The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  “This sounds like a lively bunch,” he said as he approached the circle. “What kind of jokes are you telling?”

  Jenny and Ruth Cavendish had been his neighbors in Indian Village, and he had made himself a hero by saving one of their cats from strangulation behind the washing machine. They were retired academics who had enjoyed illustrious careers Down Below and had returned to their native county. Ruth, the tall one, was a born leader.

  “Gil, bring another chair! Qwill, sit down. You have stumbled into a board meeting of a new publishing house, The Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc. We publish only absolutely absurd titles.”

  He sat down. “Could you give me an example?”

  “Our first will be The Complete Works of Shakespeare in One Volume, Large Print Edition.” She paused for his amused reaction. “The next will be The Collected Love Poems of Ebenezer Scrooge. Several other titles are—”

  She was interrupted by a general shout. “Here comes the bus!”

  “Rhoda,” she said, “make a list of titles for Qwill. He might use them in his column.”

  The board members and other waiting book-lovers swarmed toward the driveway. The white bookmobile that had looked like a laundry truck was now a mobile mural of the county. On the boarding side a billboard-size painting was a panorama of woods with a startled deer, rocky pastures dotted with sheep, and a shafthouse towering above an abandoned minesite. On the driver's side, surf pounded on a sandy shore; seagulls soared above a beached boat and drying fishnets; a lighthouse stood on a distant promontory.

  The vehicle was staffed by two energetic young women from the library, who handed out shopping bags full of books to be carried into the building. Then browsers went aboard, including Qwilleran.

  The two staffers sat with backs to the windshield, ready to check out individual choices.

  He asked, “Which one of you drives this thing?”

  “I do,” said one.

  “Is it tricky?”

  “Only going around corners.” The women looked at each other and laughed.

  “What places do you visit, besides the Estates?”

  “Schools, churches, nursing homes, day-care centers, hospitals. We even stop at the grocery store at Squunk Corners.”

  “What kinds of books do you bring in those tote bags?”

  “It depends. Here they like biography, history, humor, inspiration, nature, large print, mysteries. Other places like cookbooks, juveniles, romance, westerns, Nancy Drew . . .”

  Rhoda Tibbitt picked up a book her husband had special-ordered: a new biography of Thomas Jefferson. Then the half hour was up; the transactions were completed; and the management of the residence invited Qwilleran and the two staffers to come indoors for a little lunch. First the driver took the large vehicle away from the front door of the building—the “ambulance entrance,” as the residents called it. She drove it down the hill to the foot of the circular driveway and then ran back up the hill.

  “We have five more stops to make this afternoon,” she explained.

  “Oh, to be able to run up a hill!” one of the watchers exclaimed.

  “Oh, to be able to run anywhere!” said another.

  In the dining room they were served quickly—a sandwich and a cup of soup—while the resident librarian told them about in-house activities. There was a workshop for training tutors to teach adults to read. She said, “Avid readers take great pleasure in teaching others to read. It's an adventure for both teacher and student.”

  When it was time to leave, Qwilleran carried out the bags of books being returned, and the driver ran down the hill to bring the vehicle to the door. The Cavendish sisters sent their love to Polly and asked about the health of Brutus and Catta. Rhoda gave Qwilleran a list of absurd titles and urged him to add a few of his own.

  Before he could scan the list, a scream came from the foot of the hill, and the driver came running and waving her arms. All heads turned in her direction. The bookmobile was nowhere in sight.

  “A big man came out of the woods!” she gasped. “He had a gun! He made me give him the keys!”

  Qwilleran shouted, “Somebody call the sheriff—quick! And somebody call the library!” He himself hurried to his van and called the newspaper. Patrons of the bookmobile stood about in a daze; others swarmed out of the building. They were saying:

  “Must be the fella that stole the deputy's gun!”

  “He's wanted for murder!”

  “He won't get far with that conspicuous jalopy!”

  “He's desperate! He'll ditch it and steal something else.”

  And Homer Tibbitt said, “Maybe he just likes to read.”

