The sweet smile that Jeanette returned disguised a good deal of skepticism. She didn’t like the idea of letting her charge run off to the big city unescorted. Was this a genuine, spur-of-the-moment adventure? Or something contrived for some unknown purpose? With Mary, you never could tell. There was only one thing to do.
“Nonsense,” Jeanette laughed. “I enjoy your company. I’ll come with. Never seen anything of Minneapolis but the train station and I’d like to explore. If there’s an extra ticket, I’d love to take in the game. Daniel and I used to go see the Washington University Bears play. We had so much fun at the games.”
From her surprised expression, Mary hadn’t been expecting that. But she quickly recovered. “Are you quite sure? You’ll probably be bored. Wasn’t that travel lecture this weekend?”
“Yes, ‘Six Weeks on the Yangtze.’” Jeanette shrugged. “I’ll read the book instead. I assume you’re staying in your father’s apartment in St. Paul.”
Mary nodded.
“I’ll go back to the apartment after the game, and you young people can have your fun. I’ll take in the sights, have a walk on the famous Summit Avenue. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, if you really want to come…”
“Oh, I do.”
“Then I’ll get train tickets for the both of us.”
“Superb. Now in your note you said we’d picked up another case. Tell me about it.”
Mary described her chat with Mrs. Timmons about the musical manager who required a spot of scrutiny. She explained she had sent a telegram to her friend in Manhattan, Josie Borrell. The mezzo-soprano might know something about this fellow. Jeanette took a few notes and created a new file for the case. She placed the folder in the file cabinet and turned back to Mary.
“And how was your visit with the Ostovian embroiderer?”
“She gave me a very good price for my dozen hankies. The script I selected is quite elegant. I couldn’t resist asking her about the poor prince. The Ostovians, of course, are quite upset.”
Jeanette nodded. “Well, naturally. But is there any reason to think it’s something other than a terrible accident?”
“Not according to Detective Sauer,” Mary said with a tone of skepticism. “But Mrs. Luca, the baker, seems convinced he was assassinated by his evil uncle.”
Jeanette raised her eyebrows. “Well, if the police say it’s not murder, I suspect that’s the end of the matter. Now, while you were gone, I did these.” She held up the street maps she had sketched. One each for the neighborhoods of Mrs. Fesler, Mr. Pettyjohn, Miss Campbell, and Mrs. Sternberg.
“Ah.” Mary nodded approvingly. “Our search plans for the lost cats.”
Jeanette suddenly eyed the white box Mary had brought. “What’s in there?”
“Afternoon treats from Mrs. Luca. Including a generous slice of chocolate tart for my right-hand woman.”
All thoughts of cats and Ostovians and whatnot fled Jeanette’s head. Chocolate was a pleasure she never denied herself.
“Well then, young lady, let’s fire up that electric teapot.”
* * *
They tramped up and down the streets near Mrs. Fesler’s house Tuesday morning— Jeanette on one side, Mary on the other. They knocked on dozens of doors. Sometimes no one answered. Sometimes the person inside took a look at them, and slammed the door without a word. Occasionally someone would snap, “No saleswomen.” Sometimes the occupant commiserated over Mrs. Fesler’s lost Princess, but knew nothing that could help. A few people recalled seeing the ginger tortoiseshell tabby when Mrs. Fesler had been outside in her yard. But that was months ago.
By mid-morning Jeanette’s feet were aching and she was cursing herself for bringing along Mary’s heavy German field glasses—in case she spied some feline from afar. The binoculars were bouncing uncomfortably on her chest and giving her a neck ache. When they were done with Mrs. Fesler’s search grid—a complete failure—Mary offered to take the optics, but Jeanette stubbornly insisted they were her burden to bear.
As they headed for Mr. Pettyjohn’s neighborhood, Mary looked at Jeanette and smiled. “Have you ever read Don Quixote?”
Jeanette was briefly flummoxed by her question, then understood. “You refer to tilting with windmills, I presume.”
“Precisely. We’re trying to accomplish something that’s highly improbable. Finding four cats, several weeks lost, in a city of nearly one hundred thousand souls. I am the deluded Don and you are my loyal Sancho Panza.”
