The Cat Who Robbed a Bank Read online

  The Barter house was surrounded by working farms, and cocktails were served on a terrace with a view of a neighbor's grazing sheep, while chickens turned on a spit and corn roasted in the coals.

  Someone asked the new innkeeper the inevitable question: “How do you like it up here?”

  “Will someone please explain something?” he inquired. “What are those old wooden towers out in the middle of nowhere?”

  The other young people looked at their boss, and Barter replied, “They're the shafthouses of mines that were highly productive in the nineteenth century but failed in the early twentieth. There are ten of them in the county.”

  “They should tear them down and fill in the mineshafts,” said the brash newcomer from Down Below. “Then they could graze more sheep.”

  “Smile when you say that, chum,” Qwilleran advised. “Those shafthouses are near and dear to the hearts of local folks. And tourists, too. In the souvenir shops the best-selling postcards have views of shafthouses. And there's a fine artist here who paints watercolors of shafthouses and can't turn them out fast enough to fill the demand.”

  “Somebody should write a book about all this!” said Barry.

  “Somebody has!” several of the guests said in unison.

  “It's in the library, if you're interested,” Polly told him. Then she amused everyone by describing the Computer War, in which library subscribers picketed the building and burned their library cards on the front steps—all in protest against automation.

  Qwilleran said, “The people here, you have to understand, Barry, are descended from pioneers, who were rugged individualists.”

  Everyone seemed to have a good time—not a boisterous good time but a civilized good time. When it was over, Qwilleran told Barter about the security guard stunt. The attorney laughed and called it a harmless joke. Then they confided in Barry, who said, “Great!”

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 8—Better a living dog than a dead lion

  In the early afternoon Qwilleran left the barn for guard duty, saying goodbye to the sleeping cats on the bar stools and adding, “Wish me well, and I'll bring you a cucumber sandwich.” Two pairs of ears twitched.

  Carol Lanspeak and the wardrobe mistress were waiting for him at the K Theatre. The building was a giant cube of fieldstone, once upon a time the most magnificent residence in town. There the Klingenschoen family had lived in private splendor, spurned by the mining and lumbering magnates. Ironically, it was the K fortune that had recently doubled and trebled the quality of life in Moose County. As for the venerable building itself, it had barely survived disaster and now served as a theatre seating two hundred.

  When Qwilleran arrived, Carol ushered him into the backstage area, saying, “Isn't this a lark? With a little dye, dark glasses, and a visored cap, you'll never be recognized.”

  The Lanspeaks amazed Qwilleran. Nothing in their appearance or manners suggested that they had been on the stage, yet Carol could play a queen or a harlot convincingly, and Larry could play the role of scoundrel, old man, or dashing hero. Both had the inner energy that distinguished an outstanding performer.

  Now Carol was saying, “It's the kind of dye that will wash right out when you get home, so you don't have to worry about that. The cats won't recognize you, though.”

  “Koko will, but Yum Yum will hiss at me.”

  “You trimmed your moustache a little. That's good.”

  “I always trim it for weddings and undercover assignments,” he said.

  “First choose your uniform. Then Alice can make alterations if necessary while I work on makeup.” Alice Toddwhistle was standing by with a tape measure around her neck and a thimble on her finger.

  Qwilleran chose a dark-blue outfit with an emblem on the sleeve and a cap that looked official if not examined too closely. When he tried it on and appeared in the fitting room, the two women screamed at the sight: the trousers too short, the sleeves too long, the cap three sizes too large.

  “Do you have a Neanderthal in the club?” he asked.

  Alice said, “I can fix the pant legs and sleeves in a jiffy. The cap will be okay if we stuff the crown with tissue paper.”

  In the makeup room Carol went to work with professional assurance, darkening the pepper-and-salt moustache, eyebrows, and patches of gray at his temples.

  “Did Delacamp arrive on schedule?” he asked.

  “Yes. He brought his niece this time—a quiet girl. She defers to him all the time. He's put on some weight, but he's quite handsome for a man of his age. I think he's had cosmetic surgery. And his toupee is new. A very expensive one . . . Oops! Did I bump you in the eyeball? I'm sorry.”

