The Cat Who Went Underground Read online

  Leo Urbank, the chemist, flaunted his academic degrees, professional connections, and club affiliations like a verbal résumé and asked Qwilleran if he played golf. Upon receiving a negative reply he wandered away.

  Bushy, the photographer, invited Qwilleran to go fishing some evening. He was younger than the other men, although losing his hair. Qwilleran had always enjoyed the company of news photographers, and Bushy seemed to fit the pattern: outgoing, likable, self-assured.

  The superintendent of schools said to Qwilleran, “Have you heard from Polly Duncan since she escaped from Moose County?”

  Qwilleran knew Lyle Compton well—a tall, thin, saturnine man with a perverse sense of humor and blunt speech. “I received a postcard, Lyle,” he replied. “She was met at the airport by the local bigwigs, and they gave her a bunch of flowers.”

  “That’s more than we did for the unfortunate woman who came here. I think Polly’s getting the better part of the deal. Since she’s so gung ho on Shakespeare, she may decide to stay in England.”

  Qwilleran’s moustache bristled at the suggestion, although he knew that Compton was baiting him. “No chance,” he said. “When Polly airs her theory that Shakespeare was really a woman, she’ll be deported . . . By the way, do you know anything about that young man who was drowned?”

  As superintendent of schools Compton knew everyone in the county, and was always willing to share his information, though taking care to point out that he was not a gossip, just a born educator. “Buddy Yarrow? Yes, he was well-liked at school. Had to struggle to keep his grades up, though. Married the Tobin girl, and they had too many kids too fast. He had a tough time supporting them.”

  Mildred overheard them. “I’m applying to the Klingenschoen Fund for financial aid for the Yarrows,” she said. “I hope you’ll put in a good word, Qwill.”

  Dottie Madley said, “Buddy built our steps down to the beach, and he was very considerate—didn’t leave any sawdust or nails lying around. Glinko sent him to us.”

  “Did someone mention Glinko?” asked Urbank. “We had some plumbing done this week, and Glinko sent us a lady plumber!”

  “I suppose she fixes everything with a hairpin,” said Doc.

  Qwilleran concealed a scowl. He had long ago curbed his tendency to make jocular remarks about hairpins and bras.

  “Doc!” said Mildred in her sternest classroom voice. “That is an outmoded sexist slur. Go to the powder room and wash your mouth out with soap.”

  “I’ll stop quipping about hairpins,” Doc retorted, “when you gals stop calling the john the powder room.”

  “Objection!” said John Bushland. “Derogatory reference to a minority!”

  It was then that Qwilleran made a remark that exploded like a bomb. It was just a casual statement of his summer intentions, but the reaction astonished him.

  “Don’t do it!” said the host.

  “You’ll be sorry,” his wife warned, and she wasn’t smiling.

  “Only mistake I ever made in my life,” said the attorney. “We tried it last summer, and it broke up our marriage.”

  “When we did it, my wife almost had a nervous breakdown,” said the chemist.

  Bushy added seriously, “For the first time in my life I felt like killing someone!”

  Qwilleran had simply mentioned that he would like to build an addition to the log cabin. Everyone at the party, he now learned, had encountered infuriating or insurmountable obstacles while building an addition or remodeling a kitchen or adding a porch or putting on a new roof.

  “What seems to be the problem?” he asked in mild bewilderment.

  “All the good contractors are busy with big jobs in the summer,” explained Doc Madley. “Right now they’re building the condos on the shore, a big motel in Mooseville, senior housing in North Kennebeck, a new wing on the Pickax Hospital, and a couple of schools. For a small job like yours you have to hire an underground builder.”

  “If you can find one,” Urbank added.

  “Pardon my ignorance,” Qwilleran said, “but what is an underground builder?”

  “You have to dig to find one,” said Compton by way of definition.

  “What about Glinko? I thought his service was the bright and beautiful answer to all problems great and small.”

  “Glinko can send you someone for an emergency or a day’s work, but he doesn’t handle building projects.”

  “Do these underground builders advertise in the phone book?”

  “Advertise!” Bushy exclaimed. “They don’t even have telephones. Some of them camp out in tents.”

