The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (17 page)

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. “What makes you think you can find him?”

“I'm pretty sure I know where he is,” said Lenny, looking wise. “If we can take your van—”

“Wait a minute, Lenny. Are you expecting me to go out there?”

“We gotta.”

Qwilleran considered it a hare-brained mission, although his professional curiosity and sense of adventure were undermining his better judgment. He hesitated.

“Do you have a couple of flashlights?” Lenny asked.

 

They drove out Chipmunk Road—in silence until Qwilleran said, “You mentioned that Boze could buy chewing gum from backwoods stores.”

“Yeah, he's a chain-chewer. Always has a wad in his mouth. At the inn, where gum-chewing isn't allowed on the job, the housekeeper found gum-wrappers in the wastebasket behind the desk . . . and wads of gum stuck under the edge of the counter. It was my job to straighten him out. Not easy.”

“The midnight shift must be dull. What does the night clerk do to pass the time—when he isn't talking to bimbos?”

“On the six-to-midnight I get a chance to study. Boze liked comic books. . . . All that seems like a long time ago. I've lived a year in the past week.”

After a while Qwilleran asked, “Isn't this the way to the Big B mine?”

“Yep.”

“It was once owned and operated by a woman.”

“Oh?”

Lenny's mind was somewhere else—not on the conversation—until the Big B shafthouse came in view, silvery in the moonlight.

“Take the next right,” he said. “It's a dirt road.”

It paralleled the six-foot chain-link fence that marked the limits of the mine property. Like all other mines the Big B was posted as dangerous, and the fence was topped with three courses of barbed wire.

“Okay, Mr. Q. Stop here. Let's get out and walk.”

They took the flashlights. Although the moon was bright, the rutted lane was shaded by overhanging tree branches. The leaves had not yet begun to fall. As they walked, all was quiet except for the whine of
tires on Chipmunk Road behind them—and the occasional scurrying of a small animal in the underbrush. At the northeast corner of the fenced site the lane turned south and became even more primitive.

Lenny said in a hushed voice, “Boze and I used to play around here when we were kids. We knew how to get over the barbed wire without skinning a knee and how to pry a board loose from the shafthouse.”

“You mean you went inside that dilapidated wreck?”

“Crazy, wasn't it? It was spooky inside—all scaffolding and ladders. We could hear the water sloshing in the mineshaft a zillion feet below. There's a subterranean lake down there.”

“How do you know?”

“Everybody says so. All I know is, we threw pebbles down and heard them splash. We'd climb to the top platform with a pocketful of pebbles and sit there and eat a candy bar.”

“Didn't you realize how dangerous it was? Those timbers are more than a century old.”

“Yeah, but fourteen inches square and put together with handmade spikes a foot long! We climbed around like monkeys. We were only nine years old. Our only fear was that Mom would find out. Once we were dumb enough to try smoking on the top platform. Boze had stolen a cigarette somewhere, and I had book matches. We lit it all right, but it didn't taste as good as a candy bar. We dropped it down the shaft and heard it fizzle out in the water—or imagined we did. That was one of our finer moments.”

“I'll bet,” Qwilleran said, thinking what a sheltered life he and Arch had lived in Chicago.

“Sh-h-h!” Lenny flashed his light on the ground. “He's here! There's a gum-wrapper!” A scrap of foil caught the light.

Qwilleran's moustache twitched as he remembered Koko's obsession with the bit of foil under the rug.

“Look, Mr. Q! Here's where he built a campfire!” There was a charred circle on the ground and some small bones. “He cooked a rabbit! I'll bet he's saving the skins to make a blanket!”

Qwilleran looked around uneasily. He felt they were being watched through a knothole in old boards. He could see a pinpoint of light inside. “Let's get out of here,” he whispered.

But Lenny began to shout. “Boze! It's Lenny! Are you all right? We came to help you!”

There was no answer.

“I know he's in there,” Lenny whispered. “I can see pinpoints of light. Flashlight. Or lantern.”

“This is insane!” Qwilleran hissed.

Lenny shouted again. “Boze! Everything's gonna be all right! Mr. Q's here! He's gonna help you!”

All was quiet again, and then they heard a gunshot from the tower. Qwilleran grabbed Lenny's upper arm roughly and propelled him back along the primitive road.

There was another shot . . . then sounds of thumping and crashing and splintering of old wood . . . a splash . . . and silence again.

