The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “Uh . . . are they still out there?” she asked timidly.

  “If you’re apprehensive, I’ll run interference for you,” Qwilleran offered, “but the cats won’t bother you.”

  Koko and Yum Yum were still in the foyer, listening, and he shooed them into the kitchen. Locking them up there might be the courteous thing to do, he was aware, but he was disinclined to do so. A hunch was making itself felt on his upper lip.

  Sherry went upstairs, holding on to the handrail, and as soon as she was out of sight, he inspected the secretary desk in the living room. The obliging Mr. Beechum had replaced it as requested but without entirely covering the door to Hawkinfield’s office. An inch of the door frame was visible on one side. If Sherry had noticed it—and he was sure she had—what thoughts would cross her mind? If he now positioned it properly, would she notice the change? He was sure she would. Her gray eyes always appeared to be observing, intently.

  As he wrestled with this decision, an unusual noise in the foyer alarmed him. It was a soft thud accompanied by a gentle clatter and the tinkling of a bell. “Now what the devil is that?” he muttered.

  It was the telephone, lying on the carpeted floor alongside the huntboard, and Koko was sitting there looking proud of his accomplishment.

  “Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the instrument and checked the dial tone.

  Koko expressed his nonchalance by rolling on his back at the base of the cabinet, squirming and stretching as he had done many times before, but this time, one long elegant foreleg was stretched halfway under the piece of furniture. The pose, combined with the importunate telephone maneuver, was sufficient to arouse Qwilleran’s curiosity. The cat was trying to communicate!

  There was a flashlight in the drawer, and he beamed it under the chest, but all he could see was a collection of dustballs wafted in by drafts from the French doors. It was clear why Mrs. Hawkinfield disliked it; not only was it an ugly piece of furniture, but it was built too low for a vacuum cleaner, and to use the attachments would mean lying flat on one’s face.

  “Forget it,” Qwilleran said to Koko.

  “Yow!” the cat replied in a scolding tone, and he toppled over on his back and extended his forepaw under the huntboard again.

  Qwilleran stroked his moustache and obeyed. From the umbrella stand he selected a slender bamboo cane with a crook handle. Then, getting down on his knees and touching his head to the floor, he took a few blind swipes under the chest. Out came several dustballs or “kittens,” as his mother used to call them—fluffy balls of lint, dust, and hair that collected under furniture. Fuzz from the gray carpet made the Hawkinfield kittens predominantly gray. The cane also dredged up a short length of ribbon and a fragment of tissue from some long-forgotten gift.

  “That’s all,” he said to Koko, who was prancing back and forth, obviously excited about the show, and he turned off the flashlight that was projecting its narrow beam of light under the huntboard.

  “Yow!” Koko protested.

  “There’s nothing under there, and I don’t enjoy standing on my head to entertain man or beast.”

  “Yow-ow-ow!” the cat insisted in a loud, clear voice, and Yum Yum appeared from nowhere to add her supportive “N-n-NOW!”

  Qwilleran felt a creeping sensation on his upper lip, and he went down on his knees again, turned on the flashlight, pressed forehead to floor, and combed the space under the chest with the crook handle. Out came a rubber dogbone.

  “Dammit! Is that all you wanted?” Qwilleran said in consternation, his face flushed.

  “Ik ik ik,” Koko chattered, ignoring the bone.

  “I do this under duress, I want you to know.” Once more he used the cane to explore the murky back corners. First he snagged another kitten . . . and then a hard rubber ball . . . and then a kitten so unusual, so significant, that Qwilleran dropped it in a drawer of the huntboard. After returning the cane to the umbrella stand and cleaning up the debris, he sat down to plan his course of action.

  SEVENTEEN

  WHEN SHERRY WANDERED downstairs after her nap, she had added gold jewelry and a whiff of perfume. She looked refreshed. In Qwilleran’s opinion she also looked stunning. She had style, but it was style copied from her role model. Tossing her hair back with both hands, she asked, “How much did Sabrina charge you for decorating all this?”

