The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  * * *

  Qwilleran walked home through the snow and cold, hardly noticing either. He kept stroking his frosted moustache as he pondered Fran’s problem and her dubious solution. By the time he let himself into the condo, he looked like a snowman, and the hoary image frightened the Siamese.

  He brushed off his outerwear and mopped up the puddles on the foyer’s vinyl floor. Then he called Polly with the news.

  She was equally aghast. “That tinny voice? In the role of Hedda?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And what about Carter Lee? Is he coming back? Lynette will be disappointed if he doesn’t. She’s dying to have her house listed on the National Register.”

  “Do you think it will qualify?”

  “Carter Lee thinks so. And Willard Carmichael thought so.” Then Polly changed the subject abruptly. “Have you heard the latest newscast?”

  “No. What’s happened?”

  “The police have arrested a suspect in the string of robberies.”

  “Who?” he asked impatiently.

  “The name won’t be released until the arraignment.”

  “If I were a betting man,” Qwilleran said, “I’d put my money on George Breze.”

  SEVEN

  “Late to bed and late to rise” was Qwilleran’s motto, and he was remarkably healthy, certainly wealthy, and—if not exactly wise—he was witty. On that particular January morning at seven o’clock, he was sleeping peacefully when he was jolted awake and virtually catapulted from his bed by the crashing drums and brasses of the “Washington Post March,” as if the entire U.S. Marine Band were bursting through his bedroom wall. He required a few seconds to realize where he was: on the balcony of a poorly built condominium in Indian Village, and his next-door neighbor was playing John Philip Sousa.

  Before he could find Wetherby Goode’s phone number, the volume was toned down. One could still hear and feel the thrum-thrum-thrum of the drums, but the music itself was replaced by the sound of gushing, pelting water. Wetherby Goode was taking a shower.

  Only then did Qwilleran recall the news of the night before: the arrest of a robbery suspect, name withheld. He knew he could cajole Brodie into confiding the name if he went downtown to headquarters, so he dressed, fed the cats, and left the house without coffee.

  His neighbor was shoveling snow instead of waiting for the Village sidewalk blower. “Good exercise!” he shouted, puffing clouds of vapor.

  “I can see that,” Qwilleran said. “Good concert this morning, too, but rather short.”

  Wetherby paused and leaned on his shovel. “Sorry about that. I have a new Sousabox, and my cat must’ve rubbed her jaw against the controls. I was in the shower and didn’t realize what was happening.”

  “That’s all right. What’s a Sousabox?”

  “It plays fifty Sousa marches. The inventor’s a friend of mine in California, and I can get you one wholesale if you’re interested.”

  “I’ll give it some serious thought,” Qwilleran said. “Better finish your shoveling before it starts to snow again.”

  He went on his way, thinking that Wetherby was friendly and well intentioned, even though he overdid the quotations and had strange taste in music. Fifty marches! Yet, he had a cat, and that was to his credit.

  There was a coffeepot at the police station, and Qwilleran helped himself before barging into Brodie’s office and dropping into a chair.

  “Who invited you?” The chief scowled.

  “I won’t stay long. I just came for coffee. Tell me who was arrested, and I’ll leave. It’ll probably be in the paper this afternoon and on the air at twelve.”

  Brodie shook his head. “You’ll never believe it, Qwill. I didn’t myself, but the evidence was there. When we found the loot and went to pick him up for questioning, he’d skipped town.”

  “Who? Who?” Qwilleran insisted with some irritation.

  “Lenny Inchpot.”

  “No! What led you to Lenny?”

  “Anonymous tip on the hotline, telling us to search the manager’s locker at the Indian Village clubhouse. We went out there with a warrant and had to cut the padlock. And there they were—all the items reported stolen—well, not all of the stuff. Things like sunglasses, videos, gloves, you know. No money, though. And no lambskin car coat. There was even a doll that the Kemple family reported stolen not too long ago.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. “Can you imagine a young man like Lenny stealing a doll?”

  “It was a rare one, they said.”

  “And is Lenny Inchpot suddenly an expert on rare dolls?” This was said tartly.