Breathless and wordless, they hurried along the dirt lane leading to the highway. In the van Qwilleran phoned 911 and backed the vehicle out to the shoulder of Chipmunk Road. They waited, with headlights beamed on the shafthouse. Lenny sat quietly, shivering.

“Need a sweater?” Qwilleran asked. “There's one on the backseat. . . . When the police come, let me do the talking.”

 

One by one the emergency vehicles appeared: the sheriff's patrol car, an ambulance, the Pickax police, the rescue squad. Qwilleran's presence lent credibility and seriousness to the incident. Not only did he have a press card; he was Mr. Q. As he reported it, they had been driving past and saw flickers of light in the tower—barely visible in the chinks between the weathered boards. They drove into the lane for a closer look, heard gunshots, and backed out in a hurry.

Leaving the scene and heading back to Pickax, he said to his passenger, “Do you want to be dropped at Lois's house? How will you reach your truck in the morning? Is there anything I can do? Let me give you some money for gas. Better not give Lois any of the details.”

Lenny was in a fog. He just wanted to go home. He had lost a brother. He felt guilty. His intentions had been good. He should have stayed in Duluth. He should have left everything to fate. He was jinxed.

Qwilleran listened sympathetically, murmuring remonstrance, encouragement, condolences—whatever was needed.

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22—
Can a leopard change his spots
?

 

After the late-hours episode at the Big B mine, Qwilleran wanted to sleep late, but the Siamese had other ideas. They howled outside his door at twenty-minute intervals and were suspiciously quiet in between. When he shuffled down the ramp to investigate, he found that someone had pried open a kitchen drawer . . . and someone had removed the twenty-one previous pages torn from Culvert's calendar . . . and someone had distributed them throughout the main floor. He presumed it to be a collaboration—what he called their Mungojerrie-Rumpelteazer act—and he collected the litter of paper with grudging admiration: They knew how to capture a person's attention!

During the morning he avoided news bulletins on WPKX, preferring to wait for the two o'clock edition of the
Moose County Something
. Meanwhile, he delivered a vanload of books and personal belongings to his condo—Unit Four at The Willows. A moving van from Boston was unloading at Unit Two, and the Jaguar was parked under the visitors' carport.

On the way back to town it occurred to him that now might be a good time to present Polly with a gift he had special-ordered and was saving for Sweetest Day. Now he reasoned, however, that his move back to Indian Village had a celebratory aspect, and in midday he walked into her office with a gift-wrapped package.

She was having a vegetarian lunch at her desk. “Have some celery straws,” she invited slyly, knowing he despised them. Then she saw the small box in gilt paper and ribbons. “For me? What's the occasion, Qwill?”

“It's Tuesday,” he said with characteristic calm.

After fumbling excitedly with the wrappings, she uncovered an octagonal bottle of French perfume encased in gold filligree. She was stunned! She tripped over her words—had never seen such a beautiful bottle—had never dreamed she'd have such a famous scent to spray on her skin.

Both of them were remembering an evening last month, between sunset and dark, when twilight descended on the world like a blue mist and brought a magical silence—l'heure bleue.

“Glad you like it,” Qwilleran said. He grabbed a handful of celery straws.

 

Pickax commercial establishments and government agencies no longer observed the quaint custom of shutting down for lunch between twelve and one, but it was still wise to avoid that hour for making transactions. Qwilleran went home to give the cats their midday treat and to start cleaning out the refrigerator for his own lunch. Celia's catered specialties that he had been stockpiling in the freezer would be transported to winter quarters in dry ice.

He had a list of individuals to notify about his move. It was only a gesture—to the bank manager, postmaster, garage owner, bookseller, and so forth. The truth was that everyone in town knew where Mr. Q was living at any given time, but it was a compliment to be on his list.

Foremost was the chief of police. His department always kept an eye on the barn when Qwilleran was not in residence.

“Andy, tonight's your last chance to drop in for a nightcap,” Qwilleran said to the disgruntled officer sitting at the computer. Brodie was always irked and impatient when confronted with the contraption that he loathed.

“Be there at ten o'clock,” the chief said brusquely. “Can't stay long.”

