Qwilleran was adept at inventing impromptu replies. "I happen to be staying at the Casablanca," he said, "and I would like to propose a memorial to Ms. Bessinger that would help the cause she championed." Todd looked, surprised and wary in equal proportions.
"What I envision," Qwilleran went on smoothly as if he had been planning it for months, "is a book about the historic Casablanca, using old photos from the public library. For text I would rely on interviews and research." "That would be costly to put together," said the dealer, withdrawing slightly as he began to anticipate a touch for money.
"There are grants available for publishing books on historical subjects," Qwilleran said coolly, "and revenue from the sale of the books would go to the Bessinger Memorial Fund. My own services would be donated." Instead of being relieved, Todd showed increased wariness. "Who would be interviewed?" he asked sharply.
"Local historians, architects, and persons who have recollections of the early Casablanca. You'll be surprised how many of them will come forward when we broadcast a request. My own attorney remembers eating spinach timbales in the rooftop restaurant as a boy." "I wouldn't want anyone to go digging into the circumstances of my partner's death. There's been too much notoriety and gossip already," the dealer said, pinching his nose.
"There would be nothing like that, I assure you," said Qwilleran. At that moment a glimpse of movement overhead caused him to look up; a Persian cat was walking along the railing of the balcony. "By the way," he said, "I'm subletting Ms. Bessinger's apartment while the estate is in probate, and I admire her taste in furniture and art." Todd nodded in silent agreement. "How long were you in partnership, Mr. Todd?" "Eighteen years. We came here to take over the Lambreth Gallery when Zoe Lambreth moved to California." "Do you happen to have any Rasmus paintings?" "I do not! And I'm weary of the talk about that fellow! There are plenty of living artists." Todd pinched his nose again.
"The only reason I asked is that I'm in the market for large-scale art for a house I'm building up north." Qwilleran was exercising his talent for instant falsehood.
"Then you must come to our opening on Friday night," said the dealer, visibly relieved as he anticipated cash flow.
"We're in the process of mounting the show, so the walls are vacant, but you'll see some impressive works at the vernisage." "I'm converting a barn into a residence," said Qwilleran, embroidering his innocent lie, "so I'll have large wall spaces, and I was hoping for a mushroom painting. Mushrooms seem appropriate for a barn." Stiffly Todd said, "All his work sold out immediately after his suicide. If I'd had my wits about me, I would have held some back, but I was in shock. They didn't sell well at all in June. He's worth more dead than alive. But if you come here Friday night you'll see the work of other artists you might like. What kind of barn are you remodeling?" "An apple barn. Octagonal." The barn on the Klingenschoen property had indeed stored apples, and it really was eight-sided.
"Spectacular! You might consider contemporary tapestries. Do you know the sizes of your wall spaces?" "Actually, the job isn't off the drawing board as yet," said Qwilleran, being completely truthful.
"Come anyway on Friday. There'll be champagne, hors d' oeuvres, live music, and valet parking." "What are the hours?" "From six o'clock until the well runs dry." "Thank you. I'll be here." Qwilleran started toward the door and turned back. "Tell me frankly. How do you feel about the future of the Casablanca?" "It's a lost cause," said Todd without emotion. , "Yet your partner was convinced it could be saved." "Yes... but... the picture has changed. The building is being razed to make way for the new Gateway Alcazar, which will be the missing link between the new downtown and the new Junktown. I'm moving the gallery there. I've signed up to lease space twice the size of what I have here." Qwilleran consulted his watch. It was time to meet the architect at the Press Club. "Well, thanks for your time, Mr.
Todd. I'll see you on Friday." As he walked to the Press Club he told himself that the book project, born on the spur of the moment, was not a bad idea. As for converting the apple barn, that sounded good, too. It would be ten times roomier than his present apartment in Pickax, and the Siamese could climb about the overhead beams.
The Press Club occupied a grimy stone fortress that had once been the county jail, and as a hang-out for the working press it had maintained a certain forbidding atmosphere for many years. The interior had changed, however, since Qwilleran's days at the Daily Fluxion. It had been renovated, modernized, brightened and - in his estimation - ruined. Yet it was a popular place at noon. He waited for the architect in the lobby, observing the lunch-time crowd that streamed through the door: reporters and editors, advertising and PR types, radio and TV personalities.
Eventually a man with a neatly clipped beard entered slowly, appraising the lobby with curiosity and a critical set to his mouth. Qwilleran stepped forward and introduced himself.
"I'm Jeff Lowell," said the man. "So this is the celebrated Press Club. Somehow it's not what I expected." He gestured toward the damask walls and gilt-framed mirrors.
"They redecorated a couple of years ago," said Qwilleran apologetically, "and it's no longer the dismal, shabby Press Club that I loved. Shall we go upstairs?" Upstairs there was a dining room with tablecloths, cloth napkins, and peppermills on the tables instead of paper placemats and squeeze bottles of mustard and ketchup. They took a table in a secluded comer.
"So you're interested in the Casablanca restoration," said the architect.
"Interested enough to want to ask questions. I've done my homework. I spent last evening reading the Grinchman & Hills report. You seem quite sanguine about the project." "As the report made clear, it will cost a mint, but it's entirely feasible. It could be the most sensational preservation project in the country," Lowell said.
"What is your particular interest?" "For one thing, I lived in that building for a few years before I was married, and there's something about the place that gets into a person's blood; I don't know how to explain it. But chiefly, my firm is interested because the Casablanca was designed by the late John Grinchman, and we have all the original specs in our archives. Naturally that facilitated the study immeasurably. Grinchman was a struggling young architect at the turn of the century when he met Harrison Plumb.
Plumb had a harebrained scheme that no established architect would touch, but Grinchman took the gamble, and the Casablanca made his reputation. In design it was ahead of its time; Moorish didn't become a fad until after World War One. The walls were built two feet thick at the base, tapering up to eighteen inches at the top. All the mechanical equipment-water pipes, steam pipes, electric conduits-were concentrated in crawl spaces between floors, for easy access and to help soundproof the building. And there was another feature that may amuse you: The occupants could have all the electricity they wanted!" "What do you know about Harrison Plumb?" Qwilleran asked.