The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare Read online

  Arriving at his property on the lakeshore, he followed the winding dirt road that led to the cabin. He saw the tire tracks where the camper had parked. Then he went up to the log cabin overlooking the lake. With the windows shuttered, power turned off, and water system drained, it was colder inside than out. On the beach the snow fences were in position. The lake looked grim and ready to freeze. Altogether the scene was bleak and lonely. He heard rifle shots in the woods and hurried back to his car.

  On the way to his appointment with Euphonia Gage he took a detour down MacGregor Road, looking for the cottage where Polly claimed to be living under the watchful eye of her elderly landlord. There were no habitations on this country road—just open fields interspersed with patches of woods: There was no traffic except for one car with a buck tied to the roof. The driver gave Qwilleran a happy grin and a V sign.

  Suddenly there was a jog in the road, and the pavement gave way to gravel. A little farther on, two mailboxes on cedar posts marked a long driveway bordered with shrubs. It led to a cluster of buildings: a substantial stone farmhouse, a tiny frame cottage in the rear, some sheds, and a weathered barn sagging limply to the ground. The names on the mailboxes were MacGregor and Duncan.

  No car was in sight. No farm machinery. No barking dog. But a goose rounded a corner of the main house and honked in a menacing manner. With extreme caution and with one eye on the bird, Qwilleran stepped out of the car and moved toward the side door of the farmhouse. There was no need to knock. He had already been announced.

  “What do you want?” screamed a querulous voice. An old man, frail and stooped, appeared in the doorway, wearing three sweaters and some knitted leg warmers over his trousers.

  “Mr. MacGregor? I’m Jim Qwilleran. Just want to ask you a question, sir.”

  “What are you selling? I don’t want to buy anything.”

  “I’m not a salesman. I’m looking for a hunter who drives a red Jaguar.”

  “Red what?”

  “A red car. Bright red.”

  “I don’t know,” the old man said. “I’m colorblind.”

  “Thank you anyway, Mr. MacGregor. Good day.”

  Still watching the goose, Qwilleran backed away. He had determined that Polly really lived in a cottage adjoining a farmhouse belonging to an elderly landlord named MacGregor. Satisfied, he drove back to town. The cottage, he remarked, was incredibly small.

  At two-thirty he rang the doorbell of a large stone house on Goodwinter Boulevard, to interview the eighty-two-year-old president of the Old Timers Club. The woman who came to the door was the right age, but he doubted that she could do head-stands and push-ups.

  “Mrs. Gage is in her studio,” the woman said. “You can go right in—through the front parlor.”

  A gloomy cave of dark velvet, heavy carved furniture, and black horsehair upholstery led into a light, bright studio, unfurnished except for two large mirrors and an exercise mat. A little woman in leotard, tights, and leg warmers sat in lotus position on the mat. She rose effortlessly and came forward.

  “Mr. Qwilleran! I’ve heard so much about you from Junior! And of course I’ve read your column in the Fluxion.” Her voice was calm but vibrant. She threw on a baggy knee-length sweater and led him back into the suffocating front parlor.

  She was petite but not frail, white haired but smooth skinned.

  “I understand you’re president of the Old Timers Club,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m eighty-two. The youngest member is automatically appointed president.”

  “I suspect you lied about your age.”

  Her pleased expression acknowledged the compliment. “I intend to live to be a hundred and three. I think a hundred and four would be excessive, don’t you? Exercise is the secret, and breathing is the most important factor. Do you know how to breathe, Mr. Qwilleran?”

  “I’ve been doing my best for fifty years.”

  “Stand up and let me place my hands on your rib cage. . . . Now breathe in . . . breathe out . . . inhale . . . exhale. You do very well, Mr. Qwilleran, but you might work on it a little more. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to turn on this tape recorder and ask you some questions about the early days in Moose County.”

  “I shall be happy to oblige.”

  The following interview was later transcribed:

  Question: When did your ancestors come to Moose County, Mrs. Gage?

