The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (15 page)

Crisply Qwilleran said, “A bid for forty-five hundred has just come in on the other line. Better make up your mind.”

She offered forty-seven-fifty, and Dwight said, “Qwill, you're a rascal.”

“She was holding up the line!”

The phones rang incessantly as the deadline approached, and Dwight was busy with the chalk and eraser. With only five minutes to go, Buckhead made another bid on the Circus Pony. He also inquired about less valuable banks, bidding a hundred dollars here and a hundred dollars there. He was stalling. Qwilleran looked at Dwight and shrugged. The speakerphone was beeping away the seconds. At the stroke of midnight all bids were cut off. Buckhead had his Circus Pony for forty-five thousand. Everyone in the shop applauded.

 

The Siamese, without help from the Washington Naval Observatory, knew that their bedtime snack was seventy-four minutes past due, and they met Qwilleran at the kitchen door, scolding and lashing their tails.

“All right! All right!” he said. “I was helping an elderly widow who loves cats! Try to be a little understanding, a little more flexible.”

As he watched them devour their Kabibbles, he reflected that it had been an eventful day in every way: the hijacking of the bookmobile, the coast-to-coast telephone auction, and even the mad scramble for cardboard cartons for the library—not to mention the debut of the Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc. He had not yet read the list of proposed titles.

He found it in one of his pockets:

 

Everything You Wanted to Know About Ravens
, by Edgar Allan Poe.

A Revised History of the World
, by Lewis Carroll.

Painting by Numbers, with foreword
by Leonardo.

How to Make Lasting Friendships
, by Richard III.

Bedtime Stories for Tiny Tots
, illustrated by Hieronymus Bosch.

The last one was undoubtedly Homer Tibbitt's contribution:
How to Get Away with Anything
, by Mayor Gregory Blythe.

After a few chuckles Qwilleran was feeling relaxed enough to retire, but first he would read a couple of installments of the Annie-Fanny correspondence. Next was the letter dated June 24:

Dear Fanny—

Miracle of miracles! My actor didn't write to me, but he phoned every week from a different city! The tour ended in Denver, and he called to say he was coming back to Chicago. He said life had been barren without me!

So now he's here and hoping for work, but there's not much opportunity in his field. He says he's willing to sell neckties at Marshall Field until something turns up. Fanny, you can't believe how HAPPY I am! I'll send you a snapshot of him when I finish the roll on my camera. Without the Russian beard he's really handsome. In my weekly letter to Mother I broke the good news, and her reply was, “Dad warns you not to get serious about an actor.” Wouldn't you know? What does he understand about LOVE?

I'll send you a snapshot of Dana as soon as I finish the roll in my camera. His last name is Qwilleran, spelled with a QW. He says it's Danish. Be happy for me, dear Fanny. I'm ECSTATIC!

Love from Annie

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. His male parent should have had sense enough to stay in New York. With his handsome looks, charming personality, and glorious voice he could have been the John Barrymore of his generation. The next letter, dated August 22, was a short one. He read it.

Dear Fanny,

We've decided to get married! Isn't that exciting? I phoned Mother to share the good news, and what an explosion! Totally! Dad got on the line and said he didn't want his daughter marrying an unemployed actor. I told him I had to live my own life. He said, “Then live it your way, but don't come crying to me for help when he can't support you!” I said, “If necessary I can support both of us” and hung up. I knew that would be his reaction, but I don't care. I won't let it put a wet blanket on a joyous occasion. Think good thoughts, Fanny. I know you're on my side.

Love from Annie

“The plot thickens!” Qwilleran said as he replaced the letters in the file.

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19—
The fish dies because he opens his mouth too much
.

 

With his first cup of coffee Qwilleran felt the urge to read another Annie-Fanny letter. He would read only one, he promised himself. It was dated September 30.

Dear Fanny—

We did it! We're married! Dana is impulsive, and I like to make quick decisions, so we simply went across the state line to a place where a couple can get the knot tied without red tape. (Knot! Tape! Ha ha! Don't mind me. I'm tipsy with bliss!) I never wanted a big wedding, although Mother had dreams of seeing me in Grandmother's wedding dress with a ten-foot train and eight bridesmaids in floppy hats. And, of course, a reception for two hundred guests! I knew, and she knew, that Dad would never foot the bill for such an extravaganza.

So here we are, married and TOTALLY happy! My apartment is rather snug for two—unless they're madly in love. Someday we'll have a lovely house in the suburbs, and a garden, and a car, and an attached garage. Dana is working part-time at Marshall Field, and the library gave me a token raise, and we're saving our pennies.

Want to hear something I did that was naughty? I sent my parents a note (signed Annie Qwilleran) telling them that they now had a son-in-law. I couldn't resist telling them he's a tie salesman. I knew Dad would burst a blood vessel. Of course, he wouldn't let Mother acknowledge my note. I don't care. If they don't need a daughter, I don't need parents.

Love from Annie

When Qwilleran returned the letter to the file, Koko was sitting on the library table, paying no attention to the mechanical bank, which was supposed to be his toy. As usual, he showed more interest in the spalted maple box, sniffing the little knob on the lid and pawing the decorative motifs created by flaws in the wood. One was like the outline of a mouse trapped beneath the waxy surface of the box; another looked somewhat like a bee.

