The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Eleven

Wednesday, September 16 – ‘A cat once bitten by a snake will fear even a rope.’

AT SEVEN AM, QWILLERAN telephoned G. Allen Barter at home and said in a tone of urgency, “Are you aware that the hero of the Highland Games has been AWOL from his job at the inn? The captain of the desk clerks has a disturbing explanation to relate. It has to do with the Delacamp homicide. You need to hear his tale and take proper action at once.”

“I can be in my office by nine o’clock, Qwill.”

“Forget the formalities, Bart. Jump into a sweatsuit and drive to my barn. The witness is here, and the murderer is at large in the woods.”

Qwilleran knocked on Lenny’s door and told him the attorney was on his way. He was not fond of being everybody’s uncle, and yet the rising generation seemed to have cast him in that role, unloading their confidential problems and expecting advice. It was partly because of his standing in the community, partly because of his sympathetic mien and willingness to listen. There was also a journalist’s need to hear everything – and hear it first. He fed the cats and watched them devour their breakfast with all the slurping and gobbling and crunching of ordinary felines. Yet, one of them had licked three snapshots the night before. Koko’s raspy tongue had ruined shots of Boze tossing the caber, Boze receiving the gold medal, and Boze riding triumphantly on the shoulders of his teammates. Was it some coincidence? Or was he tuned in to the unknowable? It was not the first time such a mystifying “coincidence” had occurred.

When the attorney arrived, he left him with Lenny and went about his errands. He shopped for Polly’s groceries and put the sacks in the trunk of her car in the library parking lot. He killed some time at Eddington’s bookstore and found a secondhand book on How to Trace Your Family Tree. In mid-moming he dropped in the Dimsdale Diner, where Benny, Doug, Sig, and others in the farming community met to solve the world’s problems and drink the world’s worst coffee. Disparaging it was an ongoing under-the-table joke. “Brewed from the finest quality of motor sludge” and “Produced and distributed by Pottle’s Hog Farm” brought roars of laughter, interrupted only by a bulletin on the radio.

“Police are searching for a local suspect in the Delacamp murder case. No further details have been released at this time.”

“Benny did it,” said Calvin.

“Spencer did it,” said Doug.

Sig suggested it was a police ploy to mislead the real suspect Down Below. “What do you think, Qwill?”

“Time will tell,” Qwilleran said.

Next came the weekly luncheon of the Boosters Club in its new venue, the ballroom of the Mackintosh Inn. It was still a soup-and-salad affair served very fast; most members were shopkeepers, managers, and professionals with no time to waste.

Barter was there, and he drew Qwilleran aside to say, “I took the young man to the prosecutor’s office to tell his story, and we both decided he should leave town for a few days for his own protection. He can go to his aunt in Duluth.”

“How will this be explained to his boss?”

“I had him phone Barry and ask for a week’s leave, saying there had been a death in the family and he was needed to help an elderly relative. This whole situation is troubling.”

Qwilleran agreed. “The truth, when it comes out, will be painful. They’ve made Boze such a hero!”

At the tables the conversation was friendly but brief, geared to fit between bites of food before the presiding officer banged the gavel.

Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, sat next to Qwilleran and said, “Darling! It’s been so long!” Since joining the theatre club she had become dramatic in speech and gesture.

“I’ve been in Mooseville,” he said.

“How’s Polly?”

“She’s fine. What’s new in antiques?”

“I’m liquidating a collection of mechanical banks.”

“What are they?”

“Small cast-iron banks for saving coins.”

“Expensive?”

“One is valued at fifty thousand.”

He took a swallow or two before asking. “What do they look like?”

“Some are cute. Some are ugly. Come and see them at my shop.”

BANG! BANG! BANG! The meeting was called to order. The Boosters Club had accepted the responsibility of the Mark Twain Festival, and the various committees were reporting on progress:

About the parade; “The idea is to have characters from Mark Twain stories marching in costume. So far we’ve signed up Soldier Boy, the horse; Aileen, the dog; Tom Quartz, the cat (to be drawn in a wagon); and more than fifty Tom Sawyers. The question arises; How many clones do we want?”

About the lecture series; “We invited a well-known Mark Twain expert in California, but he’s lukewarm. He says he never heard of Pickax and can’t find it on the map. Also, his fee is quite high. Question; Should we reconsider? Someone like Jim Qwilleran could probably give the lectures, if he did a little research.”

Shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

About the dedication of Mark Twain Boulevard; “We thought to honor the author by naming a historically important, architecturally attractive street after him, but the forty-seven property owners on Pleasant Street are protesting violently to any name change. There was a near-riot at city council meeting last week. We can’t name some grubby little backstreet after him, can we? The committee would welcome input.”

About the proposed Mark Twain Suite at the Mackintosh Inn; “Well, you all know what happened in the suite a few days ago, virtually under the portrait of the Great Man. The management of the inn deems it inappropriate to draw attention to the presidential suite at this time – probably next year.”

