The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

A
Jove
Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
1997
by
Lilian Jackson Braun

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

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ISBN
978-1-1012-1430-5

A
JOVE
BOOK®

Jove
Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

JOVE
and the “
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” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

First edition (electronic): August 2001

Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,
The Husband Who. . .

It was a strange winter in Moose County, 400 miles north of everywhere. First, there was disagreement about the long-range weather forecast. The weatherman at the local radio station predicted a winter of zero temperature, daily snow, minus-sixty windchill, and paralyzing blizzards—in other words: normal. On the other hand, farmers and woodsmen who observed the behavior of the fuzzy caterpillars insisted the winter would be mild. Bad news!

No one wanted a mild winter. Merchants had invested in large inventories of snowblowers, antifreeze, snowshoes, and long johns. The farmers themselves needed a heavy snow cover to ensure a good summer crop. Dogsledders and icefishermen stood to lose a whole season of wholesome outdoor sport. As for the First Annual Ice Festival, it was doomed. All that—plus the unthinkable possibility of a green Christmas!

Throughout November, traditionally a month of natural disasters, the weather was disappointingly good, and the natives cursed the fuzzy caterpillars. Then. . . suddenly, in mid-December, temperatures plummeted and a few inches of no-melt snow started to fall every day. In downtown Pickax, the county seat, the Department of Public Works plows threw up the usual eight-foot walls of snow along curbs and around parking lots. Young people did their Christmas shopping on cross-country skis, and sleigh bells could be heard on Main Street. Best of all, the schools closed twice during the month because of blizzard conditions.

The weather was only the first strange happening of the winter, however. In late December, an outbreak of petty larceny dampened the holiday spirit in Pickax. Trivial items began to disappear from cars and public places, prompting the local newspaper to run an editorial:

Natives of Moose County were a stubborn, independent breed descended from early pioneers, and it would take more than an editorial in the
Moose County Something
to change their ways. Yet, there was one prominent citizen who applauded the police chief’s maxim.

Jim Qwilleran was not a native but a transplant from Down Below, as the locals called the metropolitan cities to the south. Surprising circumstances had brought him to Pickax (population 3,000), and he was surprisingly content with small-town life.

Qwilleran was a tall, well-built, middle-aged man with a luxuriant pepper-and-salt moustache and hair graying at the temples. If asked, he would say that he perceived himself as:

A journalist, semi-retired.

A former crime reporter and author of a book on urban crime.

Writer of a twice-weekly column for the
Something.

Devoted friend of Polly Duncan, head of the Pickax Public Library.

Protector and slave of two Siamese cats.

Fairly agreeable person blessed with many friends. All of that would be true. . . He would not perceive himself, however, as the richest man in northeast central United States, but that, too, would be true.

An enormous inheritance, the Klingenschoen fortune, had brought Qwilleran to this remote region. Yet, he was uncomfortable with money—its trappings as well as its responsibilities—and he immediately consigned his billions to philanthropic purposes. For several years, the Klingenschoen Foundation had been managed by a Chicago think tank, with little or no attention from James Mackintosh Qwilleran.

It was not only this generous gesture that caused him to be esteemed in Moose County. Admirers cited his entertaining column, “Straight from the Qwill Pen”. . . his amiable disposition and sense of humor. . . his lack of pretension. . . his sympathetic way of listening. . . and, of course, his magnificent moustache. Its drooping contours, together with his brooding eyes, gave him a look of melancholy that made people wonder about his past. Actually, there was more to that moustache than met the eye.

* * *

On the morning of December 23, Qwilleran said good-bye to the Siamese and gave instructions for their deportment in his absence. The more intelligently one talks to cats, he believed, the smarter they become. Their deep blue eyes gazed at him soberly. Did they know what he was saying? Or were they waiting patiently for him to leave so they could start their morning nap?

He was setting out to do his Christmas shopping, but first he had to hand in his copy at the newspaper office: a thousand words on Santa Claus for the “Qwill Pen.” It was hardly a newsworthy topic, but he had a columnist’s knack of making it sound fresh.

The premises of the
Moose County Something
were always devoid of seasonal decorations, leaving such frivolities to stores and restaurants. Qwilleran was surprised, therefore, to see a small decorated tree on a file cabinet in the publisher’s office. Arch Riker, his lifelong friend and fellow journalist, had followed him to Pickax to be publisher and editor-in-chief of the new backwoods paper. A paunchy, ruddy-faced man with thinning hair, he sat in a high-backed executive chair and looked happy. Not only had he realized his dream of running his own newspaper; he had married the plump and congenial woman who wrote the food page.

“Mildred and I are expecting you and Polly to have Christmas dinner with us,” he reminded Qwilleran.

“Turkey, I hope,” Qwilleran replied, thinking of leftovers for his housemates. “What’s that tree on your file cabinet?”

“It was Wilfred’s idea,” Riker said almost apologetically. “He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray.”

Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives—a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork.

“I’d be glad to make one for you, Mr. Q,” he said.

“It wouldn’t last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same.”

To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois’s Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation.

When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: “If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we’ll be swamped with bugs next summer!. . . Hi, Mr. Q! Come on in! Sit anywhere that ain’t sticky. My customers got bad aim with the syrup bottle.”

“How’s Lenny?” Qwilleran asked. Her son had been hurt in an explosion.

