I'm ready for lunch." Lunch at the Penniman coffee shop was agreeably uneventful. Qwilleran also welcomed the scholarly silence of the library's history department, where he selected photos and signed an order for copies to be made.
Back at the Casablanca, 14-A was equally quiet. Too quiet! Koko seemed preoccupied as he waited for the mincing of the roast beef from the deli, and Yum Yum did not report at all until Qwilleran went to the bedroom and said, "Would Cleopatra consent to rise from her divan and repair to the dining salon for a light repast?" He should have known that Koko's distracted demeanor was the countdown before the blast-off.
15
KOKO'S ABNORMAL BEHAVIOR during the preparation of his dinner meant that mischief was hatching in that fine brown head. But Qwilleran had other matters on his mind, such as: what to wear for his dinner engagement at Courtney Hampton's apartment. Amber had specified that dress would be casual. Remembering the clothing salesman's supercilious gibe ("Just in from the country?"), he deliberately chose to wear his cashmere pullover, a garment that would impress anyone who knew the price of sweaters. At the appointed time he walked downstairs to the eighth floor and knocked on Amber's door. When she opened it he caught a glimpse of a room piled high with cardboard cartons and shopping bags.
"How recently did you move in?" he asked as they walked down the hall to the front of the building.
"I've been here two years, but it seems I never get around to unpacking," she said with a humorously hopeless shrug. "Now - let me tell you about Courtney's place, so it won't come as a total shock. He has one of the big old apartments, and he puts on the dog when he entertains, even hiring a woman to cook and a man to serve. But he doesn't have any furniture!" "If the food is good, I'm prepared to eat off the floor," Qwilleran said. "Incidentally, I have yet to see an apartment in this building other than the penthouse and the Art Deco extravaganza on Twelve." "I meant to ask, how did you get along with the Countess?" "Very well. We played Scrabble, and I let her I win a little." "You men are so gallant - when you lose." A pair of topiary trees flanked the entrance to 8-A. "He only puts them out when he's having company," Amber explained as she clanged the door knocker.
"I hope he also takes in the brass knocker when he goes to bed," Qwilleran said. "Someone stole my plastic rubbish container last night." The door was opened by an emaciated grayhaired man in a white duck coat-someone Qwilleran had seen in the lobby, or on the elevator, or possibly in the laundry room. Not far behind him was the host, wearing a coolie suit in black silk and making gestures of Oriental welcome.
"Well, look at you!" Amber exclaimed.
"Just in from the rice paddy?" Qwilleran asked. They entered a large room with dark walls lighted only by candles, Amber remarking, "I see Mrs. Tuttle cut off your electricity again." Courtney reproached her with flared nostrils. "What you see here," he said to Qwilleran, loftily, "is one of the original suites, occupied for sixty years by a bachelor judge. All I did was paint the walls Venetian red. The black walnut woodwork and the hardwood floors are original. I apologize for the lack of furniture. Special-order items take an unconscionably long time." "They're growing the trees," Amber said.
As Qwilleran's eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realized he was in a room at least fifty feet long and bare enough to be a ballroom. In one comer was a compact seating arrangement: two couches right-angled against the wall, covered with fringed Spanish rugs and heaped with pillows of some ethnic origin. The couches were actually army cots, he later decided. For a cocktail table there was a large square of thick plate glass supported by concrete blocks, and under it was a worn Persian rug, the only floor covering in the room. Three long-stemmed white carnations in a tall crystal vase looked aggressively contemporary. In candlelight the comer was almost glamorous.
"You have a new rug," Amber observed.
"A semi-antique Tabriz, my dear-this month's acquisition from our friend Isabelle." She explained to Qwilleran, "He means Isabelle Wilburton. He's systematically stripping the poor woman's apartment." "I am keeping the poor woman afloat," Courtney said with hauteur. "Last month's acquisition was that painting over the sideboard - American, of course - probably of the Hudson River school. A curator from the art museum is coming here tomorrow to identify it incontrovertibly." The misty landscape in an elaborate gilded frame was hanging above a sideboard composed of two large, wooden packing cases, on which stood a silver teaset. "Would we all like a margarita?" "Qwill doesn't drink," Amber announced.
"Evian?" asked the host.
"Evian will do," Qwilleran said, "if you don't have Squunk water." The other two gave him a brief questioning glance. No one outside of Moose County had ever heard of Squunk water. Then Courtney turned to the white-coated server. "Hopkins, bring us two margaritas and an Evian for the gentleman." The white coat disappeared into the gloom at the far end of the room, and the host went on. "Originally the suite consisted of this drawing room plus a large bedroom totally without closets plus a huge bathroom. Where did they hang their clothes in 1901? And what did they do in the bathroom that required so much space? Fortunately the judge added closets and a kitchenette." Amber said to Qwilleran, "You should see Court's previous apartment. It was like a cell at Leavenworth." "Courtney!" he corrected her with a frown.