The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  “I went in there to look at the collection,” Qwilleran said.

  “Yes, but you're not a suspect.”

  “Has Carol reported it?”

  “No, it was too petty an incident, compared to subsequent happenings . . . And now for the good news. This morning I met my new neighbor. He's an antiquarian book dealer from Boston!”

  “You couldn't ask for a quieter neighbor.”

  “That's what I thought.”

  “Does he know he's moving to Little Antarctica?”

  “He's a native of Moose County. He's returning home.”

  “Is he interested in winter sports? They're trying to start a curling club.”

  “I spoke to him only briefly, but I'm really excited about having a rare book collector next door.”

  Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He too was a collector of old books, but they were not rare—just secondhand. He said, “I bought a book from Eddington's this week—something I've always wanted to read. In pretty good condition for the price. Three dollars.”

  “What's the title?”

  “Twenty questions.” It was a game they often played with book titles.

  “Nineteenth century?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fiction?”

  “No.”

  “Male author?”

  “No.”

  “Was she American?”

  “No.”

  “British?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she also write novels?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has any one of them been made into a film?”

  “It's safe to say . . . no.”

  “Is the book you found . . . poetry?”

  “No.”

  “Biography?”

  “No.”

  “History?”

  “No.”

  “Hmmm . . . I'm not doing very well, am I? . . . Was her work popular in her time?”

  “Rephrase the question.”

  “Was the book you bought popular in England?”

  “Yes.”

  “In America?”

  “No.”

  “Ah!” Polly said with a look of discovery. “How many questions do I have left?”

  “Plenty.” Qwilleran could tell by her attitude that the game was lost.

  “Was it a book of travel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she known today for something other than her writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she the mother of a famous author?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was his first name Anthony?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did their last name begin with T?”

  “Congratulations!” Qwilleran said. “Mrs. Trollope's Domestic Manners of the Americans, published in 1832.”

  “I've never read it,” Polly admitted, “but I know she disliked Americans, their manners, their principles, and their opinions. It should be fun to read.”

  At the scene of the Gathering Qwilleran and Polly climbed to the top of the bleachers to ensure the best view.

  First there were the marching bands, featuring bagpipes and drums and representing the counties of Lockmaster and Bixby. “The very sound of a bagpipe-and-drum band makes me teary-eyed with Scottish pride,” Polly said.

  Qwilleran admitted that he liked the sound but was not moved to tears. “Probably because I'm only half Scottish. I'm assuming that my father was a Dane, basing the assumption on the Qw spelling and my fondness for Danish pastry.”

  When the first skirling bagpipes and beating drums were heard, however, a chill ran down his spine. Eight ranks of men and women in colorful tartan garb marched in precise formations while playing Scotland the Brave. The spectators rose to their feet.

  Then came the dancers, performing the Highland Fling and Sword Dance on portable stages while musicians bowed their fiddles in a frenzy. Young women in Highland dress bounced on the balls of their feet, their pleated kilts swirling.

  Polly said, “O to be twenty years old—and weightless!”

  The traditional kicks and turns and arm positions were done with micrometric exactness.

  “They dance on a dime—and do it without looking!” she cried in amazement.

  In the Sword Dance they bounced between the crossed blades without touching steel. When they danced in a line of three or four, their gyrations were synchronized right down to a heartbeat.

  There was only one male dancer. In announcing his solo, the master of ceremonies said that Highland dancing was originally an athletic challenge for men, requiring both skill and endurance.

  Qwilleran said to Polly, “Do you know the bozo who won the gold medal for the caber toss?”

  “I'm afraid not. I know several John Campbells, but none could toss anything heavier than a horseshoe.”

  The final event was the pibroch, performed by the police chief of Pickax. The centuries-old tradition called for a lone piper to play a succession of pieces increasing in difficulty, all the while walking slowly about the stage. For the piper it was a challenge; for the audience it was a mesmerizing experience, almost spiritual in its effect. The crowd watched in total silence. Polly claimed to have been in a trance.