  “He’s a friend of the Kemples’ daughter. Do you know about the family’s doll collection?”

  “I’ve heard about it.” For two years or more, Qwilleran’s readers had been urging him to “write up” the Kemple collection. He declined. He had written about teddy bears, but that was under duress. Under no circumstances was he prepared to write about dolls. He said, “So where did you find Lenny? You said he skipped town.”

  “In Duluth. He’s being arraigned this morning, with a public defender.”

  Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “I get a fishy feeling about this case, Andy. I’d like to use the phone on my way out.”

  On his way out he called his attorney, G. Allen Barter.

  * * *

  The youngest partner in the Hasselrich, Bennett & Barter law firm was Qwilleran’s representative in all dealings with the Klingenschoen Foundation, and the two men saw eye-to-eye on many matters. Even the attorney’s choice of office furniture suited Qwilleran’s taste. It was a contemporary oasis in a dark jungle of aged walnut and deep red leather. And while old Mr. Hasselrich served his clients tea in his grandmother’s porcelain cups, G. Allen Barter served coffee in Art Deco mugs. He had recently changed his letterhead from George A. Barter because the name was confused once too often with George A. Breze. Either way, his clients called him Bart. He was fortyish—a quiet, effective professional without pretensions.

  When Qwilleran turned up in his office, Barter said, “We’ll have someone at court for the arraignment, and I think we can get him released to the custody of his mother until the hearing.”

  Qwilleran nodded, thinking of all the courthouse personnel, from judges on down, who lunched at Lois’s. He patted his moustache. “Something tells me it’s a frame-up, Bart. I don’t know anything about Lenny’s personal life, except that his girlfriend was killed in the explosion last fall. But he could have an enemy—a rival who wants his job. It’s only part-time, but it’s a soft spot for a student: interesting work, good pay, flexible hours. . . Incidentally, did you read in the paper that the stolen money was replaced by an anonymous donor? The check was drawn on a Chicago bank, and the public is assuming it came from the K Fund. I know nothing about it. How about you?”

  “I certainly wasn’t involved.”

  “Any developments in the Limburger file?”

  “Yes, the estate is willing to sell the hotel and the family mansion, and the K Fund is willing to buy, restoring the hotel and converting the mansion into a country inn.”

  “In that case, they might consider Carter Lee James for the restoration work. He’s the cousin of Willard Carmichael’s widow. He was here for the holidays and had a sensational idea for Pleasant Street. You may have heard about it. Everyone’s hoping he’ll return to implement it.”

  “Do you think he’s good?”

  “Willard recommended him, and the property owners are impressed. It appears he’s done most of his work on the East Coast. At any rate, the K Fund should check him out.”

  “What’s his name?” Barter wrote it down.

  “Meanwhile, there’s something good you could do. Gus Limburger had promised to leave his German Bible and cuckoo clock to his handyman, but they weren’t mentioned in his will. Someone should grab those two items and give them to the handyman, Aubrey Scotten.”

  “I think we can swing that,” the attorney
said, making a note. “And how do your cats like living in a small condo instead of a large barn?”

  “Oh, they’re happy,” Qwilleran said. “They enjoy listening to the plumbing noises.”

  * * *

  When Lenny Inchpot was charged with several counts of robbery, the locals vented their emotions loudly in the supermarkets and other public places:

  “I don’t believe it! Somebody made a mistake! He’s a good kid!”

  “What’ll happen to him? Will he go to jail? It’ll kill his poor mother.”

  “Not Lois! Most likely his poor mother will go out and kill the judge with a frying pan!”

  Two days later Danielle Carmichael returned to town, and the gossip was less kind:

  “Nobody’s seen her wearin’ black.”

  “I’ll bet he left her well fixed.”

  “What’ll she do with that big house he bought? Open a bed-and-breakfast or something?”

  “Or something! That’s about the size of it.”

  Qwilleran checked in at the design studio to get an update from Fran Brodie.

  “Yes, Danny-girl is back. I’ve talked to her on the phone, but I haven’t seen her. The things I ordered for her house are trickling in—all contemporary, of course. That was the big quarrel between her and Willard. When I dropped her off in Detroit, she couldn’t wait to dump the traditional furniture his first wife had bought. He’d had it in storage.”