  “That's all right. I have another one.”

  “At the country club dinner he showed his slides of fabulous jewels in museums. There was a necklace that Napoleon gave Josephine, and it must have weighed a pound: all rubies, emeralds, enamel work, and precious metals. . . . Do you realize that rubies and emeralds were replaced by diamonds in nineteenth-century fashion for the simple reason that the lighting in public places was improving? Dazzle became more important than color. . . . There!” Carol whipped off the cape covering his shoulders. “Now for the logistics: I'll drive you to the inn. Barry Morghan will meet you at the entrance and whisk you upstairs on the elevator. At three o'clock he'll escort you to the ballroom. As soon as it's over, return to his office. He'll phone the store, and Larry will drive you back here.”

  Qwilleran said, “Carol, you're so well organized, it's unnerving.”

  “Well, it helps if you've run a department store for twenty-five years . . . and directed two dozen stage productions . . . and raised three kids.”

  As Qwilleran knew, their elder son was a clergyman in New York State; their daughter was an M.D. in Pickax; the younger son had been a tragic failure. No one ever mentioned him. “How does Dr. Diane feel about pouring tea this afternoon?” Qwilleran asked.

  “She says she hasn't been so nervous since she lanced her first boil! She and Polly will pour for forty-five minutes and then be relieved by Susan Exbridge and Maggie Sprenkle. It's Maggie's Belgian lace banquet cloth that we're using, and Susan is lending two silver tea services and a six-branch silver candelabrum.”

  Then the uniform was ready. Qwilleran assembled his disguise and looked in the mirror.

  “Well?” Carol asked.

  “Well?” Alice repeated.

  He hesitated. “I don't know who this guy is, but he's not me!”

  The women applauded.

  • • •

  As Carol drove him to the inn, Qwilleran asked, “Do you know a perfume called L'Heure Bleue?”

  “Of course! It's a classic. A delicate flowery fragrance with a hint of vanilla. Jacque Guerlain created it for Yvonne Printemps in 1912. As a matter of fact, Larry gave me a bottle of L'Heure Bleue when we were honeymooning in Paris umpteen years ago.”

  “Could you special-order it? I'd like to surprise Polly.”

  “Be glad to. I think she'd like the eau de toilette in the spray bottle. . . . And by the way, are you and she free on Thursday evening? We're giving a small at-home dinner for Mr. Delacamp and his niece. For you, Qwill, it would be your only opportunity to meet him. . . . But I warn you, he's a nonstop talker.”

  “That's okay, as long as I learn something.”

  “You will, believe me! He's an encyclopedia of facts about several subjects.”

  They could see Barry Morghan standing at the carriage entrance of the inn.

  “Okay,” said Qwilleran. “I've taken my adjustment. I'm Joe Buzzard, ex-cop. I hire out for security gigs. Everyone's a potential jewel thief.”

  He stomped out of the Lanspeak van and swaggered up to the entrance in a surly manner, pretending not to see Barry.

  With a straight face the innkeeper asked, “Are you from City Security Services?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow me.”

  As soon as they were in the office with the door closed, Barry said, “You look
great, Qwill! No one will recognize you. How about some coffee while we're waiting for three o'clock? Can you drink without the dye running down your chin?”

  “I'd feel safer with a straw. . . . How did you enjoy the barbecue?”

  “I had a great time! Lots of nice people. They're not uptight like city dudes.”

  “They're friendly, no doubt about it, but they're also nosy and prone to spread rumors, so be on your guard.”

  “Speaking of city types,” Barry said, “guess who barged into my office this morning—wearing a Moroccan caftan and five pounds of silver jewelry! He said coolly, 'I'm Delacamp.' I jumped up to welcome him and got the tips of his fingers for a handshake. He had a complaint to make. He had gone to the kitchen to tell them how he wanted the tea made, and the chef—he said—was uncooperative and rude. I apologized for him but pointed out that Board of Health regulations put the kitchen off limits to anyone not involved officially in food service.”