  Qwilleran said, “In the Scottish community Andy is considered the master of the pibroch.” And he thought, I'll invite him to the barn for a drink tonight.

  They were walking back to the brown van in the parking lot when Qwilleran swooped down on a penny and dropped it in his pocket. Polly had not noticed.

  On the way home she asked, “What are you writing for your Tuesday column?”

  “Glad you asked. Thanks to our conversation on fibs, I'm planning a dissertation on prevarications of all kinds: untruths, falsehoods, canards, whoppers, taradiddles, fibble-fabble, and just plain bull. I'm asking, What is the difference between a little white lie and big dirty one? . . . What are the dangers of lying to your boss, your spouse, a court judge, the Internal Revenue Service? . . . What was the most heinous lie in Shakespeare?”

  “In Othello,” she replied without hesitation. “Iago maliciously lies about Desdemona's handkerchief, and it leads to her murder.”

  “Good! Go to the head of the class. And how about Mark Twain? Did he have anything to say about lies?”

  “He had something to say about everything!” She reflected briefly. “He said the difference . . . between a cat and a lie was that . . . a cat has only nine lives.”

  That brought up the subject of the Mark Twain Festival. According to old letters and diaries found in Moose County, the author had lectured in Pickax in 1895 while touring the northern states, and he had captivated the audience with his wit and forthright opinions. There was no documented evidence that he had slept at the Pickax hotel; on the other hand, there was no proof that he had not! And the Mackintosh Inn had decided to rename the presidential suite The Mark Twain Suite. Already his portrait hung above the bed where Delacamp had been murdered.

  Qwilleran told Polly, “The murder in the presidential suite has caused the festival promoters to postpone it until October.”

  “Is that a good month?” she asked. “It could be cold.”

  “There's a meeting Wednesday to discuss the pros and cons.”

  Qwilleran dropped Polly at her condo for her Sunday ritual of getting herself together for the workweek. What it entailed he had no idea, and he would never ask. He himself went home to feed the cats and talk to them: “You guys missed a good show this weekend. Next year we'll have a Feline Gathering. Koko can toss the caber, and Yum Yum can dance the Highland Fling on the balls of her paws.”

  Whether he talked nonsense or recited the Declaration of Independence, their reaction was the same: purring, looking wide-eyed, and twitching their tails. As he discovered, Koko had done a little caber- tossing of his own; the floor of the library area was littered with the fat yellow pencils that Qwilleran kept in his ceramic pencil holder.

  There were fang-marks in the soft wood. “That cat!” he sa
id aloud as he gathered them off the rug. “One day it's paper towels; the next day it's pencils!”

  “Yargle!” came a response from the kitchen, as Koko tried to yowl and swallow at the same time.

  For his own Sunday night supper Qwilleran went to Rennie's at the inn. It was quiet. Weekend guests had checked out, and the week's business travelers had not yet registered. After having a Reuben sandwich, he stopped at the reception desk to chat with Lenny Inchpot.

  “How'd you like the games?” the clerk asked. “My mom saw you there with Mr. Mac Whannell and said you two had the best-looking knees at the whole Gathering.”

  “That sounds just like your mother!”

  “How'd you like Boze's caber toss?”

  “Fantastic.”

  “When he went to the podium to get the gold medal hung around his neck, I was so proud, I could bust! It's not real gold, but it's a shot in the arm for a guy with no real ambition—except to win the state lottery. One day he asked me, 'How much is a million dollars?' Boze isn't smart, but he's big, and it doesn't hurt to have a muscleman behind the desk after midnight. Another time he asked me why the days were getting shorter. It keeps me on my toes, sort of.”

  “How do you answer his questions?”

  “Usually I give him a straight answer, best I can, but the other day I went for the joke. He asked me, 'Where's Brazil?' I remembered that line from Charley's Aunt and said, 'Where the nuts come from.' It fell flat, of course, so I told him Brazil's in South America, which is south of North America, and I ended up drawing a map of the western hemisphere on the back of an envelope. See what I mean?”