  “How soon can she move into her house?” he asked, hoping for her early departure from Indian Village. She was too close for comfort; she would become increasingly chummy.

  “Not soon. The drifts are so deep in the Hummocks, even our delivery truck couldn’t get in. Besides, her lease at the Village has a few months to run. Meanwhile, she intends to work with Carter Lee. Amanda thinks they’ll cut into our business, but she just likes to carp. Actually, the whole restoration project on Pleasant Street will be good for us.”

  “In what way?”

  “When Carter Lee recommends an authentic wall-covering, window treatment, and rug, the order will be placed through our studio, which gets a designer discount. Likewise, when he suggests an antique pier mirror as a focal point, Susan Exbridge will scout for it.”

  “And in both cases he gets a kickback,” Qwilleran presumed.

  “The word is commission, darling,” Fran corrected him loftily.

  “Has he returned as yet?”

  “He’ll be here at the end of the week.”

  “And what news about Hedda Gabler? Are you going ahead with your insane idea?”

  Fran threw him an expressive scowl she had learned from her father. “Frankly, that’s why Danielle returned so soon. She attended rehearsal last night and read lines.”

  “And?. . . ”

  Fran’s scowl changed to involuntarily laughter. “When the snooty Hedda says She’s left her old hat on the chair in Danielle’s rusty-gate voice, it’s hard to keep a straight face.”

  “I warned you it would turn into a farce,” Qwilleran said. “The only Ibsen drama ever played for laughs!”

  “Don’t panic! We’ll work it out. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like the man who’s playing Judge Brack. She’d rather play opposite you, Qwill.”

  “Sure. But she’s not going to play opposite me. I’m the drama critic for the paper, remember? I can’t have one leg on the stage and the other in row five.”

  “But she’s right. You’d be a perfect Brack, and you have such a commanding voice. Also, to be grossly mercenary about it, your presence in the cast would sell tickets.”

  “If you’re chiefly interested in the box office, the K Fund will be glad to buy out the house for all nine performances.”

  “Forget I mentioned it,” Fran said.

  * * *

  The four o’clock lull at Lois’s Luncheonette would be an auspicious time to visit the suspect’s mother, Qwilleran thought. Would she be fighting mad or pained beyond words? To his surprise, Lenny himself was the only one in sight. He was mopping the new vinyl floor, a hideous pattern of flowers and geometrics that had been donated to the lunchroom and installed by devoted customers.

  “Mom’s in the kitchen, prepping dinner,” Lenny said. Though in work clothes, he looked more like a club manager than a mop-pusher.

  “Don’t disturb her,” Qwilleran said. “It’s you I want to see. Let’s sit in a booth.” He indicated a corner booth behind the cash register. “Did G. Allen Barter contact you?”

  “Yeah. Do you think I need him?”

  “You certainly do! Don’t worry about the expense. The K Fund is interested in your case. Bart will see that you’re exonerated.”

  “But what if I’m guilty?” the young man said with a mischievous grin.

  “We’ll take that chance, smart-ape! Even Brodie thinks the allegations are preposterous, but he had to follow the letter of the law. You’ll notice they didn’t keep you in jail or ask you to post bond. Now. . . would you like to tell me what you know? I’d like to find the real culprit, not that it’s any of my business. How long have you been working at the clubhouse?”

  “About six weeks. Don’s a good boss. All the members are fun. It’s better than desk clerk at the hotel, plus I get a nice office.”

  “Where was the money jar kept?”

  “In my office, in a cabinet with pencils, tallies, nut dishes, and other stuff. There wasn’t any lock on the cabinet, but the jar was covered with a paper bag.”

  “What did you think when the money was stolen?”

  “I couldn’t understand it. Nobody knew the jar was there except the bridge club.”

  “Who else had access to your office?”

  “Anybody who wanted to pay their dues or see the schedule of events—plus there were maintenance guys, cleaning crew, caterers.”

  “Where was your locker?” Qwilleran asked.

