No, Qwilleran thought. Roger wouldn't buy such a fantastic story. Aloud he said: "Let's drop this depressing subject… Have you seen any extraterrestrial aircraft lately?" Just before leaving, Roger said: "I almost forgot. Some woman from Down Below phoned the visitors' center. She wanted to know how to reach you. I took her number. You're supposed to call her soon as possible." He handed over a slip of paper with the phone number of the Morning Rampage and the name of the woman who was managing editor.
Qwilleran returned her call, then drove into Mooseville — first for the formalities at the jail and then for dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel. He sat alone in a booth and longed for his pipe. If he decided to accept the terms of Fanny's will, his first act would be to order a couple of tins of Groat and Boddle Number Five. And if he accepted the new assignment at the Fluxion or Morning Rampage he would soon regard these two weeks in Moose County as a visit to another planet. Already his orange cap was beginning to look ridiculous.
After dinner he drove back to the cabin slowly, savoring every picturesque stand of birch, every grotesque jack pine, every sudden view of the raging lake as the highway dipped in and out of the woods. All the beauties of the landscape that he had ignored during the last two weeks now became treasures to stowaway in his memory. He might never see this wild and wonderful country again, and he had not even taken the trouble to watch for the Northern Lights. Or a UFO.
A sheriff's car with the siren wailing sped past him, followed by the red truck of the volunteer fire department. Qwilleran's throat choked with dread and he pressed the accelerator. The cabin! The fire in the fireplace! The cats!
By the time he reached the Klingenschoen driveway the firefighters were working on a burning truck that had run off the road near the site of the old log schoolhouse. Several cars had stopped.
"Anyone hurt?" he asked the onlookers. No, they said. No sign of a driver, they said. Lucky it didn't start a forest fire, they said, considering the force of the wind.
As Qwilleran started up the long driveway a chilling thought occurred to him. The charred hulk looked like a blue pick-up.
As soon as he parked the car he heard Koko howling inside the cabin. As soon as he unlocked the door the cat rushed onto the porch and dashed crazily from one side to the other, stopping only to jump at the rattail latch of the screened door.
Qwilleran found the harness in a hurry and buckled it around the taut belly of the Siamese. Then he played out the long leash and opened the door. Koko immediately bounded toward the toolshed, forcing Qwilleran into a painful run.
The door of the shed was open; that was unusual. The interior of the windowless building was murky, but Qwilleran could see money blowing around on the floor. Stealthily the cat stalked the deep shadows of the shed, unearthly moans coming from the depths of his chest. A gust of wind stirred up another flurry of bills, and Qwilleran kicked an empty whiskey bottle. Then Koko started to howl — not his usual emphatic statement but a prolonged high-pitched wail. Qwilleran looped up the slack of the leash and edged warily into the shadows.
There was one bright spot in the gloom. Lying on the floor was a small handgun with a Florentine gold handle. The body of the handyman was sprawled on the shabby cot.
Snatching Koko, Qwilleran hobbled back to the cabin and phoned the sheriff's dispatcher.
In a matter of minutes a deputy's car pulled into the clearing. "We were right down there on the highway," the officer said. "Pickup on fire. Total loss. Looks like arson." After the body had been carried away in the ambulance, Koko prowled through the cabin with long purposeful strides, wandering everywhere, a portrait of indecision. Yum Yum huddled with her haunches elevated and watched him with concern.
Qwilleran stood at the front windows, staring at a hundred miles of water. Who could fathom the moods and motives of a poor fellow like Tom? He was so willing to do anything suggested, so easily exploited, so pleased to be given a job to do, a pasty, or even a kind word. Fanny had bossed him and given him a home; Hanstable had given him orders and a regular payoff that encouraged that unrealistic dream of buying a nightclub. Without them, it seemed to Qwilleran, Tom had felt suddenly cut adrift.
A burst of music interrupted his uncomfortable reverie. It was the forceful introduction to Brahms' Double Concerto followed by the cello's haunting melody. Abruptly, in the middle of a phrase, the music was replaced by the spoken word-a gentle voice: "I did it… I pushed her… She was a nice old lady. She was my friend." There was a choked sob. "He told me to do it. He said I would get a lot of money to buy a nightclub. He said we would be partners… She promised me the money. She promised to leave me everything. She said I was like her son… Why did she say it? She didn't mean it." The voice trailed away, and the mike picked up the roar of the wind and waves and the cry of a cat. Then it cut out, and the music resumed with the plaintive theme and the solo violin.
Qwilleran coughed to dispel the lump in his throat. The cat was sitting alongside the stereo, studying the little red light. Qwilleran stroked Koko's head. "Did he say anything to you, Koko? Did he say goodbye?"
Mooseville, Sunday
Dear Arch, Your news on the telephone has left me in a state of terminal shock. Now I have news for you! The Rampage has made a better offer, and they have a prettier managing editor. Do you think Percy is prepared to meet their terms?
There's been a little excitement here.
We had a B-and-E at the cabin, and Koko bloodied the burglar. I almost got knifed by the same man. He killed one of our neighbors last weekend. Aunt Fanny died suddenly on Thursday, and her houseman shot himself yesterday — in my toolshed.
Otherwise it has been a quiet vacation.
There is one little problem. The new assignment sounds great, but I've just found out that I'm the sole heir to Aunt Fanny's sizable fortune. Naturally there's a catch. I have to live in Pickax. What to do? What to do?
You won't believe a word of this, and I don't blame you.
Qwill
As he ripped the sheet out of the typewriter the two nagging voices in his head were still debating. Be true to your profession, said the Dedicated Newsman. Take the money and run, said the Canny Scot.
Koko was sitting on the table studying the keys and levers of the machine, while Yum Yum made playful passes at his tail.
"Tell me what to do, Koko," the man said. "You're always right. Shall I take the new assignment?" Yum Yum was licking Koko's ears now, and both cats were cross-eyed with enjoyment. "Yow," he murmured weakly.
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. Was that yes or no?
The End
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