  My grandfather came here in the mid-nineteenth century, straight out of medical school. He was the first doctor, and he was treated like a blessing from heaven. There were no hospitals or clinics. Everything was primitive. He made house calls on horseback, sometimes ahead of a pack of howling wolves. And once, after a forest fire, when all the trails were impassable, he chopped his way through fifteen miles of debris with an ax in order to treat the survivors. They were burned and mutilated and blinded, and there were no medicines except what he brought in his knapsack.

  What kind of medicines did he have?

  Grandfather mixed his own and rolled his own pills, using herbs and botanicals like rhubarb powder and arnica and nux vomica. Some of his patients preferred old-fashioned remedies like catnip tea or a good slug of whiskey. They never paid for his services with money. They’d give him two chickens for setting a broken bone or a bushel of apples for delivering a baby.

  What kind of cases did he handle?

  Everything. Fever, smallpox, lung disease, surgery, dentistry. He pulled teeth with a pair of “twisters.” And there were plenty of emergencies caused by spring floods, poisonous snakes, sawmill accidents, kicking mules, saloon brawls. Amputations were very common. I have his collection of saws, knives, and scalpels.

  Why so many amputations?

  There were no antibiotics. An infected limb had to be cut off, or the patient would die of blood poisoning. Grandfather talked about performing surgery by candlelight in a log cabin while a member of the family shooed flies away from the open incision. That was over a hundred years ago, you understand. When my father began his practice, conditions had improved. He had an office in our front parlor, and he made house calls in a buggy or sleigh, and he had a full-time driver who lived in the stable and took care of the horses. The driver—Zack was his name—later went to work for the Picayune and achieved notoriety by killing Titus Goodwinter.

  Do you know the circumstances?

  To go back a bit, Zack’s father was a miner, blown to bits in an underground explosion. Zack became a bitter and violent man who regularly beat his wife and two children. Father used to patch them up and report it to the constable, but nothing was done about it. Zack’s young daughter worked at the Picayune, too, and Titus, who was a flagrant roué, seduced the poor girl. She drowned herself, and Zack went after Titus with a hunting knife. Not a pretty story.

  Was the Picayune a good newspaper in its early days?

  Well . . . I’ll tell you . . . if you’ll turn that thing off.

  End of interview.

  After Qwilleran snapped off the tape recorder, Mrs. Gage said, “I can speak to you confidentially because you’re a friend of my favorite grandson. Junior speaks highly of you. The truth is: I have never thought well of that branch of the Goodwinter family, nor of the newspaper they published. Ephraim, the founder of the Picayune, was not a journalist. He was a rich mine owner and lumber baron who would do anything for money. It was his avarice and negligence that caused the terrible mine explosion, killing thirty-nine men. Eventually he took his own life. His sons were no better. His grandson, Senior, was a strange one; he was interested only in setting type!” She rolled her eyes in derision.

  “Why did your daughter marry him?” Qwilleran asked bluntly, since Euphonia was noted for blunt candor.

  “Gritty had always wanted to marry a Goodwinter, and she always did exactly what she wanted. It was a strange match. She’s a spirited girl who likes a good time. Senior had no spirit at all and was certainly not my idea of a good time. How they produced Junior, I can’t exp
lain. He’s too small to be Gritty’s offspring—she’s such an amazon!—and too smart to be Senior’s son.”

  “Recessive genes,” Qwilleran said. “He resembles his grandmother.”

  “You are a charming man, Mr. Qwilleran. I wish Junior might have had you for a father.”

  “You are a charming woman, Mrs. Gage.”

  They both paused for a moment of mutual admiration, and he found himself wishing she were thirty years younger. Spirit—that’s what she had—spirit! Probably the result of all that breathing.

  “Do you think Junior shows promise?” she asked.

  “Great promise, Mrs. Gage. You can be proud of him. Were you aware that the Picayune was failing?”

  “Of course I was aware. I tried to help. I don’t know what the man did with my money, unless . . .”

  “Unless what, Mrs. Gage?”