  “I'd say you handled that well, Barry.”

  “I thought so, too. . . . Wait a minute, Qwill. You need something else. An intercom! I'll get you one. Hang it on your belt.”

  The focal point of the ballroom was a long tea table with lace cloth, tall silver candelabrum, and two flower arrangements. At each end a silver tea service stood ready. Small skirted tables and clusters of little ballroom chairs were scattered about the room. There was a piano in one corner, half hidden by large potted plants. And off to one side was the jewel table, covered with an Oriental rug. There were no jewels in sight—just leather carrying cases. A hatted young woman in a businesslike suit was in charge.

  At Barry's suggestion Qwilleran stationed himself on the stairs in a shadowy corner from which he could observe without being conspicuous. When Polly and Dr. Diane arrived, they brushed past him without noticing and went to opposite ends of the tea table—Polly in a simple blue Breton to match her dress, Diane in a toque with an impudently long pheasant feather. Then the servers brought platters of finger food and silver pots of tea to place on the burners. It would take more than a short black dress and frilly white cap and apron, Qwilleran thought, to transform MCCC students into French maids.

  Shortly before three o'clock the host swept grandly down the stairs in Oriental caftan and heavy gold chains, his portliness only adding to his dignity. He introduced himself to the pourers, inspected the tea table, discussed something with his assistant at the jewel table, and signaled to the pianist.

  Lyrical melodies flooded the room as guests began to move slowly down the stairs, balancing top-heavy hats and exuding whiffs of perfume as they passed the security guard.

  Delacamp stood at the foot of the wide stairs and gazed at the women with patent admiration—or was it part of his act? He bowed, kissed hands, and murmured words that met with pleased surprise or girlish delight. Qwilleran thought, What a ham!

  For the next hour and a half the bearers of the spectacular millinery would move self-consciously about the room—sipping tea, nibbling seed cake, conversing softly, and making gentle exclamations over the diamond clips and pearl chokers on the jewel table. Carol was there, wildly hatted, and she seemed to have a managerial role, supervising the French maids and controlling the flow of guests to the display of jewels. (They were on shallow trays that slipped in and out of the leather cases.) Neither Carol nor Polly ever glanced in Qwilleran's direction.

  After having his fill of sights and sounds and perfume he stole a surreptitious peek at his wristwatch. It was only twenty minutes after three! And already he had had enough. As a journalist he would have made a swift exit, but as a security guard he could hardly walk off the job. Feeling trapped in a situation was something he had always deplored, avoided, feared. Yet, here he was in a mess of his own making and he had to endure it for another seventy minutes. He could imagine what Arch Riker would say if he could see him in this predicament—and in this disguise! Arch always sniped at him about his compulsions to snoop, and this fiasco would give his old friend plenty of ammunition.

  Qwilleran steeled himself. He devised ways to keep himself amused:

  How many of the guests did he know socially—and how many had he met in the line of business?

  Why was the pianist playing only Debussy and Satie? Why did Delacamp object to Chopin? Was there some psychological influence at work? What would happen if she suddenly launched into Flight of the Bumblebee?

  What would happen if he suddenly shouted “Fire!”?

  How much perfume would be required to activate the sprinkler system? The mingled scents were getting stronger as their wearers drank hot tea and listened to Old Campo's heated whispers.

  Could mental telepathy be used to force Polly, or Carol, or the pianist to glance at the security guard?

  When the servers removed picked-over platters of goodies—such as they were—and replaced them with fresh platters, what happened to the rejects? Did they go into the garbage-grinder? Were the French maids allowed to take them home? Qwilleran suspected they were merely rearranged and sent back to the tea table.

  What was Sarah Plensdorf doing at the tea? She was an older woman who worked as office manager at the Moose County Something. She lived quietly, and her hobby was button collecting. Surely she was not in the market for a diamond clip. Did she have family heirlooms to sell? Her ancestors had been either shipbuilders or bootleggers, depending on the source of gossip.