About lapel buttons to be sold at the festival; “Unfortunately our fifteen thousand polar bear lapel buttons couldn’t be used when the ice festival melted down. We proposed having them reworked with Mark Twain’s portrait, but the cost of reworking would be higher than starting from scratch. The committee would welcome ideas for using the polar bear buttons.”

A husky man raised a hand and requested the door.

“The chair recognizes Wetherby Goode.”

The WPKX meteorologist said, “As the messenger who brings bad news, I expect to be shot… but it’s my duty to report that the long-range forecast for October gives thumbs-down to picnics, soccer games, parades, and outdoor festivals. We all remember the freak thaw last February. Everything points to freak weather in October; blizzards, sleet storms, sub-zero temperatures, high winds, and several feet of snow. Need I say more?”

He sat down, amid shouts of “Cancel it!… Postpone it!… Forget it!… Get out the polar bear buttons!”

Then a bell rang, and the sound of scraping chairs and feet running for the exit drowned out the shout of “Meeting adjourned!”

Qwilleran, the only Booster without a demanding schedule, ambled up Main Street to a shop with gold lettering on the window; Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. The window was always sparkling; the artifacts of brass and mahogany were always polished; and the prices were always high.

“Darling! I didn’t expect you so soon!” Susan cried.

“I’ll go away.”

“No! No! Come into my office and see the collection of banks.” She led the way to the rear and unlocked a closet where shelves were lined with nondescript metal objects measuring five or six inches in height and width.

He said, “I want to see the one that’s worth fifty thou.”

The dealer hesitated. “If you write about these, you can’t mention prices or the name of the owner. She’s an older woman. The banks were collected by her late husband.”

“I didn’t say I’d write about them, I just want to see them.”

“You’re so brutally honest, Qwill.”

The bank she showed him was a small iron sculpture of a circus pony and a clown.

“How does it work?” he asked.

“Do you have a penny? Put it in the coin receptacle and turn the crank.”

He did as instructed and watched the pony run around a circus ring while the clown deposited the penny in the bank.

Susan explained, “All of these banks have mechanical parts that activate a donkey or elephant or whatever. They became popular in the late nineteenth century when children were taught to save their pennies. This made it fun.”

“How many fifty-thousand-dollar banks do you expect to sell in Pickax?”

“None, darling. I’m advertising the rare ones in a national magazine. The others will be sold by telephone auction.”

Qwilleran studied the banks in wonderment. There were cats, dogs, monkeys, cows, a whale, and one bust of a Scotsman wearing a Glengarry cap and shoulder tartan. He had a large moustache. He looked amiable.

“He looks just like you, darling. Would you like to buy him?” She placed a coin on the Scot’s hand and pressed a lever. He blinked his eyes, raised his arm, and dropped the coin in his pocket.

“What’s it worth?”

“Well… it’s not as old as the others, but it’s American and in good condition. The Germans made a bank with a Scotsman who stuck out his tongue and swallowed the coin. Maggie’s husband thought it was repulsive.”

“Did you say Maggie? Is she selling this collection”

“I’ll phone her and see how much she wants for Kiltie. That’s the name of the Scotsman.”

Qwilleran fed pennies into the various banks until Susan returned and said, “Maggie said she’ll take fifteen hundred for Kiltie. I hope you know that’s a steal.”

Archly he replied, “I don’t want to rob an elderly widow, when she’s down to her last diamond-and-pearl choker.”

“She likes you! She loves your column!” Susan said. “Also, I told her you’re going to help with the telephone auction.”

“I don’t remember volunteering. However… what does it entail?”

“Simply sit at a phone and take bids from collectors all over the United States. With your wonderful voice you can charm the callers into raising their bids…. I’ll get a box for Kiltie.”

On the way to the parking lot with the box under his arm, Qwilleran passed the office of MacWhannell & Shaw and went in to show them his prize.

“Where’d you get that ugly thing?” Big Mac demanded, then added in a milder tone, “Perhaps I shouldn’t say that, because he looks a lot like you.”

“Got a dime? I’ll show you how it works.”

The accountant placed his dime on Kiltie’s hand and pressed the lever. The eyes blinked, and the coin disappeared. “Do I get my dime back?”

“Of course not! This is a bank. Are you a bank robber?”

“That’s some racket you’ve got going, Qwill! Let’s show it to Gordie.” He called his partner on the intercom.

Gordon Shaw was there promptly, “What’s going on?”

“Magic!” said Qwilleran.

Another dime disappeared, and the partner hooted with glee. “Go across the street and show it to Scottie!”

The owner of Scottie’s Men’s Store laughed so hard that his tailor came running from the workroom and happily watched his own dime drop into Kiltie’s pocket.

Qwilleran was enjoying it immensely and decided to rook the guys at the newspaper, then he carried the box into the city room the staff was relaxing for a few minutes after putting the Wednesday edition to bed and before starting the Thursday. They gathered around Kiltie and fished for dimes in their change pockets. The managing editor and the women in the feature department joined the fun, and Arch Riker came from his office to investigate the commotion. Kiltie was such a pleasant fellow that no one objected when he pocketed the money, although Riker suggested it would work equally well with pennies.

