The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (12 page)

“If I invited her to dinner, what would be a good restaurant, other than the Mackintosh Room and the Old Stone Mill?”

“Tipsy's Tavern in Kennebeck,” Qwilleran suggested. “It's a roadhouse in a log cabin, established in the 1930s. Good steak and fish.”

“Who's Tipsy?”

“That was the name of the original owner's cat, and her portrait, painted in oils, hangs in the main dining room. A few years ago there was fierce controversy about the color of Tipsy's feet. Some said black; some said white . . . That's Moose County for you!”

 

After the innkeeper had left, Qwilleran scouted the premises for more Brazil nuts and found three—with fang marks. Koko liked oily foods, yet there was no sign of nibbling. . . . Where was that cat? There were sounds of slurping. Koko was on the coffee table, licking snapshots.

“NO!” Qwilleran thundered, and Koko fled the scene of the crime. He had a passion for licking the surface of photographs, and his saliva and rough tongue left ugly splotches. Several prints of the Scottish Gathering were ruined.

It's my fault, Qwilleran thought; I should have put them away. He gave the cats their bedtime snack and escorted them to their quarters on the top balcony. He himself retired to his studio on the first balcony and read from
Domestic Manners of the Americans
. It was good but not good enough to keep him awake, and he was dozing in his chair when the telephone jolted him awake. His watch said almost two o'clock, so it was obviously a wrong number.

He grabbed the handset and snapped a gruff “Yes?”

“Mr. Q, you'll hate me for calling so late.” It was Lenny Inchpot, and his voice was heavy with emotion.

Qwilleran felt an uneasiness on his upper lip. “Something wrong?”

“Bad trouble!”

“What happened?”

“I can't tell you on the phone.”

“Where are you?”

“At the all-night gas station.”

“Come on over. Do you remember how to get here?”

“I remember.” Lenny had once delivered a take-out meal from Lois's Luncheonette.

Qwilleran threw the switch that lighted the exterior and went down the ramp to wait. Soon the headlights of a pickup came bobbing through the wooded trail.

He went out to meet it. “Are you okay, Lenny?”

“Shook up, that's all. Oh, God! You won't believe it, Mr. Q!”

“You look pale. Would you like a brandy? Coffee? Food?”

“I don't feel like anything, to tell the truth.” In the barn he dropped into a big chair.

“First tell me if Boze reported tonight,” Qwilleran said.

Lenny shook his head soberly. “When I finished at midnight, I gave him fifteen minutes and then reported to the manager before heading for home. Employees park in the back lot, which hasn't been paved or lighted yet, so I didn't notice the truck parked next to mine, until a squeaky voice said, 'Hey! Len!' I froze! He called again, and I beamed my flashlight in the cab. It was Boze at the wheel. He told me to get in.”

“What was your reaction?”

“Relief! I wasn't angry or anything—just relieved to find him alive. I jumped in beside him, punched his shoulder, and called him a dirty dog. He didn't say anything—just turned on the ignition. Boze never says much. I noticed he was wearing the same T-shirt he wore to toss the caber—and the gold medal around his neck. He looked as if he'd been living in the woods. He's more at home in a cave, you know, than a room with a bed. We were driving toward Chipmunk. There's a bar there that he likes, and I thought we'd talk over a beer, but he turned off on a dirt road, parked under some trees, and turned off the headlights.”

“And still he didn't talk?”

“Not a word. It was spooky back there—really dark. Then he turned to me and said, 'Did it get in the paper?' . . . Well, I told him about the splash on the front page, the big headline, the terrific photos! He smiled his dumb smile. I told him we'd been worried when he didn't show up two nights in a row. That's when he said, 'I got another job.' POW! Just like that! It really burned me up, Mr. Q! I'd gone out on a limb to get him into the inn. For Boze to quit without a word was a slap in the face. But I had to be careful. He's touchy. Also big! So I asked him casually what kind of work, and he said he was going to be a bodyguard! Nobody around here ever needed a bodyguard!”

“But stop and think, Lenny. The new gambling casino in Bixby might need a bouncer. The owners might have been at the Highland Games, scouting.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . you haven't heard the worst. Before I could think what to say, he blurted out, 'I'm gonna go to Rio. On an airplane. Lotsa fun down there. Easy work. Beaches and carnivals. All that.' Honestly, Mr. Q, I couldn't believe what I was hearing.”

