The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Six

Friday, September 11 – ‘When elephants fight, it’s the grass that suffers.’

AFTER THE UNEXPLAINED DISTURBANCE in the night, Qwilleran had to sit up and read for a while to relax his nerves. Consequently he was still sleeping when a morning phone call made a rude interruption. He answered the bedside phone with a single syllable resembling a grunt.

“Sorry, Qwill,” said a woman’s wide-awake voice. “Am I calling too early? It’s going on eight-thirty!” She, of course, was dressed, breakfasted, and ready to leave for work at the library.

Groggily, Qwilleran explained, “Koko had a stomach ache in the night and kept me awake, so I had to sleep in. Does Brutus ever howl in the middle of the night?”

“No, but he’s not as vocal as Koko…. All I wanted, Qwill, was to ask what we’re wearing to dinner in the Mackintosh Room tomorrow night. We don’t want to overdo the ‘bonnie Scots’ idea, do we?”

“Right you are. No kilts. No tartans.”

“I thought my olive-green silk would be good with the plaid chair seats and green carpet.”

“Sounds okay. I’ll wear a gray tweed jacket to go with my gray tweed moustache.” Qwilleran was beginning to wake up.

“I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll go home to dress and then ride into town with the Rikers.”

“Good idea.”

“I’m really excited about the dinner. Did you read Mildred’s interview with Chef Wingo on yesterday’s food page? It was inspiring!… Do I hear Koko making a commotion?”

“Yes, he’s ordering his breakfast: ham and eggs with a side order of American fries.”

“Go back to bed! You’re not ready,” Polly said.

Qwilleran slipped into a jumpsuit before opening his bedroom door and following two caterwauling cats down the ramp. Instead of going to the feeding station, however, Koko jumped on the library table and put one paw on the phone.

It’s going to ring, Qwilleran thought, and before he could press the button on the automated coffeemaker, it rang. In an agreeable tone with a rising inflection he said, “Good morning?”

The solemn voice of the attorney answered. “Qwill, this is Bart. Prepare for some shocking news!”

Qwilleran hesitated. He was thinking, The hotel’s bombed again.

“Qwill, are you there? Delacamp died in his sleep last night!”

“I can’t believe it! I had dinner with him at the Lanspeaks’. He was in fine form, although he left early. Was it a heart attack?”

“I don’t know. The doctor is on the way to the inn. I’m at home. Barry Morghan called me here.”

“Did his niece find him? She must be vastly upset.”

“I don’t have any details. But I thought you ought to know that all deals are off.”

“I’ll phone Carol, and she can notify those who had appointments pending. Too bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, too bad.”

Qwilleran phoned the newspaper first.

Then he called the Lanspeak house in West Middle Hummock. The housekeeper said that Mister and Missus had left for downtown; he called the store; they had not yet arrived. While his hand hovered over the receiver in a spasm of indecision, a call came in from Barry Morghan, speaking in a hollow voice.

“Qwill! Bad news!”

“I know. Bart phoned. Delacamp is dead.”

“Yes, but… the coroner is here, and it looks bad! The police are all over the place. Half the third floor is sealed off…. I can’t talk now. Would you notify Bart of the situation?” The phone clicked unceremoniously.

First Qwilleran called the paper with the latest tip.

Then he phoned the attorney.

His wife said, “He’s just driving out –”

“Catch him!”

He visualized her running after the car, screaming and waving her arms.

“Caught him!” she gasped after a few minutes.

Her husband was less perturbed. “What’s up?”

“It’s worse than we thought, Bart. They obviously suspect homicide.”

“Jewel thieves?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?” Qwilleran agreed.

“We were assured that the jewels and large amounts of cash would be brought to the safe in the manager’s office every night.”

“Something went wrong.”

“I’ll go right to the inn. I may be needed. Thanks, Qwill.”

Qwilleran felt a rush of blood, a burst of energy, a flashback to his old days as a police reporter Down Below. Koko, who had been sitting there to monitor the calls, was less involved. He pushed the script of the theatre club’s new play onto the floor.

