The Cat Who Played Brahms (21 page)

Koko had finished his repast and was doing his well-known busybody act—restless meandering accompanied by grunts and chirps and squeals and mutterings. He inspected the fireplace, the stereo, the bathroom faucets. He pressed two keys on the typewriter (x and j) and sniffed a title on the lowest bookshelf (the bird book). When he ambled into the guest room, Qwilleran followed.

The lower berth of the double-decker was the spot where Koko and Yum Yum liked to sleep. During Rosemary's visit they had been banished to the upper level. Now Koko explored the lower bunk, muttering to himself and pawing the bedcover industriously. The bunk abutted the log wall, and soon he was reaching down between the mattress and the logs, trying first one paw and then the other, stretching to the limit until he dredged up a prize—a pair of sheer pantyhose. Still he was not satisfied. He fished in the narrow crevice until he retrieved a gold chain bracelet.

Qwilleran grabbed it. "That's Mildred's! How did it get down there?" Mildred had said it might have fallen off her wrist when she delivered the gift of turkey the week before. Mildred had been there on that occasion with someone who smoked Groat and Boddle, although Buck Dunfield claimed he had never visited the cabin.

Qwilleran found Fanny's green leather address book, still in his jacket pocket, and flipped it open to the page indexed H.

HUNT, R.D.—Bought three farms while commissioner; sold for airport six months later.

HANSTABLE, S—Low bidder for prison turkey contract. Too low.

HANSTABLE, M—Sleeping around. Qwilleran turned to the page indexed Q and found himself described as a former alcoholic. There was nothing under M for Roger, but Dunfield was labeled a womanizer, and there were two pages of Goodwinters, who appeared to have committed every sin in the book.

Qwilleran tossed the thing in the fireplace, emptied his wastebasket on top of it, added some twigs from the coal scuttle, and opened the damper. Just as the brass bell clanged at the back door, he struck a match and threw it in the grate. Almost immediately he had second thoughts about losing such a choice compendium of scandal. If he decided to move to Pickax, it might be useful. Too late! The tremendous draft of a windy day had whipped the debris into an instant blaze.

It was a subdued young man who waited at the door. Roger's white skin was whiter, and his black beard seemed blacker.

"Come in and make yourself comfortable," Qwilleran said. "It's too noisy to sit on the porch. The wind must be fifty miles an hour, and the surf is deafening."

Roger slumped on one of the sofas and stared into the fire, saying nothing.

"I saw you and Sharon and Mildred at the memorial service. What did you think of the turnout?"

"About what I expected," the young man said in a monotone. "Everyone there was expecting to inherit something. The Queen of Pickax went around making promises."

"Had she made any promises to you?"

"Oh sure. A couple of hundred thousand to start an underwater preserve. . . . I suppose I should congratulate you."

"For what?"

"For inheriting half of Pickax and three quarters of Moose County."

"How did you find out? They didn't open the will until a couple of hours ago."

"I have to protect my sources," Roger said testily. Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He suspected, that the Goodwinters' secretary was Junior's mother or aunt; she had the family resemblance. And Junior had undoubtedly rushed to phone Roger. "Well, Roger my boy, I haven't accepted the terms of the will, as of now. If you're lucky, I'll go back to the Fluxion, and half of Pickax and three quarters of Moose County will belong to Atlantic City."

"Sorry," Roger said. "I didn't mean to be snotty, but we're all miffed about your aunt's broken promises."

"She wasn't my aunt, and furthermore I wouldn't live up here for any amount of money. Your newspaper is a farce. The radio station should be put off the air. The restaurants massacre the food. And the whole county is insular and probably inbred. I won't even mention what I think about the mosquitoes."

"Wait a, minute! Don't get excited," Roger said. "We'd rather see the money stay here with you than end up in New Jersey, restoring some red-light district."

"All right, let's have a drink and bury the hatchet. Scotch? Beer?"

They talked politely about the amenities of the cabin. "It's neat," Roger said. "Sharon and I want a place like this some day. Mildred's cottage is okay, but it's like the houses in town. This cabin is perfect for the woods. I wonder who shot that moose." Suddenly he stiffened. "My God! There's a cat up there! I'm leery of cats. I got bitten by a barn cat when I was a kid."