  Distant sirens came closer.

  Qwilleran drove the library staffers back downtown, along with the bags of books that were being returned. He said nothing, but he was peeved. He had intended to write a thousand words on bookmobiling for his Tuesday column, but the hijacking had killed the idea. It would appear as crime news in Monday's edition.

  It was a bizarre story that would appeal to the media Down Below. Locals would be fearful; the man was armed and must be a maniac even to conceive of such a caper. And the concept of a felon riding around with several hundred books would tickle the jokers in the coffee shops. “Only in Moose County!” they would say, slapping their thighs.

  By the time Qwilleran reached the barnyard, a WPKX news bulletin announced: “A suspect wanted for murder has highjacked the Pickax library's bookmobile at gunpoint this afternoon while it was making a scheduled stop at Ittibittiwassee Estates. Roadblocks have been set up in three counties. The stolen vehicle is easy to identify, being thirty feet long and painted with murals of Moose County landscape. Anyone seeing it should call the sheriff's department and avoid approaching the hijacker.”

  The Siamese were having their afternoon nap on the bar stools when Qwilleran arrived, and they slept through his conversation with the director of the library:

  “Polly! Just phoning to see if you had a heart attack.”

  “Qwill! Could you ever, in your wildest dreams, imagine such a ludicrous situation?”

  “He can't get far. The sheriff's helicopter will be scanning the highways and back roads.”

  “Too bad we didn't have BOOKMOBILE painted on the roof in large letters,” she said with a touch of whimsy.

  “The back roads have overhanging trees. It wouldn't help.”

  “Thanks for driving the girls back downtown, Qwill.”

  “Keep your radio turned on.”

  Qwilleran prepared coffee, changed into a jumpsuit, and stayed close to the radio. Within an hour there was another bulletin:

  “The sheriff's ground patrol, directed by the helicopter surveillance detail, has located the hijacked bookmobile, earlier reported stolen. It was found wrecked on an unimproved road in Chipmunk Township. The hijacker is at large, and motorists are warned to keep car doors locked and to avoid picking up hitchhikers. The suspect, wanted for murder, is described as two hundred and fifty pounds, armed and dangerous. The wrecked vehicle, carrying hundreds of books belonging to the Pickax public library, is on its side in a ditch.”

  Qwilleran's phone rang immediately.

  “Qwill! Did you hear?”

  “I heard!”

  “What an incredible mess! Can you imagine the condition of the books?”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  There was no answer.

  “Polly! Is there anything I can do?”

  “I'm thinking . . . Gippel's Garage can rescue the bus. But we should salvage the books first.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Ernie Kemple will line up his Handy Helpers. Those kids love an emergency like this. But we'll need lots of book crates in a hurry. Liquor cartons are good . . .”

  “How many do you need?”

  In the next few hours Qwilleran canvassed drug-stores, bars, and food markets and delivered a small mountain of cartons to the back door of the library. When he returned to the barn in time to c
lean up for Susan's auction, the Siamese were furious. The inside of the barn looked like the inside of the ditched bookmobile. They had not been fed!

  For that matter, neither had Qwilleran, and he had only half an hour to report to the antique shop. His priorities were clear. He fed the cats.

  At ten-thirty p.m. the interior of Exbridge & Cobb was brightly lighted, although the sign on the door said CLOSED. A few curious passersby stood on the sidewalk, gawking. In the main shop they could see two women sitting at telephones and a man standing at a chalkboard; in the annex others were eating and drinking and having a good time. “That's Mr. Q,” the gawkers said to each other as he rapped on the front door.

  Susan Exbridge admitted him. “Darling! You're always so punctual!”

  “I'm also hungry. I didn't have time for dinner.”

  “Go into the annex. Maggie has prepared a feast.”

  The hostess was wearing her usual black, flecked with cat hair. Her arms were loaded with gold bangles, and her chest was loaded with pearls. “Here he is!” she cried. “Let me give him a hug! . . . Would you like wine or coffee, Qwill?”

  “Food!”