“Not now,” Qwilleran said, picking it up and putting it in a safe place. He was asking himself: Where was the niece? What could she tell? When had she last seen the jewel cases? What had been done with the cash from the day’s purchasers? After leaving the dinner party early, where had they gone? What did they do?… And then his curiosity took a different turn. Why did Koko howl in the middle of the night? It was about two-thirty. What was the time of death? And why was the cat sitting near the phone, looking so wise?

No doubt about it, Qwilleran mused; he was an unusual animal. All cats have certain senses that are denied to humans; they tell time without a clock and find their way without a map. Koko’s intuition went beyond that. He knew right from wrong, and he had known that something was wrong at two-thirty A.M. Some things cannot be explained, and Qwilleran had learned to accept the cat’s uncanny perceptions.

His own curiosity about the murder would have to go unsatisfied; no facts were known. Even WPKX had nothing to offer when the first news bulletin interrupted the country music:

“A Chicago businessman registered at the Mackintosh Inn was found dead in the presidential suite this morning, a victim of homicide. No further details have been released, and the victim’s name is withheld until the notification of relatives. Local and state police are investigating.”

Qwilleran was aware that his newspaper would have reporters out in the field, hounding every news source in time for the noon deadline and afternoon publication. Still, he felt the urge to do a little snooping himself. He dressed hurriedly and walked downtown, without even saying goodbye to the Siamese – a courtesy that meant more to himself than to them.

His first stop was the public library, known as the information center of the county – not because of its extensive book collection and expensive computer system but because it was the hub of the Pickax grapevine. In moments of crisis its subscribers flocked to the library to exchange questions, hearsay, and rash guesses, all of which would be circulated throughout the county by phone, in coffee shops, and on street corners. It was a traditional system that worked – for better or worse.

Qwilleran walked slowly up the broad steps to the library, wondering what information and misinformation would be circulating at this early hour. He found the young clerks behind the desk in a huddle, speaking in hushed voices. Volunteers had their heads together in the stacks. Subscribers stood about in clusters, their solemn faces indicating they were not critiquing a bestseller. Only Mac and Katie, the two feline mascots, were unperturbed, being engaged in social grooming. Qwilleran spoke to them, and they looked up at him briefly with extended tongues. Then he bounded up the stairs to the mezzanine, where Polly could be seen in her glass-enclosed cubicle.

She was hanging up the phone as he entered. “Well!” she said vehemently. “Have you heard the news?”

“Off-putting, isn’t it?” he remarked. “You and I and the Lanspeaks must have been the last outside contacts he had! How did you hear about it?”

“One of our volunteers has a son who’s a day porter at the inn. She knew I’d met Mr. Delacamp.”

“Did her son have any particulars?”

“Only that the assistant hadn’t been around – probably upstairs being interrogated. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? What’s your mission this morning?”

“I’m on my way to see the Lanspeaks at the store.”

“Carol will be flabbergasted!”

At the department store he went directly to the office under the main staircase, standing outside until she had finished a phone call.

She beckoned to him to come in, but all she could say was, “I’m flabbergasted!”

He sat down without waiting to be invited. “How did you hear about it?”

“From Viyella, the morning clerk at the inn. She’s in my Sunday school class and was one of the French maids at the tea. She knew I’d be flabbergasted.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Do you have any inside information?”

“Only that the police are there, and half the third floor is cordoned off.”

“Viyella says they’re questioning the staff and the guests and cautioning everyone not to talk about the case.”

“How did she contact you?”

“She wrote a note, and the day porter brought it to me.”

“What’s Larry’s reaction to the news?”

“He doesn’t know! I drove him to the airport this morning, and he boarded the eight o’clock shuttle to Minneapolis. There’s a merchandising show there, and he won’t be back until tomorrow night. I’ll phone him, of course. Wait till he hears! He has always had a jealous-husband theory, you know.” She stifled a slight giggle. “At least we know it wasn’t Mr. Woodinghurst. He died twenty years ago.”

Qwilleran said, “Just because it happened here, it doesn’t follow that the perpetrator was a local.”

“You’re so right, Qwill! I’d prefer to think it’s an outside job.”

“What effect will it have on his customers?”

