They turned into Ittibittiwassee Road. He asked, “How did you like Carol’s breast of duck?”
“It was a little rich for my taste.”
“But the blackberry cobbler was good.”
When they reached Indian Village Polly asked, “Would you like to come in and say goodnight to Brutus and Catta?”
“For a few minutes.”
It was late when Qwilleran returned to the barn that night, and the internal clocks of the Siamese told them their bedtime snack was long overdue. Yum Yum prowled aimlessly; Koko sat on his haunches, his tail slapping the door impatiently. They gave the impression they were too weak from hunger to protest; that was one of their subtle strategies, designed to make him feel guilty.
“Sorry about this, but you know how it is,” he apologized while measuring a serving of Kabibbles on each plate. “We had breast of duck. I had hoped to bring you a taste, but there was none left.”
After that they were ready to sleep. He escorted them up to their lodgings on the top balcony and said goodnight, leaving their door open. They never prowled in the night like feral cats; they had adapted to the human sleep schedule. But they often liked to rise at dawn and watch the early birds getting their worms. On the main floor there were windows with excellent views and accommodatingly wide sills.
During the night an unnatural sound disturbed Qwilleran’s sleep. He was dreaming about the Wild West and a coyote howling on a distant peak. He always dreamed graphically, and a coyote was an appropriate part of the scenario. Yet, the howl grew louder and closer and more urgent. He sat up in bed and took a moment to adjust to reality. Barn… Pickax… Cats…
Koko was howling outside his bedroom door! Was it an alarm? A warning? Qwilleran threw the master switch that illuminated the premises, indoors and out, and went to investigate. He found nothing wrong, no prowlers, not even a waddling raccoon.
As for the cat, he had returned to his quarters and was asleep in his basket. Perhaps he had been dreaming, too, Qwilleran thought. He looked at his bedside clock. It was two-thirty.
Six
Friday, September 11 ‘When elephants fight, it’s the grass that suffers.’
AFTER THE UNEXPLAINED DISTURBANCE in the night, Qwilleran had to sit up and read for a while to relax his nerves. Consequently he was still sleeping when a morning phone call made a rude interruption. He answered the bedside phone with a single syllable resembling a grunt.
“Sorry, Qwill,” said a woman’s wide-awake voice. “Am I calling too early? It’s going on eight-thirty!” She, of course, was dressed, breakfasted, and ready to leave for work at the library.
Groggily, Qwilleran explained, “Koko had a stomach ache in the night and kept me awake, so I had to sleep in. Does Brutus ever howl in the middle of the night?”
“No, but he’s not as vocal as Koko…. All I wanted, Qwill, was to ask what we’re wearing to dinner in the Mackintosh Room tomorrow night. We don’t want to overdo the ‘bonnie Scots’ idea, do we?”
“Right you are. No kilts. No tartans.”
“I thought my olive-green silk would be good with the plaid chair seats and green carpet.”
“Sounds okay. I’ll wear a gray tweed jacket to go with my gray tweed moustache.” Qwilleran was beginning to wake up.
“I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll go home to dress and then ride into town with the Rikers.”
“Good idea.”
“I’m really excited about the dinner. Did you read Mildred’s interview with Chef Wingo on yesterday’s food page? It was inspiring!… Do I hear Koko making a commotion?”
“Yes, he’s ordering his breakfast: ham and eggs with a side order of American fries.”
“Go back to bed! You’re not ready,” Polly said.
Qwilleran slipped into a jumpsuit before opening his bedroom door and following two caterwauling cats down the ramp. Instead of going to the feeding station, however, Koko jumped on the library table and put one paw on the phone.
It’s going to ring, Qwilleran thought, and before he could press the button on the automated coffeemaker, it rang. In an agreeable tone with a rising inflection he said, “Good morning?”
The solemn voice of the attorney answered. “Qwill, this is Bart. Prepare for some shocking news!”
Qwilleran hesitated. He was thinking, The hotel’s bombed again.
“Qwill, are you there? Delacamp died in his sleep last night!”
“I can’t believe it! I had dinner with him at the Lanspeaks’. He was in fine form, although he left early. Was it a heart attack?”
“I don’t know. The doctor is on the way to the inn. I’m at home. Barry Morghan called me here.”
“Did his niece find him? She must be vastly upset.”
“I don’t have any details. But I thought you ought to know that all deals are off.”
“I’ll phone Carol, and she can notify those who had appointments pending. Too bad, isn’t it?”
“Yes, too bad.”
Qwilleran phoned the newspaper first.
Then he called the Lanspeak house in West Middle Hummock. The housekeeper said that Mister and Missus had left for downtown; he called the store; they had not yet arrived. While his hand hovered over the receiver in a spasm of indecision, a call came in from Barry Morghan, speaking in a hollow voice.
“Qwill! Bad news!”
“I know. Bart phoned. Delacamp is dead.”
“Yes, but… the coroner is here, and it looks bad! The police are all over the place. Half the third floor is sealed off…. I can’t talk now. Would you notify Bart of the situation?” The phone clicked unceremoniously.
First Qwilleran called the paper with the latest tip.
Then he phoned the attorney.
His wife said, “He’s just driving out ”
“Catch him!”
He visualized her running after the car, screaming and waving her arms.
“Caught him!” she gasped after a few minutes.
Her husband was less perturbed. “What’s up?”
“It’s worse than we thought, Bart. They obviously suspect homicide.”
“Jewel thieves?”
“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?” Qwilleran agreed.
“We were assured that the jewels and large amounts of cash would be brought to the safe in the manager’s office every night.”
“Something went wrong.”
“I’ll go right to the inn. I may be needed. Thanks, Qwill.”
Qwilleran felt a rush of blood, a burst of energy, a flashback to his old days as a police reporter Down Below. Koko, who had been sitting there to monitor the calls, was less involved. He pushed the script of the theatre club’s new play onto the floor.
“Not now,” Qwilleran said, picking it up and putting it in a safe place. He was asking himself: Where was the niece? What could she tell? When had she last seen the jewel cases? What had been done with the cash from the day’s purchasers? After leaving the dinner party early, where had they gone? What did they do?… And then his curiosity took a different turn. Why did Koko howl in the middle of the night? It was about two-thirty. What was the time of death? And why was the cat sitting near the phone, looking so wise?
No doubt about it, Qwilleran mused; he was an unusual animal. All cats have certain senses that are denied to humans; they tell time without a clock and find their way without a map. Koko’s intuition went beyond that. He knew right from wrong, and he had known that something was wrong at two-thirty A.M. Some things cannot be explained, and Qwilleran had learned to accept the cat’s uncanny perceptions.
His own curiosity about the murder would have to go unsatisfied; no facts were known. Even WPKX had nothing to offer when the first news bulletin interrupted the country music: