The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (14 page)

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 18—
To live a long life, eat like a cat and drink like a dog
.

 

It was a beautiful day for the ride to Ittibittiwassee Estates. The bookmobile was due to arrive at eleven-thirty, and Qwilleran went a little early. Already residents were gathering on the lawn in front of the building, and there was an air of excitement. Some sat on the park benches that lined the circular driveway. One group sat in a circle of lawn chairs, and bursts of laughter came from the five women and three men. Among them were Homer and Rhoda Tibbitt, the Cavendish sisters, and Gil MacMurchie.

“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 clean 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.”