“Cats! Unpredictable!” Qwilleran muttered as he thawed a roll for his breakfast. A phone call from Celia Robinson interrupted.

“Chief, sorry to bother you,” she said, “but I need to discuss something.”

“Shoot!”

“It's about Nora, my helper. I was telling her about Short & Tall Tales and how you're collecting stories about Moose County—some true, some legends. She said she has a story to tell that actually happened.”

“How long ago? Do you know the nature of it?”

“She wouldn't tell me, but she'd like you to hear it. She'd love to see it in your book. She was thrilled, you know, when the paper used her letter.”

“It's a heady feeling to see your words in print for the first time. I'll listen to her tale.” He never said no to a story; it might be a gem.

“I don't want her to waste your time. It may not be worth anything. She's just a simple country woman, you know.” Then she added with a laugh, “Like me.”

“You're worth three city women, Celia. Tell you what! Some day when Nora's making a delivery for you, I'll see what's on her mind.”

“Wonderful! I'm making beef pot pies today. Shall I make an extra one for you? Also mincemeat tarts?”

“Keep talking.”

Celia laughed merrily. “Nora could deliver them this afternoon.”

“I'll be gone all day. How about tomorrow morning?”

“She goes to church.”

An appointment was made for Sunday afternoon, and Qwilleran went up the ramp to dress, feeling he had made a good deal.

 

The autumn color in Moose County was at its peak. Gold, red, bronze, coral, maroon—all accenting the groves of dark, dense evergreens. This was the weekend when everyone took to the highways with cameras. Qwilleran, Polly, and the Rikers planned to do the tour and stop for lunch at Boulder House Inn on the north shore. They assembled in Indian Village and rode in Qwilleran's van, which offered a wider view than Arch's four-door.

Polly was looking unusually jaunty in a beige corduroy suit, black beret, and beige-and-black scarf featuring Chinese calligraphy.

Mildred said, “I love your scarf, Polly! You didn't get that around here.”

“Thank you. It's from the Boston Museum of Art.”

“I hope you know what it says,” Arch warned.

“Happiness, harmony, and health—or something like that. All good things, I assure you.”

They proceeded to crisscross the county on country roads, driving slowly, gasping at spectacular autumn views, taking snapshots of the most brilliant color. Conversation was limited. “Oh, look at that! . . . Did you ever see anything so beautiful? . . . Breathtaking! . . . Better than ever this year!”

“Why is traffic so light?” Polly wondered. “Usually the roads are crowded on the big weekend.”

“Everyone's at home watching the ball game on TV,” Arch suggested with his usual cynicism.

The weathered gray shafthouses stood like lonely sentinels in the lush landscape. Each had its history: a cave-in, a mine explosion, a murder. Polly said, “Maggie insists there's a subterranean lake under the Big B.”

At the Boulder House Inn their reservation was for one-thirty, giving them time for a walk on the beach. In a few weeks the sand would be buried under three feet of snow. Indoors, to their surprise, the dining room was half empty.

“We've had several cancellations,” the innkeeper said. “Just spread a rumor about a killer on the loose, and folks lock themselves in the bathroom.”

At a table in the window overlooking the lake Mildred said, “Let's not ruin our lunch by talking about the terrorist in our midst.”

“I have good news,” said Polly. “After the Cavendish sisters moved out, I worried about getting a noisy neighbor. The walls are deplorably thin! Well, yesterday the new owner came into the library and introduced himself. He's a rare book dealer from Boston!”

“You can't get anyone quieter!” Arch said cheerfully.

“He does mail-order business from his home and is having shelves installed on all the walls. Until his furniture and books arrive he's staying at the Mackintosh Inn.”

“What's he like?” Mildred asked eagerly. She was always looking for interesting guests to invite to dinner.

Polly said he was middle-aged, nice-looking, soft-spoken, and quite charming. “Of course, he's tremendously knowledgeable. I expect to learn a lot from him. He specializes in incunabula.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache and decided, then and there, to close the barn for the winter and move back into his condo, but he said to the group, “I have some news for you, too. The Cavendish sisters, the Tibbitts, and a few others at Ittibittiwassee Estates have organized what they call The Absolutely Absurd Press, Inc., and I have a list of the absurd titles they propose to publish.” He read the list, pausing after each title for the amused response—sometimes a giggle, sometimes a guffaw. “I'd also like to add one of my own
: Five Easy Piano Pieces for the Index Finger
.”

The laughter was spontaneous, followed by thoughtful silence as three minds went into gear.

“No hurry,” Qwilleran told them. “You have until four o'clock.”

By the time coffee and dessert were served, Polly had proposed
Recipes for Entertaining
by Lucrezia Borgia.

Arch's contribution was
My Secret Life as a Pussycat
by King Kong.

Mildred said that books on food were always popular and suggested
Ichabod Crane's Low-Fat Cookbook
.

The two men looked at each other mischievously. “Remember Ichabod?” they said in unison.

