Nevertheless, Qwilleran had always wanted to check out a statement made by a typesetter of the old school—a claim that Macaulay used more consonants in his writing, while Dickens used more vowels. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pad of paper, he started counting consonants and vowels, selecting random excerpts from each author. It was a brain-numbing, eye-torturing task, and he was disappointed with the result. While racking up 390 consonants, Dickens used 250 vowels and Macaulay actually used more—a total of 258. The typesetter was either misinformed or a practical joker, but there was nothing he could do about it; the man had died two years before.
There was a tap on the door, and Susan called out to him, “Coffee’s ready downstairs.”
Qwilleran confined Koko to the room with the Dickens and Macaulay and joined her in the kitchen.
“Making good progress?” she inquired.
“I haven’t found anything of value as yet,” he replied, truthfully.
“I’ve found a green dragon dish documented as fourteenth century!”
He wondered: Yes, but are the documents forged?
“I have a feeling,” she said, “that a lot of these things should go to New York for auction. They’ll bring a fortune on the east coast.”
If they’re genuine, Qwilleran thought.
After coffee he returned upstairs, and as he opened the door Koko shot out of the room and made a skidding U-turn into the study where the books were on shelves instead of in boxes. Qwilleran followed, but the cat was already on one of the top shelves, looking down impudently at his pursuer.
“Get down here!” Qwilleran demanded at his sternest.
Koko rubbed his jaw against a large volume—teasing, knowing he was just beyond reach.
Qwilleran climbed on a chair and made a grab for him.
With infuriating impertinence Koko slinked behind a row of books with only the tip of his brown tail giving a clue to his whereabouts.
“I’ll get you, young man, if I have to strip this whole bookcase!” Shifting the chair a few feet, he started removing books from the top shelf, piling them in his left arm, until the cat was revealed, crouched mischievously in his hiding place.
“You devil!” Qwilleran clutched him with his free hand, stepped off the chair, dumped his armful of books on the desk, and deposited the cat in the other room, slamming the door as a rebuke. Then he returned to the study to replace the dislodged books, which appeared to be a collection of eighteenth-century erotica. Squelching his curiosity he lined the books up on the high shelf. That was when he noticed a volume that had been concealed behind the others, either purposely or accidentally. Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid was the title tooled in gold on good cowhide. He put it under his arm and stepped off the chair. As he did so, the book rattled in a muffled way. He shook it, and it rattled again. Enjoying the excitement of discovery he returned to the Dickens-Macaulay room, closed the door, and opened the book. It was all cover and no pages!
There in the hollow volume—a secret filing place—was a small notebook, alphabetized. He turned to the letter D and found “Dickens A-74.” Under M there was listed “Macaulay A-106” as well as Mencken, Melodrama, Milton, Morality Plays and others. This was the catalogue he knew must exist. Though inadequate for finding titles, it was apparently useful for VanBrook’s purposes, whatever they might be. If he had anything to hide, this was not a bad system.
There were other documents and scraps of paper in the hollow book, but for the moment the catalogue was all that mattered. Entries were grouped from A to F, evidently referring to the six rooms in which boxes were stored. It was while leafing through its pages that he spotted a small red dot alongside certain items: “Latin A-92,” for instance.
Koko was sitting quietly on A-106 in his sphinx pose, guarding the salmon carton. “We’ve got to find A-92,” Qwilleran said impatiently as he began slinging boxes around. They were stacked in no particular order, and the noise of heavy boxes being shifted soon brought a tap on the door.
“Come in,” he yelled without stopping his frenzied search.
“Are you onto something?” Susan asked.
“I think so . . . I found the catalogue . . . Boxes, not titles,” he said between heavy breathing. “Some have a special mark . . . A red dot . . . I’m looking for A-92.”
He found it at the bottom of a stack, behind two other stacks—a vodka carton filled with textbooks, grammars, ponies, a Latin-English dictionary, and the works of Cicero and Virgil.
“They’re Latin books, all right,” he announced with disappointment. “Nothing but books.”
