"Maybe so, but the one I remember was at the turkey farm. That man with the terrible problem got out his money clip to give me a dollar in change, and it looked like a big gold paper clip." Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. Rosemary had bought the turkey on Wednesday. The break-in was Thursday. The money clip could have popped out of a pants pocket when the man jumped or fell from the bar stool and fled from those eighteen claws.
"Did you hear me, Qwill?" "Yes, Rosemary. I'm putting two and two together. I There's something about that turkey you bought — it's turning Koko off. He's getting vibrations. Yum Yum thinks it's great, but Koko still refuses to touch it. I think he's steering me to that turkey farm." "Be careful, Qwill. Don't take any chances. You know what almost happened to you at Maus Haus when you meddled in a dangerous situation." "Don't worry, Rosemary. Thanks for the information. Drive carefully, and stop if you get sleepy." So that was the clue! Turkey! Qwilleran grabbed the money clip with the thirty-five dollars, locked the cats in the cabin, and hurried to his car.
It was only a few miles to the turkey farm. The bronze backs were pitching and heaving as usual. The blue pickup was in the yard. He parked and headed for the door that invited retail and wholesale trade. The wind was from the northwest, so there was very little barnyard odor, but once he stepped inside the building he was staggered by the stench.
There was nothing to account for it. The premises were spotless: the white-painted walls, the scrubbed wooden counter with its stainless steel scales and shiny knives, the clean saw-dust on the floor in the manner of old butcher shops. There was a bell on the counter: Ring for service. Qwilleran banged it three times, urgently.
When the tall, hefty man stepped out of a walk-in cooler, Qwilleran tried to control his facial reaction of revulsion. It was the post office experience all over again, but there was more. The man's face and neck were covered with red, raw scratches. There was an adhesive bandage on his throat. One ear was torn. He was wearing the inevitable feed cap, and its visor had apparently protected his eyes when Koko attacked, but the sight was worse than Qwilleran had imagined, and the odor was nauseating.
He stared at the farmer, and the man returned the stare, impassively, defensively. Someone had to say something, and Qwilleran brought himself to make the natural comment: "Looks like you had a bad accident." "Damn turkeys!" the man said. "They go crazy and kill each other. I should learn to stay outa the way." That was all that was necessary for Qwilleran's practiced ear. It was the voice on the cassette.
He threw the money and the gold clip on the counter. "Does this belong to you? I found it in my cabin. I also have a cassette that might be yours." He looked the disfigured farmer squarely in the eye.
The man's expression turned hostile; his eyes flashed; his jaw clenched. With a yell he leaped over the counter, grabbing a knife.
Qwilleran bolted for the door but tripped over a doorstop and went down on one knee — his bad knee. He sensed an arm raised above him, a knife poised over his head. It was a frozen pose, a freeze-frame from a horror movie. The knife did not descend.
"You drop that," said a gentle voice. "That's a very bad thing to do." The knife fell to the sawdust-covered floor with a muffled clatter.
"Now you turn around and hold your hands up." Tom was standing in the doorway, pointing a gun at the farmer, a small pistol with a gold handle. "Now we should call the sheriff," he said to Qwilleran mildly.
"You idiot!" his prisoner screamed. "If you talk, I'll talk!" There was no doubt about it; that was the voice: high pitch, metallic timbre, flat inflection.
Two deputies took Hanstable away, and Qwilleran agreed to go to the jail later to sign the papers.
"How did you happen to stop here?" he asked Tom.
"I went to fix your window. The door was locked. I couldn't get in. Then I went to MoosevilIe to buy a pasty. I like pasties." "And then what?" "I was going home. I saw your car here. I came in to get the key." "Come on back to the cabin and have a beer," Qwilleran said. "I don't mind telling you, I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life! That's a nice little gun you've got there." How a pistol from Fanny's handbag happened to be in Tom's pocket was a matter of interest' that Qwilleran did not pursue at the moment.
