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.
"Hello, Qwill," said a voice he had known all his life. "How's everything up there?" "Fine, Arch. Did you get my letters?" "I got two. How's the weather?" "You didn't call to ask about the weather, Arch. What's on your mind?" "Great news, Qwill' You'll be getting a letter from Percy, but I thought I'd tip you off. That assignment I told you about — investigative reporting — Percy wants you to come back and start right away. If the Rampage gets someone first, Percy will have a heart attack. You know how he is." "Hmmm," Qwilleran said.
"Double your salary and an unlimited expense account. Also a company car for your own use-a new one. How's that for perks?" "I wonder what the Rampage is offering?" "Don't be funny. You'll get Percy's letter in a couple of days, but I wanted to be the first…" "Thanks, Arch. I appreciate it. You're a good guy. Too bad you're an editor." "And something else, Qwill. I know you'll need a new apartment, and Fran Unger is giving up hers and getting married. It's close to the office, and the rent is reasonable." "And the walls are papered with pink roses and galloping giraffes." "Keep it in mind anyway. Be seeing you soon. Say hello to that spooky cat." Qwilleran was dizzy with shock and elation, but Tom was starting to leave and he had to thank him once more. He picked up the antique brass inkwell from the top of the bar.
"Here is something I'd like you to have, Tom. It needs polishing, but I know you like brass. It's an inkwell that traveled around the world on sailing ships a hundred years ago." "That's very pretty. I never had anything like that. I'll polish it every day." The handyman measured the broken window and drove into Mooseville to buy glass, while Qwilleran sat down to contemplate the offer from the Fluxion. Now that he was leaving this beautiful place he was filled with regret. He should have spent more time enjoying the verdure, the moods of the lake, the dew glistening on a spider web. Now he could look forward to the daily irritations of the office: the pink memos from Percy; electric pencil sharpeners always out-of-order; six elevators going up when a person wanted to go down; VDTs that made the job harder instead of easier. Suddenly he realized how much his knee was paining him.
He propped his leg on a chaise. From the back of a nearby chair, where a hawk had once perched, he was being watched intently by a pair of blue eyes in a brown mask.
"Well, Koko," QwilIeran said, "our vacation didn't turn out the way we expected, did it? But the time hasn't been wasted. We've cracked a one-man crime operation. Too bad we couldn't have stopped him before he got Buck Dunfield… Too bad no one around here will ever know you deserve all the credit. Even if we told them, they wouldn't believe it." Howling wind and crashing surf drowned out the sound of the Goodwinter car as it pulled into the clearing. Qwilleran hobbled out to greet them — Alexander looking impeccably well-groomed and Penelope looking radiant and a trifle flushed. When they shook hands she added an extra squeeze, and in addition to her perfume there was a hint of mint breath-freshener.
"You're limping," she said.
"I tripped over a toadstool… Come in out of the wind. I think we're going to have a tornado." Alexander went directly to his previous seat on Yum Yum's sofa. Penelope went to the windows overlooking the turbulent lake and rhapsodized about the view and the cabin's desirable location.
Qwilleran thought: The rent just went up to twelve hundred. Won't they be surprised when I break the news!
"It is regrettable," Alexander was saying, "that I was in Washington when this unfortunate incident occurred. My sister tells me you were of great assistance, making many trips back and forth and spending long hours searching through the Klingenschoen archives. It cannot have been a pleasant task." "There was a lot of material to sift through," Qwilleran said. "Luckily I had a houseguest from Down Below who was willing to help." He refrained from mentioning Koko's contribution; he doubted whether the Goodwinters were ready for the idea of a psychic cat.