Jeanette couldn’t help laughing. “At least I’m not riding a donkey.”
“Nor I the swaybacked Rocinante,” Mary returned with a grin.
They trudged down Woodland Avenue for a number of blocks, and by and by came to Wallace Avenue, which they door-knocked their way up and down. Just beyond the Pettyjohn house, they turned a corner and went down to the next street over. They proceeded back north on that street—Mary on the west side, Jeanette on the east.
“Jeanette!” Mary suddenly shouted from the other side of the street.
“What is it?” Jeanette hollered back.
“The field glasses, please.”
Jeanette tramped across the packed dirt road. Lifting the strap from her neck, she handed the optics to Mary, who put them up to her eyes, adjusting the focus knob.
“What are you looking at?” Jeanette asked, squinting in the same general direction and seeing nothing.
“Mr. Pettyjohn’s place. I can get a view of the back of it, between these two houses.”
“So, do you spy anything?”
“Well, he has a stained glass panel in one upstairs window that, it seems, contains a stylized Egyptian image of a cat, sitting in profile. If there were a light behind it, I could see it better. And the window to the left…” Mary gasped. “Oh, my!”
“What? What is it?” Jeanette squinted even harder at the distant window, but it was no good. All she saw was a blur.
“Hey there, you two,” said a man’s raspy voice, “what’s all this?”
The two women twirled to their right, blinking into the face of a policeman who had appeared out of nowhere. He was short and narrow, but looked hard as flint. He had his hands on his hips and he did not look the least bit amused to find them acting suspiciously on his beat.
“Missy, you ain’t one of them peepin’ Toms, are ya?” He wore a fierce frown.
Jeanette was struck dumb by the outrageous accusation, but quick-witted Mary put the glasses back up to her eyes and scanned some nearby treetops.
“Corvus brachyrhynchos,” she announced.
The police officer’s eyes narrowed. “Did you just cuss me out?”
Mary lowered the binoculars and shot him a big, friendly smile. “Oh, heavens no, officer. I have nothing but respect for officers of the law. In fact, one of Duluth’s finest is a friend of mine. I merely said Corvus brachyrhynchos.”
Then Jeanette remembered Miss Kozlow’s tale of her semi-tame classroom pet, Ebony. “We’re bird watchers,” she quickly improvised.
“Right,” Mary said. “Bird watchers. Just saw the most remarkable specimen on that roof over there. Gone now, but you should have seen it.”
The officer clearly didn’t realize she was referring to the common crow. His stubbly lower jaw shifted from side to side, as if he were masticating Mary’s explanation like a piece of gristly chicken. He rubbed his chin a bit and said, “Well, okay then. Just don’t be peekin’ in people’s windows when you’re lookin’ for birds.” He nodded and ambled past them, down the street.
Jeanette turned to her cousin. “That was a close call. So what was it you saw over there?”
“Something much more interesting than a crow.” Mary pointed to Mr. Pettyjohn’s window. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure I saw an Egyptian Mau sitting on the sill.” She turned to Jeanette. “I seem to recall Mr. Pettyjohn telling us that Bastet was a Mau—and his only cat.”
Chapter XIV
On Wednesday morning a little before ten, the a
trium of the Duluth National Bank was bustling with activity. There were lines three and four deep at the ornate brass teller cages, and every banker at a desk was consulting with men and women about their financial needs.
Mary hustled through to the elevator lobby off to the side. She arrived to find a portly bank guard wagging a sausage-like finger at poor Jiggs Nyberg.
“But I told you I got a meeting upstairs with a gent called Mr. Osgood,” the boy pleaded. “He’s got a valuable timepiece of mine.”
“And I’m goin’ fishin’ next weekend with President Roosevelt,” the guard snorted. “How could you have any business with Mr. Osgood? Let alone a valuable timepiece? Yer just a guttersnipe.”
“But he does have an appointment with Mr. Osgood,” Mary chimed in, walking up to them. “As do I.”
The guard pivoted and peered at her with wide eyes. “Miss MacDougall?”