“Those who wanted to buy tomorrow will be disappointed, of course, but I’m concerned about the Old Guard who were expecting to sell to him today. Some of them really need the money. They’re old-timers who thought they were financially set for life. Then along came inflation and dishonest relatives and bad investment advice. It’s sad. They should be notified, in case they don’t hear it on the radio, but his niece has the schedule. The poor girl must be terribly upset.”

Qwilleran next went to Lois’s Luncheonette for the mid-morning coffee klatsch, where caffeine addicts and assorted loafers met to exchange opinions and rumors about current events. Everyone had a connection to the grapevine – a son-in-law or neighbor or fellow worker who knew the inside story. Lois, whose son was captain of the inn’s desk clerks, had a direct line to the facts.

“They called him a Chicago businessman on the air,” she announced while bustling around with the coffee server, “but everybody knows he was a jeweler with a million dollars’ worth of stuff in his luggage.”

“They didn’t say nothin’ about his girl! Where’s his girl?”

“Prob’ly took off with the killer and the loot.”

“Coulda been kidnapped. He was her uncle.”

Lois said, “Yeah… well… Lenny says she was no niece.”

“Her and the killer were in cahoots, if you ask me. Somebody from Chicago.”

“‘Tain’t fair! Strangers come up here and get themselves knocked off, and it makes us look bad.”

“Why’d it happen just when we got a nice new hotel and some good publicity? Makes me madder’n a wet hen!”

“Eleven o’clock! Turn on the news!”

Lois switched on the radio that occupied a shelf above the cash register, and her customers heard one additional scrap of news:

“The State Bureau of Investigation has been called in to assist local police in the investigation of a homicide. A Chicago businessman…”

Qwilleran paid for his coffee and went home, taking time to walk through the inn’s parking lot. Delacamp’s Mercedes rental car was still there.

When Qwilleran turned the key in the backdoor lock, he heard the welcoming chorus indoors and realized once more how much he appreciated his housemates. He had lived alone for most of his adult life – before adopting Koko and Yum Yum. They were companionable, handsome, entertaining – and admirably independent. Sometimes exasperatingly so.

One of the pleasures they shared was reading aloud. He had a good voice, having trained to be an actor before switching to journalism. When he read aloud from the vintage books that filled his shelves, he dramatized the prose in a way that excited his listeners. Currently they were reading the play-script of Night Must Fall: the smarmy lines of the houseboy, the petulant fussiness of Mrs. Bramson, and the country dialects of the kitchen help.

They had reached Scene Four. Yum Yum was curled contentedly on Qwilleran’s lap: Koko perched on the back of his chair, looking over his shoulder as if following the printed words, purring in his ear or tickling his neck with twitching whiskers. Mrs. Bramson was worrying about her jewel box. Danny was being overly attentive…. Suddenly he picked up a cushion and smothered his rich employer.

“YOW!” came a piercing howl in Qwilleran’s ear.

“Please!” the man protested, putting a hand to his ear. “Don’t do that!” But then he felt a sensation on his upper lip, and he tamped his moustache. It was always the source of his hunches. Now he knew – or thought he knew – more about the murder than the investigators had revealed.

The Friday edition of the Moose County Something would have the latest – at two o’clock. At one-thirty Qwilleran had an appointment with Maggie Sprenkle.

The Sprenkle Building, across Main Street from the Mackintosh Inn, was a stone structure like all the others downtown, and its history dated back to the days when merchants always lived “over the store.” Now the storefronts on the ground floor had been updated into offices for an insurance agency and a realty firm. At one side a door led up to Maggie’s palace on the second and third floors.

Qwilleran rang the bell, waited for the buzzer to unlock the door, and found himself in a steep, narrow stairwell. It seemed narrower and steeper because of the thick stair carpet in a pattern of roses and the velvety rosepink walls hung with dozens of old engravings.

Maggie was waiting at the top. “Hang on to the handrail,” she cautioned. “The stairs are murder! Most of my guests come in the back, where there’s an elevator.”

“That’s all right,” he called up the stairs. “I prefer the dramatic approach.”

He made it safely to the top, and she welcomed him with a bear hug.

He found himself in a two-story foyer with a skylight and another staircase leading to the upper level. This reception area also functioned as a library, its shelves glowing with the polished calf bindings of fine old books.

