The most dramatic feature was the gallery of paintings that covered the upper walls. They were large still lifes, all studies of mushrooms - whole or halved or sliced, tumbled about in various poses. The jarring effect, to Qwilleran's eye, was not the size of the mushrooms - some two feet diameter - but the fact that each arrangement was pictured with a pointed knife that looked murderously sharp. He had to admit that the knife lifted the still lifes out of the ordinary.
Somehow it suggested a human presence. But he could not imagine why the owner of the apartment had hung so many mushrooms, unless... he had painted them himself. Who was this talented ten- ant? The signature on the work was a cryptic logo: two Rs back-to-back. Why did he specialize in mushrooms? Why did he leave? Where had he gone? When would he return? And why was he willing to sublet this lavishly furnished apartment to a stranger?
There were no windows in the room-only the skylight, and it admitted a sick light on this late afternoon in November. Apart from the potted trees and the green and yellow plastic pails strategically placed in case of rain, the interior was monochromatically neutral. Walls, upholstered sofa, and commercial-weave carpet were all in a pale gray- beige like the mushrooms.
He checked his watch. It was time to dress for dinner. At that moment he heard a door slam in the elevator lobby; the occupant of 14-B was either corning in or going out. He soon discovered which.
When 14-A had been carved out of the former restaurant, space was no object, and the master bathroom was large enough to accommodate a whirlpool bath for two, a tanning couch, and an exercise bike. The stall shower was large enough for three. At the turn of a knob, water pelted Qwilleran's body from three sides, gentle as rain or sharp as needles.
He was luxuriating in this experience when the water abruptly turned ice cold. He yelped and bounded from the enclosure.
Dripping and cursing and half-draped in a towel, he found the house telephone in the kitchen. Mrs. Tuttle's businesslike voice answered.
"This is Qwilleran in 14-A," he said in a politely shocked tone. "I was taking a shower and the water suddenly ran cold, ice cold!" "That happens," she said. "It's an old building, you know. Evidently your neighbor started to take a shower at the same time." "You mean I have to coordinate my bathing schedule with 14-B?" "I don't think you need to worry about it too much," she said soothingly.
That's right, he thought. The building may be tom down next week. "Who is the tenant in 14-B?" Mrs. Tuttle said something that sounded like Keestra Hedrog, and when he asked her to repeat the name, it still sounded like Keestra Hedrog. He huffed into his moustache and hung up.
After toweling and donning his old plaid bathrobe in the Mackintosh tartan (his mother had been a Mackintosh), he was in the process of eating another apple when he heard incredible sounds from the adjoining apartment - like a hundred-piece orchestra tuning up discordantly for Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. The cats' ears swiveled nervously, the left and right ears twisting in opposite directions. He realized that they were hearing a composition for the synthesizer, a kind of music he had not yet learned to appreciate. He also realized that the walls between 14-A and 14-B were regrettably thin - one of the Casablanca's Depression economies. By the time he had finished dressing, however, the recording ended, a door slammed again, and his neighbor apparently went out for the evening.
He checked out the cats as he always did before leaving and found Yum Yum in the bedroom, sniffing the waterbed, but Koko was not in evidence. He called his name and received no response. For one sickening moment he wondered if the cat had discovered a secret exit. Hurrying from room to room he called and searched and worried. It was not until he went down into the conversation pit that he found the missing Koko.
The eight-foot bar in the pit was situated rather conspicuously in the middle of the floor, and Koko was sniffing this piece of furniture, oblivious of everything else. Qwilleran himself had not touched alcohol for several years, and when he served spirits to his guests, Koko showed no interest whatever unless he happened upon a stray anchovy olive. So why was he so intent upon investigating this leather-upholstered, teak-topped liquor dispensary? Koko always had a sound reason for his actions, although it was not always obvious.
Qwilleran opened the drawers and cabinets of the bar and found decanters, glassware, jiggers, corkscrews, muddlers, napkins, and so forth. That was all.
"Sorry, Koko," he said. "No anchovies. No mice. No dead bodies." The cat ignored him. He was sniffing the base of the bar, running his twitching nose along the line where the furniture met the carpet, as if some small object had found its way underneath. Qwilleran touched his moustache questioningly, his curiosity aroused. It was a heavy bar, but by putting his shoulder against one end of it he could slide it across the tightly woven carpet. As it began to move, Koko became agitated, prancing back and forth in encouragement.
"If this turns out to be an anchovy-stuffed olive," Qwilleran said, "you're going to be in the doghouse!" He shoved again. The ponderous bar moved a few inches at a time.
Then Koko yowled. A thin dark line had appeared on the pale carpet. It widened as Qwilleran lunged with his shoulder - wider and wider until a large dark stain was revealed.
"Blood!" Qwilleran said.
"Yow!" said Koko. He arched his back, elongated his legs, hooked his tail, and pranced in a circle. Qwilleran had seen the dance before - Koko's death dance. Then from the cat's innards came a new sound: less than a growl yet deeper than a purr. It sounded like "Rrrrrrrrrr!"
4
BEFORE LEAVING FOR dinner with Amberina, Qwilleran made a long-distance phone call. It was Sunday evening, and Polly Duncan would be at home waiting for news. He deemed it advisable to keep the report upbeat: Yes, he had enjoyed the trip... Yes, the cats behaved well... The manager and custodian were helpful. The apartment was spacious and well-furnished, with a magnificent view of the sunset. He mentioned nothing about the malfunctioning elevator nor the leaking skylight nor the bulletproof window at the manager's desk nor the bloodstain on the carpet, and he especially avoided reference to his dinner date with Amberina. Polly was a wonderful woman but inclined to be jealous.
Then he said goodbye to the Siamese, having placed their blue cushion on the bed in the small bedroom. "Be good kids," he said. "Have a nap and stay out of trouble. I'll be back in a couple of hours, perhaps with a doggie bag." He turned off all the lights except the one in the bathroom, where they had their commode, thinking that the darkness would encourage them to nap and stay out of mischief.
Leaving 14-A, he spotted a namecard tacked on the door of 14-B, and he sauntered close enough to read it. His neighbor's name was indeed Keestra Hedrog, as Mrs. Tuttle had said. It looked like something spelled backward and he considered tacking a namecard to his own door: Mij Narelliwq.
What, he asked himself, had happened to nomenclature in recent years? Strange new words had entered the language and strange new names were popping up in the telephone directory. Mary, Betty, and Ann had been replaced by Thedira and Cheryline. Even ordinary names had tricky spellings like Elizabette and Alyce, causing inconvenience to all concerned, not to mention the time lost in explaining and correcting. (His own name, spelled with the unconventional QW, had been the bane of editors, typesetters, and proofreaders for thirty years, but that fact escaped him.) He signaled for the elevator and heard evidence of mechanical torment in the shaft - noises so threatening that he chose to walk downstairs. Feeling his way through the poorly lighted stairwells, he encountered bags of trash, unidentified odors and - between the seventh and sixth floors - a shrouded figure standing alone on the stairs and mumbling.