“Well, let’s work another half hour and then go to lunch,” Susan suggested.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll take a raincheck, since I have Koko with me and I’m not dressed for lunch at the Mill. But if you want to pick us up again, I’ll be glad to help any day you say.”
He repacked A-92, shoving Koko away as the cat tried to climb into the vodka carton. Then, working fast during the next half hour, he opened other boxes that warranted a red dot. He found only books in an eclectic assortment of subjects: Nordic Mythology, Indian Authors, Chaucer, Japanese Architecture. One box contained Famous Frauds—accounts of imposters, swindlers, and other white-collar crooks. In the stacking of boxes a slight pattern emerged; the red dots were all found to the left of the door as one entered the room, concealed behind other book-boxes. Qwilleran counted the red dots in the catalogue, and there were fifty-two, distributed equally among rooms A to F.
When they pulled away from the house in Susan’s wagon, Qwilleran had three books tucked under his arm. He said, “I hope no one objects if I borrow something to read. I found a couple of good titles.”
“Keep them,” she said. “No one will ever know or care.”
Sandwiched between novels of Sir Walter Scott, which came from a red-dot carton, was Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid.
When Susan dropped her passengers off at the apple barn, Koko was greeted by his mate as if he had returned from an alien planet, contaminated by radioactive gasses. Belly to the floor, Yum Yum crept toward him cautiously, caught a whiff of something evil, and skulked away with lowered head and bushy tail. Unconcerned, he walked to the kitchen area and stared pointedly at an empty plate on the floor until a piece of turkey appeared on it miraculously.
Qwilleran had dropped his three books on a table in the foyer area. After his exertions at the VanBrook house he was tremendously hungry. He thawed a carton of chili, a small pizza, and two corn muffins, and while sitting down to this lunch in the snack area he heard a loud plop! It was followed by another loud plop! He recognized the sound, that of a book falling on an uncarpeted floor. Leaving his lunch, he investigated the main floor and found two volumes of Sir Walter Scott on the earthen tiles of the foyer. Koko was pushing Ivanhoe around with his nose, but it was not the spine he was sniffing; he was nosing the fore-edges.
Qwilleran retrieved it—a book in flexible leather binding with gold tooling and gilt edges—published in 1909 with end papers and frontispiece in Art Nouveau style. It was a better edition than the set of Dickens but damaged by dryness. He riffled the pages—and gasped! They were interleaved with money! With ten-dollar bills! The other book, he soon discovered, was the same. The “bookmarks” in The Bride of Lammermoor were twenties! Both books had come from a red-dot carton. He tried a little computation: fifty-two red-dot boxes . . . approximately twenty books per carton . . . twenty or thirty bills in each box . . . And yet, considering the rate of inflation and opportunities for investment, who would hide this amount of money in the house? Unless . . .
Hurrying to the telephone he called Exbridge & Cobb Antiques. “Susan,” he said, “I’ve discovered something remarkable about the red dots, and I think you should get the attorney up here in a hurry before we open any more cartons . . . No, I can’t tell you on the phone . . . Yes, I’m willing to meet with him—any time.”
Qwilleran had forgotten his chili, and he knew the pizza would be co
ld, but they could be reheated. There was little left to reheat, however. The cheese and pepperoni had disappeared, and the chili was reduced to beans, while two cats washed up assiduously. No matter; food was no longer on Qwilleran’s mind. He carried the two volumes of Scott and Memoirs of a Merry Milkmaid to his studio, followed by two well-fed Siamese.
There were other personal papers in the hollow book, in addition to the catalogue: unidentified phone numbers on scraps of paper, legal documents in Summers, Bent & Frickle envelopes, columns of figures in five digits or more, cryptic memos that the late principal had written to himself, onion-skin copies of old business agreements signed “William Brooks.” Little of it seeped into Qwilleran’s comprehension, but Koko, who was sitting on the desk watching every move, occasionally extended a tentative paw. Yum Yum was on her hindlegs searching the wastebasket for crumpled paper, which had an irresistible attraction for her. She searched, however, in vain. Qwilleran had learned never to crumple discarded paper if he expected it to stay in the round file for more than three minutes.
