Another vehicle stopped. “Anybody hurt?” asked the driver, walking over to view the car in the ditch. “Anyone call the police?”
Qwilleran went through the same script. “No one hurt . . . The sheriff’s been here . . . No, thanks, I don’t need a ride. I’ve lost two cats and I have to wait . . .”
“Lots of luck,” the man said. “There are coyotes out there and foxes, and an owl can carry off a cat at night.”
“Just go on your way, please,” Qwilleran said firmly. “When it’s quiet, they’ll come back.”
The car left the scene, but the Siamese did not appear. He snapped off the torch. It was totally dark now—totally dark with the moon behind a cloud. He called again in desperation. “Koko! Yum Yum! Turkey! Turkey! Come and get it!” . . . There was absolute silence.
Once more he combed the ditch with the beam of the flashlight, each time venturing a few yards farther from the wreck. After half an hour of fruitless searching and calling, he groaned as another car pulled up.
“Qwill! Qwill, what are you doing out here?” a woman’s voice called out. She left her car and hurried toward him. “Is that your car? What happened? Has anyone called the sheriff? I have a CB.” It was Polly Duncan.
“That’s not the worst,” he said, shining the torch on the wreck. “The cats are lost. They may be hiding in the woods. I’m not leaving here till I find them, dead or alive.”
“Oh, Qwill, I’m so sorry. I know how much they mean to you.” It was the quiet, soothing voice that had appealed to him during their happier days.
He recounted the entire story.
“But you can’t stay here like this all night.”
“I’m not leaving,” he repeated stubbornly.
“Then I’ll stay with you. At least you’ll have some shelter and a place to sit. I’ll turn my lights off. Maybe they’ll sense your presence and come out . . .”
“If they’re still alive,” he interrupted. “The sheriff thought they might be pinned under the car. They don’t answer when I call their names. Another guy said there are predators out there.”
“Don’t listen to those alarmists. I’ll pull my car farther off the highway, and we’ll sit and wait . . . No! I won’t listen to any protests. There’s a blanket in my trunk. It gets chilly after midnight at this time of year. Put those things in the backseat, Qwill.”
He put the commodes and hamper in her car, and then he and Polly settled in the front seat of the car he had given her for Christmas. His gloom was palpable. “I don’t mind telling you, Polly, how much those two characters have meant to me. They were my family! Yum Yum was getting more lovable and loving every year. And Koko’s intelligence was incredible. I could talk to him like a human, and he seemed to understand every word I said. He even replied in his own way.”
“You’re speaking in the past tense,” Polly rebuked him. “They’re still alive and well—somewhere. I have enough faith in Koko to know he’ll be able to take care of himself and Yum Yum. Cats are too agile to let themselves get trapped under the car. Flight is their forte, and their best defense.”
“But the Siamese have lived a sheltered life. Their world is bounded by carpets, cushions, windowsills, and laps.”
“You’re not giving them credit for their natural instincts. They might even walk back to Pickax. I read about a cat whose family took him to Oklahoma for the winter, and he walked back to his home in Michigan—over 700 miles.”
“But he was accustomed to the outdoors,” Qwilleran said.
The sheriff’s deputy stopped again, and when he saw Qwilleran’s companion, he said, “Do you need any potatoes, Mrs. Duncan?” They both laughed. To Qwilleran he said, “Glad you’ve got company. I’ll keep an eye on you two.”
As he drove away Polly said, “I’ve known Kevin ever since he was in junior high, bringing his homework assignments to the library. His family had a potato farm.”
Gradually she talked him out of his pessimistic mood by introducing other subjects. Nevertheless, every ten minutes Qwilleran left the car and walked up and down the roadside, calling . . . calling.
Returning from one disappointing expedition he said to Polly, “You were out late tonight.”
“There was a party at Indian Village,” she explained. “I usually go home early when I’m driving alone, but I was having such a good time!”
Qwilleran considered that statement in silence. Don Exbridge had a condo in Indian Village.