  “In the back hall with all the other employee lockers.”

  “Do they have locks?”

  “Padlocks are supplied, but nobody uses them. I just put my boots and jacket in there.”

  “Is your name on your locker?”

  “Sure. They all have names.”

  “Why did you go to Duluth?”

  “Well, I had to study for exams, you see, and in Pickax I’ve got too many friends who like to party, so I went to my aunt’s house in Duluth. I no sooner opened my books than a couple of deputies knocked on the door. They were guys I went to school with, and they were embarrassed because they thought I really stole the stuff. I knew I hadn’t. . . At least, I don’t think I did,” Lenny said with a wicked grin.

  “Don’t let your whimsical sense of humor get you into trouble,” Qwilleran advised him.

  A loud voice from the kitchen interrupted. “Lenny! Who’s that you’re gabbin’ with? Get off your duff and mop that floor! Folks’ll be comin’ in for supper.”

  Lenny yelled back, “It’s Mr. Q, Mom. He wants to talk about the case.”

  “Oh!. . . Okay. . . Give him the other mop and put him to work. He can talk at the same time.”

  “I’m leaving,” Qwilleran shouted.

  “Want a doggie bag? I’ve got some meatballs left over from lunch.”

  * * *

  Back in Indian Village the Siamese were sleeping in Qwilleran’s reading chair. They had cushioned baskets, windowsills, and perches in their own room on the balcony. Yet, with feline perversity they preferred a man-size lounge chair with deep cushions and suede covering.

  While they were waking and yawning and stretching and scratching their ears, Qwilleran phoned Don Ex-bridge at home and caught him in the middle of the happy hour.

  “Something’s screwy somewhere!” Exbridge said. “If Lenny’s guilty, I’m a donkey’s uncle! Come on over for a drink! Bring Polly!”

  “Wish I could, but I’m working tonight,” Qwilleran said. “I just want you to know G. Allen Barter is representing him.”

  “Great! Great! And his job will be waiting for him when it’s all over.”
r />   “Have you had any applicants for it?”

  “Some other students. We’ve taken applications, that’s all. We’re waiting to see which way the wind blows. The manager at the gatehouse is working two jobs.”

  “Well, you know, there’s no telling how long Lenny will have to wait for a hearing, and I could recommend a temporary substitute who’d be perfect in the interim—an older woman, very responsible, cheerful—used to working with people. And she doesn’t want to earn much money; it might affect her Social Security.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Celia Robinson. You wouldn’t be disappointed. Why don’t I tell her to apply for the job?”

  “She’s got it! She’s got it already!. . . Sure you don’t want to come over for a drink?”

  Feeling smug, Qwilleran hung up the phone and called Celia at her apartment in town.

  “Hi, Chief!” she greeted him. “Happy New Year! Or is it too late?”

  “It’s never too late. Happy New Year! Happy Mother’s Day!”

  She screamed with laughter, a chronic overreactor to his quips.

  “Seriously, Celia, have you heard about Lenny Inchpot’s trouble?”

  “Have I? It’s all over town. His mother must be out of her mind.”

  “We’re all concerned, and I personally suspect dirty work.”

  “Do I smell something cooking, Chief?” she asked eagerly.

  “Just this: Lenny’s position at Indian Village needs to be filled, quickly, by a temporary substitute. It’s part-time, managing the social rooms at the clubhouse. I suggest you apply. Don Exbridge is expecting your call. I’ll explain later. It’s your kind of job, Celia.”

  “Gotcha, Chief!” she said knowingly and with a final peal of laughter.

  Two cats were watching Qwilleran closely when he replaced the receiver, as if to say, What about those meatballs? He crumbled one, and they gobbled it with gusto, spitting out the onion fastidiously. Then, while he was watching them do their ablutions, Koko deliberately walked over to Yum Yum and rapped her on the nose. She cowered.

  “Koko! Stop that! Bad cat!” Qwilleran scolded as he picked up the little one and nuzzled her head under his chin. “What’s that monster doing to my beautiful little girl? Why don’t you hiss at him—scare the daylights out of him?”