Junior Goodwinter called it bank robbery Pickax-style, “Instead of robbing the bank, the bank robs you”

Qwilleran was two dollars richer when he left the building, and teasing him about it became a corporate pastime for the rest of the year.

At the barn, where every new acquisition was dangerous until proved safe, the Siamese sniffed Kiltie’s moustache, blinking eyelids, and moving hand, Yum Yum soon walked away, but Koko scrutinized the bank in his nearsighted, studious way until suddenly alerted. His neck stretched and ears pricked as he detected activity to the east. Someone was coming up the trail from the direction of the art center.

Qwilleran went into the yard to confront the uninvited visitor when he recognized the ten-year-old boy from the McBee farm.

“Culvert! What a pleasant surprise! I think of you daily when I read my thought-for-the-day”

“Oh,” he said.

“What can I do for you?”

“My dad said I could ask you for something.”

“And what might that be?”

“Could you get me Boze’s autograph? Dad says he works at your hotel.”

That posed a problem, and Qwilleran stalled. “It’s not my hotel, tell your dad. It belongs to the K Fund. It just happens to be named after my mother.”

“Oh,” Culvert said dully. Such facts had nothing to do with his urgent mission.

“And it’s no longer a hotel; it’s an inn, which offers a friendlier kind of hospitality.”

“Oh”

“Did you see Boze toss the caber on Saturday?”

He shook his head. “It was in the paper. They talked about it at school.”

“Unfortunately Boze isn’t working this week, so we’ll have to wait and see what happens. How’s everything at school?”

“Okay,” Culvert said, and ran back down the lane.

After thawing something for his dinner, Qwilleran walked to the Old Stone Church on Park Circle, where the genealogy club met. The Lanspeaks were waiting for him at the side door.

“Everyone’s excited about your coming,” Carol said.

“Are they expecting me to stand on my head or do impersonations?”

In the fellowship room twenty members were sitting in a circle, and Qwilleran went around shaking hands. He needed no introduction. Everyone glanced at his moustache and said, “I read your column… Where do you get your ideas?… How are your kitties?” All were his age or older.

After a brief business meeting, a member read a paper on his genealogical research in Ireland, and others spoke about their happy discoveries in family documents, or at the courthouse, or in cemetery records, or federal military archives.

Finally Larry Lanspeak asked the honored guest if he would say a few words.

You skunk! Qwilleran thought, why didn’t you warn me? Nevertheless, he stood up, looked around the circle and blinked his eyes as he considered his chore. (I feel just like Kiltie, he thought.) Then, in his mellifuous lecture-hall voice he began:

“This evening has been an experience that’s enlightening, to say the least. I myself am a lost entity wandering in a void – minus relatives, family records, and even an inkling of my father’s first name. He died before I was born, and my mother never mentioned his name or those of my grandparents.

“Those of you who have births and deaths inscribed on the flyleaves of family bibles must consider my predicament strange indeed. To me, growing up as the only child of a single parent, there was nothing strange about it at all. It never occurred to me to ask questions, being too busy playing baseball, acting in school plays, doing homework, reading books about dogs and horses, and fighting with my peers.

“My mother died when I was in college, and later all family memorabilia were destroyed in a fire…. What can I tell you? We lived in Chicago; my mother’s maiden name was Mackintosh; our last name was spelled with a QW. That’s all I know. My case rests.”

The moment of silence that preceded the burst of applause testified to the deeply touching nature of his confession. One woman sobbed audibly. He acknowledged the response with a sober nod. Actually there had been no fire, but it was not so much a lie as a euphemism for the black period in his life when he lost everything, including his self-esteem.

When the Lanspeaks were driving him home, Carol said, “Qwill, I didn’t know you were such a man of mystery!”

Larry said, “Do you mind if I turn on the eleven o’clock news?”

The lead item was a death notice: “Osmond Hasselrich, eighty-nine, died at Pickax General Hospital tonight after an illness of several weeks. The senior partner of Hasselrich Bennett and Barter had practiced law in Moose County for sixty years. A native of Little Hope, he survived his wife, daughter, and two brothers.”

“The end of an era,” Larry said. “He was a grand old gentleman! He claimed to be – and I quote – ‘just a country lawyer but the best goldurned country lawyer you’ll ever find!’ And he was right!” Then Larry declaimed in his best oratorical style, “Farewell, noble Osmond.”

Qwilleran’s chief memory of the old man was his custom of serving tea to his clients, pouring it into his grandmother’s porcelain cups that rattled in their saucers when he passed them with shaking hands.

When he entered the barn, the Siamese were waiting side by side, solemnly, as if they knew something momentous had happened. Koko ran to the answering machine, where there was a message from the junior partner of HB&B: “Qwill, Osmond has gone! I was with him at the end. There’s something he wants you to have. Can you meet me for lunch in the Mackintosh Room tomorrow at twelve? Call my office.”

Uncomfortably, Qwilleran thought, He’s left me his grandmother’s cups and saucers! I made the mistake of admiring them too much.