Qwilleran stroked his moustache. The possibilities were racing through his mind.

Lenny was saying, “I really thought he was cracking up. So I asked some simpleminded questions, like, when he was flying to Brazil. He said, 'Soon as she sends me the ticket. She's nice. We're gonna have fun. She likes me. I helped her out. Took care of the old guy. Drove her to the airport when I got through work. She told me not to tell anybody. They wouldn't understand.' . . . Oh God! What was he saying? That he killed the jeweler?” Lenny stopped to gulp.

“Take it easy,” Qwilleran said. “Did Boze say why she wanted 'the old guy' killed?”

“She said he was sick . . . he was dying . . . he was in pain . . . it would be kind to help him die.”

“What did you say, Lenny?”

“What could I say? I felt rotten. Poor Boze! Such an easy make! I just told him I had to go home and get some sleep. I said I have an early class tomorrow. So he drove me back to my truck, and I wished him well in Brazil. I think I told him to send me a postcard. I don't know what I said, Mr. Q. I was really shook up.”

“You handled it well under the circumstances,” Qwilleran said.

“What do I do now?”

“Tell the story to Allen Barter first thing in the morning. He'll know the proper action to take. It'll be a hard bullet to bite, but you're required to report such information—or be guilty of complicity.”

Lenny groaned. “I told you I'm jinxed.”

“And I told you not to use that word again! You're like Lois; you always survive setbacks and come out stronger than ever. I'll call Bart at home—early. Meanwhile, you go up to the guestroom on the second balcony and get some sleep. Would you like a warm drink before you turn in? At the risk of sounding like your mother, I recommend cocoa.”

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16—
A cat once bitten by a snake will fear even a rope
.

 

At seven a.m. Qwilleran telephoned G. Allen Barter at home and said in a tone of urgency, “Are you aware that the hero of the Highland Games has been AWOL from his job at the inn? The captain of the desk clerks has a disturbing explanation to relate. It has to do with the Delacamp homicide. You need to hear his tale and take proper action at once.”

“I can be in my office by nine o'clock, Qwill.”

“Forget the formalities, Bart. Jump into a sweat suit and drive to my barn. The witness is here, and the murderer is at large in the woods.”

Qwilleran knocked on Lenny's door and told him the attorney was on his way. He was not fond of being everybody's uncle, and yet the rising generation seemed to have cast him in that role, unloading their confidential problems and expecting advice. It was partly because of his standing in the community, partly because of his sympathetic mien and willingness to listen. There was also a journalist's need to
hear everything
—and hear it first. He fed the cats and watched them devour their breakfast with all the slurping and gobbling and crunching of ordinary felines. Yet, one of them had licked three snapshots the night before. Koko's raspy tongue had ruined shots of Boze tossing the caber, Boze receiving the gold medal, and Boze riding triumphantly on the shoulders of his teammates. Was it some coincidence? Or was he tuned in to the unknowable? It was not the first time such a mystifying “coincidence” had occurred.

When the attorney arrived, he left him with Lenny and went about his errands. He shopped for Polly's groceries and put the sacks in the trunk of her car in the library parking lot. He killed some time at Eddington's bookstore and found a secondhand book on How to Trace Your Family Tree. In mid-morning he dropped in the Dimsdale Diner, where Benny, Doug, Sig, and others in the farming community met to solve the world's problems and drink the world's worst coffee. Disparaging it was an ongoing under-the-table joke. “Brewed from the finest quality of motor sludge” and “Produced and distributed by Pottle's Hog Farm” brought roars of laughter, interrupted only by a bulletin on the radio.

“Police are searching for a local suspect in the Delacamp murder case. No further details have been released at this time.”

“Benny did it,” said Calvin.

“Spencer did it,” said Doug.

Sig suggested it was a police ploy to mislead the real suspect Down Below. “What do you think, Qwill?”

“Time will tell,” Qwilleran said.

Next came the weekly luncheon of the Boosters Club in its new venue, the ballroom of the Mackintosh Inn. It was still a soup-and-salad affair served very fast; most members were shopkeepers, managers, and professionals with no time to waste.

Barter was there, and he drew Qwilleran aside to say, “I took the young man to the prosecutor's office to tell his story, and we both decided he should leave town for a few days for his own protection. He can go to his aunt in Duluth.”