“The party was given,” she went on, “by Mr. and Mrs. Hasselrich, honoring the library board. They’re charming hosts.”
“I hear Margaret Fitch’s place on the board will be filled by Don Exbridge,” he said glumly.
“Oh, no! Susan Exbridge is a trustee, and it would hardly be appropriate to have her ex-husband on the board. Where did you hear that?”
“I don’t recall,” he lied, “but I noticed you were dining with him at Stephanie’s, and I assumed you were briefing him on his new duties.”
Polly laughed softly. “Wrong! The library needs a new roof, and I was trying to charm him into donating the services of his construction crew. But since you bring up the subject, I saw you dining with a strange woman after you told me you were dining with your architect from Cincinnati.”
“That strange woman,” Qwilleran said, “happens to be the architect from Cincinnati. You get two black marks for assuming the profession is limited to males.”
“Guilty!” she laughed.
The sheriff’s car was coming down the highway again, and it stopped on the opposite shoulder. When the deputy stepped out, he was carrying something small and light-colored. He was carrying it with care.
“Oh my God!” Qwilleran said and tumbled out of the car, hurrying across the pavement to meet him.
“Brought you some coffee,” the deputy said, handing over a brown paper bag. “From the Dimsdale Diner. Not the best in the world, but it’s hot. Temperature’s dropping to fifty tonight. Couple of doughnuts, too, but they look kinda stale.”
“It’s greatly appreciated,” Qwilleran said with a sigh of relief as he pulled out his bill clip.
“Put that away,” the officer said. “The cook at the diner sent it.”
The kindness of Polly and the deputy and the cook at the diner and the motorist with the flashlight did much to relieve Qwilleran’s depression, although he still felt a numbness in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to talk about the cats. He said to Polly, “They’re always inventing games. Now their hobby is posing like bookends.”
“Does Koko still recommend reading material for you?”
“He was pushing biographies until a few days ago. Now he’s into sea stories.”
“Has he lost interest in Shakespeare?”
“Not entirely. I saw him nuzzling The Comedy of Errors and Two Gentlemen of Verona the other day.”
“Both of those plays involve sea voyages,” Polly reminded him.
“I’m sure it’s the glue he’s sniffing. The subject matter is coincidental. But you have to admit it’s uncanny.”
“There are more things in Koko’s head than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” said Polly, taking liberties with one of Qwilleran’s favorite quotations.
And so they talked the night away.
Qwilleran said, “Now that I’m dropping out of the Theatre Club, Polly, I’m going to review plays for the paper.”
“You’ll make a wonderful drama critic.”
“It means two passes to every opening night, fifth row, center. I hope you’ll be my steady theatre date.”
“I’ll be happy to accept. You know, Qwill, your columns have been very good. I’m sorry I scolded you about your journalism. I especially liked your profile on Eddington Smith.”
“Incidentally, when Edd and I were discussing the Fitch case, I mentioned the possibility of rare-book thieves, and he hemmed and hawed—never would say what was on his mind.”
“Well, it’s a possibility,” she said. “I’ve heard that Cyrus Fitch ow
ned some pornographic books that certain collectors would commit any crime to possess. They’re said to be locked up in a small climate-controlled room along with George Washington’s Farewell Address and Gould’s Birds of Great Britain.”
“If Edd lets me go to the mansion to help him dust books, I’ll check out the hot stuff,” Qwilleran said.
And then she told him something that caused him to wince. “I’m leaving for Chicago Wednesday. A library conference. I’m catching the morning shuttle.”
She added a questioning glance. It was customary for him to drive her to the airport, but . . . he and Fran were also leaving on the Wednesday morning shuttle! He thought fast.
“Wait! I think I heard something!” He jumped out of the car and walked a few paces, stalling for time. Here was a ticklish situation! He and Polly were rediscovering their old camaraderie; they had shared the blanket during the chilly hours before dawn; he had hoped for reconciliation. How would she react to a jaunt to Chicago with her rival? As far as he was concerned, it was a business trip to select furniture. Would Polly accept that explanation graciously? Did Fran—with her “cozy hotel”—contemplate it as a business trip? She had made the hotel and travel reservations and would add the charges to his bill—plus an hourly fee for her professional advice, he surmised.