At two o'clock the
Moose County Something
reached the newsstands with the headline

SUSPECT DIES IN MINESHAFT

A fugitive from the law fell to his death in the shaft of the abandoned Big B mine early this morning. John Campbell, who was wanted for murder and two counts of theft, was hiding out in the shafthouse when an unidentified motorist noticed a light in the tower and called 911 after hearing a gunshot.

The sheriff's department, Pickax police and rescue squad personnel responded.

The suspect, known locally as Boze Campbell, had won a gold medal for a perfect three-out-of-three caber-toss in the Highland Games earlier this month, before disappearing into the woods, assaulting a deputy, stealing her revolver and hijacking the city's bookmobile.

He was 25, a native of Moose County with no known parentage, a student at MCCC, and a part-time employee of the Mackintosh Inn. He leaves no survivors.

 

A sidebar on the same page was headed

BOZE MOURNED BY SPORT FANS

When news of John (Boze) Campbell's death became known, sport fans gathered at Lois's Luncheonette to grieve, extol his athletic feats, praise his woodsmanship, and refuse to believe he was guilty of crimes.

Lois Inchpot, who had known him since he was a young boy, said, “He was a nice young man—kind of sweet—but he'd had no bringing up, and my son Lenny and I sort of adopted him. He didn't drink or smoke, and he loved the woods. When he won the gold medal, I felt like my own son had won it. We're gonna have a nice funeral for him, and my customers are taking up a collection to buy him a headstone. I hope they find the real murderer. I know Boze couldn't have done it.”

 

After reading this, Qwilleran was hardly surprised to hear from Lenny, phoning from the kitchen of the lunchroom, against a clatter of pots and pans and his mother's shouted commands.

“Did you read it?” Lenny asked abruptly.

“Yes. Your mother's statement was very touching. She's a good-hearted woman, Lenny.”

“They didn't tell how Boze was tricked into doing it!”

“The paper printed information released by the police. Use your common sense! Don't you suppose the authorities are on the trail of the woman who duped him? She's done it before! She's a menace! Sit tight, and see what they discover.”

“There's another thing, Mr. Q. When we heard the gunshot last night, I thought Boze had shot himself, but today . . . I'm wondering if . . . he tripped and fell and the gun went off accidentally. What do you think?”

“Good question. We'll never know, will we? Whatever makes you comfortable in your mind, it seems to me, that's what you should believe.”

 

Qwilleran was struggling with questions of his own—about Koko's recent behavior. All cats, he knew, are psychic to a degree, but Koko, who had more than the normal number of whiskers, was exceptionally prescient. It was his system of communication that baffled one.

He howled in the night. He knocked books off the shelf. He tossed pencils around like Boze tossing the caber. He licked photographs. He dug up clues and hid others.

Who could say how much was pertinent evidence and how much was catly playfulness? And how much was strictly coincidence?

When Koko pilfered Brazil nuts from the nut bowl, did his actions have anything to do with a cruel trick played on Boze Campbell? Or had he found something deliciously oily into which he could sink his fangs?

Qwilleran would have liked a confidant with whom to discuss such arcane matters, but even his close friends were unreceptive. The least likely candidate happened to be the best prospect, and he was coming to
the barn for a drink at ten o'clock. Chief Andrew Brodie had scoffed at Qwilleran's “smart cat” at the beginning, but he was gradually coming around.

In the evening the temperature dropped and a west wind arose. Qwilleran put on a wool turtleneck jersey and a heavy sweater and built a fire in the library fireplace. The barn was drafty; it was high time to move.

The Siamese, whose hair was standing on end, took up positions on the hearth rug facing the blaze, as if to toast their whiskers. Qwilleran stretched out in the lounge chair closest to the fire and wondered if Andy would prefer a hot buttered rum to his usual scotch.

 

Meanwhile, he read another Annie-Fanny letter, dated January 3:

Dear Fanny—

The worst has happened! Yesterday I was sitting alone, reading Spenser's Faerie Queene to take my mind off the new year. We had neither the money nor the spirit to celebrate. Dana had been trying to get a job as a waiter, but the restaurants were hiring only experienced help. Finally he lied—and was hired. But he didn't last more than one shift. It was too obvious that he had never worked in a restaurant before. When he came home he was feeling positively suicidal. I was really worried, because I knew his brother had taken his own life. . . . But yesterday he went out again to look for work. I felt so sorry for him, I thought my heart would break. But then I remembered my responsibility to my baby and started reading about the knight and ladies of old. Suddenly there was a knock on my door, and two police officers were there. They said, “Ma'am, we regret to inform you that your husband has been killed.” I almost fainted, and they helped me to a chair. All I could think was: He's thrown himself in front of a bus! I managed to ask, “Was it a car accident?” They said, “No, ma'am. He was shot by a security guard during an attempted bank robbery . . .”