  Who was there to buy and who was there to sell? As Qwilleran deduced, the potential buyers pored over the jewels in the shallow trays, then spoke to the assistant, who wrote something in a black leather notebook. The potential sellers, on the other hand, ignored the display and merely spoke to the assistant, who again wrote in the book.

  What did Delacamp think of the outrageous hats? Did he realize the guests were mocking him? Polly's blue Breton was one of the few sane and simple hats in the hall. Qwilleran named it L'Heure Bleue. Others he named Swan Lake . . . Fruit Salad Plate . . . Yes We Have No Bananas . . . or Wreck of the Hesperus. It killed time.

  At that point male footsteps came tripping down the stairs behind him and stopped just behind his right shoulder. A hushed voice asked, “How's everything?”

  “Boring!” Qwilleran muttered without turning his head.

  “Anything I can do?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Yes. Turn on the sprinkling system.”

  “It's stuffy in here. I'll check the ventilators. . . . At four-thirty make your getaway and come to my office. Use the stairway.”

  Then Qwilleran was alone again. According to his watch, he had another half hour to spend as Joe Buzzard of City Security Services. He tried rising on his toes, stretching his spine, flexing his muscles discreetly, blinking his eyes behind his dark glasses.

  Polly had finished her duty at the tea table and was now circulating and chatting with other guests. She knew everyone! Gradually she made her way to the jewel table. He had told her to select something nice; it would be her Christmas present. She protested; she had her pearls and her opals, and she had no taste for diamonds. He had insisted, however, and now he saw her approach the leather cases reluctantly . . . explain to the assistant . . . look at shallow trays of baubles and shake her head . . . then show sudden interest, even enthusiasm. The assistant wrote something in her book, and Polly had another cup of tea.

  Now what? Qwilleran consulted his watch. Twenty minutes more! He began to wish for a minor jewel heist, and he fantasized a scenario:

  French maid drops a platter of cucumber sandwiches to divert attention . . . grabs an empty teapot and bashes jeweler's assistant . . . scoops handfuls of diamonds into her apron . . . dashes to the service exit pursued by a security guard waving a wooden gun and shouting “Stop thief!”

  This exercise amused Qwilleran for five minutes.

  Fifteen minutes more!

  Now what?

  He could search for fodder for the “Qwill Pen.” Could he write a thousand words on cucumber sandwiches . . . or the forgotten art of hand-kissing
. . . or hats? Yes! There were cowboy hats, baseball caps, bike helmets, construction workers' hard hats, a bagpiper's bonnet, gob hats, a bishop's miter. Hats were important! There had been George Washington's cocked hat, Yankee Doodle's hat with a feather, Humphrey Bogart's snap-brim fedora, Maurice Chevalier's straw boater, Fred Astaire's silk top hat . . .

  Before Qwilleran knew it, the piano music stopped, the tea-warmers were turned off, the jewel cases were locked, and he was running up the stairs to the innkeeper's office, gasping for a cup of coffee.

  When Larry Lanspeak drove him back to the K Theatre, Qwilleran said, “Well, your jeweler camps it up, doesn't he? His getup is straight out of Arabian Nights, and his manners date back to Molegrave;re. . . . And you'll have to forgive me, Larry, but I can't help wondering if this hoopla is worthwhile—businesswise, that is.”

  Larry said, “I'll be frank with you. We don't get a penny of commission from any of his transactions here, but—what the heck?—it's only once every five years, and in between, if a customer of ours wants to special-order a string of pearls or an engagement ring, we get the usual markup. Also, the ballyhoo is good public relations for us. It helps the Old Guard unload some of their old jewelry.”

  “Do you think he offers them a fair price?”

  “No one ever complains. He sends them roses, and they're always thrilled to have him visit their homes.”

  Larry dropped Qwilleran at the side door of the theatre, handing him a small paperbound booklet. “Here's a script of the play that's about to open, in case you want to read it before opening night. . . . I assume you'll be reviewing it for the paper.”

  “Who else?” It was a script for Night Must Fall.

  “It was first produced in 1937. Emlyn Williams wrote the role of the houseboy for himself. It's a challenge for an actor.”