  “I’ll be perfectly frank. Let it all hang out, as Junior says. You see, I learned in a roundabout way that Senior had been making frequent one-day trips Down Below. To Minneapolis, as a matter of fact. If my son-in-law had ever shown any spirit, I would have guessed it was another woman. Under the circumstances, I could only deduce that he was gambling as a last resort—gambling and losing.”

  “Has it occurred to you that his death may have been suicide?”

  She looked startled. “Senior would not have the spirit, Mr. Qwilleran, to take his own life.”

  Upon leaving, he said, “You are an excellent subject for an interview, Mrs. Gage. I hope we can meet again—perhaps for dinner some evening.”

  “I shall be delighted to accept if the invitation is still good in the spring. I leave for Florida tomorrow,” she said. “This has been such a pleasure, Mr. Qwilleran. Now don’t forget to breathe!”

  * * *

  Qwilleran was in a good mood that evening as he lounged in his favorite leather chair in the library, stroking the cat on his lap and waiting for a book to hit the carpet. He had stopped remonstrating; the book trick was becoming a game that he and Koko played together. The cat pulled out a title; Qwilleran read aloud, accompanied by purrs, iks, and yows.

  On this occasion Koko’s selection was The Life of Henry V, a good choice, Qwilleran thought. He thumbed through the pages for a passage he liked: the king’s pep talk to his troops. “Once more unto the breach, dear friend; once more!”

  Koko assumed his listening position, sitting tall and attentive on the desktop, his tail curled around his front paws, his blue eyes sparkling black in the lamplight.

  It was a powerful speech, filled with graphic detail. “But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger!”

  “Yow!” said Koko.

  With such an appreciative audience Qwilleran was not shy about dramatizing the script. With a terrible look in his eyes he wrinkled his brow, stiffened his sinews, bared his teeth, stretched his nostrils, and breathed hard. Koko was purring hoarsely.

  Bellowing at full volume, Qwilleran delivered the last line: “Cry God for Harry! England and Saint George!”

  “YOW-OW!” Koko howled. Yum Yum fled from the room in alarm, and Mrs. Cobb came running.

  “Oh! I thought you were being murdered, Mr. Q.”

  “Merely reading to Koko,” he explained. “He seems to enjoy the sound of the human voice.”

  “It’s your voice he likes. Last night everyone was saying you should join the theater group,” she said.

  When the household returned to its normal calm, a name flashed across Qwilleran’s mind—Harry Noyton. He had had dealings with Harry Down Below. The man was a reckless entrepreneur who was always searching for a new challenge or a financial gamble. No matter how absurd the proposition, Harry always made it pay. He was currently living alone in Chicago, in a penthouse atop an office tower he had built.

  On an impulse Qwilleran dialed Noyton’s apartment, and a subhuman voice stated that he could be reached at his London hotel.

  “How’s that for a coincidence?” Quilleran asked Koko. “Harry’s in England!” He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. It would be the middle of the night in London. All the better! Noyton had often roused him from sleep at an unearthly hour, and without apology.

  He dialed the London hotel, expecting it to be the Saint George, but it was Claridge’s. When Noyton’s voice came on the phone he sounded as vigorous as he did at high noon; his energy was phenomenal.

  “Qwill! How’s the boy? I hear you’re living high on the hog since leaving the Flux. What’s cookin’? I know you never spend a quarter on a phone call unless it’s urgent.”

  “How would you like to be a newspaper tycoon, Harry?”

  “Is the Fluxion up for sale?”

  Qwilleran described the situation in Pickax, adding, “It would be a crime to prostitute a century-old newspaper as an advertising throwaway. The county needs a paper, and the Picayune name is part of everyone’s life. It’s had national publicity this week, and there’s more to come. If someone made the widow a better offer, she might see the light.”

  “Hell, I’ll talk to the widow. I’m good at talking to widows.”

  Qwilleran believed it. Noyton was a self-made man with a talent for attracting women as well as money, although he had never acquired any polish. Even in a tailor-made three-piece suit he succeeded in looking like a scarecrow. He had several ex-wives and was always looking for another.

  “I’m flying home tomorrow,” he said. “How do I get to Pickax? Never heard of the place.”