Mary had a savings account at the bank and she had made small talk with the man on several occasions as she waited in line. He wasn’t a bad fellow, but she supposed that poor Jiggs seemed distinctly the wrong sort to him.
“I realize young Mr. Nyberg doesn’t look like the typical habitué of this institution,” she said, smiling, “but I’ll gladly vouch for him.”
The guard seemed rather dubious, but made a single slow nod. “If you say so, Miss MacDougall. He gives you any trouble, just let me know.” And he walked back into the main atrium at a slow, majestic pace—casting one withering glance back at Jiggs. The boy sniffed and followed Mary to the waiting elevator. “Fourth floor,” she told the operator, and the cage ascended.
As they approached the door of Osgood Shipping, Inc., Mary could tell that Jiggs was nervous. She stopped and faced him. “You know, I can see Mr. Osgood on my own, if you like. You seem a bit uneasy.”
He rubbed his neck as if his collar was chafing him. “Just scared this might not work out. You don’t think he maybe threw Mama’s picture away, do you?”
“I should hope not,” Mary replied, having harbored that very same fear. “But we’ve no way of knowing until we talk to him. And I still think having you along might help to tweak his conscience. That is, if he has one.” She patted Jiggs on the shoulder, then rapped three times on the mottled glass door.
“Come in, please,” a woman’s voice said.
They went into the office and Mary introduced herself, saying that Mr. Osgood was expecting her.
“But who is the boy?” the secretary asked.
“The owner of the item that’s under discussion.”
She and Jiggs sat and waited for a few minutes, before Mr. Osgood came out of his private office. He was just as Gino Rossi had described him. A lanky, middle-aged gentleman with blond hair and beard. Pince-nez spectacles perched at the tip of his thin, straight nose. After exchanging brief pleasantries with Mary, he turned to Jiggs.
“Is this the young fellow who claims ownership of the Linderholm timepiece?”
Jiggs looked like he was about to reply with some words he might regret, but Mary shook her head at him: Be polite.
“Yes, it is. This is young Mr. Nyberg. A friend of his stole the watch and illicitly sold it to Signor Rossi.”
“Some friend,” the shipping agent grumbled. “Well, then, come in and we’ll talk things over.”
They sat down before Mr. Osgood’s broad walnut desk. Ensconced in his rolling office chair, fingers tented beneath his chin, he furrowed his eyebrows. “Naturally, I would prefer if Master Nyberg could provide some special knowledge of the item, before we begin to discuss its potential return.”
“Meaning some unique identifying mark?” Mary asked.
“Correct.”
“That’s easy,” Jiggs said with a sniff. “Inside the cover’s a photograph of my mother.” He crossed his arms and stuck out his chin, as if he’d just won a bet.
“All right. And what else?”
For a second or two, Jiggs looked panicked. He thought hard, then his face lit up. “Emil Haglund,” he blurted. “My granddad’s name. It’s engraved on the inside of the cover.”
Mr. Osgood’s expression softened and he nodded. “I’ll return the photograph to you, of course. But let me make you an offer, my young friend. I’ve already paid thirty dollars for the timepiece. I’m prepared to pay you another thirty for it.” He paused and peered intently at Jiggs. “Now just consider. Thirty dollars in your pocket. A lot of money. Plus the keepsake of your mother’s image. A good deal, I think. What do you say?”
Jiggs looked to Mary, who said, “Your decision.”
The boy frowned, then shook his head. “Naw, Mr. Osgood. The money’d be nice, but I want the watch back. Please. It was my granddad’s, then my mom’s, now it’s mine. It’s all I have left of ’em.”
“You hardly ever see a Linderoth here in the states,” the man said wistfully. “Beautifully made and quite unusual. It was to be one of the showpieces of my collection.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not sure I can let it go.”
“You can’t be serious, Mr. Osgood,” Mary protested. “That’s a rotten thing to do.”
“Yes, indeed. A rotten thing to do. But the fact is that I’m out thirty dollars, and I detest wasting money. I didn’t get to where I am today by wasting money.” He regarded her evenly. “Nor, I’d imagine, did John MacDougall.”