"You were probably pulling its tail and deserved what you got," Qwilleran said. "You're looking at Koko up there. He's harmless if you behave properly. I suppose you know what happened to your father-in-law."

Roger shook his head dolefully. "I know he's in jail. It was inevitable, of course. Stanley has been on the skids for ten years."

"It's a strange thing," Qwilleran admitted. "Just because he's your father-in-law and Mildred's husband, I felt guilty about turning him in. But he came after me with a knife. . . . And still I hated to do it."

Roger agreed without enthusiasm. "That's the way it is up here. Everyone knows what's going on, but no one wants to do anything about it. Everyone is a relative or an old school chum or a war buddy or a member of the lodge. "

"The sheriff's deputy apologized to Stanley for arresting him. They'd known each other since kindergarten. If you don't mind my saying so, it makes a perfect climate for corruption." Qwilleran poked the fire and threw two more logs into the grate. "What happened to Stanley ten years ago?"

"I was just beginning to date Sharon when it started. He'd been living high and suddenly got this incredible B.O. It was like a curse. His own family couldn't tolerate it. Mildred couldn't live in the same house. Sharon and I had to elope because the father-of-the-bride couldn't be stomached at a regular wedding. The guy became an outcast, that's all."

"Didn't he consult any doctors?"

"All kinds. They suspected abscessed lungs, infection of the sweat glands, chronic uremic poisoning, and you-name-it. But nothing checked out, and nothing seemed to help. Dr. Melinda—you know her-told me some people just have an idiopathic stink."

"Didn't Mildred consider divorce?"

"She was afraid to divorce him. He said he'd kill her, and she believed it. For a healthy, loving woman that was a helluva way to live, you know, so she was wide open for male companionship."

"Meaning Buck Dunfield?"

"He wasn't the first—only the unluckiest."

"Is that why Stanley killed him?"

"Well, it was no secret that he hated Buck. He knew what was going on."

"The real reason, I suspect—he found out Buck was snooping into his racket. The ferry racket."

"One thing I don't understand," Roger said. "How could Stanley sneak up on Buck undetected? That's what happened, they say."

"I know how. Buck had lost his sense of smell. Even the dead fish on the beach didn't bother him. Did Mildred suspect he was a killer?"

"Everyone knew. The police had a good idea, but they hadn't collected enough evidence. They were waiting for something to break."

"Everyone knows! The motto of Moose County ought to be Omnes Sciunt. What was Stanley's connection at the prison?"

"He made the lowest bid to supply turkeys. Pretty good contract. They have five thousand inmates."

"It had to be more than just a low bid, chum. He had a clientele inside for liquor and maybe drugs. He could also smuggle out an inmate in his truck-bed, rolled up in a tarpaulin. Did you know he was transporting escapees halfway to Canada?"

"There was gossip, but no one would blow the whistle. It had to be an outsider like you."

Qwilleran told Roger about the cassette and his efforts to match it with voices around town. He wondered if he should reveal Koko's role in solving the mystery. The cat had found the cassette, directed attention to the prison connection and later to the turkey farmer, attacked the man when he broke into the cabin, and brought the final clue to light: the money clip.

No, Qwilleran thought. Roger wouldn't buy such a fantastic story. Aloud he said: "Let's drop this depressing subject. . . . Have you seen any extraterrestrial aircraft lately?"

Just before leaving, Roger said: "I almost forgot. Some woman from Down Below phoned the visitors' center. She wanted to know how to reach you. I took her number. You're supposed to call her soon as possible."

He handed over a slip of paper with the phone number of the Morning Rampage and the name of the woman who was managing editor.

Qwilleran returned her call, then drove into Mooseville—first for the formalities at the jail and then for dinner at the Northern Lights Hotel. He sat alone in a booth and longed for his pipe. If he decided to accept the terms of Fanny's will, his first act would be to order a couple of tins of Groat and Boddle Number Five. And if he accepted the new assignment at the Fluxion or Morning Rampage he would soon regard these two weeks in Moose County as a visit to another planet. Already his orange cap was beginning to look ridiculous.

