Its tall, narrow proportions labeled it an antique, and he glanced at the price tag. He looked twice. At first reading he thought it was $180.00, then realized it was $18,000. He sat down carefully.
"Before we say another word," he began, "would you explain the dark line that makes the Casablanca look like a refrigerator? It's just above the ninth floor." "There was a projecting ledge there," she said, "and the city ordered it removed. Portions of it were falling down on the sidewalk and injuring passersby. Our architect maintains it can be safely restored, and it should be restored, being an integral part of the design. Meanwhile, the building management is reluctant to spend money on cosmetic improvements because - " "Because the building may be torn down next week," Qwilleran interrupted. "Everyone chants that excuse like a Greek chorus, and they may be right. This morning I saw the sign announcing the Gateway Alcazar. The developers seem to be supremely confident." "Aren't you appalled?" Mary said with a shudder. "The audacity of those people is unthinkable! They've even contrived a publicity story in the Morning Rampage comparing their arched monstrosity to the Arc de Triomphe!" "Well, the Pennimans own the Rampage, don't they?" "Nevertheless, Roberto wrote a letter to the editor calling it the' Arc de Catastrophe.' If your Klingenschoen Fund comes to our rescue, we shall be eternally grateful." "What do you know about Penniman, Greystone and F-I-e-u-d-d? I don't know how to pronounce it." "Flood." "What's their track record?" "Fleudd has recently joined them, but the Penniman and Greystone firm has been in real-estate development for years. They're the ones who wanted to tear down the Press Club." "The media clobbered that idea in a hurry," Qwilleran recalled. "Has the Daily Fluxion come to the support of SOCK?" "Not with any conviction. They merely fuel the controversy. The mayor and the city council have made statements in favor of the Gateway Alcazar, but the university and the art community support SOCK." "How about your father? What does he think about saving the Casablanca?" Mary raised her eyebrows expressively. "As you know, he and I are always at odds on every issue, and his bank has already agreed to lease space for a branch office in the Gateway building. Ironic, isn't it?" "Tell me about the Countess," he said. "So far no one has mentioned her name." "She is Adelaide St. John Plumb. Her father was Harrison Wills Plumb, who built the Casablanca in 1901. She was born on the twelfth floor of the Casablanca seventy-five years ago, with a midwife, a nurse, and two doctors in attendance, according to the story she tells and tells and tells. She's inclined to be repetitive." "Did she ever marry?" "No. She was engaged at an early age but broke it off. She adored her father, and they were very close." "I see... How does she react to all this brouhaha over her birthplace?" "That's a curious situation," Mary admitted. "I believe she enjoys being the center of attention. The promoters make her large offers and ply her with gifts, while SOCK appeals to her better instincts and makes pointed references to her father - her 'dear father.' She procrastinates, and we stall for time, hoping to find an angel. Do you play bridge?" Jolted by this non sequitur, Qwilleran said, "Uh... no, I don't." "How about backgammon?" "Frankly, I've never liked games that require any mental effort. What is the reason for this interrogation, may I ask?" "Let me explain," said Mary. "The Countess has one interest in life: table games - cards, Parcheesi, checkers, mah-jongg, anything except chess. Roberto and I stay in her good graces by playing once a week." "Does much money exchange hands?" "There's no gambling. She plays for the pleasure of competition, and she's really very good. She should be! She's been playing daily all her life, beginning as a young child. Did Amber tell you that the Countess is a recluse?" "No, she didn't." Qwilleran's vision of Lady Hester Stanhope flashed across his mind.
"Yes, she lives in a world of her own on the twelfth floor, with three servants." "Surely she goes out occasionally." "She never leaves the building or even her own apartment, which occupies an entire floor. Her doctors, lawyers, hairdresser, dressmaker, and masseuse all make house calls." "What's her problem? Agoraphobia?" "She claims to have trouble breathing if she steps outside her door... You don't play dominoes?" "No! Especially not dominoes." "Scrabble?" He shook his head. "Does this woman know I'm here - and why?" "We told her you're a writer who inherited money and retired to the country, and you're spending the winter here to escape the bad weather up north." "What was her reaction?" "She asked if you play bridge." "Does she know I used to write for the Fluxion?" "There was no point in mentioning it. She never reads newspapers. As I said before, she has created a private world." Qwilleran was convinced he had discovered Lady Hester in the flesh. He said, "Does anyone know of my interest in buying the Casablanca?" "Only Roberto and myself and the architect. And we confided in Amber, of course, when I had to leave town." "Since the Klingenschoen board of directors won't even hear about this until Thursday, I don't want my possible involvement to leak out." "We understand that." "I'll be filing stories for the Moose County paper while I'm here, and I'm thinking that a column on the Casablanca could make a good kickoff. Will the Countess object to being interviewed?" "I'm sure she'll enjoy the attention, although she'll want to talk mostly about her dear father." "'Who handles the business end of the Casablanca?" "A realty firm, with her lawyers as intermediaries." "Is she interested in the tenants?" "Only if they have good manners and good clothes and play bridge. To break the ice, I'd like to take you to tea on Twelve. She pours every afternoon at four." "First," Qwilleran said, "I want to know your architect's appraisal of the building. As of this moment I don't believe it shows much promise." Mary handed him a bound copy of a report. "There it is! Two hundred pages. Most of it is technical, but if you read the first and last chapters, you'll have all the necessary information." Qwilleran noted the name on the cover: Grinchman & Hills, architects and engineers. It was a well-known firm.
Magazines had publicized their projects around the country: an art museum, a university library, the restoration of a nineteenth-century government building. "Not a bad connection," he said. "I'll study this thing, and if I have any questions, whom do I call? Grinchman or Hills?" "They're both deceased," Mary said. "Only the name remains, and the reputation. The man who prepared the report for SOCK, virtually gratis, is Jefferson Lowell. He's totally sympathetic to the cause. You'll like him." Qwilleran rose. "This discussion has been enjoyable and enlightening, Mary. I'll let you know when I'm ready for tea with the Countess." "Time is of the essence," she reminded him. "After all, the woman is seventy-five, and anything can happen." She accompanied him to the door, through a maze of high-priced pedigreed antiques. "Do you still have your Mackintosh coat of arms?" "I wouldn't part with it. It's the first antique I ever bought, and it's incorporated into my apartment up north." He drew a small object from his pocket. "Can you identify this?" "Where did you get it?" "My cat was batting it about the floor in the penthouse." "It's a blank tile from a Scrabble set. Blanks are wild in Scrabble. The former tenant was an avid player." "She was an art dealer, I understand, and that explains some of the peculiar artwork, but why so many mushrooms? Who painted them? They're signed with a double R." Mary's eyes wavered as she replied, "He was a young artist by the name of Ross Rasmus." "Why did he put a knife in every picture?" She hesitated momentarily. "Roberto says there's sensuous pleasure in slicing a mushroom with a sharp knife.
Perhaps that's what it's all about." With a searching look Qwilleran said, "I hear she died unexpectedly. What was the cause of death?" "Really, Qwill, we avoid talking about it," Mary said uncomfortably. "It was rather - -sordid, and that's not the image we want for the Casablanca." "You don't have to be cagey with me, Mary. Since I'm subletting the apartment, I deserve to know." "Well, if you insist... I have to tell you that she was... murdered." He stroked his moustache smugly. "That's what I surmised. There's a sizable bloodstain on the carpet. Someone had placed a piece of furniture over it for camouflage, but Koko found it." "How is Koko?" Mary asked brightly.