  “What's his chief interest?”

  “Eating. Never gets enough food! My mom would be willing to teach him to cook for a living, but . . .”

  A business traveler came to the desk asking for a studio room with computer desk, and Qwilleran moved away until the transaction was complete. Then he asked Lenny, “Has the homicide had any effect on business?”

  “It doesn't seem to bother the guests. In fact, some of them find it kind of exciting. But the staff talks about it a lot, among themselves. Yesterday the day porter saw a locksmith truck from Bixby pull up to the back door. The police took him upstairs. In half an hour he left.”

  “Boze must have been on duty at the time of the crime.”

  “Yeah, and he told me what he told the police. Around two or two-thirty the lobby was quiet, and he heard the elevator go from the ground floor to one of the upper floors. He thought some guest was coming in when the bars closed. A little later he heard the elevator go down again, as if somebody had just come in for a nightcap or something.”

  “Or something,” Qwilleran said. “Well, good to talk with you, Lenny. Keep up the good work!” He glanced at the carpet, picked something up, and dropped it in his pocket. With amusement he remembered what Iris Cobb used to say: “A whirligig is just a whirligig, but two whirligigs are a pair, and three are a collection.”

  He was now a collector. It was surprising how many pennies dropped through people's fingers or through holes in their pockets. Or were they purposely dropped by penny-droppers like Mildred?

  At the barn he put the newfound pennies into the spalted maple box and checked his messages on the answering machine. He immediately returned Larry Lanspeak's call.

  “Qwill! I've been trying to reach you all day!”

  “When did you get in from—wherever you were?”

  “This morning. Carol had phoned my hotel on Friday, and I couldn't believe the news! But I met a Chicago buyer at the merchandising show, and he told me something quite interesting about Delacamp. That wasn't always his name. His last name was Campau. That's spelled C-A-M-P-A-U, and he was in partnership with a French gemologist whose name was spelled F-E-Y-D-E-A-U. But it seems that Americans had a problem pronouncing the firm's name and even remembering it. So Campau became Delacamp, and F-E-Y-D-E-A-U became F-I-D-O . . . Do you follow me?”

  “Woof woof!”

  “Okay, wise guy! Get off the line.”

  “I'll be on my best behavior. Tell me the rest of the story.”

  Larry went on. “Fido accused Delacamp of embezzling money from the firm and took him to court, but he lost his case for lack of proof. There had been a lot of nasty publicity, however, so Delacamp sued Fido for libel—and won a sizable judgment! How do you like that?”

  “Interesting bit of intrigue!”

  “That's what I thought. I've always been curious about Delacamp's cash transactions . . . Don't forget: the genealogy club meets Wednesday night, and you're invited.”

  It was late evening—the hour when Qwilleran had often phoned Andrew Brodie at home. The chief answered brusquely.

  “It's a long time between drinks, Andy, and I happen to have some double-malt.”

  “Be right there.” A few minutes later he tramped into the barn, looking grouchy.

  Qwilleran said with enthusiasm, “Andy, I saw the pibroch for the first time today, and I want to tell you it's a transcendental experience!”

  “Whatever that means.”

  “You were superb! Polly was with me, and she said your performance put her under a spell.”

  Brodie grunted. He was not accustomed to compliments.

  “Was your wife there?”

  “Nah. She's seen it a hundred times.”

  “How about your grandchildren?”

  “Nah. They're not into that stuff.”

  “It must give you satisfaction to play music that gives people deep feelings.”

  “Nah. It's just something I do.” Brodie flung the suggestion away with an impatient gesture.

  “Who was the man with a video recorder?”

  “Some fella from the Scottish Museum in Lockmaster. Thinks they can sell 'em. But it won't work with the pibroch. There has to be a direct connection between the piper and the listener.”

  “Exactly what I was trying to say,” Qwilleran told him. “Take a seat and pour yourself a drink.”