It was awkward at best. One half of his brain ventured to suggest canceling the trip. The other half of his brain sternly maintained his right to schedule a business trip anywhere, at any time, with anyone.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, and he walked back to the car. “You stay here. I’m going to look around,” he said. “If they holed up for the night, they’ll start getting hungry when the sun rises, and they might come crawling out. Watch for them while I go searching.”
“Will the glasses help?” Reaching under the seat, Polly handed him the binoculars she used for birding.
The woods that had been a black, incomprehensible mass in the dark of night were becoming defined: evergreens, giant oaks, undergrowth. He walked along the highway to a spot where five, tall elm trees grew in a straight line perpendicular to the road. They were obviously trees that had been planted many years before, possibly to border a path or sideroad to some old farmhouse long since abandoned. He was right. An unused dirt road, almost overrun with weeds, followed the line of trees. If the Siamese had discovered it the night before, they might have sheltered in the remains of the old farmhouse.
A light breeze rustled the lofty branches of the elms and blew strands of spiderweb across his face. Everything was wet with dew. A faint, rosy glow appeared in the east. He found the site of the house, but it was now only a stone foundation tracing a rectangle among the grasses.
He stopped and called their names, but there was no response. He walked on slowly. Now he was reaching the end of the road. Ahead were the withered trees of a long-neglected orchard, rising in grotesque shapes from a field of weeds. He scanned the orchard with the binoculars, and his heart leaped as he saw a bundle of something on the branch of an old apple tree. He walked closer. The sky was brightening. Yes! The indistinct bundle was a pair of Siamese cats, looking like bookends. They were peering down at the ground, wriggling their haunches as if preparing to leap.
He lowered the field of vision to the base of the tree and his eyes picked up something else, half concealed in the grasses. A ghastly thought flashed through his mind. Could it be a trap? A trap like those that Chad Lanspeak used for foxes? In horror he edged closer. No! It was not a trap. It moved. It was some kind of animal! It was looking up in the tree! The cats were wriggling, ready to jump down!
“Koko!” he yelled. “No! Stay there!”
Both cats jumped, and Qwilleran fled back to the car, shouting to Polly, “I need your car! Radio the sheriff to pick you up! I’ve found the cats. I’m taking them to the vet!”
“Are they hurt?” she asked in alarm.
“They’ve had a run-in with a skunk! Don’t worry . . . I’ll buy you a new car.”
SCENE EIGHT
Place:
Qwilleran’s apartment
Time:
The day after the accident on Ittibittiwassee Road
Qwilleran’s car had been towed to the automobile graveyard; Polly’s cranberry-red car was at Gippel’s garage, being deodorized; the Siamese were spending a few hours at the animal clinic for the same purpose.
In his apartment Qwilleran paced the floor, chilled by the realization that they might have been lost forever in the wilderness. They might have suffered a horrible death, and he would never have known their fate. The sheriff’s helicopter and the mounted posse and the Boy Scout troop would hardly go searching for those two small bodies. He shuddered with remorse.
It was all my fault, he kept telling himself. He was convinced that it was no drunk driver who ran him off the road; it was someone who was out to get him because he had been asking questions about the murderer of Harley and Belle. Why did he have this compulsion to solve criminal cases? He was a journalist, not an investigator. Yet, he was aware, few journalists accepted their limitations. The profession was teeming with political advisors, economic savants, critics and connoisseurs.
No more amateur sleuthing! he promised himself. From now on he would leave criminal investigation to the police. No matter how strong his hunches, no matter how provocative the tingling sensation in the roots of his moustache, he would play it safe. He would interview hobbyists and sheep farmers and old folks in nursing homes, write a chatty column for The Moose County Something, read Moby-Dick aloud to the Siamese, take long walks, eat right, live the safe life.