“Do you have any Mark Twain?” he asked, thinking to introduce an earthy note.

“Yes, indeed!” she replied in her usual hearty manner. “My grandfather-in-law entertained Mr. Clemens when he lectured here…. Come into the parlor. The ladies are waiting to meet you.”

For a moment he expected the ladies of the library’s board of directors, forgetting Sarah, Charlotte, Carrie, Flora, and Louisa May. They sat in the five windows: a tiger with white boots and bib, a calico, an orange marmalade, a black-and-white, and a snowy white with blue eyes. Each had her own windowsill and sat under a canopy of lace curtain, cut away at the bottom for easy access.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.

All but the white one turned away from their pigeon-watching and gave him an inquisitive glance.

“Charlotte is deaf,” Maggie explained, “but she’s an adorable little creature.”

“Unusual curtains,” he remarked.

“Amanda Goodwinter had them custom-made in Belgium. She’s done all my decorating for forty years. Wonderful woman! And now she’s going to run for mayor, and we must all support her…. Do sit down, and I’ll bring the tea tray.”

“I’d rather walk around and ogle your collection,” he said. “It’s a museum!”

The rosy velvet walls of the parlor were hung floor-to-ceiling with old oil paintings in ornate frames. Furniture crowded the room: heavy carved tables with marble tops; button-tufted chairs and settees heaped with needlepoint pillows; lamps with hand-painted globes; and everywhere a clutter of crystal and porcelain bric-a-brac.

When Maggie returned with the tea, she said, “Did you know that Florence Nightingale had sixty cats? Not all at once, of course. And she named them after famous personalities: Disraeli, Mr. Gladstone, and so forth…. All my ladies have come from the animal shelter where I work as a volunteer.”

They sat in carved side chairs at a carved table, and tea was poured into small porcelain cups with fingertrap handles, but – for Qwilleran – a plate of chocolate brownies made it all worthwhile.

“Polly said they’re your favorite sweet,” Maggie said. “She’s such a wonderful woman! And I’m so glad she has you for a friend.”

“It’s my good fortune,” he murmured.

Maggie chattered on: about the controversy over the library’s bookmobile… about the failing health of Osmond Hasselrich, senior partner of the city’s most prestigious law firm… about the Scottish Gathering. “Polly tells me that you and she are going on Sunday.”

“Yes. Polly likes the piping and dancing. I’ll attend the athletic events with Whannell MacWhannell on Saturday.”

“Wonderful man!” she said. “He handles my tax work.” She had not said a word about the murder. Yet it was generally known that she intended to sell the fabulous Sprenkle necklace to the jeweler. It was a strange oversight, considering local passion for commenting on the latest news.

As for Qwilleran, he was there for another purpose. After declining a third chocolate brownie, he drew a tape recorder from a pocket and said, “Now let’s hear the story about your great-grandmother, Maggie.”

“Do you want to ask me questions?”

“No, just repeat what you told the genealogical club.” Maggie’s tale was later transcribed as follows:

This story about pioneer days in Moose County has been handed down in my family and I believe it to be absolutely true. There were heroes and villains in our history, and many of them were involved in mining.

As you know, there were ten mines in operation – and enough coal for all – but most of the owners were greedy, exploiting their workers shamefully. My great-grandfather, Patrick Borleston, owned the Big B mine. He and another owner, Seth Dimsdale, cared about their workers’ health, safety, and families, and their attitude paid off in loyalty and productivity. Their competitors were envious to the point of hostility. When Patrick was killed in a carriage accident, his workers were convinced that someone had purposely spooked his horses.

They suspected Ned Bucksmith, owner of the Buckshot mine. Immediately he tried to buy the Big B from the widow. But Bridget was a strong woman. She said she’d operate it herself. The idea of a woman mine operator shocked the other owners, and when the mother of three proceeded to do a man’s job better than they could, their antagonism grew – especially that of Ned Bucksmith. She was twice his size, being tall, buxom, and broad-shouldered. She always wore a long, voluminous black dress with a little white lace collar and a pancake hat tied under her chin with ribbons.

