"Great!" Qwilleran muttered as he parked in a black-topped area large enough for ten cars. "Don't go away," he said to his caged passengers. "I'll be right back." It was his custom to check for hazards and feline escape routes before introducing the Siamese to a new environment. Slowly, noting every dismal detail, he walked toward a gray stone arch inset with a mosaic of darker pebbles spelling out TIPTOP INN—1903. From there a broad flight of stone steps—he counted eighteen—led up to the inn, and seven wooden steps painted battleship gray led up to the veranda.
Unlocking one of the French doors that marked the main entrance, Qwilleran walked into a dark foyer—a wide central hall running the length of the building and ending in more French doors at the rear. Their glass panes did little to lighten the foyer, and he switched on lights— three chandeliers and six wall sconces. He flipped switches in the surrounding rooms also—a cavernous living room, a dining room that seated twelve, a hotel-size kitchen— thankful that electricity was included in the rent.
Next he opened a window to freshen the deadness of the atmosphere and discovered there were no screens to keep the Siamese from jumping out. This was another mark against the place. They liked to sit on a windowsill sniffing the breeze, yet not a single window was screened. In each room he lowered the sash a few inches at the top for ventilation. This done, he brought the cats and their baggage into the kitchen, fed them a can of salmon hurriedly, and pointed out the location of their waterdish and commode in the pantry.
For himself he brought in the computerized coffeemaker without which he never left home. Although he had been obliged to swear off alcohol and had been convinced by an attractive woman M.D. in Pickax to give up smoking, he still insisted upon his coffee; he liked it strong and he liked it often. Carrying a cupful of the brew and with apologies to the Siamese for leaving them in the kitchen, he now wandered through the house with a critical eye. During his days as a roving news correspondent, checking in and out of hotels, his environment had meant little, but his changing circumstances in recent years had given him an awareness of pleasant living quarters.
The interior of Tiptop, though obviously redecorated not too long ago, was depressingly gray: gray plush carpet, gray damask draperies, wallcoverings predominantly gray. Certain items of massive furniture, circa 1903, were appropriate in sixty-foot rooms with ten-foot ceilings, but they were grotesque in design. More attractive were the sofas, chairs, and tables added by recent owners, and yet the rooms looked bleak, as if deliberately stripped of all small objects. There were sculpture pedestals without sculpture, plant stands without plants, bookcases without books, vitrines without curios, china cabinets without china, and lamp tables without lamps. Pictures had been removed, leaving hooks and discolored rectangles on the walls.
And for this, Qwilleran thought, I'm paying $1,000 a week!
Only one picture remained, a painting of mountains, hung in the foyer over a chest on which were a telephone and a phone directory. He looked up the numbers of the Lessmore office and residence and left the identical message in both places: "Tiptop has been burglarized!" Hurried visits to the six bedrooms upstairs and the recreation room on the lower level confirmed the fact. Even the three fireplaces were stripped.
Meanwhile, impatient cries were coming from the kitchen. "Sorry! Sorry!" he apologized to the rampant Siamese. "Now it's your turn to explore. I hope you like it better than I do."
They entered the dining room warily, slinking under the table in search of crumbs, although the house had been empty for a year. Then Yum Yum sniffed an invisible spot on the carpet in front of the massive buffet while Koko rose effortlessly and silently to the serving surface. Once upon a time, Qwilleran imagined, it had groaned under platters of roast pheasant, chafing dishes bubbling with lobster thermidor, and eight-gallon bowls of brandy punch. That was almost a century ago, but it was no secret to Koko.
In the foyer Yum Yum discovered the balustered staircase and ran up and down like a pianist practicing scales. Koko was attracted to the painting of mountains and jumped to the top of the chest in order to rub his jaw against a corner of the frame.
"Please! Let's not move any mountains," Qwilleran pleaded as he straightened the picture. He had never decided whether Koko had an appreciation of art or a perpetually itchy jaw.
