Qwilleran dodged from aisle to aisle, asking viewers, "Why are you here? ... See anything you like? ... How are the prices? ... Will you come back tomorrow to buy? ... Did you know the Goodwinter family?" He himself spotted a silver pocketknife he wouldn't mind buying; engraved with the doctor's initials, it was priced at $150.
Upstairs, the crowds were less dense. Chests and dressers and disassembled beds were pushed back, and long tables were piled with blankets, towels and such. Clothing filled portable racks. One room, which was empty, had obviously been Melinda's; she had removed her furnishings to her apartment, but her distinctive fragrance lingered.
At the rear of the second floor there was a large room that no one entered, although an occasional viewer would poke a head through the doorway and back away quickly. It was two stories high and had three large north windows. This had been Dr.
Hal's studio. Hanging in every wall space and filed on floor-to ceiling shelves like books were brightly colored paintings on stretched canvas or rectangles of wall-board, and hundreds more were stacked on the Bid-a-Bit tables. It was the output, Qwilleran surmised, of twenty-five lonely years. None was bigger than an ordinary book. All were flat, two-dimensional depictions of animals against unrealistic landscapes of kelly green and cobalt blue. Red cats and turquoise dogs stood on hind legs and danced together.
Orange ducks with purple beaks faced each other and quacked sociably.
Tigers and kangaroos flew overhead like airplanes. These were the "animules" that had caused old Mr. Hornbuckle both wonderment and amusement. A sign saying "Pictures $1.00" prompted Qwilleran to run downstairs to the kitchen and phone the high school where Mildred Hanstable taught art as well as home ec.
"She's in class at this hour," said an anonymous voice in the school office.
"This is urgent! Jim Qwilleran calling! Get her on the phone!" He was willing to throw his name around when it served a good purpose.
"Just a minute, Mr. Q." A breathless art teacher came on the line.
"Mildred, this is Qwill," he said.
"I'm at the Goodwinter house previewing the tag sale, and there's something here that you must definitely see!
How fast can you make it over here?" "I'm free next hour, but the period's just started." "Cut class! Get here on the double! You'll be back before anyone misses you. Come in the back way. Use my name.
" Meanwhile he went upstairs and closed the door to Dr. Hal's studio.
When Mildred arrived, they climbed the servants' stairs from the kitchen, Qwilleran explaining, "Dr. Hal had a secret hobby. He painted pictures." "My God!" Mildred gasped when she saw them.
"My words exactly! They're marked a dollar apiece, and no one is interested. A hundred dollars would be more appropriate. They might sell for a thousand in the right gallery. I don't know anything about art, but I've seen crazier stuff than this in museums." "It's contemporary folk art," she said.
"They're charming! They're unique!
Wait till the art magazines get hold of these!" "Wait till the psychologists get their claws into them! It's the Noah's Ark of a madman." "I'm weak," Mildred said.
"I don't know what to say." "Go back to your class. I simply wanted an opinion to corroborate my own hunch." "What are you going to do about it, Qwill?" "First, take the decimal point out of that sign. Then notify the K Foundation." Reluctantly the art teacher tore herself away from the bizarre collection, and Qwilleran went back to asking questions downstairs: "Do you collect antiques? ... Are you a dealer? ... Have you ever seen a sale to equal this? ... What do you plan to buy?" It was while taping their uninspired answers that he caught a glimpse of a bushy-haired, bushy-bearded young man in jeans and faded sweatshirt, wearing a fanny pack. He was browsing among odds and ends on a table toward the rear of the main floor. Qwilleran's moustache bristled; he remembered that shaggy head from the reading room at the public library. It had been three months before, but he was sure this was the person who drove away in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate and who was later identified as Charles Edward Martin. The man was reading labels on old LP records and fingering household tools. He examined the initials on the silver pocketknife. He picked up a cast-iron piggy bank and shook it; there was no rattle. Sidling up to him, Qwilleran asked in a friendly way, "Quite a bunch of junk, isn't it?" "Yeah," said the fellow.
"Find anything worth buying?" "Nah." "What do you think of the prices? Aren't they a bit high?" The young man shrugged. Hoping to hear him say a few words with an eastern accent, Qwilleran remarked, "I have a feeling we've met somewhere. Ever go to the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville?" "Yeah." "That's where I've met you! You're Ronald Frobnitz!" Qwilleran said.
The subject was supposed to say, "No, I'm Charles Martin," or better yet, "Chahles Mahtin." Instead he shook his head and scuttled away.
Noting that the silver pocketknife had scuttled at the same time, Qwilleran followed him to the front door, hindered by the crowds.
The man was moving fast enough to make good time but not fast enough to arouse the suspicion of the security guards. Qwilleran thought, That Chahles Mahtin is smaht! He followed him through the milling hordes on the sidewalk--all the way to Main Street, where the suspect drove off in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate.
Qwilleran, who was without his car at the moment, jogged to the police station, hoping to catch Brodie in the office, but the chief was striding out of the building.
"Do you have a minute, Andy?" Qwilleran asked urgently.
"Make it half a minute." "Okay. I attended the preview of the Goodwinter sale and saw someone who is undoubtedly Charles Edward Martin." "Who?" "The guy I suspect of being the Boulevard Prowler. I tried to get him inffccversation, but he was close-mouthed. When Polly was threatened three months ago, you checked the registration and came up with the name of Charles Edward Martin. The same car has been spotted three times in the last few days: headed for Shantytown, parked near the Shipwreck Tavern, and pulling out of the parking lot at Indian Village." "Probably selling cemetery lots," Brodie quipped as he edged toward the curb.
"I can't pick him up for driving around with a foreign license plate.
Has Polly been threatened again? Has he been hanging around the boulevard after dark?" "No," Qwilleran had to admit, although he pounded his moustache with his fist. How could he explain? Brodie might accept the idea of a psychic cat, but he'd balk at a moustache that telegraphed hunches.
"Tell you what to do, Qwill. Get your mind off those damned license plates. Come to the lodge hall for dinner tonight. It's Scottish Night. Six o'clock. Tell 'em at the door you're my guest." Brodie jumped into a police car without waiting for an answer. Qwilleran went for a long walk. While he walked, he assessed his apprehensions in connection with the Boulevard Prowler.
As a crime reporter and war correspondent he had faced frequent danger without a moment's fear. Now, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing that heart-sinking sensation--fear for the safety of another. For the first time in his life, he had someone close enough to make him vulnerable. It was a realization that warmed his blood and chilled it at the same time. As for Brodie's patronizing invitation, he was inclined to ignore it. He knew many of the lodge members, and he had passed the hall hundreds of times-a three-story stone building like a miniature French Bastille--but he had never stepped inside the door. True, he had a certain amount of curiosity about Scottish Night, but he decided against it.
Brodie's cheeky attitude annoyed him. And how good could the food be at a lodge hall? In that frame of mind he returned to the apple barn, expecting to thaw some sort of meal out of the freezer. The Siamese met him at the door as usual and marched to the feeding station, where they sat confidently staring at the empty plate. Well aware of priorities in that household, Qwilleran opened a can of boned chicken for the cats before checking his answering machine and going up the ramp to change into a warmup suit. And then it happened again! He was halfway to the balcony when Koko rushed him. This time he heard the thundering paws on the ramp and braced himself before the muscular body crashed into his legs.