The green telephone on his desk buzzed, and he answered it absent-mindedly.

"Qwill, have you heard the news?" It was Rosemary's velvet voice, but it had the high pitch of alarm.

"What's happened?" There had been two homicides at Maus Haus in the last year, but the murderer was now behind bars, and the residents had settled down to pleasurable living and a sense of security.

"Robert is selling the building," Rosemary said plaintively, "and we've all got to move out." "Why is he selling? Everything was going so well." "Someone made him a wonderful offer for the property. You know he's always wanted to give up his law practice and open a fine restaurant. He says this is his chance. It's prime real estate, and a developer wants to build a high-rise apartment house." "That's really bad news," Qwilleran agreed. "Robert has spoiled us all with his Chateaubriand and his lobster thermidor and his artichoke hearts Florentine. Why don't you come over to Number Six when you get home? We'll talk about it." "I'll bring a bottle. Chill the glasses," Rosemary said. "We just got a shipment of pomegranate juice." She was part-owner of a specialty food store called Helthy-Welthy, a coy spelling that Qwilleran found obnoxious.

He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. The bad news had been a message from the fates, telling him to go north. He left the office early that afternoon with a small bag of turkey from the Press Club and a tape measure from the Blue Dragon antique shop.

The River Road bus dropped him at a used car lot, and he went directly to a row of small fuel-efficient automobiles. Methodically he moved from one vehicle to the next, opening the door and measuring the floor space behind the driver's seat.

A salesman who had been watching the performance sauntered into the picture.

"Interested in a compact?" "It all depends," Qwilleran mumbled with his head buried in the back seat. He made a mental note: twelve by fifteen.

"Looking for any particular model?" "No." The drive-shaft seemed to be the problem. Thirteen by fifteen.

"You want automatic or stick?" "Doesn't matter," Qwilleran said as he busied himself with the tape measure again.

Thirteen by sixteen. After years of driving company cars from newspaper garages, he could drive anything; his selectivity had been numbed.

The salesman was studying the heavy drooping moustache and the mournful eyes. "I know you," he finally said. "Your picture's in the Fluxion all the time. You write about restaurants. My cousin has a pizza place in Happy View Woods." Qwilleran grunted from the innards of a four-door.

"I'd like to show you a job that just came in. We haven't even cleaned it up yet. Last year's model-only two thousand miles. Came from an estate." Qwilleran followed him into the garage. There stood a green two-door, not yet sprayed with New Car Scent. He ducked into the back seat with his tape measure. Then he moved the

driver's seat back to accommodate his long legs and measured again. Fourteen by sixteen.

"Perfect," he said, "although I might have to cut off the handles. How much?" "Come in the office and we'll work out a deal," the salesman said.

The newsman drove the green car around the block and noted that it lurched, bounced, chugged, and rattled less than any company car he had ever driven. And the price was right. He made a down payment, signed some papers, and drove home to Maus Haus.

As he expected, there was a letter in his mailbox from Robert Maus, written on the man's legal stationery. It explained with the utmost compunction that the property heretofore known as Maus Haus had been purveyed, after due deliberation, to a syndicate of out-of-town investors who would be pursuing extensive plans requiring, it was regretted, the eviction of present tenants at a date not later than September 1.

Qwilleran, who had torn the envelope open on the spot, shrugged and climbed the stairs to his apartment on the balcony. As he unlocked the door to Number Six he was accompanied by a delicate essence of turkey that should have brought two hungry Siamese to meet him, prancing in leggy circles and figure eights, crowing and wailing in a discordant duet of anticipation. Instead, the two ingrates sat motionless on the white bearskin rug in a conspiracy of silence. Qwilleran knew why. They sensed an upheaval in the status quo.

Although Koko and his accomplice Yum Yum were experts at devising surprises of their own, they resented changes originated by others. At Maus Haus they were perfectly satisfied with the wide sunny windowsill, the continuous entertainment provided by neighborhood pigeons, and the luxury of a bearskin rug.

"Okay, you guys," Qwilleran said. "I know you don't like to move, but wait till you see where we're going! I wish we could take the rug but it doesn't belong to us." Koko, whose full name was Kao K'o Kung, had the dignity of an Oriental potentate. He sat regally tall with disapproval in every whisker. Both he and Yum Yum were aware of how magnificent they looked on the fluffy white rug. They had the classic Siamese coloring and conformation: blue eyes in a dark brown mask, pale fawn-colored fur of a quality that made mink look second-rate, elegantly long brown legs, and a graceful whip of a tail.

The man chopped the turkey for them. "C'mon and get it! They sliced it off an actual turkey this time." The two Siamese maintained their frigid reserve.

A moment later Qwilleran raised his nose. He identified a familiar perfume, and soon Rosemary knocked, on the door. He greeted her with a kiss that was more than a perfunctory social peck. The Siamese sat in stony immobility.

Pomegranate juice was poured over ice with a dash of club soda, and a toast was drunk to the condemned building in memory of everything that had happened there.

"It was a way of life we'll never forget," Qwilleran said.

"It was a dream," Rosemary added. "And occasionally a nightmare." "I suppose you'll accept your aunt's offer now. Will the Fluxion let you go?" "Oh sure. They may not let me come back, but they'll let me go. Have you made any plans?" "I may return to Canada," Rosemary said. "Max wants to open a natural food restaurant in Toronto, and if I can sell my interest in Helthy-Welthy I might go into partnership with him." Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Max Sorrel! That womanizer! He said: "I was hoping you'd come up north and spend some time with me." "I'd love it if I don't get involved in Toronto. How will you get up there?" "I bought a car today. The cats and I will drive up to Pickax City to say hello to Aunt Fanny and then go on up to the lake. I haven't seen her for forty years. Judging from her correspondence she's a character. Her letters are cross-written." Rosemary looked puzzled.

"My mother used to do cross-writing. She'd handwrite a page in the usual way, then turn the paper sideways and write across the original lines." "What for? To save paper?" "Who knows? Maybe to preserve privacy. It isn't easy to read… She's not my real aunt," he went on. "Fanny and my mother were doughnut girls in World War I. Then Fanny had a career of some kind — never married. When she retired she went back to Pickax City." "I never heard of the place." "It used to be mining country. Her family made their fortune in the mines." "Will you write to me, Qwill dearest?" "I'll write-often. I'll miss you, Rosemary." "Tell me all about Aunt Fanny after you meet her." "She calls herself Francesca now. She doesn't like to be called Aunt Fanny. She says it makes her feel like an old woman." "How old is she?" "She'll be ninety next month."