The Siamese slept the sleep that follows a horrendous experience. Every half hour Qwilleran went to their apartment and watched their furry sides pulsating. Their paws would twitch violently as if they were having nightmares. Were they fighting battles? Running for their lives? Being tortured at the animal clinic?
Earlier Fran Brodie had telephoned. "I hear you rolled over last night, Qwill."
"Where did you hear that?"
"On the radio. They said you weren't seriously hurt, though. How are you?"
"Fine, except when I breathe. I get a stitch in my side."
"Now you'll have to drive that limousine you inherited." She enjoyed teasing him about the pretentious vehicle in his garage.
"I got rid of it. It was a gas guzzler and hard to park, and it looked like a hearse. It was only standing in the garage, losing its charge and drying out its tires, while I was paying insurance and registration fees every year. I sold it to the funeral home."
"In that case," Fran said, "we can drive my car to the airport Wednesday. We should leave about eight AM to catch the shuttle to Chicago. I made the hotel reservations for four nights. You'll love the place. Quiet, good restaurant - and that's not all!"
Qwilleran hung up the phone with misgivings. Burdened with other concerns, he had given no thought to this particular dilemma.
Shortly after that, Polly had called to inquire about the cats.
He said, "It's been a blow to their pride. They usually carry their tails proudly, but today they're at half-mast. Gippel is working on your car, Polly, but I want you to have a new one, and I'll drive the red job."
"No, Qwill!" she protested. "That's tremendously kind of you, but you should buy a new car for yourself."
"I insist, Polly. Go over to Gippel's and look at the new models. Pick out a color you like."
"Well, we'll argue about that when I return from Chicago. You can use the 'red job' while I'm away. What time do you want to pick me up Wednesday morning? I'll be staying in town at my sister-in-Iaw's."
Feeling like a coward, he said, "Eight o'clock," Not only had he failed to resolve his dilemma, he had compounded it with his dastardly acquiescence.
-Scene Nine-
Place: The Fitch mansion in West
Middle Hummock
Time: A Tuesday Qwilleran would never forget
WHEN EDDINGTON SMITH'S old station wagon rumbled up to the carriage house Tuesday morning, Qwilleran went downstairs with the new picnic hamper.
"You didn't need to bring any food," the bookseller said. "I brought something for our lunch."
"It's not food," Qwilleran explained. "Koko is in the hamper. I hope you don't object. I thought we could conduct an experiment to see if a cat can sniff out bookworms. If so, it would be a breakthrough for some scientific journal."
"I see," said Eddington with vague comprehension. Those were his last words for the next half hour. He was. one of those intense drivers who are speechless while operating a vehicle. He gripped the wheel with whitened knuckles, leaned forward, and peered ahead in a trance, all the while stretching his lips in a joyless grin.
"My car flipped over in a ditch on Ittibittiwassee Road Sunday night, and it's totaled," Qwilleran said and waited (or a sympathetic comment. There was no reaction from the mesmerized driver, so he continued.
"Fortunately I had my seat belt fastened, and I wasn't hurt except for a lump on my elbow as big as a golf ball and a stitch in my side, but the cats were thrown from the car. They disappeared in the woods. By the time I found them, they'd had an altercation with a skunk, and I had to drive them to the animal clinic. Did you ever spend fifteen minutes with two skunked animals in a car with the windows closed?"
There was no reply. "I didn't dare roll the windows down more than an inch or two, because the cats were loose in the backseat, and I didn't know how wild they'd be after their experience. I couldn't breathe, Edd! I thought of stopping at the hospital for a shot of oxygen. Instead I just stepped on the gas and hoped I wouldn't turn blue."
Even this dramatic account failed to distract
Eddington's concentration from the road.
"When I got home, I took a bath in tomato juice. Mr. O'Dell raided three grocery stores and bought every can they had on the shelf. He had to burn my clothes and the cats' coop. Their commodes were in the car when it flipped, and they rattled around like ice cubes in a cocktail shaker. One of them conked me on the head. I'm still combing gravel out of my hair and moustache."
Qwilleran peered into Eddington's face with concern. He was conscious, but that was all.
"The cats were deodorized at the clinic, but there's no guarantee it'll last. I may have to buy a gallon of Old Spice. I'm trying to keep them downwind."
After a while Qwilleran tired of hearing his own voice, and they drove in funereal silence until they reached the Fitch mansion. Eddington parked the car at the backdoor in a service yard enclosed by a high, stone wall.
If the murderers had parked there, Qwilleran observed, their vehicle would not have been visible from either of the approach roads; on the other hand, if they had stationed a lookout in the vehicle, he could not have seen David and Jill approaching. The lookout may have been patrolling the property with a walkie-talkie, he decided.
Eddington had a key to the back door, which led into a large service hall - the place where Harley's body had been found. Doors opened into the kitchen, laundry, butler's pantry, and servants' dining room. Qwilleran was carrying the wicker hamper; Eddington was carrying a shopping bag, and after groping in its depths he produced a can of soup and two apples and left them on the kitchen table. Then he led the way to the Great Hall.
Although lighted by clerestory windows 30 feet overhead, the hall was a dismal conglomeration of primitive spears and shields, masks, drums, a canoe carved from a log, shrunken heads, and ceremonial costumes covered with dusty feathers. Qwilleran sneezed. "Where is the library?" he asked.
"I'll show you the drawing room and dining room first," Eddington said, opening large, double doors. These rooms were loaded with suits of armor, totem poles, stone dragons, medieval brasses, and stuffed monkeys in playful poses.
"Where are the books?" Qwilleran repeated.
Opening another great door Eddington said, "And this is the smoking room. Harley cleared it out and moved in some of his own things."
Qwilleran noted a ship's figurehead, carved and painted and seven feet tall, an enormous pilot wheel, a mahogany and brass binnacle, and an original print of the 1805 gunboat, signed, and obviously better than his reproduction. There were several sailing trophies. And on the mantel, on shelves and on tables there were model ships in glass cases.
The hamper that Qwilleran was clutching began to bounce and swing.
He said, "Koko is enthusiastic about nautical things. Would it be all right to let him out?"
Eddington nodded his pleasure and approval. " 'Enthusiasm is the fever of reason,' as Victor Hugo said."
It was the liveliest display of spirit that Koko had shown since his ordeal. He hopped out of the hamper and scampered to a two-foot replica of the HMS Bounty, a three-masted ship with intricate rigging and brass figurehead. Then he trotted to a fleet of three small ships: the Ni¤a, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, all under full sail with flags and pennants flying. When he discovered a nineteenth century gunboat with brass cannon, Koko rose on his hind legs, craning his neck and pawing the air.
"Now where's the library?" Qwilleran asked as he returned a protesting cat to the hamper.
It was a two-story room circled by a balcony, with books everywhere. Although there were no windows - and no daylight to damage the fine bindings - there were art-glass chandeliers that made the tooled leather sparkle like gold lace.