“What’s John MacDougall got to do with it?” Jiggs asked, a bit confused.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Mr. Osgood said with a tiny smirk. “He’s the young lady’s father.”
Jiggs stared at Mary with wide eyes. “Holy cats! Really?”
“Really,” Mary confirmed, amused by his reaction.
Mr. Osgood peered at her. “I have a proposition for you. I will return the Linderoth, at a loss of thirty dollars, if you will do me one little favor. Arrange a meeting for me with your father. Half an hour of his time. That’s all. I’ve tried for years to earn business from the MacDougall companies, without success. I feel if I could speak personally to the man himself, I might make some inroads.”
Mary could well imagine her father grumbling something fierce about his daughter taking the liberty of scheduling a business meeting for him. But she was confident he would agree, at least this once, after she explained the situation.
“No guarantees can be made,” she stressed firmly, “regarding the outcome.”
“Of course not. I don’t expect any. I just want to talk with him.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do we have a deal?”
“We do.” Mary stood and shook Mr. Osgood’s hand across the desk.
Jiggs hopped to his feet. “I’d be obliged if I could have my watch back now.”
“Sorry, young man,” Mr. Osgood said, “but I don’t have it here. Come back this time tomorrow and you can pick it up, along with the photograph.”
As they walked out onto the sidewalk in front of the bank building, Jiggs turned to Mary with a look of bafflement. “If you don’t mind, Miss MacDougall, could I ask you something personal?”
Mary didn’t know quite how to react. What if the little scamp tried to ask her on a date, for heaven’s sake? She wouldn’t put it past him. “Well, ask away.”
“First, thanks for gettin’ my watch back. But I don’t understand. If you’re John MacDougall’s daughter, why’d’ya need a job? You could lay about, travel anywhere, eat fancy food all the time, order people around. Does your dad have money troubles, then? You need to chip in or something?”
Mary wanted to laugh, but it was a perfectly fair question. Why would someone with buckets of money decide to open a detective agency?
“Because, Jiggs, lying about and traveling anywhere is so, so, so boring. And I don’t want to end up just another wife of another rich businessman. I want to do something interesting and make a difference. And what better way to do it than finding lost objects—like valuable Linderoth timepieces and pictures of someone’s mother?”
Jiggs had no comeback for all that, but did have another question. “Speaking
of finding lost objects, in case he’s still around, could you keep an eye peeled for ol’ Beansie? I could get together a few more dollars for you, if that’s what it’ll take.”
People were flowing around them out on the sidewalk. A few shot disapproving glances at this very odd couple blocking their way.
“I’d be happy to, Jiggs. I happen to believe he’s almost certainly still in town. He only got ten dollars for the watch. Hardly enough to go touring with, let alone take care of a fancy lady.”
“Just ten bucks? It’s worth five, ten times that.” Jiggs looked disgusted. “Well, anyhow, the thing is I’d like to see him, you know, so I can pop him one in the nose. Then we maybe could be friends again.” He readjusted his shabby golf cap and gave her a sad smile. “Beansie’s a funny kid, you know. Makes me laugh. I kinda miss him.”
Mary figured she wouldn’t feel like the job was finished until the suspect was apprehended. “Let’s both keep our eyes peeled, Jiggs. We’ll track down the scalawag one way or another.”
Back at the office Mary dictated a brief letter to Jeanette, to be mailed to Mrs. Fesler. In it she described how certain information had come into her possession that might lead to a successful culmination of the case of the purloined pussycats. But further confirmation would be needed.
Then she put her coat back on and announced she was setting off for her final fitting with Madame Zoya.
“You’re not going via the Oddfellows Hall, are you?” The suspicion in Jeanette’s voice was transparent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary snapped. “I do declare, you have Edmond Roy on the brain!”
* * *
As Mary twirled around in front of Madame Zoya’s full-length mirror, she couldn’t help but think that the Thanksgiving party dress would be an absolute triumph. The pale amber color of the silk brocade nicely complemented her chestnut hair. And the antique-tinted lace, which topped the bodice and shoulders, perfectly framed the low, wide neckline. Mary imagined how her mother’s favorite pearl-and-diamond necklace would look draped there.
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