Qwilleran had read enough. He jumped up and threw the letter into the fireplace. “The past is dead!” he muttered, and he emptied the entire box of Klingenschoen correspondence into the blaze. A car pulled into the barnyard, and the cats pricked their ears, but Qwilleran had the poker and was feeding the flames.

Brodie let himself in and swaggered through the kitchen to the library. “It's a good night for a fire,” he said in his commanding voice. “Temperature dropped twenty degrees since sundown. What are you doing? Burning vital evidence?”

“Getting rid of obsolete documents before I move. . . . Sit by the fire, Andy. How'd you like your scotch on a night like this?”

“Just a splash of tap water. Not too big a splash.” He settled into a deep-cushioned armchair. “Don't let me get too comfortable and forget to pick up my wife at ten o'clock. She's at the church helping to mend winter clothing they collected for the needy. She's been there since four o'clock. They serve the women supper.”

“What did you do for food?”

“Aw, I found some beans and franks in the fridge and warmed them up.”

“Sounds better than what I had.” Qwilleran served the beverages and individual bowls of nuts—the luxury mix. “Keep your eye on the Brazil nuts, Andy. Koko collects them. Doesn't eat them, just collects them.”

“So you're moving back to the Village! Anything new out there?”

“A new neighbor, Kirtwell Nightingale. Know him? Says he's from around here, although he's been living in Boston.”

“Never heard of a Nightingale in these parts, and I worked for the sheriff's department long enough to memorize the county book. The name sounds phony to me.”

“He sells rare books from his home, some priced in five figures.”

“Hmmm,” said the chief. “Sounds a bit shady. Better keep an eye on him. Put your smart cat on his tail.” Then he spotted Kiltie on the bar. “What's that strange-looking thing?”

“A vintage mechanical bank, about 1930, from the Sprenkle collection.” Qwilleran brought it into the circle around the fire, extorted a dime from his guest and pressed the lever. Brodie laughed with gusto when the canny Scot blinked and pocketed the coin.

“And have you seen Thornton Haggis's woodturnings?” Qwilleran put the spalted maple box on the table at his guest's elbow. “Pick it up. Examine it. See how perfectly the lid fits.”

Brodie looked inside. “Pennies!”

“I'm saving up to buy a yacht,” Qwilleran said. “Didn't you ever pick up a lucky penny in the street, Andy?”

“Not since I was six years old.”

Nothing was said about Boze Campbell until the chief had downed his second drink. Then he asked abruptly, “What were you doing at the Big B mine last night?”

“Driving in from a party in the country. It's a sad ending to a sad story. Who should know better than you?”

“It's not over till it's over. Off the record, there'll be a break in the case soon—real soon. The FBI is watching the girl. She's pulled other scams with a variety of aliases.”

At that moment Koko, who was sitting on the hearth rug, rose in the air and landed on the end table. He gave Brodie an impudent stare, nipped the knob of the maple box, yowled, and jumped to the floor.

“What's wrong with him?” the chief asked.

“He does some peculiar things, but he usually has a reason,” Qwilleran explained. “Remember hearing about the paper towels he draped around the kitchen? You had just discovered that all the towels in Delacamp's suite were missing. What happened?”

“Well . . . this is just between you and me . . . when we finally unlocked the jewel cases, they were empty! She had cleaned them out before checking them into the manager's safe that night. And it's our theory that she wrapped the jewels in towels and had them in duffel bags when Boze drove her to the airport. All her regular luggage and clothes were left in her room.”

Qwilleran asked seriously, “Would you say that Koko's demonstration with the paper towels was only a coincidence?” He was thinking about Brazil nuts, snapshot-licking and the gum-wrapper.

“Couple of years ago I'd have said yes. When I met Lieutenant Hames that time Down Below and he told me about your smart cat, I didn't believe a word. Hames is a great cop but a little nuts, you know. . . . But now—” He jumped up. “It's almost ten! Thanks for the drinks. Tell Koko he'll be sworn in next week. If the sheriff can have a dog, the PPD can have a cat on the force.”