  He was glad to be able to say, honestly, that a bill had not yet arrived from Peel & Poole. “If I buy the inn, Sabrina will re-design it inside and out,” he said, partly to needle Sherry for her tasteless query. “She has some clever ideas. Also a charming personality,” he added to carry his taunt further.

  “Have you met her husband?” Sherry asked, not without malice in her attitude. “He’s a real charmer!”

  “Husband?” Qwilleran repeated casually, feeling a mild disappointment.

  “Spencer Poole. He taught her everything she knows. He’s an older man with white hair, but he’s a virile type and lots of fun.”

  “Would you care for coffee? Or other refreshment?” he asked absently. He was remembering the souvenir he had found under the huntboard—a dusty ball of hair. White hair.

  “Other,” she replied slyly. “Same thing. But I’ll wait until my friend gets here. The wind’s coming up. I hate it when it whips around the house and howls.”

  She watched Qwilleran light the eight candles in the dusky foyer and ran her hand over the smooth interior of the rough burl bowl, asking how much he had paid for the bowl and the candelabrum.

  “What time do you expect your friend?” he asked.

  “Right about now. He’s Hugh Lumpton. Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard the name. Isn’t he an attorney and a golfer?”

  “Yes, but the other way around,” she said with an impish grimace.

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since high school. I think I hear his car.” She ran to the front door. “Yes, here he is!”

  The man she greeted had a gauntly handsome face with that look of concentration that Carmichael had mentioned, plus a golfer’s suntan emphasized by a light blue club shirt and a shock of ash-blond hair. It was easy to understand why he had a female following.

  Their meeting was reasonably ardent, with most of the ardor on Sherry’s part. “Lucky you weren’t hurt,” he said to her.

  “This is Jim Qwilleran, who came to my rescue . . . Qwill, this is Hugh Lumpton.”

  They shook hands. “What was the last name again?” the attorney asked.

  “Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. But call me Qwill.” He waved his guests into the living room. “What may I serve you to drink?”

  “Qwill makes a super manhattan,” Sherry said as she settled familiarly on the sofa.

  “Go easy on those things,” Lumpton warned her. “I’ll have bourbon, thanks, with a little water.”

  As Qwilleran prepared the drinks, he was wondering, Has Josh talked to him? How much does Hugh know? Does he know how much I know?

  “No!” he said to Koko, who was ready for another swig of grape juice. “You’ve had your quota.”

  When he carried the tray into the living room, Sherry and Hugh were sitting on the sofa with their handsome heads close together—a striking couple. They were whispering—not necessarily sweet-nothings, Qwilleran guessed; more likely they were comparing notes, such as: He says he’s a crime writer. He’s asking a lot of questions. Someone’s been in the office, or tried to get in . . . He’s been talking to my dad. He knows I defended Beechum. He’s questioning the trial. They were only conjectures on Qwilleran’s part. Nevertheless, the pair on the sofa pulled quickly apart and assumed sociable smiles as soon as he entered the room.

  Lumpton proposed a toast. “Tip of the topper to Tiptop!”

  Sherry said, “Qwill may buy it, honey.”

  “What would you do with it?” the attorney asked him.

  “Open a country inn if I could find a competent manager. Hotel keeping is not exactly my forte.”
>
  “Qwill is an author. He writes textbooks on crime,” Sherry said. “He’s going to write a biography about my father.” She recited it as if reading a script.

  “Is that a fact?” Lumpton said without looking surprised.

  Qwilleran said, “J.J. would make a challenging subject. You have a famous father yourself, Hugh. I met him this morning.”

  “Famous or infamous? He’s always had a penchant for getting his name in the headlines, sometimes as a hero and sometimes as a villain, but that goes with the territory when you’re sheriff. I’m glad to see him established in the private sector now.”

  Sherry said, “Hugh makes a lot of headlines himself. He’s going to Michigan next week to play in an invitational.”

  “Bob Lessmore and I are competing,” the golfer said. “Ironically, the course here is under water, while Michigan is in the throes of a drought.”

  It was not much after four o’clock, and Qwilleran had a bombshell of a topic that he wanted to drop a little later. Meanwhile, it was important to keep the conversation polite, and he steered it through the details of Sherry’s accident . . . Lucy’s rescue mission in the woods . . . the preponderance of Lumptons in the Potatoes.