After dinner he drove back to the cabin slowly, savoring every picturesque stand of birch, every grotesque jack pine, every sudden view of the raging lake as the highway dipped in and out of the woods. All the beauties of the landscape that he had ignored during the last two weeks now became treasures to stowaway in his memory. He might never see this wild and wonderful country again, and he had not even taken the trouble to watch for the Northern Lights. Or a UFO.

A sheriff's car with the siren wailing sped past him, followed by the red truck of the volunteer fire department. Qwilleran's throat choked with dread and he pressed the accelerator. The cabin! The fire in the fireplace! The cats!

By the time he reached the Klingenschoen driveway the firefighters were working on a burning truck that had run off the road near the site of the old log schoolhouse. Several cars had stopped.

"Anyone hurt?" he asked the onlookers. No, they said. No sign of a driver, they said. Lucky it didn't start a forest fire, they said, considering the force of the wind.

As Qwilleran started up the long driveway a chilling thought occurred to him. The charred hulk looked like a blue pick-up.

As soon as he parked the car he heard Koko howling inside the cabin. As soon as he unlocked the door the cat rushed onto the porch and dashed crazily from one side to the other, stopping only to jump at the rattail latch of the screened door.

Qwilleran found the harness in a hurry and buckled it around the taut belly of the Siamese. Then he played out the long leash and opened the door. Koko immediately bounded toward the toolshed, forcing Qwilleran into a painful run.

The door of the shed was open; that was unusual. The interior of the windowless building was murky, but Qwilleran could see money blowing around on the floor. Stealthily the cat stalked the deep shadows of the shed, unearthly moans coming from the depths of his chest. A gust of wind stirred up another flurry of bills, and Qwilleran kicked an empty whiskey bottle. Then Koko started to howl—not his usual emphatic statement but a prolonged high-pitched wail. Qwilleran looped up the slack of the leash and edged warily into the shadows.

There was one bright spot in the gloom. Lying on the floor was a small handgun with a Florentine gold handle. The body of the handyman was sprawled on the shabby cot.

Snatching Koko, Qwilleran hobbled back to the cabin and phoned the sheriff's dispatcher.

In a matter of minutes a deputy's car pulled into the clearing. "We were right down there on the highway," the officer said. "Pickup on fire. Total loss. Looks like arson."

After the body had been carried away in the ambulance, Koko prowled through the cabin with long purposeful strides, wandering everywhere, a portrait of indecision. Yum Yum huddled with her haunches elevated and watched him with concern.

Qwilleran stood at the front windows, staring at a hundred miles of water. Who could fathom the moods and motives of a poor fellow like Tom? He was so willing to do anything suggested, so easily exploited, so pleased to be given a job to do, a pasty, or even a kind word. Fanny had bossed him and given him a home; Hanstable had given him orders and a regular payoff that encouraged that unrealistic dream of buying a nightclub. Without them, it seemed to Qwilleran, Tom had felt suddenly cut adrift.

A burst of music interrupted his uncomfortable reverie. It was the forceful introduction to Brahms' Double Concerto followed by the cello's haunting melody. Abruptly, in the middle of a phrase, the music was replaced by the spoken word-a gentle voice:

"I did it. . . . I pushed her. . . . She was a nice old lady. She was my friend." There was a choked sob. "He told me to do it. He said I would get a lot of money to buy a nightclub. He said we would be partners. . . . She promised me the money. She promised to leave me everything. She said I was like her son. . . . Why did she say it? She didn't mean it."

The voice trailed away, and the mike picked up the roar of the wind and waves and the cry of a cat. Then it cut out, and the music resumed with the plaintive theme and the solo violin.

Qwilleran coughed to dispel the lump in his throat. The cat was sitting alongside the stereo, studying the little red light. Qwilleran stroked Koko's head. "Did he say anything to you, Koko? Did he say goodbye?"

Mooseville, Sunday Dear Arch,

Your news on the telephone has left me in a state of terminal shock. Now I have news for you! The Rampage has made a better offer, and they have a prettier managing editor. Do you think Percy is prepared to meet their terms?

There's been a little excitement here.

We had a B-and-E at the cabin, and Koko bloodied the burglar. I almost got knifed by the same man. He killed one of our neighbors last weekend. Aunt Fanny died suddenly on Thursday, and her houseman shot himself yesterday—in my toolshed.

Otherwise it has been a quiet vacation.