  “Then how do you track them down?”

  “Hang around the bars,” someone said.

  “Hang around the lumberyard,” someone else said. “If you see a guy buying two-by-fours and nails and plywood and being refused credit, grab him! That’s your man.”

  “Don’t give him a nickel in advance,” Compton warned. “Pay him for the hours worked.”

  “And hope to God he comes back the next day,” said Urbank. “We spent one whole summer waiting for a man to finish our job, and then we found out he was in jail in some other county.”

  “Ours lived in a trailer camp,” said Dottie, “and Doc went out there every morning at six o’clock to haul him out of bed.”

  “If you’re interested in bargains,” Doc said, “the underground builder is a good bet. He may never finish the job, but he comes cheap.”

  “And you’ll have to watch him every minute, or he’ll put the door where the window should be,” Bushy warned.

  “Hmmm,” said Qwilleran, unable to muster any other verbal reaction after the astonishing tirade.

  “On the whole,” said Compton, “they know their craft, but they’re damned casual about it. They don’t bother with blueprints. You tell them what you want, draw a picture in the sand with a stick, and wave your hands.”

  “Of course, if the worst comes to the worst,” said Doc, “there’s always Mighty Lou.”

  Everyone laughed, and the discussion died a merciful death as the hostess invited them to the buffet.

  The guests pocketed their sunglasses, went indoors, and served themselves cold chicken, potato salad, and carrot straws. Some found small tables. Others balanced plates on their knees. Compton stood up with his plate on the fireplace mantel.

  The attorney, sitting next to Qwilleran, said under his breath, “Have you tried talking to that new girl? I’m brilliant in the courtroom, but I couldn’t get a blasted word out of that woman!”

  Mildred said in her classroom voice, “Did anyone see the visitors last night?”

  “What time?” Bushy asked.

  “About two in the morning.”

  “That’s when they usually come around,” Sue Urbank remarked.

  “Let me tell you what happened to me,” the photographer said. “I took my boat out last night for some twilight fishing, and I was baiting my hook when I felt something shining over my head. I knew what it was, of course, so I reached for my camera—I never go anywhere without it—but when I looked up again, the thing was gone!”

  “What was it?” Qwilleran asked.

  “Another UFO,” Bushy replied in a matter-of-fact way.

  Qwilleran searched the other faces, but no one seemed surprised.

  “Ever get a picture of one?” the photographer was asked.

  “Never had any luck. They scoot off so fast.”

  “Have any abductions been reported?” Qwilleran inquired with the smirk of a skeptic.

  “Not yet,” answered Doc, “but I’m sure Mildred will be the first.”

  Calmly she retorted, “Doc, I hope all your patients sue you!”

  Sue Urbank said, “It’s a funny thing. I didn’t see a single visitor last summer, but this year they’re out there almost every night.”

  “We can expect abnormal weather—with all that activity over the lake,” Dottie predicted.

  Qwilleran continued to stare at them with disbelief.

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sp; Mildred observed his reaction and said, “Shall I phone you, Qwill, some night around two o’clock when they come around?”

  “That’s kind of you,” he said, “but I need all the beauty sleep I can get.”

  During the small talk Russell Simms was silent, staring at her plate and chewing slowly. Once Qwilleran glanced suddenly in her direction and caught her studying him from the corner of her eye. He preened his moustache.

  Urbank said, “Did everyone read their horoscope this morning? Mine said I’d make a wise investment, so I went out and bought a new set of clubs.”

  “Mine said I should cooperate with my mate,” said the attorney. “Unfortunately I don’t have one at the moment. Any volunteers?”

  Bushy said, “Today’s Fluxion told me to go out and have a good time. The Rampage told me to stay home and get some work done.”

  “I don’t read horoscopes,” Compton announced.

  “That’s true,” said his wife. “I have to read them to him while he’s shaving.”

  “Lyle, I always knew you were a hypocrite,” said Doc.

  “A hypocritical superintendent is more to be trusted than a painless dentist,” said Compton. “Never trust a dentist who doesn’t hurt.”

