Uh-huh, Qwilleran mused; just what I expected. He and Polly drove home in silence. She was a happy woman who had had too much food; he was purposely holding his tongue. He wanted to say, I still think your friend didn't die of natural causes; I suspect Melinda made an error in Irma's medication. But it was Polly's birthday, and he refrained from spoiling it with another conjecture. One should be able to say anything to a close friend, he reflected, and yet part of friendship was knowing what not to say and when not to say it, a bit of philosophy he had learned from recent experience. When they turned into Goodwinter Boulevard, the old-fashioned streetlamps were shedding a ghastly light on the scene of Saturday's nightmare, and their car headlights exposed piles of litter in the gutter. As they approached the Gage mansion and slowed to turn into the side drive, their headlights picked up something else that should not have been there: a car parked the wrong way, with a bearded man at the wheel.
"There he is again!" Polly screamed.
Fifteen
When Polly screamed, Qwilleran opened his car door and stepped out, facing the parked car.
"Don't!" she cried.
"He may be dangerous!" Immediately the other car went into reverse, then gunned forward, swerving around Qwilleran and narrowly missing his elbow. It headed for Main Street, traveling the wrong way in the westbound lane, traveling without lights.
"Let's get to the phone," Qwilleran said as he jumped back in the car and turned up the drive to the carriage house. The patrol car responded at once, followed by the police chief himself, wrenched away from his Sunday night TV programs.
Qwilleran told Brodie, "This is the same prowler who was hanging around last June--the same M.O." the same beard--although he pulled the visor down when he found himself spotlighted. Last June you ran a check.
He's Charles Edward Martin of Charlestown, Massachusetts." "Did you get the number tonight?" Brodie asked.
"He drove away fast without lights, although I'd guess it was a light-colored plate--the kind we've seen before. His taillights didn't go on until he reached Main Street and turned right... I told you the car had been seen in Dimsdale, Mooseville, and Indian Village, and you made some quip about selling cemetery lots." The chief's grunt was half recollection and half apology.
"Since we pried you out of your comfortable recliner, Andy, would you take a cup of coffee? ... Polly, do you feel like brewing a pot?" She was sitting on the sofa, hugging her cat and looking upset.
"Certainly," she said weakly and left the room. In a lower voice Qwilleran said, "Why does this guy lie in wait for Polly? I've told you my suspicions. Whoever this creep is, he knows her connection with me, and he's plotting abduction. Believe me!" He massaged his moustache vigorously.
"Incidentally, he's the same guy I saw shoplifting at the Goodwinter sale." Brodie was not interested in coffee, but he gulped it, promised full cooperation, and went home to catch the eleven o'clock news. Polly paced the floor nervously.
"Why does he loiter around here, Qwill?" She had the intelligence to know the answer, and Qwilleran knew she was aware of the reason, yet neither of them wanted to put it into words. Instead, he assured her that three police agencies would be working on it.
"But it will call for intensive vigilance on your part, Polly. I don't want you going anywhere alone! I'll drive you to and from work, take you shopping, deliver you to evening meetings. It will be a bore for you, but it won't last long. The police know exactly what they're looking for, and they'll soon pick him up for questioning." Qwilleran refused to abandon her until her equanimity was restored, so it was late when he left the carriage house. He almost forgot the birthday gift in the trunk of the car. The sight of the blue gown and robe ensemble did much to cheer her--or so she made it seem. It was unclear who was trying to reassure whom. The next morning, after driving Polly to the library, he took his white car to Gippel's garage.
"Give this crate the once-over, will you?" he asked the head mechanic.
"And let me have a loaner for the day." Gippel's loaners had decent engines, but the paint was dull, the fenders were bent, the springs were worn out, the interior was dirty, and the upholstery was torn--exactly the kind of vehicle Qwilleran wanted for a tour of Moose County. His first destination was Dimsdale, where his loaner looked quite normal in Shantytown. There was no maroon car there. Next he drove to Mooseville and checked the Shipwreck Tavern, the eatery called the Foo, and the shabby waterfront where he had once made the mistake of chartering a boat. From there he proceeded east along the lakeshore to the affluent resort area called Purple Point, which was completely deserted on a September Monday. Next came the village of Brrr, coldest spot in the county. Already it was in the throes of November winds from the northeast, and the scene was bleak. Even the parking lot of the Hotel Booze was empty, but Qwilleran went into the Black Bear Caf@e to see Gary Pratt, the proprietor. With his shaggy hair and beard he resembled the mounted black bear at the entrance. Gary was puttering behind the bar.
"Where's everybody?" Qwilleran asked.
"It's early. They'll be in for burgers at noon.
What brings you up here?" Automatically he poured a glass of Squunk water on the rocks.
"Just moseying around before snow falls. What kind of winter do you expect?" "Lots of snow but an early thaw. I see by the paper that you went to Scotland. How'd you like it?" "Nice country. Reminds me of Brrr. Did you do much sailing this summer?" "Not as much as I'd like to. Business was too good." "If you guys are going to promote tourism," Qwilleran said, "you can kiss your summer loafing goodbye... but then you can afford to go to Florida in the winter." "That's not for me. I like winters up here. I'm into dog-sledding." "Are you getting more out-of-state customers these days?" "Yeah, quite a few." "Have you run into a guy from Massachusetts called Charles Martin?
Wears a beard like yours.
Drives a maroon car." "There was a bearded guy in here, trying to sell cameras and watches to my customers--obviously hot. I threw him out," Gary said. Two other bartenders reported similar incidents.
Otherwise, no one knew a Charles Martin. Qwilleran visited Sawdust City, North Kennebeck, Chipmunk, Trawnto, and Wildcat and drank a lot of Squunk water that day. After returning the loaner he picked up Polly at the library and took her to dinner. Eight hours in the real world of the Dewey decimal system had helped her recover from the fright of the night before, but not from the dinner of the night before. All she wanted to eat, she said, was a simple salad and a bran muffin.
"What did you do all day?" she asked, as they settled in a booth at Lois's Luncheonette.
"Just cruised around, looking for ideas for my column. It was a good day to get out of the house because Mrs. Fulgrove was coming to clean and complain about cat hair I pay her extra for cat hair but she complains just the same." Polly said, "I looked up the origin of Scotland Yard. It was an area in London with a palace for visiting Scottish kings in the twelfth century. It later became headquarters for the CID." "Polly, you're the only person I know who follows through." "That's what libraries are all about," she said with professional pride.
"By the way, Gippel called to say the supplier sent the wrong part, so I won't have my car until Friday." "You have a full-time volunteer chauffeur, so that's no problem," he said. At the same time he was thinking, If no car is parked at her carriage house, the prowler will wait for her to drive in; the police can set a trap. He made a mental note to pass this information along to Brodie. Driving Polly home, he noted that the trucks were still carting purchases away from the Goodwinter mansion, and he pointed out the breakfront that the Comptons had bought. At her apartment he stayed just long enough for a piece of pie and then went home to feed the Siamese. The conscientious Mrs. Fulgrove was driving away as he pulled into the barnyard, and he waved to her; the woman's scowl indicated that she had worked overtime because of the vast amount of cat hair everywhere.