At that point male footsteps came tripping down the stairs behind him and stopped just behind his right shoulder. A hushed voice asked, “How’s everything?”
“Boring!” Qwilleran muttered without turning his head.
“Anything I can do?” the innkeeper asked.
“Yes. Turn on the sprinkling system.”
“It’s stuffy in here. I’ll check the ventilators…. At four-thirty make your getaway and come to my office. Use the stairway.”
Then Qwilleran was alone again. According to his watch, he had another half-hour to spend as Joe Buzzard of City Security Services. He tried rising on his toes, stretching his spine, flexing his muscles discreetly, blinking his eyes behind his dark glasses.
Polly had finished her duty at the tea table and was now circulating and chatting with other guests. She knew everyone! Gradually she made her way to the jewel table. He had told her to select something nice; it would be her Christmas present. She protested; she had her pearls and her opals, and she had no taste for diamonds. He had insisted, however, and now he saw her approach the leather cases reluctantly… explain to the assistant… look at shallow trays of baubles and shake her head… then show sudden interest, even enthusiasm. The assistant wrote something in her book, and Polly had another cup of tea.
Now what? Qwilleran consulted his watch. Twenty minutes more! He began to wish for a minor jewel heist, and he fantasized a scenario:
French maid drops a platter of cucumber sandwiches to divert attention… grabs an empty teapot and bashes jeweler’s assistant… scoops handfuls of diamonds into her apron… dashes to the service exit pursued by a security guard waving a wooden gun and shouting “Stop thief!”
This exercise amused Qwilleran for five minutes.
Fifteen minutes more!
Now what?
He could search for fodder for the “Qwill Pen.” Could he write a thousand words on cucumber sandwiches… or the forgotten art of hand-kissing… or hats? Yes! There were cowboy hats, baseball caps, bike helmets, construction workers’ hardhats, a bagpiper’s bonnet, gob hats, a bishop’s miter. Hats were important! There had been George Washington’s cocked hat, Yankee Doodle’s hat with a feather, Humphrey Bogart’s snap-brim fedora, Maurice Chevalier’s straw boater, Fred Astaire’s silk top hat…
Before Qwilleran knew it, the piano music stopped, the tea-warmers were turned off, the jewel cases were locked, and he was running up the stairs to the innkeeper’s office, gasping for a cup of coffee.
When Larry Lanspeak drove him back to the K Theatre, Qwilleran said, “Well, your jeweler camps it up, doesn’t he? His get-up is straight out of Arabian Nights, and his manners date back to Moliere…. And you’ll have to forgive me, Larry, but I can’t help wondering if this hoopla is worthwhile businesswise, that is.”
Larry said, “I’ll be frank with you. We don’t get a penny of commission from any of his transactions here, but what the heck? it’s only once every five years, and in between, if a customer of ours wants to special-order a string of pearls or an engagement ring, we get the usual markup. Also, the ballyhoo is good public relations for us. It helps the Old Guard unload some of their old jewelry.”
“Do you think he offers them a fair price?”
“No one ever complains. He sends them roses, and they’re always thrilled to have him visit their homes.”
Larry dropped Qwilleran at the side door of the theatre, handing him a small paperbound booklet, “Here’s a script of the play that’s about to open, in case you want to read it before opening night…. I assume you’ll be reviewing it for the paper.”
“Who else?” It was a script for Night Must Fall.
“It was first produced in 1937. Emlyn Williams wrote the role of the houseboy for himself. It’s a challenge for an actor.”
“Yes, I know,” Qwilleran said. “I saw a revival on Broadway several years ago. I suppose Derek Cuttlebrink will be playing the Emlyn Williams role.”
“Unfortunately, no. He could bring it off, but he’s working nights at the inn. He’s maitre d’ of the Mackintosh Room, you know…. just leave your uniform and props on the table in the costume department, Qwill.”
“Okay, and thanks for everything, Larry. It was… an unforgettable experience.”
Qwilleran had misgivings about Derek as maitre d’. The last two restaurants he managed had closed suddenly and permanently one under a cloud of scandal, one under a cloud of dust.
In the late evening, when Qwilleran phoned Polly to report. Koko came running and hopped on the library table. Did he feel obliged to chaperon the conversation? Did he know there was a Siamese male named Brutus at the other end of the line? Or was he still trying to figure out how the mystifying instrument worked?
Her first words were, “Well, was the experience worth your while?”
“Not really.” he said. “What did you think of the hats?”
“They were just teasing Mr. Delacamp. He pretended to think they were fabulous.”
“What did you think of his private collection?”
“He had some spectacular things, such as a vintage pin paced with thirteen carats of diamonds and signed. He was asking thirty-five thousand.”
“It won’t sell in Moose County!”
“Don’t be too sure. Signed pieces are collectible, and there are persons of means around here who buy for investment but never advertise the fact. I saw a solid gold Tiffany tea-strainer for eighteen hundred that was already sold. It won’t be used to strain tea!”
“Did you find something you like?”
“Yes, I did!” she said with enthusiasm. “A cameo ring!”
“A cameo!” His tone indicated a distaste for cameos.
“Not the commercial quality that’s sold to tourists, Qwill. Antique cameos with incredibly fine carving are making a comeback. I saw a pin depicting Venus and Cupid in a forest, and the carving was so detailed, I could count the leaves on the trees! The ring, though, is something I can see myself wearing. The subject is the Three Graces in a gold mounting. They’re the goddesses of beauty, refinement, and the arts.”
“It sounds like you, Polly. Grab it!”
“They’re holding it for me. My appointment is Thursday at two.”
“Good! I’ll write a check. How much?”
“They don’t accept checks or credit cards only cash.”
“That’s odd,” he said, thinking of the diamond pin for thirty-five thousand. “But it’s all right. I’ll make a withdrawal Thursday morning and deliver it to you at the library or even in the lobby of the inn at two o’clock…. How much?”
“Eight hundred.”
“Is that all? I had visions of eighteen thousand! I was prepared to hire an armored truck from the bank.”
“Actually,” she said with a ripple of laughter, “it’s only seven-ninety-five. And that includes tax.”
“I’ll withdraw eight hundred, and be sure to get your five dollars change.”
Qwilleran replaced the receiver thoughtfully as he questioned the terms of sale; cash only… no tax.
“What do you think of that gambit?” he asked Koko, who was sitting near the phone.
The cat jumped to the floor and walked slowly and with deliberation to the kitchen cabinet where the Kabibbles were stored, while Yum Yum shrieked from the top of the refrigerator, hitting a high C that would curdle one’s blood.
Five
Wednesday, September 9 ‘Chickens always come home to roost.’
AFTER THE SIAMESE HAD breakfasted and performed their morning ablutions (three licks to the paw, four swipes over the ear, etc,), they were treated to a workout with Qwilleran’s old paisley tie. He enjoyed whipping it around over their heads and watching their midair contortions. When they were tired and ready to stretch out in a patch of morning sun, he went to his studio on the first balcony to work on the “Qwill Pen” column for Friday.