"You musta left something in the pocket," the clerk said, and she rummaged through a drawer until she found an envelope with his name on it.
When Qwilleran noted the contents, he said, "Thanks! Thanks very much! Have a Christmas drink on me," and he left a dollar tip. It was the tape measure. Mary's silver tape measure and a piece of folded paper. Fingering the smooth silver case, he returned to his apartment and looked out his back window. The early winter dusk was doing its best to make the junk in the backyard look more bedraggled than ever. The two station wagons were there, backed in from the alley — one gray and one tan.
Access to the backyard was apparently through the Cobb shop, and Qwilleran preferred to avoid Iris, so he went out the front door, around the corner and in through the alley. After a glance at the back windows of nearby houses, he measured the gray wagon. It was exactly as he had guessed; the dimensions tallied with the notations on the scrap of paper.
And as he walked around the decrepit vehicle he noted something else that checked; Ben's wagon had a left front fender missing.
Qwilleran knew exactly what he wanted to do now. After buying a pint of the best brandy at Lombardo's, he ran up the steps to the Bit o' Junk shop. The front door was open, but Ben's store was locked up and dark.
He stopped at The Junkery. "Happen to know where Ben is?" he asked Iris. "I'd like to extend the hospitality of the season." "He must be at Children's Hospital," Iris said. "He goes there every Christmas to play Santa." Upstairs the cats were waiting. Both were sitting tall in the middle of the floor, with the attentive attitude that meant, "We have a message to communicate." They were staring. Yum Yum was staring into middle distance with her crossed eyes, but she was staring hard. Koko stared at a certain point in the center of Qwilleran's forehead, and he was staring so intently that his body swayed with an inner tension.
This was not the dinner message, Qwilleran knew. This was something more important. "What is it?" he asked the cats. "What are you trying to tell me?" Koko turned his head. He looked at a small shiny object on the floor near the bookcase.
"What's that?" Qwilleran gasped, although he needed no answer. He knew what it was.
He picked up the scrap of silvery paper and took it to the desk. He turned on the lamp. At first glance the foil looked like a gum wrapper that had been stepped on, but he knew better. It was a neat rectangle, as wide as a pencil, and as thin as a razorblade.
As he started to open the packet, Koko jumped to the desk to watch. With dainty brown feet the cat stepped over pencils, paper clips, ashtray, tobacco pouch, and tape measure, and then he stepped precisely on the green button of Iris's portable tape recorder.
"Hawnnk… ssss… hawnnk… ssss…" Qwilleran hit the red button of the machine and silenced the unpleasant noise. As he did so, he became aware of heavy footsteps in the hall.
Santa Claus was lumbering up the stairs, pulling on the handrail for assistance.
"Come in and toast the season," Qwilleran invited. "I've got a good bottle of brandy." "Worthy gentleman, I'll do that!" Ben said.
He shuffled into Qwilleran's quarters in his big black boots cuffed with imitation fur. His eyes were glazed, his breath was strong; he had not come directly from Children's Hospital.
"Ho ho ho!" he said in hearty greeting when he spied the two cats.
Yum Yum flew to the top of the book cupboard, but Koko stood his ground and glared at the visitor.
"Merr-r-r-y Christmas!" boomed the Santa Claus voice. Koko's backbone bristled. He arched his back and bushed his tail. With ears laid back and fangs bared, he hissed. Then Koko jumped to the desk and continued to watch the proceedings — with disapproval in the angle of his ears and the tilt of his whiskers. From his perch he could survey the Morris chair, where Qwilleran sat drinking coffee, and the rocker, where Santa Claus was sipping brandy. He also had a good view of the tea table, which held a plate of smoked oysters.
At length Qwilleran said, "Let's drink to our old friend Cobb, wherever he is!" Ben waved his glass. "To the perfidious wretch!" "You mean you weren't an admirer of our late landlord?" "Fair is foul, and foul is fair," said the old actor.
"I'd like to know what happened that night at the Ellsworth house. Did Cobb have a heart attack, or did he slip on the stairs? The snow could have caked on his boots, you know. It was snowing that night, wasn't it?" There was no confirmation from Ben, whose rouged nose was deep in his brandy glass.
"I mean, sometime after midnight," Qwilleran persisted. "Do you remember? Wasn't it snowing? Were you out that night?" "Oh, it snowed and it blowed… it blew and it snew," said Ben with appropriate grimaces and gestures.
"I went to the Ellsworth house the next day, and there was a bare patch under Cobb's car, indicating that it was snowing while he was stripping the house. The funny thing is: another car had been there at the same time. It left its outline on the ice, and from the shape of the impression, I would guess the second car had a fender missing." Qwilleran paused and watched Ben's face.
"Mischief, thou art afoot!" said Ben, looking mysterious.
Qwilleran tried other approaches to no avail. The old actor was a better actor than he. The newsman kept an eye on his watch; he had to shave and dress before calling for Mary.
He made one more attempt. "I wonder if it's true," he said, "that old Ellsworth had some dough hidden — " He was interrupted by a noise from the desk. "Hawnnk…ssss…hawnnk…" "Koko! Scram!" he yelled, and the cat jumped to the floor and up on the mantel, almost in a single swoop. "If it's true that the old house had some hidden treasure," Qwilleran continued, "perhaps Cobb got his hands on it — " The tape recorder went on: "Hawnnk… sssss… ppphlat!" "And perhaps someone came along and gave him a shove." Qwilleran was lounging casually in his chair but watching Ben sharply, and he thought he detected a wavering eye — a glance that was not in the actor's script. "Someone might have shoved him down the stairs and grabbed the loot…" "Hawnnk… ppphlat'" said the recorder. Then "Grrrummph' Whazzat? Whatcha doin'?" There followed the murmur of blank tape. Then: "Wool over my eyes, you old fool…. Know what you're up to…. Think you can getaway with anything…. Over my dead body!" It was Cobb's recorded voice, and Qwilleran sat up straight.
The tape said, "Those creeps comin' in here…. Horse brasses, my eye!… Know where you get your deliveries.
… You! Scroungin' at the Garrick! That's a laugh!" Ben dropped his glass of brandy and heaved himself out of the rocker.
"No'" yelled Qwilleran, erupting from the Morris chair and leaping toward the desk. "I've got to hear this!" The tape said, "Me marchin' on the picket line, a lousy three bucks an hour, and you get ten for a deck… " The newsman stared at the machine with incredulity and triumph.
The tape said, "Not any more, you don't…. You're gonna cut me in, Ben Baby…. " There was a flash of red in the room. Qwilleran saw it from the corner of his eye. It moved toward the fireplace, and the newsman spun around in time to see Ben reaching for the poker. Then a big black Santa Claus boot kicked out, and the1ea table went flying across the room.
Qwilleran reached for the desk chair, without taking his eyes from the red suit. He grabbed the chair roughly by its back, but all he got was a handful of spindles; the back came off in his hand.
For an instant the two men were face to face — Ben bracing himself on the hearth and brandishing the poker, Qwilleran holding a few useless dowels. And then — the iron thing shot forward. It skidded off the mantel, catching Ben in the neck. As the poker flew through the air. Qwilleran ducked, skidded on an oyster, and went down on his right knee with a thud.
The scene of action froze into a tableau: Santa Claus on the floor, flattened by the Mackintosh coat of arms; Qwilleran on his knees; Koko bending over a smoked oyster.