"What time would be convenient?" "Well, I'm due at the restaurant at four, and if I went up there about three thirty..." "That's good," he said, thinking that she would be unable to stay long. "I'll expect you at three thirty. I'm in 14-A." "Do you mind if I bring my friend?" "Of course I don't mind." What else could he say?
To Koko he said, "Your old pal Charlotte is dropping in at three thirty. Try to act like a gentleman." During their previous acquaintance, which had been brief, the cat had gone out of his way to shock and embarrass the woman.
Charlotte was easily shocked and embarrassed in those days.
They went back to their Scrabble. Koko was partial to the letter O, and Qwilleran was building words like FOOT, ROOF, TOOT, and DODO when the telephone rang again. This time he was sure it was Winnie Wingfoot, but it was Isabelle Wilburton, and she was inebriated.
"Watcha doin'?" she asked in a sleepy voice.
"I'm working at my desk," he said coolly.
"Mind if I... come up?" "I'm afraid this is not a good time to visit. I'm concentrating on a problem." "Wanna come down here?" "I've just told you, Miss Wilburton, that I'm extremely busy and cannot leave my work at this time," he said with a touch of impatience.
"Why don'cha call me Isabelle?" "All right, Isabelle. As I said, I can't interrupt what I'm doing." "Don'cha like me?" He had a great desire to hang up, but he said as graciously as he could, "It's not that I don't like you; it's simply that you are calling at an inopportune time." "Don'cha wanna see my cat?" "I've seen your cat, Isabelle. I saw her in the lobby yesterday. She's a nice little kitten and I told you so." "Wanna come and have dinner?" He tried to speak kindly. "Perhaps you don't remember, but I told you yesterday that I have a dinner meeting with the officers of SOCK." "Nobody wants to eat with me," she whined. "I don't have any friends. I'm gonna jump off the roof." "Now, wait a minute, Isabelle. Don't talk like that. You have a good life ahead of you. How old are you?" "Forty-two. Forty-three. Don't remember." "Do you remember the conversation we had in the laundry room? I had the same experience when I was your age, so I know how you feel and what you're going through. I also know you can get help, the way I did, and start enjoying a good life again. There are groups you can join, where you'll meet people who have the same problem as yours." "Don't have any problem. Just don't have any friends. No reason to live anymore. Gonna go up on the roof and jump off." "Isabelle, the last time I saw you in the lobby you were carrying your kitten in a blue blanket, and you seemed very happy. What's the name of your kitten?" "Sweetie Pie." Her speech was slurred.
"Is she good company?" There was no answer. He thought he heard a glug and a swallow.
"What do you feed her?" "Stuff out of a can." "Do you play with her? Kittens like to play. You should tie a twist of paper on a string and swing it around - let her jump for it and chase it." It was an asinine conversation, but he was trying to distract her from her grisly intention. "Where does she sleep?" "On my bed." "Is she a happy cat?" "Guess so." "Does she purr a lot?" He hoped that something would capture her interest.
"I dunno." "Kittens need love and attention. They like to be brushed, too. Have you tried brushing her?" Qwilleran mopped his brow. Why was he perspiring? Why was he working so hard? She wasn't even listening.
"Wanna come down... have a drink?" she mumbled.
"Have you had anything to eat today, Isabelle?" "Gonna jump off the roof... end it all." "Listen, Isabelle, you can't do that. Think of Sweetie Pie! She needs you! What would she do without you? She's just a helpless kitten." "Gonna take her with me." He paused for an instant. Then, "Hold the line a minute, Isabelle. Don't hang up! I'll be right back!" Hurrying to the kitchen he rang the housephone. "Isabelle Wilburton's threatening to jump off the roof!" he shouted. "I've got her on the phone!" "Keep her on the line," Mrs. Tuttle said. "I'll go up to her apartment." He rushed back to his phone in the library but heard only a dial tone. Was she on the way to the roof-with the kitten? Running out of the apartment and slamming the door, he sprinted up two flights of stairs, three at a time; there was no one up there. He waited for a while, but Isabelle didn't appear. Could she have arrived before him? Impossible! Yet he looked over the edge apprehensively. A wind had sprung up, and he stepped inside the stairwell for protection.
What am I doing here at the Casablanca? he asked himself. It had been nothing but stress in the last week: cranky elevators, cold showers, runaway radiators, the Gut Dancers, trouble in the parking lot, the crazy Countess, and now Isabelle! After ten or fifteen minutes he was sure she had been intercepted, and he started downstairs. At the bottom of the second flight he received a harsh surprise. The steel door shutting off the stairwell was locked!
At first he refused to believe it. Then he realized that Mrs. Tuttle had sent Rupert up to lock the door and foil the would - be suicide. He banged on the door with a fist, hoping that Keestra Hedrog would be spending a quiet Sunday afternoon at home and would hear him. The only response was a muffled "Yow!" from behind the door of 14-A. Koko knew he was in trouble, but a lot of good that did!
Qwilleran returned to the roof and looked over the edge, doubting that he could signal for help from that height.
There was no one in the parking lot, Sundays at the Casablanca being as quiet as Saturdays were hectic. He circled the roof, hoping to see a pedestrian walking a dog on Zwinger Boulevard, or a jogger behind the building, or someone throwing rubbish into the dumpster. There was no one in sight, and it was getting cold.
Slowly he started down the two flights to Fourteen. In the stairwell he could hear the machinery in the elevator housing, as well as a certain familiar clanking and banging that meant Old Red or Old Green was approaching Fourteen.
He ran down the stairs and was pounding on the door and calling for help when the elevator arrived.
"Oh, dear!" said a timid voice. "Who's that?" "I'm locked in the stairwell! Get the manager to open the door!" "Oh, dear! This is Charlotte, Mr. Qwilleran. We were just coming to see you... Raymond, go down to the desk and tell them. I'll stay here." There were sounds of an elevator descending. "How did you get locked in there, Mr. Qwilleran?" asked the reedy voice that now sounded so welcome, so comforting.
"You'll never believe my story," he said on the other side of the door. "I'll tell you when I get out." "Roberto is expecting you for dinner tonight. He said to send you up to his apartment when you arrive." "Am I holding you up? I don't want you to be late for work." "Oh, no, it's only twenty-five minutes to four. I'm sure Raymond will get someone right away." Qwilleran had always found conversation with Charlotte to be strained, even without a heavy door between them, and he was relieved when the elevator made its noisy arrival and Rupert unlocked the door.
"Nobody told me you was on the roof," he said.
"Nobody knew. Thanks, Rupert. I wasn't looking forward to spending the night in the stairwell. You'll have to let me into 14-A, too. I forgot my key." Standing by were Charlotte Roop and her friend with the ear patch. Qwilleran felt momentarily grateful to both of them, and he felt a flash of sympathy for Dunwoody, wondering why he wore such a noticeable badge of his deformity.
Perhaps he could not afford a prosthetic ear.
"'Come in," he said. "Welcome to the garden spot of the Casablanca." The two entered, gazing in wonder.
"Were you never here before?" he asked.
"No," said Charlotte. "I never was." "Where did it happen?" Dunwoody asked.
"Where did what happen?" "The murder." "I don't know," Qwilleran said untruthfully. He opened the French doors to the gallery. "This is the former swimming pool, now a combination living room and art gallery. Won't you go in and sit down? Be careful going down the steps. I'll try to find the cats." Awestruck, the couple wandered into the sky- lighted wonderland of potted trees and gargantuan mushrooms.