  Qwilleran was sitting in Yum Yum’s favorite lounge chair facing his guests, who were on the sofa in front of a folding screen. After a while he became aware of movement above their heads, and glancing upward he perceived Koko balancing on the top edge of the screen, having risen to its eight-foot summit without effort and without sound. Qwilleran avoided staring at him, but in the periphery of his vision there was an acrobatic cat teetering precariously with all four feet bunched on a very narrow surface. He was looking down on the visitors with feline speculation like a tiger in a tree, waiting for a gazelle.

  Don’t do it! Qwilleran was thinking, hoping Koko would read his mind. Koko could read minds, but only when it suited him.

  Somewhat worried about the impending catastrophe, Qwilleran asked questions about white-water rafting, the new electronics firm, and the history of Spudsboro. Soon another air-borne bundle of fur appeared on top of the screen; Yum Yum had chosen this vantage point to observe the chopped liver on the cocktail table. Nervously the host talked about book publishing, the weather in Moose County, and the peculiar spelling of his name.

  Eventually it was time to serve a second round of drinks, and he rose slowly from his chair and moved quietly from the room, hoping not to provoke the Siamese into any precipitous action.

  Despite the menacing sound of the wind, his guests seemed to be enjoying the occasion. Conversation flowed easily, with a modicum of pleasant wit.

  Qwilleran decided it was the auspicious time to launch his wild shot. It was his only recourse, considering his lack of credentials as an investigator.

  “If either of you can suggest sources of information on J.J.,” he began, “I’ll appreciate your help. For dramatic effect I propose to start the book with his murder. Sherry, I hope this subject is not too painful for you . . . Then I’ll flash back to his career and family life throughout the years, ending with the trial. And that brings up a sensitive question. In doing my research, I find reason to believe that the wrong man may have been convicted. It seems some new evidence has been brought to light.”

  “I was the defense attorney,” Lumpton said briskly, “and this is the first intimation I’ve had of any new evidence—or even a rumor of such. What is your source of information?”

  “That’s something I don’t wish to divulge at this time, but I suspect that the murderer was not a hot-headed environmentalist! Why does this interest me? First of all, I don’t like to see an innocent man sent to prison. Secondly, to be perfectly frank, the exposé of a crooked trial would make a damned good finale for my book. How do you react?”

  Sherry was looking scared. Lumpton was moistening his lips. Both of them had set down their glasses on the cocktail table.

  Lumpton said, “This is preposterous! I defended Beechum at the court’s request, but there was no doubt from the very beginning that he was guilty.”

  Qwilleran said, “I’m reluctant to doubt your statement, but I’m led to suspect that more than one person was involved in the murder, and one or more persons may have committed the big P.”

  “What?” Sherry asked in a small voice.

  “Perjury!”

  What happened next may have been caused by the sudden gust of wind that slammed against the building. Whatever the cause, the cats’ timing was perfect. Both of them flew down from the screen, narrowly missing the two heads on the sofa, and landed on the cocktail table, scattering drinks, nuts, coasters, and chopped liver.

  “I knew it!” Sherry shrieked. “They’re dangerous! Where are they? Where did they go?”

  Qwilleran rushed to the kitchen for towels, while the guests dropped to their knees, sopping up wet spills with cocktail napkins, collecting cashews and ice cubes, and avoiding broken glass.

  “I apologize,” Qwilleran said. “They’ve never done that before. I think they were spooked by the wind. I hope you didn’t cut yourselves. Let me get some fresh glasses, and we’ll have another round.”

  “Not for me,” said Sherry, noticeably shaken.

  “No, thanks,” said the attorney, “but I’d like to ask what you intend to do with your information.”

  “Naturally, I’d prefer to hold it for the publication of my book, but I feel morally obliged to report my findings to the police at once, namely, that J.J. wrote a blistering exposé of certain criminal activities in this area. Someone knew the editorial was about to be published. Someone found it necessary to stop its publication by eliminating the editor. Someone came to the house at a prearranged time and threw him over the cliff. Someone forged death threats purportedly from Beechum, which conveniently disappeared before they could be introduced by the prosecution, but someone testified to having seen them.”