Among the items that tempted Koko’s paw was an envelope labeled “Copies.” The originals, according to the notation, were in the files of Summers, Bent & Frickle. One of them, titled “Last Will and Testament of William Smurple,” was dated recently, September 8, and it bequeathed the principal’s entire estate to the Pickax School District, exactly as Lyle Compton had confided to Qwilleran.
The other document caused a tingling in Qwilleran’s upper lip that made him reach for the phone. He asked directory assistance for a number in Lockmaster, and when he called it, a woman’s musical voice said, “Amberton Farm.”
“This is Jim Qwilleran, calling from Pickax,” he said. Soothed by her pleasant voice he spoke less brusquely than he had intended. “Is this the right number for Steve O’Hare?”
“No, Mr. Qwilleran, this is the farmhouse. His office in the stables has its own phone—”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s perfectly all right. I’m Lisa Amberton, and I understand you’re interested in our farm. I’d like to show you around if you’d care to drive down.”
“I’ll take you up on that later, but right now I need to talk to Mr. O’Hare.”
She gave him the number, and he called the trainer. “Okay, Steve, I’m ready to talk,” he announced. “How soon can you come up to Pickax?”
“Jeez, that’s sooner than I expected, but I can come any time. I’d like to bring Mrs. Amberton, okay? She says she wants to meet you.”
“Not this time. I want you to come alone for some private discussion—just a deal between you and me.”
“Sure. I understand,” Steve said genially. “How about at five o’clock? I get through at three, and I’ll have to clean up. I didn’t line up that information you wanted, though.” He sneezed loudly.
“The résumé? Forget it for now. See you at five.”
Qwilleran massaged his moustache with satisfaction and tripped jauntily down the spiral staircase to the kitchen, where he pressed the button on the coffeemaker.
While he was waiting for the beverage to brew, the telephone rang, and he took the call in the library area. It was Vicki Bushland’s anxious voice. “Qwill, there’s been an accident down here!” she said. “Fiona’s son is in the hospital. We’re very much upset. I thought you’d want to know.”
“What kind of accident?”
“He was taking jumps, and the horse went down. Robbie’s hurt seriously. He wasn’t wearing his hard hat. I don’t mind telling you, Fiona’s almost out of her mind.”
“When did this happen?”
“A couple of hours ago. Isn’t it tragic? So soon after winning his first race! Fiona’s afraid he’ll never walk again—let alone ride. I think it’s his spine.”
“Terrible news,” Qwilleran murmured. Then he added, “I was talking to Steve just a moment ago. To Mrs. Amberton, also. They never said a word about an accident.”
“They’re very cool—that Amberton crew,” Vicki said with a sign of bitterness. “The way they think, stableboys are a dime a dozen. Twenty more are begging to take Robbie’s place! It would have been a different story if the horse had been Son of Cardinal. They had to destroy it.”
Qwilleran was silent.
“Fiona says you’re interested in buying the farm, Qwill.”
“Let’s put it this way: They’re interested in selling it . . . What’s Fiona’s number? I’ll call her.”
“Try to give her some hope. She’s terribly down. If she isn’t home, try the hospital.” Vicki gave him two numbers.
Phoning the hospital he learned only that the patient was in surgery; no report on his condition had been issued.
“Could you locate Fiona Stucker, his mother?”
“I’ll connect you with the ICU lounge,” the operator said.
The volunteer who presided over the lounge said Ms. Stucker had just stepped out. “Will you leave a message?”
“No, thanks. I’ll call back.”
As he hung up he heard Yum Yum mumbling to herself in the adjacent lounge area, intent on some personal project. Here was a situation he always investigated; she had a hobby of stealing wrist watches and gold pens and stashing them away under the furniture. As he suspected, she was lying on her side near one of the sofas, reaching underneath it to fish out a hidden treasure. It was a piece of crumpled paper. To her consternation he confiscated it, knowing she would swallow pieces of it—the predatory instinct.