  Besides the silver coffee service and the cut glass decanters there were platters of cheeses and cold cuts. Susan briefed him while he satisfied his hunger.

  “The phones have been open since nine; midnight is the cutoff. You'll be taking calls during the last hour. Dr. Diane will be at the table with you; Dwight Somers will be at the chalkboard.”

  “Back up!” he said. “I don't know the basics. How does this thing work?”

  She explained. “When a call comes through—from Maine or New Orleans or Los Angeles—you get the caller's name and phone number and the catalogue number of the bank he's interested in. Then you consult the chalkboard and give the amount of the latest bid. The caller may raise it or hang up. If the bid is raised, you call it out to Dwight, and he updates the board.”

  Dr. Diane said, “I've done this before and found that some calls come from practical jokers or cranks or lonely folks who just want to talk. Tell them three calls are waiting, ask to be excused, and hang up.”

  “Legitimate bidders,” said Susan, “may want additional information, such as dimensions, condition, date, name of maker, or description of bank. Consult your printout and answer their questions.”

  Qwilleran said, “I can't believe the eyes and ears of the nation are focused on Pickax, 400 miles north of everywhere!”

  “You wait and see,” said Maggie. “Mr. Sprenkle belonged to an international bank club.”

  At eleven o'clock Qwilleran and the doctor went to the phone table, and Dwight went to the chalkboard.

  The lines had been comfortably busy for the first two hours, Susan said, but the action would build up as the deadline approached. A speakerphone had been set up, and just before midnight she would call a 900 number, and Washington Naval Observatory Time would be announced every five seconds. “That way there'll be no arguments when we cut off the bidding.”

  Qwilleran's phone rang, and his first call came from Austin, Texas, inquiring about the Butting Ram bank. Qwilleran described the movement for him: “Put coin on limb of tree and press lever . . . ram butts coin into bank . . . a small boy thumbs his nose.”

  It was in good condition, valued at six thousand; the highest bid was five. The caller raised it five hundred.

  A collector in Buckhead, Georgia, called back several times and raised his bid on the Circus Pony bank whenever someone had topped him.

  Although most of the callers were men, the wife of a banker in Reno, Nevada, wanted to buy her husband a birthday gift. “Do you think he would like a mechanical bank?”

  “I'm sure he would. There's one called the Magic Bank. The cashier takes the coin and disappears with it into a bank vault.”

  “How charming!” she said. “How old is it? He's not too fond of old things.”

  “It's dated 1873. Would you like to make a bid? The highest we have is four thousand, although it's valued at sixty-five hundred.”

  “How big is it?”

  “Six inches high. That's approximately the usual size.”

  “I see . . . Are you an antiques dealer? I love talking to you. You have such a delicious voice.”

  Crisply Qwilleran said, “A bid for forty-five hundred has just come in on the other line. Better make up your mind.”

  She offered forty-seven-fifty, and Dwight said, “Qwill, you're a rascal.”

  “She was holding up the line!”

  The phones rang incessantly as the deadline approached, and Dwight was busy with the chalk and eraser. With only five minutes to go, Buckhead made another bid on the Circus Pony. He also inquired about less valuable banks, bidding a hundred dollars here and a hundred dollars there. He was stalling. Qwilleran looked at Dwight and shrugged. The speakerphone was beeping away the seconds. At the stroke of midnight all bids were cut off. Buckhead had his Circus Pony for forty-five thousand. Everyone in the shop applauded.

  The Siamese, without help from the Washington Naval Observatory, knew that their bedtime snack was seventy-four minutes past due, and they met Qwilleran at the kitchen door, scolding and lashing their tails.

  “All right! All right!” he said. “I was helping an elderly widow who loves cats! Try to be a little understanding, a little more flexible.”

  As he watched them devour their Kabibbles, he reflected that it had been an eventful day in every way: the hijacking of the bookmobile, the coast-to-coast telephone auction, and even the mad scramble for cardboard cartons for the library—not to mention the debut of the Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc. He had not yet read the list of proposed titles.

