Dinner was interrupted when Nick Bamba rushed into the dining room and whispered in Qwilleran’s ear.
Jumping to his feet, Qwilleran blurted, “Something’s happened to Yum Yum!” He hurried from the room.
“I’ll go with you!” Nick said.
“How did you find out?”
“Someone phoned. The Underhills, I think.”
The two men were running down the back road—the shortcut.
“What did they say?”
“A cat howling bloody murder.”
Qwilleran had the door key in his hand. There was not a second to lose. The howls could be heard.
Then—when they approached the cabin, there was sudden silence.
“What . . . happened?” Nick gasped.
“Don’t know.”
Qwilleran jabbed the key into the lock and burst into the silent cabin. For a few seconds he looked about wildly.
Nick, at his heels, shouted, “Where are they?”
Yum Yum was sitting comfortably atop the television. Koko was in the side window, sitting tall on the sill, gazing through the screen toward Cabin Four.
At the same time a raucous voice drifted across from the neighbor:
“I don’t care who you are! I want to speak to the manager! . . . Hello! Are you the manager? Don’t ask me what’s wrong! You know very well what’s wrong! You moved a screaming hyena into the cabin next to me! I won’t stand for it! Get me out of here fast! Or I’ll call the sheriff! . . . No more apologies. Just find me an accommodation at a decent hotel. And a taxi to move my things! And don’t think I’m paying for the taxi! . . .”
Nick said, “I’d better get back to the office and help Lori. I’ll explain to your dinner guest.”
It was not long before the Nutcracker van drove to the back door of Cabin Four, and a porter loaded luggage and numerous cartons of Mrs. Truffle’s belongings.
That was Qwilleran’s cue to call the office. Lori answered.
“Where did you send her?” he asked.
“We were able to get her a suite at the Mackintosh Inn.”
“That’s good. Barry Morghan will know how to handle her. He’ll send flowers to her room. He’ll even take them up himself.”
“She’ll throw them at him! She’s allergic to flowers.”
“I’m sorry Koko created a problem, Lori.”
“Not at all! He came up with a solution! No one else could get rid of her.”
Qwilleran hung up the phone and went looking for Koko. The cat was in the middle of the living room, hunched over a man’s brown shoe—for the left foot. Both shoes had been stowed for safekeeping in the entertainment center, but one drawer had been opened—with a touch of a paw, thanks to the nylon rollers. Yet, only the left shoe had been removed.
Qwilleran tapped his moustache. There was a reason why Koko was interested in it. He had a reason for everything he did—often obscure and sometimes questionable. But the gears were always operative in that small cranium.
Removing the other shoe from the drawer, Qwilleran sat down to study the situation. Both shoelaces had been well chewed at one time or another; that had been Yum Yum’s contribution. The right and left shoes seemed to be perfectly mated, although . . . when hefted, one in each hand, the left seemed just . . . slightly . . . heavier. Could that be a fact? Could Koko have detected it? Or was it happenstance?
As Qwilleran stared at the cat in speculation, a long-forgotten memory came into focus. He was fresh out of J school on his first day—at his first job—facing his first assignment. He was to go to the Superior Shoe Company, get a good feature story and hand in his copy by the three o’clock deadline. There was no limit on length. “Write what it takes,” the editor said.
The longer the piece, the cub reporter felt, the more editorial attention it would command, provided he was not guilty of padding.
The address was in a commercial district—a building occupied by tailors, wholesale jewelers, theater costumers, custom shirtmakers and the Superior Shoe Company. For the first time he took a taxi on an expense account. For the first time he flashed his brand new press card, and the conversation went like this:
“I’m Jim Qwilleran, here to get a feature story. Did the editor notify you?”
“Yep. Have a chair.” He was a leathery man of middle age who obviously worked with his hands. He was surrounded by an assortment of small machines.
“May I have your name, sir?”
“Just call me Bill. Don’t need any publicity. Just glad to see a good story in the paper. . . . I’ve got a nephew workin’ for The New York Times.”
“Interesting shop. How long have you been making shoes?”
The man shrugged. “Twenty years, give or take.”
“Do you have a specialty?”
“Yep.” He brought a shoe from underneath the counter and casually peeled away the heel lining and other inner mysteries, revealing a cavity in the heel.
“What’s the purpose of this kind of construction?” The trick was to ask questions in a matter-of-fact way as if already knowing the answer.
“It’s handy for hiding diamonds, gold coins, spare change,” he said with a grin.
There had been more to the interview, and Qwilleran rushed back to the office in excitement. Although he sweated blood over the story, he handed it in with a cool swagger, and the editor received it with a cool nod. It was never printed, of course, being an initiation ritual for cub reporters. He never mentioned it to anyone, nor did any other victim, but he often wondered how many interviews Bill had given—and whether he really had a nephew at The New York Times.
Now he went to work on Hackett’s left shoe, peeling back the sole lining, removing the heel pad and a metal plate, revealing a heel cavity filled with gold nuggets!
Koko had sensed something abnormal about the shoe. Now, having made his point, the cat was in the kitchen lapping up a drink of water.
Qwilleran reassembled the shoe and hid the pair in his luggage, the only cat-proof enclosure in the cabin—except for the refrigerator. The brown oxfords would have to be turned over to the police as evidence. Should he tell them about the secret heel? Or let them find it themselves?
There were several questions to be asked, and he discussed his puzzlement in his personal journaclass="underline"
Thursday, June 10
—I don’t know the market value of gold, but the mysterious Mister Hackett had a heelful—and who knows what larger rocks were stashed in the trunk of his forty-thousand-dollar car? . . . Was he a gold prospector posing as a manufacturer’s rep—or a roofing salesman whose hobby was gold-digging? . . . Did someone know about his activity? Or was it an incidental encounter? Did he have a partner—or a competitor—who would consider the booty worth killing for? . . . Where did the clobbering take place? Near the creek, no doubt.
Does that mean Hackett was operating in the Black Forest Conservancy? Is that illegal? Is that why he used an alias and falsified his entry on the inn’s guest register? . . . Tune in tomorrow.
chapter eight
It was their first night in the cabin by the creek.
Qwilleran placed the cats’ blue cushion on one bunk. They settled down contentedly, while he retired to the other bunk. Sometime during the night, the arrangement changed; in the morning Qwilleran was sharing his pillow with Yum Yum, and Koko was snuggled into the crook of his knee. So began . . . A Day in the Life of the Richest Man in the Northeast Central United States.
First, he fed the cats and policed their commode.
Next, he phoned the florist in Pickax and ordered an opening-night bouquet to be delivered to Hannah Hawley’s cabin. “Something dramatic—with a few leaves—but none of that wispy stuff that florists love,” he specified. In accord with theatre custom, the card was to read “Break a leg tonight!” He wished no signature. “Let her figure it out!”