“N-n-NOW!” she demanded.
“No!” Qwilleran insisted.
It was a yellow slip of paper he had not seen before, and when he smoothed it out, it proved to be a salescheck from the Tacky Tack Shop, Lockmaster, for the purchase of two sweatshirts. The date of the transaction was September 9. The customer’s name was not recorded, but it appeared that Fiona had dropped it when she visited on the day before. Penciled scribbling on the back looked like directions for reaching the Qwilleran barn. Yum Yum had found it, hiding it under the sofa for future reference.
A sudden movement from the cats alerted him, and he caught a glimpse of activity in the woods. Someone was approaching from the direction of Main Street—on foot. That alone was unusual. Although the gate was left open during daylight hours, most visitors arrived on wheels. Very few persons in Pickax chose to use their legs. This caller was walking timidly, and he was carrying a book.
Putting the salescheck in his pocket, Qwilleran went out to meet Eddington Smith.
“I found something for you,” said the elderly bookseller.
“Why didn’t you phone me? I could have picked it up.”
“Dr. Hal told me to start taking walks. It wasn’t far. Only a few blocks.” He was breathing hard. “It’s a nice day. I think this will be the last warm weekend we have.”
Qwilleran reached for the book. Like most of the stock in Eddington’s shop it had lost its dust jacket, and the cover suggested years of storage in a damp basement. Then he looked at the spine. “City of Brotherly Crime! It’s my book!” he yelped. “You found it! This is worth a lot to me, Edd.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Q. I want you to have it. You’re a good customer.”
Qwilleran clapped the frail man on the back. “Come in and have a drink of cider. Let me show you around the barn. Say hello to the cats.”
“I was here the night Mr. VanBrook was shot, but I didn’t see much of the barn. Too many people.”
Qwilleran served cider with a magnanimous flourish and explained the design of the building: the fireplace cube, the triangular windows, the ramps and catwalks, and the use of tapestries.
“That’s quite an apple tree,” said Eddington, looking up at the textile hanging overhead. He was chiefly impressed, however, by the presence of books on every level. Even in the loft apartment the cats had their own library: Beginning Algebra, Learning to Drive, Xenophon’s Anabasis, and other titles from the ten-cent table at his shop.
After climbing the ramps—slowly, for th
e old man’s sake—they reached the topmost catwalk and could look down on the dramatic view of the main floor.
“I’ve never been this high up, where I could look down,” the bookseller said in wonder.
Yum Yum, who had followed them on the tour, jumped to the catwalk railing, now conveniently cushioned by the top edge of the tapestry, and arranged herself in fiddle position: haunches up, body elongated, and forelegs stretched forward like the neck of a violin.
“Siamese like a high altitude,” Qwilleran explained. “It’s their ancient heritage. They used to be watch-cats on the walls of temples and palaces.”
“That’s interesting,” said Eddington. “I never knew that before.”
“Yes, so they say, at any rate. But Yum Yum’s developed a bad habit of pulling everything apart with her paw . . . NO!” he scolded, tapping the corner of the tapestry back on the tack-strip.
She gazed into space, afflicted by sudden deafness, a common disorder in felines.
“Someone’s coming,” said the bookseller. “I’d better get back to the store.” A van winding up the Trevelyan Trail was visible through the high triangular windows.
“That’s my five o’clock appointment,” Qwilleran mumbled. He combed his moustache with his fingertips. “I’d appreciate it, Edd, if you’d stay a little longer.”
“It’s getting late.”
“I’ll drive you home.”
“I shouldn’t put you to the trouble, Mr. Q.”
“No trouble.”
“Won’t I be in the way?”
“You’ll be doing me a favor, Edd. Just stay up here—and listen.” Qwilleran started down the ramp. “And keep out of sight,” he called over his shoulder.
The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal Page 19