“How will this be explained to his boss?”

“I had him phone Barry and ask for a week's leave, saying there had been a death in the family and he was needed to help an elderly relative. This whole situation is troubling.”

Qwilleran agreed. “The truth, when it comes out, will be painful. They've made Boze such a hero!”

At the tables the conversation was friendly but brief, geared to fit between bites of food before the presiding officer banged the gavel.

Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, sat next to Qwilleran and said, “Darling! It's been so long!” Since joining the theatre club she had become dramatic in speech and gesture.

“I've been in Mooseville,” he said.

“How's Polly?”

“She's fine. What's new in antiques?”

“I'm liquidating a collection of mechanical banks.”

“What are they?”

“Small cast-iron banks for saving coins.”

“Expensive?”

“One is valued at fifty thousand.”

He took a swallow or two before asking, “What do they look like?”

“Some are cute. Some are ugly. Come and see them at my shop.”

BANG! BANG! BANG! The meeting was called to order. The Boosters Club had accepted the responsibility of the Mark Twain Festival, and the various committees were reporting on progress:

About the parade: “The idea is to have characters from Mark Twain stories marching in costume. So far we've signed up Soldier Boy, the horse; Aileen, the dog; Tom Quartz, the cat (to be drawn in a wagon); and more than fifty Tom Sawyers. The question arises: How many clones do we want?”

About the lecture series: “We invited a well-known Mark Twain expert in California, but he's lukewarm. He says he never heard of Pickax and can't find it on the map. Also, his fee is quite high. Question: Should we reconsider? Someone like Jim Qwilleran could probably give the lectures, if he did a little research.”

Shouts of “Hear! Hear!”

About the dedication of Mark Twain Boulevard: “We thought to honor the author by naming a historically important, architecturally attractive street after him, but the forty-seven property owners on Pleasant Street are protesting violently to any name change. There was a near-riot at city council meeting last week. We can't name some grubby little backstreet after him, can we? The committee would welcome input.”

About the proposed Mark Twain Suite at the Mackintosh Inn: “Well, you all know what happened in the suite a few days ago, virtually under the portrait of the Great Man. The management of the inn deems it inappropriate to draw attention to the presidential suite at this time—probably next year.”

About lapel buttons to be sold at the festival: “Unfortunately our fifteen thousand polar bear lapel buttons couldn't be used when the ice festival melted down. We proposed having them reworked with Mark Twain's portrait, but the cost of reworking would be higher than starting from scratch. The committee would welcome ideas for using the polar bear buttons.”

A husky man raised a hand and requested the floor.

“The chair recognizes Wetherby Goode.”

The WPKX meteorologist said, “As the messenger who brings bad news, I expect to be shot . . . but it's my duty to report that the long-range forecast for October gives thumbs-down to picnics, soccer games, parades, and outdoor festivals. We all remember the freak thaw last February. Everything points to freak weather in October: blizzards, sleet storms, sub-zero temperatures, high winds, and several feet of snow. Need I say more?”

He sat down, amid shouts of “Cancel it! . . . Postpone it! . . . Forget it! . . . Get out the polar bear buttons!”

Then a bell rang, and the sound of scraping chairs and feet running for the exit drowned out the shout of “Meeting adjourned!”

Qwilleran, the only Booster without a demanding schedule, ambled up Main Street to a shop with gold lettering on the window: Exbridge & Cobb, Fine Antiques. The window was always sparkling; the artifacts of brass and mahogany were always polished; and the prices were always high.

“Darling! I didn't expect you so soon!” Susan cried.

“I'll go away.”

“No! No! Come into my office and see the collection of banks.” She led the way to the rear and unlocked a closet where shelves were lined with nondescript metal objects measuring five or six inches in height and width.

He said, “I want to see the one that's worth fifty thou.”

The dealer hesitated. “If you write about these, you can't mention prices or the name of the owner. She's an older woman. The banks were collected by her late husband.”

“I didn't say I'd write about them. I just want to see them.”

“You're so brutally honest, Qwill.”

The bank she showed him was a small iron sculpture of a circus pony and a clown.

“How does it work?” he asked.

“Do you have a penny? Put it in the coin receptacle and turn the crank.”

