The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Seven

Saturday, September 12 – ‘To a man with a rifle, everything looks like a squirrel.’

AS QWILLERAN WATCHED THE Siamese gobble their breakfast and then groom themselves in the age-old style practiced by felines around the world, he shook his head in wonder. Here were two cats doing what cats do, and yet… one of them had yowled officiously when a character in the play was suffocated with a pillow! Something had clicked in his little brain, connecting the drama with the real-life incident at the inn. There was no doubt about it: Koko was gifted with a rare intellect.

Sitting in the kitchen observing the grooming ritual, Qwilleran asked himself, What does Koko have that other cats do not? The answer was: sixty whiskers, eyebrows included, and counting both sides of his noble head. His reverie was interrupted by the telephone, which seemed to be ringing more urgently than usual.

Polly was on the line, speaking with the breathlessness of one who is late for work.

“Any news about the murder?”

“Only rumors,” he mumbled, still lost in his own profound thoughts about Koko.

“Well, I have something to report. Didn’t have time to call you last night. Bird Club, you know. Exciting meeting!”

“I’ll bet, he thought. “What’s your news?”

“The police came to the library yesterday, to talk to me.”

Qwilleran snapped to attention. “About what?”

“About the purchase of my ring. They had the appointment book with a list of prospective purchasers. They knew I was interested in a ring for seven-ninety-five. They wanted to know if I’d bought it with credit card, personal check, or bank check. When I said the jeweler required cash, the officer’s Adam’s apple wobbled.”

“Mine wobbled, too,” Qwilleran admitted, “when I first heard about the cash-only policy. Was he embezzling from his firm or defrauding the government?”

“I must hang up now and go to the library. See you tonight. Enjoy the games!”

Whannell MacWhannell called for Qwilleran at the barn, and they drove to the fairgrounds in the accountant’s car. Both men were in Highland dress: kilts, sporrans, knee-hose, garters with flashes, brogues, white sports shirts, and Glengarry caps tilted rakishly over the right eyebrow. And it must be said that both men had the commanding stature and swagger to carry it off.

Big Mac’s first words were predictable: “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe the new inn opened with a murder! I never met Delacamp, but I was always aware of the social and economic waves he made during his visits. But why now? And why here?”

“Times are changing – even in Pickax,” Qwilleran muttered.

“Jewel thieves are the prime suspects, I suppose,” said the accountant with a chuckle, “but I have a client who would qualify for the honor. Five years ago his wife drew ten thousand from their joint bank account and bought some earrings.”

“I suppose you know purchasers have to pay in hard currency.”

Big Mac chuckled again. “Can’t you picture the local ladies lined up at the teller’s window with suitcases and shopping bags to fill with twenties? Plenty of folks in the north country don’t recognize anything larger than a twenty as negotiable.”

It was the first time Qwilleran had attended a Scottish Gathering and the first time one had been held in Moose County. Bixby County usually excelled in athletic events, and Lockmaster in music and dance. This year the idea of a local venue had charged Moose Countians with the will to win.

There was more to the annual Scottish Gathering than competition, of course. It was a gathering of clans, a renewal of friendships, a scene of festivity. There were crowds of happy celebrators, Scottish food and drink, hospitality tents in bold colors, pennants flapping in the breeze, fiddlers fiddling, bagpipers piping.

Qwilleran and Big Mac pushed through the crowds to an open field where a sheep-herding demonstration was scheduled. A flock of a dozen sheep was being unloaded from a stake-truck belonging to the Ogilvie Ranch and herded into a temporary corral divided into a maze of miniature pastures. The shepherd was Buster Ogilvie himself, carrying a crooked staff. Qwilleran knew the whole family. The shepherd grew the wool; his wife spun it into yarn; their daughter knitted it into sweaters and socks.

“From ewe to you!” the Ogilvies quipped.

A crowd had gathered, and Ogilvie made an announcement in the relaxed, gentle manner typical of persons who deal with sheep: “Folks, we’ve brought a five-year-old Border collie to show you how he does his job. The breed was developed many centuries ago on the border between Scotland and England. This breed of dog is not only intelligent but born with the sheep-herding instinct. Also, they’re workaholics. Here’s… Duncan!”

A rough-coated black-and-white dog with tail carried low came bounding from the truck cab, right on cue. He went directly to the penned sheep, rounded them up in businesslike fashion, and herded them into the next small pasture. They moved obediently and placidly in a close-order cluster of woolly backs.