"It's very pretty. It's gold. I like gold." "How can I repay you, Tom? You saved my life." "You're a nice man. I didn't want him to hurt you." Qwilleran drove back to the cabin, the handyman following in his blue truck, shining like new. They sat on the south porch in the shelter of the building because the northwest wind was blowing furiously, lashing trees and shrubs into a green frenzy.
Qwilleran served a beer and made a toast. "Here's! to you, Tom. If you hadn't come along, I might have ended up as a turkey hot dog." The quip, such as it was, appealed to the handyman's simple sense of humor. Qwilleran wanted to put him at ease before asking too many questions. After a while he asked casually: "Do you go to the turkey farm often, Tom?" "No, it smells bad." "What did the farmer mean when he said he would talk if you talked?" A sheepish smile flickered across the bland face. "It was about the whiskey. He told me to buy the whiskey." "What was the whiskey for?" "The prisoners." "The inmates at the big prison?" "I feel sorry for the prisoners. I was in prison once." Qwilleran said sympathetically: "I can see how you would feel. You don't drink whiskey, do you? I don't either." "It tastes bad," Tom said.
The newsman had always been a sympathetic interviewer, never pushing his questions too fast, always engaging his subjects in friendly conversation. To slow down the interrogation he got up and killed a spider and knocked down a web, commenting on the size of the spider population and their persistence in decorating the cabin, inside and out, with their handiwork. Then: "How did you deliver the whiskey to the prisoners?" "He took it in." "Excuse me, Tom. I hear the phone." It was Alexander Goodwinter calling. He had just returned from Washington and was at a loss to express his sadness at the death of the gallant little lady. He and Penelope were about to drive to Mooseville and would like to call on him in half an hour to discuss a certain matter.
Qwilleran knew what that certain matter would be. As executors of the estate they would want a thousand a month for the cabin. He returned to the porch. Koko had been conversing with Tom in his absence.
"He has a loud voice," the handyman said. "I stroked him. His fur is nice. It's soft." Qwilleran made a few remarks about the characteristics of Siamese, mentioned Koko's fondness for turkey, and then sidled into the inquiry again. "I suppose you had to deliver the whiskey to the turkey farm." "I took it to the cemetery. He told me to leave it in the cemetery. There's a place there." "I hope he paid you for it." "He gave me a lot of money. That was nice." "It's always good to have a little extra money coming in. I'll bet you stashed it away in the bank to buy a boat or something." "I don't like banks. I hid it somewhere." "Well, just be sure it's in a safe place. That's the important thing. Are you ready for a beer?" There was time out for serving and for comments on the velocity of the wind and the possibility of a tornado. The temperature was abnormally high, and the sky had a yellow tone. Then: "Did you buy the liquor in Mooseville? They don't have a very good selection." "He told me to buy it in different places. Sometimes he told me to buy whiskey. Sometimes he told me to buy gin." Qwilleran wished he had a pipeful of tobacco. The business of lighting a pipe had often filled in the pauses and softened the edges of an interview when the subject was shy or reluctant. He said to Tom: "It would be interesting to know how the farmer got the liquor into the prison." "He took it in his truck. He took it in with the turkeys. He told me to buy pint bottles so they would fit inside the turkeys." "That's a new way to stuff a turkey," Qwilleran said, getting a hilarious reaction from the handyman. "If you didn't go to the farm, how did you know what kind of liquor to buy?" "He came here and talked into the machine. I listened to it when I came here to work. That was nice. I liked that." Something occurred to Tom and he giggled. "He left it behind the moose." "I always thought that moose looked kind of sick, and now I know why." Tim giggled some more. He was having a good time. "So you played the cassette when you came here." "It had some nice music, too." "Why didn't the farmer just leave you a note?" Qwilleran performed an exaggerated pantomime of writing. "Dear Tom, bring five pints of Scotch and four pints of gin. Hope you are feeling well. Have a nice day. Love from your friend Stanley." The handyman found this nonsense highly entertaining. Then he sobered and answered the question. "I can't read. I wish I could read and write. That would be nice." Qwilleran had always found it difficult to believe the statistics on illiteracy in the United States, but here was a living statistic, and he was struggling to accept it when the telephone rang again.