  His guest dropped into one of the new bar stools. “Nice stool!” He glanced around the barn. “Where's your smart cat?”

  “On top of the fireplace, watching you. Don't make a false move.”

  There was a thump as Koko jumped down to the surface of the library table, making the visitor wince instinctively, but Koko merely began dragging yellow pencils from the pencil holder.

  Qwilleran explained, “He likes to sink his fangs in the soft wood of a pencil. I did the same thing when I was a kid, learning to write. I chewed every pencil. Arch Riker, my seatmate, wrote with his left ear down on the desk and his right hand moving the pencil four inches from his nose. The teacher thought we were a couple of weirdos.”

  Brodie chuckled. “It seems to me you turned out all right. Both of you! The worst I ever did was to try lickin' frozen railway tracks. Almost lost a tongue.”

  “Lucky you didn't lose an entire head!” Qwilleran pushed the nut bowl toward him. “Try these. Absolutely fresh!”

  “What are the big ones? They're big as horse chestnuts!”

  “Brazil nuts. We never had them up here until the Sip 'n' Nibble Shop opened. Good, aren't they? . . . I didn't see you at the games yesterday.”

  “Had to take my wife shopping.”

  “When Boze Campbell tossed a perfect caber, three out of three, it was a historic moment in Moose County. It'll be all over the paper tomorrow. He's a desk clerk at the inn, you know.”

  “I know. He was on duty at the time of the homicide, and all he noticed was the elevator going up and down. He's a good athlete but not smart. What can you expect? He was born with two strikes against him.”

  “He was an orphan, I hear.”

  “A foundling!” said Brodie. “And I'm the one that found him!”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. Twenty-five years ago when I was working for the sheriff. There was an old shack on Chipmunk Road that we had orders to keep an eye on. Kids used to hang out there. One night before Halloween I was
on patrol and stopped to check it out. It was a fire hazard, what with oil lamps, candles, and smokin'. I saw no cars parked, no lights inside, but I heard a baby cryin'. I knew it wasn't some kind of bird or animal. I went in with my flashlight, and there on an old broken-down table was a soup carton with this little red thing no bigger'n a skinned squirrel, and it was yellin' its head off! There was no note—no clue—nothin'! I rushed it to old Dr. Goodwinter's house—remember him?—and got him out of bed. The mother was never identified.”

  “How did he get named John Campbell? That's a prominent name around here.”

  “Social Services took over, and at first he was just John Doe, but nobody wanted to adopt him and give him a name, so they took the one off the soup carton.” Brodie stopped for a chuckle. “He was a ward of the county after that, kicked around a whole string of foster homes. I kept track of him, sort of like a godfather. I saw him grow big, drop out of school, go back to play football.”

  “Lois Inchpot took an interest in him.”

  “Yeah, she's a good woman—tough but good-hearted. When Boze started classes at MCCC and workin' the desk at the inn, you could've knocked me over with a feather. That fella has the strength and skill of a backwoodsman.”

  Qwilleran said, “It would make a good headline if his mother came forward—now that he's a hero.”

  “Nah, she'd never do it. Too many unknowns! How would her son react? How would the taxpayers react, after supporting him all these years? Would she have to answer charges of infant abandonment? What kind of life is she living now? . . . Nah, she'll let sleeping dogs lie, so forget your headline.”

  “Pour another drink, Andy, and I'll get out some cheese.”

  Qwilleran's visitor was loosening up, and it was time to change the subject. “What do you think about the strange case at the inn, Andy? Too bad it happened on the heels of the grand opening.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . . when you operate like that guy, you're just a murder waiting to happen. We can't release details till the SBI gives us the go-ahead, but between you and me—it's not a local crime. The killer drove up from Down Below, did the job, picked up the accomplice posing as the victim's niece, and drove her back where she came from. Strange thing, they left the jewel cases here but apparently took the cash—and there must've been plenty of that, considering the purchases made Thursday. Some customers said they gave him amounts up into six figures. Doesn't take many of those to make a million.”