And then the telephone rang. It was Eddington Smith calling. “I talked to the lawyer, and he said I should check the books against the inventory. You said you’d like to help with the dusting. Do you want to come with me tomorrow?”
Qwilleran hesitated for only the fraction of a moment. What harm would there be in visiting the Fitch library? Everyone said it was an interesting house—virtually a museum.
“You’ll have to pick me up,” he told the bookseller. “I’ve wrecked my car.” When he turned away from the phone he was finger-combing his moustache in anticipation.
After lunch Mr. O’Dell drove to the clinic in his pickup and brought home two bathed, deodorized, perfumed and sullenly silent Siamese in a cardboard carton punched with airholes. When the box was opened they climbed out without a glance one way or the other and stole away to their apartment, where they went to sleep.
“A pity it is,” said Mr. O’Dell. “The good souls at the clinic were after doin’ their best, but sure an’ the smell will come back again if the weather turns muggy. It’ll just have to wear off, I’m thinkin’ . . . And is there anythin’ I can do for you or the little ones, since you’re lackin’ a car?”
“I’d appreciate it,” Qwilleran said, “if you’d go to the hardware store and buy a picnic hamper like the old one that was smashed.”
The Siamese slept the sleep that follows a horrendous experience. Every half hour Qwilleran went to their apartment and watched their furry sides pulsating. Their paws would twitch violently as if they were having nightmares. Were they fighting battles? Running for their lives? Being tortured at the animal clinic?
Earlier Fran Brodie had telephoned. “I hear you rolled over last night, Qwill.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“On the radio. They said you weren’t seriously hurt, though. How are you?”
“Fine, except when I breathe. I get a stitch in my side.”
“Now you’ll have to drive that limousine you inherited.” She enjoyed teasing him about the pretentious vehicle in his garage.
“I got rid of it. It was a gas guzzler and hard to park, and it looked like a hearse. It was only standing in the garage, losing its charge and drying out its tires, while I was paying insurance and registration fees every year. I sold it to the funeral home.”
“In that case,” Fran said, “we can drive my car to the airport
Wednesday. We should leave about eight A.M. to catch the shuttle to Chicago. I made the hotel reservations for four nights. You’ll love the place. Quiet, good restaurant—and that’s not all!”
Qwilleran hung up the phone with misgivings. Burdened with other concerns, he had given no thought to this particular dilemma.
Shortly after that, Polly had called to inquire about the cats.
He said, “It’s been a blow to their pride. They usually carry their tails proudly, but today they’re at half-mast. Gippel is working on your car, Polly, but I want you to have a new one, and I’ll drive the red job.”
“No, Qwill!” she protested. “That’s tremendously kind of you, but you should buy a new car for yourself.”
“I insist, Polly. Go over to Gippel’s and look at the new models. Pick out a color you like.”
“Well, we’ll argue about that when I return from Chicago. You can use the ‘red job’ while I’m away. What time do you want to pick me up Wednesday morning? I’ll be staying in town at my sister-in-law’s.”
Feeling like a coward, he said, “Eight o’clock.” Not only had he failed to resolve his dilemma, he had compounded it with his dastardly acquiescence.
SCENE NINE
Place:
The Fitch mansion in West Middle Hummock
Time:
A Tuesday Qwilleran would never forget
When Eddington Smith’s old station wagon rumbled up to the carriage house Tuesday morning, Qwilleran went downstairs with the new picnic hamper.
“You didn’t need to bring any food,” the bookseller said. “I brought something for our lunch.”
“It’s not food,” Qwilleran explained. “Koko is in the hamper. I hope you don’t object. I thought we could conduct an experiment to see if a cat can sniff out bookworms. If so, it would be a breakthrough for some scientific journal.”
“I see,” said Eddington with vague comprehension. Those were his last words for the next half hour. He was one of those intense drivers who are speechless while operating a vehicle. He gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles, leaned forward, and peered ahead in a trance, all the while stretching his lips in a joyless grin.
The Cat Who Sniffed Glue Page 16