“The back roads have overhanging trees. It wouldn’t help.”
“Thanks for driving the girls back downtown, Qwill.”
“Keep your radio turned on.”
Qwilleran prepared coffee, changed into a jumpsuit, and stayed close to the radio. Within an hour there was another bulletin:
“The sheriff’s ground patrol, directed by the helicopter surveillance detail, has located the hijacked bookmobile, earlier reported stolen. It was found wrecked on an unimproved road in Chipmunk Township. The hijacker is at large, and motorists are warned to keep car doors locked and to avoid picking up hitchhikers. The suspect, wanted for murder, is described as two hundred and fifty pounds, armed and dangerous. The wrecked vehicle, carrying hundreds of books belonging to the Pickax public library, is on its side in a ditch.”
Qwilleran’s phone rang immediately.
“Qwill! Did you hear?”
“I heard!”
“What an incredible mess! Can you imagine the condition of the books?”
“Is there anything I can do?”
There was no answer.
“Polly! Is there anything I can do?”
“I’m thinking… Gippel’s Garage can rescue the bus. But we should salvage the books first.”
“What can I do?”
“Ernie Kemple will line up his Handy Helpers. Those kids love an emergency like this. But we’ll need lots of book crates in a hurry. Liquor cartons are good…”
“How many do you need?”
In the next few hours Qwilleran canvassed drug stores, bars, and food markets and delivered a small mountain of cartons to the back door of the library. When he returned to the barn in time to clean up for Susan’s auction, the Siamese were furious. The inside of the barn looked like the inside of the ditched bookmobile. They had not been fed!
For that matter, neither had Qwilleran, and he had only half an hour to report to the antique shop. His priorities were clear. He fed the cats.
At ten-thirty p.m. the interior of Exbridge & Cobb was brightly lighted, although the sign on the door said CLOSED. A few curious passersby stood on the sidewalk, gawking. In the main shop they could see two women sitting at telephones and a man standing at a chalkboard; in the annex others were eating and drinking and having a good time. “That’s Mr. Q,” the gawkers said to each other as he rapped on the front door.
Susan Exbridge admitted him. “Darling! You’re always so punctual!”
“I’m also hungry. I didn’t have time for dinner.”
“Go into the annex. Maggie has prepared a feast.”
The hostess was wearing her usual black, flecked with cat hair. Her arms were loaded with gold bangles, and her chest was loaded with pearls. “Here he is!” she cried. “Let me give him a hug!… Would you like wine or coffee, Qwill?”
“Food!”
Besides the silver coffee service and the cut glass decanters there were platters of cheeses and cold cuts. Susan briefed him while he satisfied his hunger.
“The phones have been open since nine; midnight is the cut-off. You’ll be taking calls during the last hour. Dr. Diane will be at the table with you; Dwight Somers will be at the chalkboard.”
“Back up!” he said. “I don’t know the basics. How does this thing work?”
She explained. “When a call comes through from Maine or New Orleans or Los Angeles you get the caller’s name and phone number and the catalogue number of the bank he’s interested in. Then you consult the chalkboard and give the amount of the latest bid. The caller may raise it or hang up. If the bid is raised, you call it out to Dwight, and he updates the board.”
Dr. Diane said, “I’ve done this before and found that some calls come from practical jokers or cranks or lonely folks who just want to talk. Tell them three calls are waiting, ask to be excused, and hang up.”
“Legitimate bidders,” said Susan, “may want additional information, such as dimensions, condition, date, name of maker, or description of bank. Consult your printout and answer their questions.”
Qwilleran said, “I can’t believe the eyes and ears of the nation are focused on Pickax, 400 miles north of everywhere!”
“You wait and see,” said Maggie. “Mr. Sprenkle belonged to an international bank club.”
At eleven o’clock Qwilleran and the doctor went to the phone table, and Dwight went to the chalkboard.
The lines had been comfortably busy for the first two hours, Susan said, but the action would build up as the deadline approached. A speaker phone had been set up, and just before midnight she would call a 900 number, and Washington Naval Observatory Time would be an nounced every five seconds. “That way there’ll be no arguments when we cut off the bidding.”
Qwilleran’s phone rang, and his first call came from Austin, Texas, inquiring about the Butting Ram bank. Qwilleran described, the movement for him: “Put coin on limb of tree and press lever… ram butts coin into bank… a small boy thumbs his nose.”
It was in good condition, valued at six thousand; the highest bid was five. The caller raised it five hundred.
A collector in Buckhead, Georgia, called back several times and raised his bid on the Circus Pony bank whenever someone had topped him.
Although most of the callers were men, the wife of a banker in Reno, Nevada, wanted to buy her husband a birthday gift. “Do you think he would like a mechanical bank?”
“I’m sure he would. There’s one called the Magic Bank. The cashier takes the coin and disappears with it into a bank vault.”
“How charming!” she said. “How old is it? He’s not too fond of old things.”
“It’s dated 1873. Would you like to make a bid? The highest we have is four thousand, although it’s valued at sixty-five hundred.”
“How big is it?”
“Six inches high. That’s approximately the usual size.”
“I see… Are you an antiques dealer? I love talking to you. You have such a delicious voice.”
Crisply Qwilleran said, “A bid for forty-five hundred has just come in on the other line. Better make up your mind.”
She offered forty-seven-fifty, and Dwight said, “Qwill, you’re a rascal.”
“She was holding up the line!”
The phones rang incessantly as the deadline approached, and Dwight was busy with the chalk and eraser. With only five minutes to go, Buckhead made another bid on the Circus Pony. He also inquired about less valuable banks, bidding a hundred dollars here and a hundred dollars there. He was stalling. Qwilleran looked at Dwight and shrugged. The speaker phone was beeping away the seconds. At the stroke of midnight all bids were cut off. Buckhead had his Circus Pony for forty-five thousand. Everyone in the shop applauded.
The Siamese, without help from the Washington Naval Observatory, knew that their bedtime snack was seventy-four minutes past due, and they met Qwilleran at the kitchen door, scolding and lashing their tails.
“All right! All right!” he said. “I was helping an elderly widow who loves cats! Try to be a little understanding, a little more flexible.”
As he watched them devour their Kabibbles, he reflected that it had been an eventful day in every way: the hijacking of the bookmobile, the coast-to-coast telephone auction, and even the mad scramble for cardboard cartons for the library not to mention the debut of the Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc. He had not yet read the list of proposed titles.
He found it in one of his pockets:
Everything You Wanted to Know About Ravens, by Edgar Allan Poe.
A Revised History of the World, by Lewis Carroll.
Painting by Numbers, with foreword by Leonardo.
How to Make Lasting Friendships, by Richard III.
Bedtime Stories for Tiny Tots, illustrated by Hieronymus Bosch.