The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

THREE

Qwilleran was half an hour late in serving breakfast to the cats on Monday morning. They attacked their plates as if they had been deprived of food for a week. At one point, though, Koko raised his head abruptly and stared at a spot on the kitchen wall. In a few seconds the phone rang, and he returned to the business at hand.

The caller was Lisa Compton, retired academic and wife of the school superintendent. She was also the chief volunteer at Edd Smith’s Place, where preowned books were sold for charitable causes.

“Qwill, a chauffeur from Purple Point just brought in a box of books that made me think of you.”

“The statement raises questions,” he said.

“You’ll love them! They’re all pocket-size hardcovers—the kind they had before paperbacks. Convenient for reading to the cats—and really quite attractive. Some have decorative covers and gold-printed titles on the spines.”

“What kind of titles?”

“All classics.Kidnapped, Lorna Doone, Uncle Tom’s Cabin …and authors like Guy de Maupassant, Henry James, and Mark Twain.”

Qwilleran said, “Don’t let them get away from you! I’ll be right there!”

“May I make a suggestion? Since the box is rather large, you should park in the north lot and come to the back door. It leads right downstairs into Edd Smith’s Place.”

Qwilleran liked Lisa. She always thought everything through—not only selling him the books but figuring the easiest way of getting them to his car.

“And by the way, Qwill, there’s some Lit Club business to discuss. If you have time.” She used a formal voice that indicated the other volunteers were listening. “Do you have a few minutes?”

Always interested in a little intrigue, he said, “See you in ten minutes.”

Later, in the private meeting room, Lisa said in a low voice, “This is not for publication, but I’m giving up volunteer work and taking a paid job as manager of the Senior Health Club.”

“Well!” he said in astonishment. “I’m shocked—and pleased! What does Lyle think about it?”

“He thinks the club is very lucky to get me.”

“I agree!”

“It’s a big job of coordination: scheduling activities, handling memberships, finding instructors, finding new ideas—”

“Lisa, you’re the only one who can do it. Let me know if there’s anything that I can do to help.”

Famous last words, he thought on the way back to the barn. What am I getting into?

Qwilleran collected Famous Last Words and had his readers contributing them too. Someday, he told them, the K Fund might publish a collection. There were examples like:

“You don’t need to take an umbrella…. It’s not going to rain.”

“The Road Commission says the old wooden bridge…is perfectly safe!”

“Let’s not stop to buy gas…. We’re only driving over the mountain.”

And for every gem that was printed, he gave the proud contributor a fat yellow lead pencil stampedQwill Pen in gold—trophies that were treasured.

To Arch Riker it was just a lazy columnist’s way of letting his readers do all the work. The editor’s huff was all an act, of course, Qwilleran told himself with a complacent shrug as the sacks of his fan mail filled the mailroom.

When Qwilleran brought the boxful of books into the barn, Koko came running; Yum Yum came in a sedate second.

Qwilleran placed the treasure trove on the bar, and Koko proceeded to go wild with excitement, a performance leading one to wonder where the books had been. When they were unloaded, however, it became evident that it was the box—not the books—that aroused the cat’s interest.Interest was a mild word; Koko went berserk over the empty box, inside and out!

Qwilleran called the ESP. “Lisa! Is it polite to ask who donated these books?”

“Is it polite to ask why you want to know?” she asked teasingly.

“Koko wants to know. It’s not the books that interest him so much as the box they came in.”

“It’s large,” Lisa said. “Maybe he wants to set up housekeeping in it.”

“It’s not only large—but plain. Just a brown carton without any pictures of Ivory Snow or Campbell’s Soup.”

“That’s funnier than you think, Qwill. The books came from one of the Campbell families in Purple Point.”

“I wonder where they acquired them. Do you know that family well enough to ask? Tell them Cool Koko wants to know its provenance.”

“They’ll love it! They’re all fans of the Qwill Pen.”

With shelf space found for the books and a session of reading fromThe Portrait of a Lady, Koko calmed down. The box itself was in the shed along with rubbish and a few garden tools. A do-not-discard note was taped to it; its provenance remained a mystery.

As for Koko, he behaved like a normal house cat for the rest of the day until four o’clock.

Late Monday afternoon, Qwilleran was lounging in his big chair when Koko suddenly appeared from nowhere and jumped to the arm of the chair. His lithe body was taut and his ears pointed toward the kitchen window.

Someone’s coming! Qwilleran thought. The cat jumped down and ran to the kitchen, where he could look out the window from the countertop. Qwilleran followed him.

Outside the window was the barnyard—and then a patch of dense woods and a dirt road leading to Main Street and several important buildings. Surrounding a traffic circle were two churches, the public library, a theater arts building, and the grand old courthouse.

Qwilleran waited to see a vehicle coming through the woods. Nothing arrived, but Koko kept on watching. Qwilleran went back to his lounge chair.

At that moment the kitchen phone rang. It was the attorney.

“Qwill! This is Bart! I know this is short notice. Do you have a few minutes? I’m phoning from the courthouse.”

Qwilleran was stunned into silence. Koko had known a call was coming from a building half a mile away!

“Qwill, did you hear me? I said—”

“I heard you, Bart. Koko was diverting my attention, that’s all. Come on over.”

“Tell Koko I have a treat for him.”

“Your Uncle George is coming,” he told the cats.

Shortly, the attorney arrived and was joyously greeted by all.

The four of them proceeded single file to the conference table—Qwilleran carrying the coffee, Bart carrying his briefcase, and the cats carrying their tails straight up.

Opening his briefcase, Bart said, “My wife sent a treat for the cats—something she makes for our brats. They like the sound effects when they crunch it.” He drew a plastic zipper bag from among the documents.

“It’s like Italian biscotti but with seasoning of particular interest to cats—my wife says! She calls it biscatti.”

Koko and Yum Yum were allowed to sniff the plastic bag, but it was too early “for their treat.”

Qwilleran said, “While you’re here, Bart, perhaps you could give me some information about the Ledfield house that’s being opened as a museum. Not everyone knows it’s called the Old Manse—and has been for the last hundred years. I’m wondering if Nathan Ledfield’s grandfather had read Hawthorne’sMosses from an Old Manse and incorporated any ideas from his reading. If so, it’s a suggestion for the Qwill Pen.”

“Would you like a tour of the house?” Bart asked. “It can be arranged.”

Then he launched into an explanation of necessary changes in converting a private mansion to a county-owned museum.

“Nathan Ledfield had long employed two assistants: Daisy Babcock, who handled financial matters, and Alma Lee James, in charge of his collection of art and antiques…. You may know her parents’ art gallery in Lockmaster, Qwill. Alma Lee is very knowledgeable, and her connection with the gallery resulted in some very favorable purchases for the Ledfield collection…. Is there more coffee?”

As Qwilleran poured, he said, “Leaving the mansion to the county must have entailed some drastic changes.”

“Not too drastic,” the attorney assured him. “Alma Lee has been named director of the museum. That involves training museum guides as well as supervising maintenance of the building. Daisy Babcock will act as her assistant, since the finances will be handled by an investment counselor appointed by the county.”

“Then I should see Miss James for a tour of the Old Manse,” Qwilleran assumed.

“Yes, either she or Miss Babcock can show you around…. If you’ll pardon a little in-house gossip: Daisy Babcock resents being demoted to second-in-command. When Nathan Ledfield was boss, Daisy was his fair-haired girl! I wouldn’t be surprised if she quits. She’s married to one of the Linguini sons but uses her maiden name.”

“Wise choice,” Qwilleran murmured, reflecting that “Daisy Linguini” would be a fetching name for a trapeze performer but not so good for a financial secretary to a billionaire.

Qwilleran asked, “Are those the Linguinis who had the wonderful Italian restaurant?” It was a mom-and-pop operation. If a customer was having a birthday, Papa Linguini would come out of the kitchen in his chef’s hat, get down on one knee, fling his arms wide, and sing Happy B-ir-r-rthday in an operatic voice. “Apparently they retired.”

“Yes, and their sons preferred to open a party store and plant a vineyard. They also want to open a winery, but the neighbors along the shore are objecting.”

Before he left, Bart said, “About visiting the Old Manse: Either of the women could show you around and answer your questions, but it might be politic to work with Alma James. Let me break the ice for you. I know she’s been dying to see your barn—”

“Half the Western world has been wanting to see my barn. That’s okay. How do we go about it?”

“I could drive her over someday, then ease her out if she wants to stay too long.”

“Does she like cats?” Qwilleran asked. “Koko has been known to react to ailurophobes in peculiar ways.”

“She’s from Lockmaster and is more accustomed to dogs and horses.”

“I could put Koko and Yum Yum out in the gazebo.”

“No! No!” said Bart, a confirmed ailurophile. “It’s their barn! Let her adjust. If she begins to itch or sneeze, she won’t want to stay so long.”

Qwilleran, detecting a lack of enthusiasm on the attorney’s part, asked, “How do you size up the two women in charge of the Manse?”

“Daisy is always relaxed and friendly. Alma—I never liked that name—is warm or cold, agreeable or reserved, depending on her mood…. You’ll have to excuse me; I grew up with an aunt called Alma, and she let her sons break my toys and squirt me with water pistols.”

That was what Qwilleran liked about Bart—he was human andhonest.

On his way out, the attorney said, “I almost forgot. My daughter asks a favor. She’s making a survey and would like you to write two words on an index card.” He drew a card and a pen from his pocket. “You writecat on one side of the card anddog on the other…. Sign your initials.”

Qwilleran wrotedog on the first side in proper penmanship. On the reverse side he dashed offcat in a flamboyant script, crossing thet with a bar an inch long.

“I thank you. My daughter thanks you. She’s quite serious about this study—her own idea—although it will never be published.”

“How old is she?” Qwilleran asked.

“Nine going on fifteen. Next summer she wants to extend the survey to Lockmaster,” he said, raising parental eyebrows.

Qwilleran found his copy ofMosses from an Old Manse and scanned it for references that might be linked with the mansion in Purple Point.

That night Qwilleran wrote in his journal:

Monday—I thought I had Koko all figured out. He knows when the phone is going to ring!

But today he knew Uncle George was coming from the county buildingbefore the guy had announced his intentions. What about the biscatti in the briefcase? Did Koko know about that, too?

I sound crazy, and and sometimes I feel I’m slipping over the edge.

What I mean is: It’s pretty well established that Koko (a) knows what’s going to happen. Does he also (b)make things happen ?

I won’t go that far, but I admit he puts ideas in my head. That’s nothing new; Christopher Smart knew that a few centuries ago.

But why does Yum Yum’s buddy have more on the ball than most felines? I still say it’s because he has sixty whiskers! Regardless of what Dr. Connie says and what the scientific literature says, I still maintain my opinion.

How far am I prepared to go?

Perhaps I’d better pipe down? They’ll start counting my own whiskers. That would be a joke! Koko transmits, and I receive!

Qwilleran mused whimsically. What an investigative team we’d make!…Koko’s whiskers transmitting inside information—and my moustache receiving the data.