  “Qwill, what’s your sign?” asked Mildred.

  “I don’t think I have a sign,” he said. “When the signs were handed out, I was overlooked.”

  Three persons asked his birthdate and decided he was a Gemini on the cusp of Taurus. Mildred said it would be an interesting year for Gemini. “You can expect the unexpected,” she added.

  When coffee was served and guests returned to the deck, Compton wandered down to the beach to smoke a cigar. Qwilleran followed him and said, “Doc is a great kidder.”

  “He’s good at shooting the breeze,” Compton said, “but if you want your teeth fixed, you might better go to an auto mechanic.”

  “How did you react to all that chatter about UFOs and horoscopes?”

  “Don’t expect any rational conversation from this beach crowd,” said the superintendent. “They’re all intelligent folks, but they get a little giddy when they come up here. Must be something in the atmosphere.”

  “I assume Captain Phlogg never comes to any of these parties.”

  “No, he’s an antisocial fellow. He has a big dog that wanders around the dunes like the hound of the Baskervilles, and I’ve got my shotgun loaded. If I ever catch him doing his business on my beach, he’s going to get it! Right between the eyes!”

  Qwilleran said, “I opened a can of worms when I mentioned building an addition.”

  “You don’t really intend to do it, do you?”

  “I’m badly in need of more space. The cabin is okay for weekends or a brief vacation, but it’s inadequate for the whole summer. Did you ever hire an underground builder?”

  “About two months ago,” said Compton. “He poured a slab for a two-car garage and roughed it in, and then he never came back. I’ve done everything but hire a private detective. He was one of the itinerants who come up here during the resort season, you know, and the only way I could get hold of him was to leave a message at the Shipwreck Tavern. They haven’t seen him for five weeks, and we’re sitting there with a half-built garage. Can’t get anyone else to finish the damn thing.”

  “This is not very encouraging,” Qwilleran said.

  “You have to live through it to believe it.”

  “Someone mentioned Mighty Lou . . .”

  “Forget him! You may have seem him swaggering around town—a weight lifter who thinks he’s a builder. He has a fortune in tools, but he doesn’t know which end of the nail to hit.”

  “How does he make a living?”

  “He doesn’t need to make a living. His family used to own all the sandpits in the county.”

  There was a spectacular sunset—a ball of fire sinking into the lake and turning it blood red. Then the mosquitoes swooped in, and the guests went indoors to play cards. Qwilleran suggested to Mildred that they leave.

  “Let’s go home and make a sundae,” she said. “I’m still hungry. Do you realize there were thirteen of us at that party? That’s unlucky.”

  “We’ll all get food poisoning from the potato salad,” Qwilleran predicted cheerfully. “Did you get a chance to talk to the young woman in the white dress? Her first name is Russell. She acts like a sleepwalker.”

  “I don’t know what she’s all about,” Mildred said. “Did you see her eyes when she took off her sunglasses? Weird!”

  “Maybe she landed from one of your extraterrestrial aircraft.”

  “You don’t believe in the visitors,” Mildred reproached him. “But just wait till you see one!” When they got to Mildred’s she served homemade French vanilla ice cream with strawberries and a sprinkling of something crunchy. “What do you think of the topping?”

  “It looks like dry catfood,” he said, “but it’s good!”

  “It’s my homemade cereal—wonderful in the morning with milk and sliced bananas. What do you eat for breakfast, Qwill?”

  “I haven’t eaten cereal since I was twelve years old.”

  “Then I’m going to give you some to take home.” Mildred was always mothering her friends with homemade food. “Now tell me about the addition you want to build.”

  “Nothing very large—just a room for sleeping and writing, and a lavatory, and an apartment for the cats. Could you make a rough diagram? Something I could show the builder?”

  “That will be easy,” she said. “I’ll make elevations, too. You’ll never be able to match the log walls, but you can use board-and-batten and stain it to harmonize with the logs.”

  She made sketches, and they discussed details, and he stayed longer than he had intended. When he finally left for home, Mildred gave him a plastic tub of cereal and lent him a flashlight for the beach. “Watch out for the rocks at Seagull Point,” she warned as she sprayed him with mosquito repellent. “And watch out for visitors!” she added mischievously.