  He found it in one of his pockets:

  Everything You Wanted to Know About Ravens, by Edgar Allan Poe.

  A Revised History of the World, by Lewis Carroll.

  Painting by Numbers, with foreword by Leonardo.

  How to Make Lasting Friendships, by Richard III.

  Bedtime Stories for Tiny Tots, illustrated by Hieronymus Bosch.

  The last one was undoubtedly Homer Tibbitt's contribution: How to Get Away with Anything, by Mayor Gregory Blythe.

  After a few chuckles Qwilleran was feeling relaxed enough to retire, but first he would read a couple of installments of the Annie-Fanny correspondence. Next was the letter dated June 24:

  Dear Fanny—

  Miracle of miracles! My actor didn't write to me, but he phoned every week from a different city! The tour ended in Denver, and he called to say he was coming back to Chicago. He said life had been barren without me!

  So now he's here and hoping for work, but there's not much opportunity in his field. He says he's willing to sell neckties at Marshall Field until something turns up. Fanny, you can't believe how HAPPY I am! I'll send you a snapshot of him when I finish the roll on my camera. Without the Russian beard he's really handsome. In my weekly letter to Mother I broke the good news, and her reply was, “Dad warns you not to get serious about an actor.” Wouldn't you know? What does he understand about LOVE?

  I'll send you a snapshot of Dana as soon as I finish the roll in my camera. His last name is Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. He says it's Danish. Be happy for me, dear Fanny. I'm ECSTATIC!

  Love from Annie

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. His male parent should have had sense enough to stay in New York. With his handsome looks, charming personality, and glorious voice he could have been the John Barrymore of his generation. The next letter, dated August 22, was a short one. He read it.

  Dear Fanny,

  We've decided to get married! Isn't that exciting? I phoned Mother to share the good news, and what an explosion! Totally! Dad got on the line and said he didn't want his daughter marrying an unemployed actor. I told him I had to live my own life. He said, “Then live it your way, but don't come crying to me for help when he can't support you!” I said, “If necessary I can support both of us” and hung up. I knew that would be his reaction, but I d
on't care. I won't let it put a wet blanket on a joyous occasion. Think good thoughts, Fanny. I know you're on my side.

  Love from Annie

  “The plot thickens!” Qwilleran said as he replaced the letters in the file.

  FOURTEEN

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19—The fish dies because he opens his mouth too much.

  With his first cup of coffee Qwilleran felt the urge to read another Annie-Fanny letter. He would read only one, he promised himself. It was dated September 30.

  Dear Fanny—

  We did it! We're married! Dana is impulsive, and I like to make quick decisions, so we simply went across the state line to a place where a couple can get the knot tied without red tape. (Knot! Tape! Ha ha! Don't mind me. I'm tipsy with bliss!) I never wanted a big wedding, although Mother had dreams of seeing me in Grandmother's wedding dress with a ten-foot train and eight bridesmaids in floppy hats. And, of course, a reception for two hundred guests! I knew, and she knew, that Dad would never foot the bill for such an extravaganza.

  So here we are, married and TOTALLY happy! My apartment is rather snug for two—unless they're madly in love. Someday we'll have a lovely house in the suburbs, and a garden, and a car, and an attached garage. Dana is working part-time at Marshall Field, and the library gave me a token raise, and we're saving our pennies.

  Want to hear something I did that was naughty? I sent my parents a note (signed Annie Qwilleran) telling them that they now had a son-in-law. I couldn't resist telling them he's a tie salesman. I knew Dad would burst a blood vessel. Of course, he wouldn't let Mother acknowledge my note. I don't care. If they don't need a daughter, I don't need parents.

  Love from Annie

  When Qwilleran returned the letter to the file, Koko was sitting on the library table, paying no attention to the mechanical bank, which was supposed to be his toy. As usual, he showed more interest in the spalted maple box, sniffing the little knob on the lid and pawing the decorative motifs created by flaws in the wood. One was like the outline of a mouse trapped beneath the waxy surface of the box; another looked somewhat like a bee.