Mildred clapped her hands. “Is this another story about your misspent youth?” Whenever the foursome met, Qwilleran and Arch reminisced about growing up in Chicago.

“We were reading Washington Irving that year, and we called our English teacher Ichabod because he was tall and skinny,” said Qwilleran. “He was a joker and played tricks on his students when giving tests. We had a great desire to get back at him. . . . Remember that school, Arch?”

“It was an old one and about ready to be torn down. They don't build them like that anymore, with the first floor way off the ground.”

“The way it happened,” Qwilleran went on, “we had to report to room 109 for an English test after lunch, and we got there early. Somehow we got the idea of going in, throwing the bolt on the door, and locking everybody out. Then we went out the window and dropped down on the ground, about six feet. By the time we brushed ourselves off and came in the front door, the whole class was standing in the hall, and the teacher was running around trying to get a janitor with a ladder. The window was wide open, of course.”

“Were you ever found out?” Mildred asked.

“Oh, he knew we did it. We were the only kids in the class smart enough to think of it. But he had a sense of humor.”

Mildred said, “I wish I'd known you then!”

“I'm glad I didn't!” Polly said.

 

Qwilleran returned his passengers to Indian Village, dropping the Rikers at The Birches and driving Polly to The Willows.

“Will you come in to say something friendly to Brutus and Catta?” she asked.

“Just for a while. Does your new neighbor have cats?”

“No, but he offered to take care of mine whenever I need to be out of town. He's a very thoughtful person. He brought me this scarf, which I thought was an unusually lovely gesture.”

“What's his name?”

“Kirt Nightingale.”

“What's his real name?”

“Oh, Qwill! You're always so suspicious!”

“Does he know about our ten-foot snowdrifts and wall-to-wall ice?”

“Oh, yes! He grew up here. His relatives have moved away, but he has fond memories of winters in Moose County.”

“Perhaps he'd like to join the curling club.”

 

As soon as Qwilleran arrived home he telephoned Pat O'Dell, Celia Robinson's husband, who ran a janitorial service. He asked to have Unit Four at The Willows cleaned for immediate occupancy.

“Is it cold feet you're gettin' now?” Pat asked in his lilting Irish brogue.

“You might say that, Pat. Wetherby Goode predicts November weather for October.”

“Sure, a' it's only one man's opinion, I'm thinkin'. But a pleasure it'll be to do whatever you want.”

While hanging up the receiver Qwilleran noticed that the lid was off the turned maple box and the pennies were gone. A quick glance revealed the two culprits on the fireplace cube, looking down on the scene of the crime. Koko looked proud of himself; Yum Yum looked guilty.

“You scalawags!” Qwilleran scolded fondly. “One of you is a bank robber, and the other is a petty thief.”

She had not gone far with her loot; the pennies were not shiny enough to appeal to her exquisite taste. They were on the rug nearby. What interested Qwilleran was Koko's motive: curiosity about its contents? His catly response to a challenge? He had found out how to clamp his jaws around the knob and lift the
well-fitting lid with a vertical jerk of the head. Smart cat! He had been obsessed with the problem, and now that it was solved, he would walk away and forget it with his tail held high.

Qwilleran himself was becoming obsessed with the Klingenschoen file. Now he understood why he had never received birthday presents from grandparents, while his friend Archie boasted about getting a cowboy suit and even a two-wheel bike!

The next letter was dated October 10:

Dear Fanny—

Thank you for the gorgeous wedding gift! We're putting it away until we have our house in the suburbs. I can picture it on a console table in the foyer or on the fireplace mantel. All that is in the future—not too distant, I hope. Right now we have to think about Dana's career. Shall we give up our jobs and move to New York where there are plenty of auditions? Or stay here where I have steady income and a promise of promotion? Although Dana is doing well at the store, his heart isn't in retailing. He could make better money as a manufacturer's rep, but I'd hate to have him on the road all the time. What kind of life is that for two people so much in love? We read the want ads every day and hope—and hope—and hope. Dana isn't quite as optimistic as I am, but I know something wonderful is just around the corner.

Love from Annie

A question arose in Qwilleran's mind. What was the gorgeous wedding gift? All the time he was growing up in a respectable town house apartment with a foyer and a fireplace, he had never seen such an impressive object, or had paid no juvenile attention. Annie might describe it in a later letter: a crystal vase, a silver bowl, a porcelain figurine . . . He went on to October 22:

Dear Fanny—

Can you stand some terrifically good news? If I sound incoherent it's because I'm tipsy with delight! I've just found out I'm PREGNANT! Dana is sort of stunned. They laughed at me at the library because I immediately checked out an armful of books on parenting. Speaking of parents, I dashed off a note to Mother, but it was returned unopened. Too bad. Some mother/daughter talk would be comforting right now. You are my dearest friend, Fanny. If the baby is a girl, I'll name her after you. If it's a boy, Dana can name him. Frankly, he would be more enthusiastic if he had a decent job, preferably with a repertory acting company. I wish you could see him on the stage, Fanny. He's so talented! It breaks my heart to see him so frustrated. I try to make him feel that he's loved, no matter what. We have each other, and that's what matters, and soon we'll be THREE! Can you believe it?