  “You fly to Minneapolis and then pick up a hedgehopper to Moose County. Sorry I don’t know the schedule. Probably they’ve never had one.”

  “I’ll charter something. I’ll get there somehow. Nobody can keep me on the ground for long.”

  “Better get here before snow flies.”

  “I’ll give you a ring from Minneapolis.”

  “Good! I’ll pick you up at the airport, Harry.”

  With a comfortable feeling of accomplishment, Qwilleran began his nightly house check and, in so doing, found another pigskin book on the floor. This time it was All’s Well That Ends Well.

  “It hasn’t ended yet, old boy,” he told Koko as he dropped the two protesting cats into the wicker hamper.

  He was right. At two o’clock in the morning he was roused from sleep by a telephone call from Jody.

  “Mr. Qwilleran, I’m so worried. Juney hasn’t come home.”

  “Maybe he went to his mother’s house. Have you called there?”

  “There was no answer. Pug has gone back to Montana, and Mrs. Goodwinter is probably staying . . . in Indian Village. I called Grandma Gage earlier, and she thought Juney was still Down Below. I even called Roger, his friend in Mooseville.”

  “Then we’d better notify the police. I’ll call the sheriff. You sit tight.”

  “I’m going crazy, Mr. Qwilleran. I feel like going out and looking for him myself.”

  “You can’t do that, Jody. You should call a friend and have her stay with you. How about Francesca?”

  “I hate to call her so late.”

  “I’ll call her for you. A police chief’s daughter is used to emergencies. Now you hang up so I can call the sheriff. And drink some warm milk, Jody.”

  Saturday, November sixteenth. “Possibility of snow squalls today with falling temperatures. Presently it’s twenty-five degrees. Last night’s low, fifteen. . . . And now for the news: A hunter reported missing early this morning has been found by sheriff’s deputies aided by state troopers. Junior Goodwinter is listed in fair condition at Pickax Hospital, suffering from exposure and a broken leg.”

  As Qwilleran later learned from Police Chief Brodie, a deputy on routine patrol of side roads on the opening day of hunting season had spotted the red Jaguar parked near a wooded area. When Junior was reported missing, they were able to start the search at that point, using tracking dogs and the mounted posse, a volunteer group of farmers who were expert horsemen.

  “It seems to me,” Qwilleran said to Mrs.
Cobb at the breakfast table, “that no one should go hunting alone. Too many hazards.”

  “Herb always goes alone,” she said.

  Qwilleran thought, That guy can’t find anyone to go with him. Uncharitable thoughts came to his mind whenever Hackpole was mentioned. Aloud he said, “If he’s taking you to dinner tonight, why not bring him in for a drink before you leave?”

  “That would be nice,” she said. “We’ll have it right here in the kitchen. He’ll be more comfortable here.”

  “Would he like a tour of the museum?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Q, he thinks art objects are dust catchers, but I’d like to show him the basement.”

  “You’ve never told me anything about his background,” Qwilleran said, although he had heard about it from Junior.

  “He grew up here. After a hitch in the army he worked on the East Coast, married, and had a couple of kids. They’re grown-up now, and he doesn’t even know where they are.”

  That fits the picture, Qwilleran thought.

  “He came back to Moose County because of his wife’s allergies, but she didn’t like country life and she left him.”

  Ran off with a beer truck driver, Qwilleran had heard.

  “He’s a very lonely man, and I feel sorry for him.”

  “Has he shown you the farmhouse?”

  “Not yet, but I know what I want to do—strip the wallpaper, paint the walls white, and stencil them.”

  “Would you like to have the big pine wardrobe? If so, it’s your wedding present.”

  She gasped. “You mean the Pennsylvania German schrank? Oh, I’d love it! But are you sure you want to part with it?”

  “My life will never be the same without it,” he said. “I expect to have anxiety attacks and periods of great depression, and I may have to go into therapy, but I want you to have the schrank.”

  “Oh, Mr. Q, you’re kidding me again.”

  “Have you set a date?”