“That boy of mine!” she said proudly. “Nothin’ stops him! He has mornin’ classes at the college, and then he’s found himself a swell part-time job, managin’ the clubhouse at Indian Village. He gave you as a reference, Mr. Q. Hope you don’t mind.”

“He’s going to be a workaholic like his mother.”

“Better’n takin’ after his father!. . . Done your Christmas shoppin’, Mr. Q?”

“Don’t rush me, Lois. It’s only the twenty-third.”

* * *

The first gift he purchased was a bottle of Scotch. He carried it in a brown paper bag under his folded jacket when he climbed the stairs to police headquarters at city hall. He was a frequent visitor, and the sergeant at the desk jerked his head toward the inner office, saying, “He’s in.” The chief was visible through a glass partition, hunched over the computer that he earnestly hated.

Brodie was a tough cop who resented civilian interference, and yet he had learned to appreciate the newsman’s tips and opinions that sometimes helped crack a case. On the job he had old-fashioned ideas of law and order and a gruff manner to match. Off duty, he was a genial Scot who played the bagpipe and strutted in a kilt at civic functions.

Qwilleran, placing his jacket carefully on a chair seat and sliding into another, said, “I see you got your name in the paper again, Andy. Who’s your press agent? Planning to run for mayor? I’ll campaign for you.”

With a fierce scowl usually reserved for the computer, Brodie shot back, “If I had an overgrown moustache like yours, I’d get my picture in the paper, too. What’s on your mind?”

“I want to know if you believe what you said in the paper.”

“It’s a known fact! Let the hoods urinate in public and—next thing you know—they’re spray-painting the courthouse, and after that they’re pushing drugs, and then robbing banks, and then killing cops.”

“Any suspects in the pilfering?”

The chief leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Could be punks from Chipmunk. Could be a roving gang from Lockmaster. Could be the kids that hang around George Breze’s dump. We’re investigating.”

“Do you see any pattern developing? There should be a pattern by now.”

“Well, for one thing, there’s a pattern in what they don’t do. They don’t steal Social Security checks from mailboxes, or rip out car radios, or break into doctors’ offices. It’s all piddlin’ stuff, so far. Another thing: There’s no two incidents alike, and locations are scattered. It always happens after dark, too. They avoid shoplifting in stores with bright lights and wide-awake clerks.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ve been thinking it could be a game, like a treasure hunt—perhaps initiation rites for a juvenile cult.”

“We’ve talked to school principals and Dr. Prelligate at the college. They say there’s no sign of suspicious activity.”

“They’d be the last to know,” Qwilleran muttered.

“There’s another possibility. I predicted something like this after the financial bust in Sawdust City. The town’s had a lot of hardship cases this winter, and it’s rough to be hardup at Christmastime, especially if you’ve got kids.”

“But the organized charities have raised record sums for the Christmas Fund, and the K Foundation is matching their efforts, dollar for dollar.”

“I know, but some cases always fall through the cracks, or they panic and try to take things in their own hands.” He indulged in a bitter chuckle. “Perhaps they hit on the secret: how to do Christmas shopping without money and without crowds.”

Qwilleran said, “If the thefts are scattered, as you say, someone’s buying a lot of gas to drive around and swipe trivial items. It must be a group effort.”

Brodie threw up his hands. “The whole thing’s crazy!”

“Okay, let me add an incident to your list. This is the reason I’m here.” Qwilleran paused until he had the man’s curiosity aroused. “We all know the Old Stone Church is collecting warm clothing for needy families. There’s a drop-off box behind the building. Every Wednesday the volunteers show up for sorting and mending. I told them I’d drop off a bundle Tuesday night—which I did—a plastic bag full of things in good condition: jackets, sweaters, gloves, etc. But when they opened the box the next morning, it wasn’t there. They phoned me to see if I’d forgotten.”

The chief grunted. “No lock on the box?”

“Who thinks about locks in this neck of the woods? That was the thrust of our editorial! We nagged our readers into buckling up; now we’ll nag them into locking up.”

Brodie chuckled again. “If you spot a guy walking around town in your rags, follow him and take his picture.”

“Sure. And ask for his name and address.”

“My old grandmother in Scotland could tail a thief with scissors, a piece of string, and a witch’s chant. Too bad she died before I got into law enforcement.” Then he grinned. “Why don’t you assign your smart cat to the case?” The chief was the only person in the north country who knew about the remarkable talents of Qwilleran’s male Siamese. The cat did indeed have gifts that set him apart, and Qwilleran tried to conceal the fact, for various reasons. Yet it had leaked to Brodie from a source Down Below, and now the two men bantered about “that smart cat” whose highly developed senses gave him an edge over most humans.

“Koko doesn’t accept assignments,” Qwilleran said with a straight face. “He conducts his own investigations. Right now he has a gang of wild rabbits under surveillance.” Then he added in a serious tone, “But last night, Andy, he jumped on my bookshelf and knocked down a Russian novel titled
The Thief.
Was that a coincidence, or what?”

“Does he read Russian?” Brodie asked, only half in jest.

“Mine is an English translation.”

The chief grunted ambiguously and changed the subject. “I hear you and your smart cat aren’t living in the barn this winter. How come?” There was disappointment in the question. He often visited the converted apple barn after hours, dropping in for a nightcap and some shoptalk. Qwilleran, though not a drinker himself, stocked the best brands for his guests.