In Qwilleran’s opinion the cause of death had been a smashing blow to the skull, although no one bothered to inform him of the coroner’s decision. Today Qwilleran was not the richest man in the county; he was not the leading philanthropist; he was not the star writer for the Something. He was merely the occupant of a house in which the body of a murdered man had been found.
When the investigators were ready to question him, he motioned them to the pair of white sofas, but the suggestion made the occasion too social. The red-headed detective from the state police post in Pickax preferred to sit at the dining table, and the sheriffs deputy preferred to remain standing. The table was cluttered as usual with writing paraphernalia: typewriter, papers, books, files, pens and pencils, scissors, staple gun, paper clips, and rubber cement-plus the recent addition of a faded pink brocade candybox adorned with a lacy heart. It caught the detective’s attention, and Qwilleran thought, Let him make of that what he will.
Everyone in Moose County knew the Klingenschoen name, the Klingenschoen property, the identity of the Klingenschoen heir, and the size and droop of his moustache. Nevertheless, the detective asked routine questions in a polite, non-threatening way, and Qwilleran answered promptly and briefly.
“Your full name, sir?”
“James Qwilleran, spelled with a w. No initial.”
“May I see your driver’s license?” The detective accepted it and handed it back with barely a glance at the moustache on the card and the moustache on the face.
“What is your legal address?”
“Number 315 Park Circle, Pickax.”
“How long have you resided at that address?”
“Two years and one month.”
“Where did you live before that?”
“Chicago, New York, Washington, San Francisco …”
“You moved around, Mr. Qwilleran. What kind of work did you do?”
“I was a journalist assigned to various bureaus.”
“What is your occupation now?”
“Semi-retired, but I write for the Moose County Something.”
“What are you doing in Mooseville?”
“My plan is-or was-to spend the summer months here.”
“Have you changed your plans now?”
“It will depend on the weather.”
“When did you arrive?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“Is anyone else living here, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Two Siamese cats.”
“Do you own this property?”
“I’m heir to the property, which is currently held in trust by the Klingenschoen estate.”
“What was your connection with Ignatius Small?”
“I hired him to build an addition to the cabin.”
“How long have you known him, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“About ten days.”
They were routine questions designed to put him off-guard, and Qwilleran was waiting for the old one-two. Finally it was delivered: “Who buried him under your house?’”
“I have no idea,” said Qwilleran without missing a beat. “I would have preferred Mr. Small to be buried elsewhere, and I imagine your men feel the same way.’”
“When was the last time you saw him, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Tuesday morning.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“He reported for work shortly before I left to have lunch in town. He said he was going to start framing the windows, and I paid him in advance for the day’s work.”
“Did you pay him in cash?”
“Yes.”
“What was the amount?”
Qwilleran reached for a notebook on the table. “Fifty-five dollars.”
“Were you expecting any other workmen on Tuesday?”
“No.”
“And where were you between the time you left for the lunch and the time you found the body?”
“I had lunch with friends-John Bushland and Roger MacGillivray at the FOO. Then we boarded Bushland’s boat and went out to Three Tree Island. For some fishing,”
he added. “But a storm came up, and we lost our boat. After being marooned for several hours, we were rescued by the sheriffs helicopter. All of this is on record in the Morning Rampage and Daily Fluxion.”
“When did you return to this house?”
“About four hours ago.”
“Where were you between the hour of your rescue and your return this morning?”
“In the Pickax Hospital under the care of Dr. Halifax.”
“Have you any knowledge of what happened in your absence?”
“I certainly have! A tornado wrecked the new addition I was building.”
“How did you happen to find the body?” “My male cat was acting suspiciously, scratching the floor and trying to get down into the crawl space. I opened the trap door to see what was bothering him, and he jumped into the hole and refused to come out, so I left him under the floor and went to lunch.”
There was a sharp cry from the guestroom. Koko knew he was the subject of the discussion.
“How long were you gone?”
“About an hour.”
“And what happened when you returned?”
“The female was making a fuss about the male being underground, so I opened the trap door and found him digging in the sand and growling. I went after’him and discovered he had disinterred a foot.”
The trooper turned to the sheriff, who exhibited a chrome flashlight in a clear plastic bag. “Have you seen this flashlight before, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“It’s a common style, but it looks like the one I was using in the crawl space until it suddenly blacked out. Dead battery.”
The sheriff removed the flashlight from its bag gingerly and pressed the thumb-switch; the light flashed on.
Qwilleran shrugged. “Well, that’s the way they manufacture everything these days.”
“When you came home from the hospital, Mr. Qwilleran, did you find the plywood panel nailed up as it is now?”
“Exactly.”
“Is that how you left it on Tuesday?”
“Exactly.”
“When you left on Tuesday, did you lock the door?”
“Yes. I always take great care to lock up.”
“Does anyone else have a key?”
“I subscribe to the Glinko service, so they have a key. Also, there’s a spare hidden on the screened porch in case I lose my keycase or lock myself out.”
“Where is it?”
“Follow me.”
They trooped out to the porch where Riker was waiting patiently and straining his ears to hear. Qwilleran-with a wink at the editor-reached toward the top of the doorframe.
“Don’t touch it,” said.the sheriff, and he climbed up to look. “It’s not here,”
he announced.
“Look under the doormat,” Qwilleran suggested.
“Not there either,” said the deputy.
“That’s unusual.”
The detective made a note. “Are you going to be around for a while, Mr. Qwilleran?”
“Around where?”
“Here at this address.”
“I may move back to Pickax if the weather doesn’t improve.”
“Please keep us informed of your whereabouts. You might be able to help us further. And we’d appreciate it if you’d come in for prints, to check against those we’ve found … One more thing,” he added, glancing over his shoulder at Riker. “Please don’t discuss this case with anyone.”
Taking the flashlight, beer can, mudrug, and other evidence in plastic bags, the officers left, only to be intercepted by the editor, who fired questions.