He did as instructed and watched the pony run around a circus ring while the clown deposited the penny in the bank.

Susan explained, “All of these banks have mechanical parts that activate a donkey or elephant or whatever. They became popular in the late nineteenth century when children were taught to save their pennies. This made it fun.”

“How many fifty-thousand-dollar banks do you expect to sell in Pickax?”

“None, darling. I'm advertising the rare ones in a national magazine. The others will be sold by telephone auction.”

Qwilleran studied the banks in wonderment. There were cats, dogs, monkeys, cows, a whale, and one bust of a Scotsman wearing a Glengarry cap and shoulder tartan. He had a large moustache. He looked amiable.

“He looks just like you, darling. Would you like to buy him?” She placed a coin on the Scot's hand and pressed a lever. He blinked his eyes, raised his arm, and dropped the coin in his pocket.

“What's it worth?”

“Well . . . it's not as old as the others, but it's American and in good condition. The Germans made a bank with a Scotsman who stuck out his tongue and swallowed the coin. Maggie's husband thought it was repulsive.”

“Did you say Maggie? Is she selling this collection?”

“I'll phone her and see how much she wants for Kiltie. That's the name of the Scotsman.”

Qwilleran fed pennies into the various banks until Susan returned and said, “Maggie said she'll take fifteen hundred for Kiltie. I hope you know that's a steal.”

Archly he replied, “I don't want to rob an elderly widow, when she's down to her last diamond-and-pearl choker.”

“She likes you! She loves your column!” Susan said. “Also, I told her you're going to help with the telephone auction.”

“I don't remember volunteering. However . . . what does it entail?”

“Simply sit at a phone and take bids from collectors all over the United States. With your wonderful voice you can charm the callers into raising their bids. . . . I'll get a box for Kiltie.”

 

On the way to the parking lot with the box under his arm, Qwilleran passed the office of MacWhannell & Shaw and went in to show them his prize.

“Where'd you get that ugly thing?” Big Mac demanded, then added in a milder tone, “Perhaps I shouldn't say that, because he looks a lot like you.”

“Got a dime? I'll show you how it works.”

The accountant placed his dime on Kiltie's hand and pressed the lever. The eyes blinked, and the coin disappeared. “Do I get my dime back?”

“Of course not! This is a bank. Are you a bank robber?”

“That's some racket you've got going, Qwill! Let's show it to Gordie.” He called his partner on the intercom.

Gordon Shaw was there promptly. “What's going on?”

“Magic!” said Qwilleran.

Another dime disappeared, and the partner hooted with glee. “Go across the street and show it to Scottie!”

The owner of Scottie's Men's Store laughed so hard that his tailor came running from the workroom and happily watched his own dime drop into Kiltie's pocket.

Qwilleran was enjoying it immensely and decided to rook the guys at the newspaper. When he carried the box into the city room the staff was relaxing for a few minutes after putting the Wednesday edition to bed and before starting the Thursday. They gathered around Kiltie and fished for dimes in their change pockets. The managing editor and the women in the feature department joined the fun, and Arch Riker came from his office to investigate the commotion. Kiltie was such a pleasant fellow that no one objected when he pocketed the money, although Riker suggested it would work equally well with pennies.

Junior Goodwinter called it bank robbery Pickax-style. “Instead of robbing the bank, the bank robs you.”

Qwilleran was two dollars richer when he left the building, and teasing him about it became a corporate pastime for the rest of the year.

At the barn, where every new acquisition was dangerous until proved safe, the Siamese sniffed Kiltie's moustache, blinking eyelids, and moving hand. Yum Yum soon walked away, but Koko scrutinized the bank in his nearsighted, studious way until suddenly alerted. His neck stretched and ears pricked as he detected activity to the east. Someone was coming up the trail from the direction of the art center.

Qwilleran went into the yard to confront the uninvited visitor when he recognized the ten-year-old boy from the McBee farm.

“Culvert! What a pleasant surprise! I think of you daily when I read my thought-for-the-day.”

“Oh,” he said.

“What can I do for you?”

“My dad said I could ask you for something.”

“And what might that be?”

“Could you get me Boze's autograph? Dad says he works at your hotel.”

That posed a problem, and Qwilleran stalled. “It's not my hotel, tell your dad. It belongs to the K Fund. It just happens to be named after my mother.”