Folks said it was the lace collar and ribbons that sent Ned Bucksmith over the edge. He and the other mine owners met in the back room of the K Saloon on Thursday evenings to drink whiskey and play cards, and he got them plotting against Big Bridget. One Thursday night a window was broken in the shack she used for an office. The next week a giant tree was felled across her access road. Next her night watchman put out a fire that could have burned down the office.

One Thursday morning Bridget was sitting at her roll-top desk when she heard a frantic banging on the door. There on the doorstep was a young boy, out of breath from running. “Them men!” he gasped. “At the saloon. They be blowin’ up your mine!” Then he dashed away.

That evening Bridget went to the saloon in her tent-like black dress and pancake hat, carrying a shotgun. She barged in, knocked over a few chairs and shouted, “Where are those dirty rats?” Customers hid under tables as she swept toward the back room. “Who’s gonna blow up my mine?” she thundered and pointed the gun at Ned Bucksmith. He went out the window headfirst, and the other men piled out the back door. She followed them and unloaded a few warning shots.

There was no more trouble at the Big B. Now if you’re wondering about the youngster who tipped her off, he was Ned Bucksmith’s boy, and he had a crush on Bridget’s daughter. When they grew up, they were married, and that young boy became my grandfather.

Qwilleran turned off his tape recorder. “You tell the story well, Maggie.”

“That’s how I told it at the genealogy club. One man came up afterward and said his ancestors knew Bridget. They worked for her.”

“It must be gratifying to know who your forebears are. I never knew my grandparents. How do you know details like the lace collar and pancake hat?”

“The historical society has a daguerreotype of her. She looks like a king-size Queen Victoria.”

“You’ve inherited some of her fine qualities, Maggie.”

“And some of Bucksmith’s bad ones. That was my maiden name, and I was glad to get rid of it when I married Mr. Sprenkle. He was a gentleman and a gentle man. He grew prize roses. Do you like the roses in this carpet? They remind me of him. Have another brownie, Qwill.”

“You talked me into it. By the way, I think the Big B shafthouse is the most dramatic.”

“They say it has a subterranean lake at the bottom of the shaft.”

Qwilleran walked to the window to say goodbye to the ladies and look at the windows of the inn. He said, “There was a murder in that room on the third floor early this morning.”

“I know. Poor Mr. Delacamp! He was kind of silly, but we liked him. He was supposed to make me an offer for the Sprenkle torsade today.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll have it made into five collars for my ladies…. Incidentally, Qwill, I saw something last night, and I’m wondering if I should report it to the police.”

“It depends what it was.”

“Well, Carrie was unwell, and I was sitting up with her – just to make her feel cared for and loved. We sat in the dark. It was late, and there were no lights in any of the guestrooms across the street. The windows have those narrow-slat blinds, you know, and suddenly I saw streaks of light behind the blinds in two of the windows on the third floor – like the beams of a flashlight moving around.”

“How long did the light show last?”

“Only a minute or two.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to report it,” Qwilleran said. “You never know if some small observation will develop into a clue. Do you know what time it was?”

“Well, the bars close at two, and there’s a brief rush of traffic, and then it’s quiet. About two-thirty, I’d say.”

“Do you know anyone at the police department?”

“Andrew Brodie – I know him very well. He played the bagpipe at Mr. Sprenkle’s funeral.”

When Qwilleran left the Sprenkle building he crossed the street to pick up Friday’s paper in the lobby of the inn, and he was disappointed to find that the Something knew of no more about the murder than did WPKX. He did, however, see Roger MacGillivray in the parking lot. “Are you on the Delacamp story?” Qwilleran asked him.

“I was, but they’re not releasing any more details. I’m on my way to cover a meeting of the Interact Club at the school.”

Knowing that reporters always know more than they’re at liberty to write, he asked, “Any off-the-record dope on the girl?”

“She’s gone, but her clothes and things are still in her room, and the rental car’s still here on the lot. And here’s the twist: The jewel cases are still in the manager’s safe. Figure that!”

“Why are the authorities being so cagey?”

“The PPD is waiting for the SBI to release information.”

“Do you know the time and cause of death?”

“Oh, sure. Suffocation, probably with a bed pillow. Between two and three A.M.”