  Walking back to the cabin, he was confident he could line up a reputable builder without resorting to workmen on the fringe. He had contacts in Pickax; the Klingenschoen money was at his disposal; and he had done many favors for individuals and organizations. He could foresee no problem.

  Arriving at the cabin, he scrambled up the side of the dune, walked around the building and let himself in the back door. “I’m home!” he called out. “Where’s the welcoming committee? . . . Damn!” He tripped over a crumpled rug that was supposed to cover the trap door.

  Switching on lights, he searched for the Siamese. As soon as he saw Yum Yum sitting on the sofa in her worried pose, he knew something was amiss, and then he noticed the shower of confetti on the hearth rug. An entire page of the newspaper had been torn to bits! Completely destroyed was the story on page one about the drowning of Buddy Yarrow, and that included Qwilleran’s own column on the reverse side—the story about Switch, the electrician’s dog.

  “Where the devil are you?” Qwilleran shouted. There was a slight movement overhead, and his gaze moved slowly up the face of the stone fireplace to the high mantel—a huge timber hewn from a twenty-foot pine log. Koko was not on the mantel or on the crossbeams. He was on the moosehead, sitting tall between the antlers and radiating satisfaction in every whisker.

  “Don’t sit there looking smart!” Qwilleran barked at him. “Whatever you’re trying to tell me, your mode of communication is not appreciated. Furthermore, you rolled up that rug in the hall and I tripped over it! I could have broken my neck!”

  Koko squeezed his eyes and looked angelic.

  “You devil!” Qwilleran said as he collected the bits of paper, wondering why Koko had done what he did.

  THREE

  If Qwilleran had read his horoscope Monday morning, he could have saved a few phone calls. Most vacationers consulted their stars in the Morning Rampage, which was flown to Mooseville daily from Down Below. On Monday morning the Rampage had this to say to Gemini readers:
“Listen to the advice of associates. Don’t insist on doing things your own way.”

  Qwilleran never read the horoscopes, however. First he telephoned XYZ Enterprises in Pickax, and Don Exbridge said, “I wish we could accommodate you, Qwill, but we’re having labor trouble, and it’ll be a miracle if we can meet our contract deadlines. We’re in danger of losing a whole lot of money.” Then he called Moose County Construction, second largest contractor in the area, and was assured they would be glad to do the work for him—next summer. Finally, the owner of Kennebeck Building Industries declared it would be a privilege and a pleasure to build an addition to the Klingenschoen log cabin—after Labor Day.

  Qwilleran wanted the new wing in July, not September, and his disappointment was aggravated by two other developments. First, a cluster of insect bites had suddenly appeared on his left buttock, and they were driving him crazy despite applications of an expensive preparation recommended by the Mooseville druggist. And that was not all: The kitchen sink was leaking again!

  Irately he made another emergency call to Glinko and then stormed out of the house in frustration and annoyance, hoping the lonely half-mile stretch of sand between the cabin and the dune cottages would restore his perspective.

  As he walked he began to realize that he had lived contentedly with very little money during his entire adult life; now that unlimited funds were available, he was reacting like a spoiled child. He sat down on a log tossed up on the beach by a recent storm, sitting carefully to avoid the cluster of bites. The lake rippled gently, and the water lapped the shore with soothing splashes. Sandpipers ran up and down the beach. Gulls were squawking.

  An unusual number of gulls filled the sky to the east, wheeling and diving and screaming. Something special was happening beyond the clump of rocks and willows known as Seagull Point. He walked slowly toward the promontory lest he disturb their fun, and when he reached the willows he saw a woman on the beach, a drab figure in fawncolored slacks and sweater. She was standing at the water’s edge, taking food from her sweater pockets and tossing it to the hysterical birds. He recognized Russell’s dark clipped hair and her dreamlike movements. The gulls were going berserk, skreeking and chattering, fighting each other for scraps in midair, swooping in and taking the food from her fingers. And she was talking to them in a language he could not interpret. He watched the spectacle until her pockets were empty and she walked slowly east toward the cottages.