As he stood there he doubted not only Beechum's prediction but also the story he had just heard. How many rimes had he interviewed the parent, spouse, or neighbor of a convicted felon and listened to the same tale! "My son would never harm anyone! . . . My husband is a gentle, peace-loving man! . . . He was a wonderful neighbor, always ready to help anyone!"
Whatever the facts about the Hawkinfield murder and the conviction of Forest Beechum, Qwilleran was beginning to understand his negative reaction to Tiptop. It was not only the gray color scheme and the barren rooms; it was an undercurrent of villainy. Exactly what kind of villainy had yet to be discovered.
Then he remembered that the Siamese had been left alone all day in unfamiliar surroundings, and he drove back to the inn. Hawk's Nest Drive, so smoothly paved and so expertly dished on the curves, made pleasant driving after the discomforts of the road to Potato Cove.
To unload his purchases it was necessary to make several trips up the long flight of stepswith the ottoman, the supply of liquor, the turkey roaster, his new radio, Polly's batwing cape, three dozen candles, four coffee mugs, and a very heavy iron candelabrum. After transporting them as far as the veranda, he sat down on the top step to catch his breath, but his respite was brief. A feline chorus inside the French doors was making imperative demands, Yum Yum saying, "N-n-NOW!"
"All right, all right, I know it's dinnertime," he called out as he turned the key in the lock. "You don't need to make a federal case out of it!"
It was not food that concerned them, however; it was an envelope that had been pushed under the door. Qwil-leran ripped it open and read, "Cocktails Sunday at Seven Levels. Come around five o'clock and meet your neighbors. Very casual. Dolly." He pocketed the invitation and carried his acquisitions into the house.
"I've brought you a present," he told the Siamese. "You'll be the only cats in the Potato Mountains with a state-of-the-art commode imported from Germany!"
Koko, who had to inspect everything that came into the house, was chiefly interested in the liquor supply as it was lined up on the bar. The sherry particularly attracted his nose. This was Polly's favorite drink, and it would be astounding, Qwilleran thought, if the cat could make the connection. More likely it was the label. Koko had a passion for glue, and the Spanish wine industry might use a special kind of seductive adhesive in labeling bottles.
After opening a can of crabmeat for the Siamese and a can of spaghetti for himself, he checked the house for catly mischief; they could be remarkably creative in their naughtiness when they felt neglected. Surprisingly everything was in order except for the painting of mountains in the foyer, which had been tilted again.
As he straightened it, Koko came up behind him, yowling indignantly.
"Objection overruled," Qwilleran said. "Why don't you go and massage your teeth on that half-ton buffet in the dining room?"
The painting, which had an indecipherable signature in the lower righthand corner, hung above a primitive cabinet built low to the floor on flat bun feet. It was crudely decorated with hunting symbols and a cartouche on which was inscribed "Lord Archibald Fitzwallow." There were two drawers (empty) and cabinet space beneath (also empty). It was no beauty, but it was a handy place to keep the telephone and throw car keys. As Qwilleran was examining the cabinet, Koko impudently jumped to its surface and moved the mountain for the third time.
"Are you trying to be funny?" Qwilleran shouted at him. "We'll put an end to that little game, you rascal!" With this pronouncement he lifted the picture from its hook and placed it on the floor, leaning it against the wall. Koko stayed where he was, but now he was standing on his hind legs and pawing the wall.
"What's that?" Qwilleran exclaimed. Hanging from the picture hook was an old-fashioned black iron key about three inches long. Koko had sensed its presence! He always knew when anything was unusual or out of place.
"Sorry I yelled, old boy. I should have realized you knew what you were doing," Qwilleran apologized, but now he combed his moustache in perplexity. What was the key intended to unlock? And why had it been hung behind the painting?
It was clear, he told himself, that the Tiptop Inn had catered to a wealthy clientele who traveled with their jewels, making security an important consideration. All the bedroom doors were fitted with old-fashioned, surface-mounted brass locks, the kind requiring a long key. Other doors throughout the housewith the exception of cylinder locks at front and back doorsretained the old style as part of the quaint authenticity of the historic building.
Carrying the key and marveling at its inconvenient size and weight, Qwilleran began a systematic check of the house from the fruit cellar on the lower level to the walk-in linen closet upstairs. He found no lock that would take the key, not even the door to the attic stairway. The attic stairs were steep and dusty, and the atmosphere was stifling, but he went up to explore. It was a lumberroom for old steamer trunks and cast-off furniture. There was also a ladder to the rooftop, which he climbed. Upon pushing open a hatch, he emerged on a small railed observation deck.
This was the highest point in the entire mountain range, close to the dragon-like clouds that rampaged across the sky as if in battle, the sun highlighting their golden scales. Below were the same views seen from the veranda, but they were glorified by the extra elevation, and there were unexpected sights. To the north, the top of Big Potato had been sliced off, and an extensive construction project was under way. To the south, there was a glimpse of a silvery blue mountaintop lake, and the beginning of a footpath pointed in that direction.
Forgetting his mission, Qwilleran hurried downstairs, threw the key in the drawer of the Fitzwallow eyesore, and grabbed a sturdy walking stick from the umbrella stand in the foyer.
"I'll be back shortly," he called over his shoulder. "I'm going to find Lake Batata. If I don't return in half an hour, send out the bloodhounds." The Siamese followed him to the door in ominous silence and then scampered into the living room and watched from a window when he headed for the woods, as if they might never see their meal ticket again.
A wooden shingle daubed with the word "trail" was nailed to a tree, and from there a sun-dappled path carpeted with pine needles and last year's oak leaves made soft footing. It wound through a dense growth of trees and underbrush, and the silence was absolute. This was what Qwilleran had hoped to finda secret place for ambling and thinking. The trail meandered this way and that, sometimes circumventing a particularly large tree trunk or rocky outcrop, sometimes requiring him to climb over a fallen tree. It was descending gradually, and he reminded himself that the return walk would be uphill, but he was not concerned; in Moose County he walked daily and rode a bike, and he was in good condition.
Every few hundred yards there was another chip of wood nailed to a tree to reassure him that this was the trail, but Lake Batata had not appeared. Could it have been a mirage? The decline was becoming steeper, the woods more dense, the footing less secure. There were slippery leaves that had not dried in this deep shade, and there were half-exposed roots that made the trail treacherous. Once he tripped and went down on his bad knee, but he pressed on. The inn was no longer visible on its summit, nor was the valley. This was real wilderness, and he liked it. Now and then a small animal scurried through the underbrush, but the only birds were crows, circling overhead and cawing their raucous complaints. Where, he asked himself, are the cardinals, chickadees, and goldfinches we have in Moose County?