  He stopped, and there was silence in the room as his listeners considered his threatening statements. Outdoors the wind was banging a loose shutter or downspout.

  “My only contribution to the inevitable investigation,” he went on, “is some material evidence found in the foyer here, where the assault is said to have occurred. It’s been hidden under a piece of furniture for a year. Would anyone like to see it?”

  As he strode to the Fitzwallow huntboard, Lumpton sprang to his feet and followed. With the only light coming from the eight candles in the iron candelabrum, he half-stumbled over two cats streaking toward the staircase.

  Qwilleran opened the drawer slowly and produced a handful of ash-blond hair mixed with lint and dust. “This is it,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the attorney.

  It took Lumpton a split second to recognize it and reach for the Queen Anne chair. As he swung it over his head, ready to crash down on his accuser’s head, a burst of loud music from the second floor broke the rhythm of his swing just enough to give Qwilleran the edge. Qwilleran seized the iron candelabrum and rammed it into his attacker’s midriff like a flaming pitchfork. The chair fell and Lumpton bellowed and sank to his knees. Sherry screamed! Dropping the candelabrum, Qwilleran picked up the heavy burl bowl and overturned it on the attorney’s head, rendering him a limp lump on the floor.

  Candle flames were licking the carpet, and Sherry screamed again. “Fire!”

  “Shut up and sit down!” Qwilleran ordered as he stamped his feet on the smoldering carpet. “Pick up that chair and sit in it!”

  “Can I—”

  “No! Sit there. Put your feet together. Fold your hands. You won’t have long to wait.”

  In minutes a car could be heard pulling into the parking lot, and soon the Wilbanks were climbing the steps, struggling against gale-force winds.

  “Treat!” Qwilleran yelled, and two cats came running down the stairs fast enough to resemble a continuous streak of pale fur. “Koko, you keep an eye on this woman. Don’t let her move or open her mouth.”

  As if he understood his instructions, the cat
assumed a belligerent stance, lashing his tail and staring at his captive in the Queen Anne chair. Yum Yum sniffed Lumpton’s loafers but found no shoelaces to untie.

  When Qwilleran admitted the Wilbanks, they stepped into the foyer with gasps of relief, Ardis saying, “Isn’t this wind awful?”

  “We can only stay for one drink,” Del said. “We’re moving to a motel in the valley.”

  “We’re worried about mudslides,” said his wife. “Why is it so dark in here? Did the power go off again?”

  Qwilleran flicked a switch, lighting the six wall sconces and three chandeliers. They illuminated a grim tableau. He said, “Allow me to introduce our other guests. On the floor, under the wooden bowl, we have the attorney for the defense, actually J.J.’s murderer. In the chair, scared speechless, is the accomplice before and after the fact, guilty of perjury . . . There they are! Do your duty, Del. The telephone’s over there.”

  As the sheriff was calling for an ambulance and a deputy, Ardis said, “What’s wrong with Sherry? She looks as if she’s in a trance.”

  “She’s all right. Talk to her,” Qwilleran said. Then he yelled, “Treat!” Both cats shot out of the foyer, and he followed them to the kitchen, where he gave them a crunchy snack.

  Wilbank wandered into the kitchen, too. “I saw Colin this afternoon. He told me everything that you and he talked about. He said you suspected Josh Lumpton of killing J.J.”

  “I did, until I found some evidence incriminating Hugh. When I confronted him with it, he picked up the same chair that clobbered J.J. and would have pitched me over the cliff, too, I imagine, if I hadn’t been ready for him. If my guesses are right, he killed J.J. to protect himself and his father. I see Hugh as the mastermind of the Hot Potato Fund, while Josh was the organizer of the bootleg operation. J.J.’s editorial would have exposed both of them. Hugh’s future wife collaborated because she wanted to inherit her father’s estate. They compounded their crime by conspiring to send an innocent man to prison. This time around, justice will be done. If it isn’t, my attorneys are going to raise the roof of the courthouse, and I daresay the Gazette won’t let the prosecutor get away with anything this time.”