The Cat Who Robbed a Bank (6 page)

“I'd say you handled that well, Barry.”

“I thought so, too. . . . Wait a minute, Qwill. You need something else. An intercom! I'll get you one. Hang it on your belt.”

 

The focal point of the ballroom was a long tea table with lace cloth, tall silver candelabrum, and two flower arrangements. At each end a silver tea service stood ready. Small skirted tables and clusters of little ballroom chairs were scattered about the room. There was a piano in one corner, half hidden by large potted plants. And off to one side was the jewel table, covered with an Oriental rug. There were no jewels in sight—just leather carrying cases. A hatted young woman in a businesslike suit was in charge.

At Barry's suggestion Qwilleran stationed himself on the stairs in a shadowy corner from which he could observe without being conspicuous. When Polly and Dr. Diane arrived, they brushed past him without noticing and went to opposite ends of the tea table—Polly in a simple blue Breton to match her dress, Diane in a toque with an impudently long pheasant feather. Then the servers brought platters of finger food and silver pots of tea to place on the burners. It would take more than a short black dress and frilly white cap and apron, Qwilleran thought, to transform MCCC students into French maids.

Shortly before three o'clock the host swept grandly down the stairs in Oriental caftan and heavy gold chains, his portliness only adding to his dignity. He introduced himself to the pourers, inspected the tea table, discussed something with his assistant at the jewel table, and signaled to the pianist.

Lyrical melodies flooded the room as guests began to move slowly down the stairs, balancing top-heavy hats and exuding whiffs of perfume as they passed the security guard.

Delacamp stood at the foot of the wide stairs and gazed at the women with patent admiration—or was it part of his act? He bowed, kissed hands, and murmured words that met with pleased surprise or girlish delight. Qwilleran thought, What a ham!

For the next hour and a half the bearers of the spectacular millinery would move self-consciously about the room—sipping tea, nibbling seed cake, conversing softly, and making gentle exclamations over the diamond clips and pearl chokers on the jewel table. Carol was there, wildly hatted, and she seemed to have a
managerial role, supervising the French maids and controlling the flow of guests to the display of jewels. (They were on shallow trays that slipped in and out of the leather cases.) Neither Carol nor Polly ever glanced in Qwilleran's direction.

After having his fill of sights and sounds and perfume he stole a surreptitious peek at his wristwatch. It was only twenty minutes after three! And already he had had enough. As a journalist he would have made a swift exit, but as a security guard he could hardly walk off the job. Feeling trapped in a situation was something he had always deplored, avoided, feared. Yet, here he was in a mess of his own making and he had to endure it for another seventy minutes. He could imagine what Arch Riker would say if he could see him in this predicament—and in this disguise! Arch always sniped at him about his compulsions to snoop, and this fiasco would give his old friend plenty of ammunition.

Qwilleran steeled himself. He devised ways to keep himself amused:

How many of the guests did he know socially—and how many had he met in the line of business?

Why was the pianist playing only Debussy and Satie? Why did Delacamp object to Chopin? Was there some psychological influence at work? What would happen if she suddenly launched into
Flight of the Bumblebee
?

What would happen if he suddenly shouted “
Fire
!”?

How much perfume would be required to activate the sprinkler system? The mingled scents were getting stronger as their wearers drank hot tea and listened to Old Campo's heated whispers.

Could mental telepathy be used to force Polly, or Carol, or the pianist to glance at the security guard?

When the servers removed picked-over platters of goodies—such as they were—and replaced them with fresh platters, what happened to the rejects? Did they go into the garbage-grinder? Were the French maids allowed to take them home? Qwilleran suspected they were merely rearranged and sent back to the tea table.

What was Sarah Plensdorf doing at the tea? She was an older woman who worked as office manager at the
Moose County Something
. She lived quietly, and her hobby was button collecting. Surely she was not in the market for a diamond clip. Did she have family heirlooms to sell? Her ancestors had been either shipbuilders or bootleggers, depending on the source of gossip.

Who was there to buy and who was there to sell? As Qwilleran deduced, the potential buyers pored over the jewels in the shallow trays, then spoke to the assistant, who wrote something in a black leather notebook. The potential sellers, on the other hand, ignored the display and merely spoke to the assistant, who again wrote in the book.

What did Delacamp think of the outrageous hats? Did he realize the guests were mocking him? Polly's blue Breton was one of the few sane and simple hats in the hall. Qwilleran named it L'Heure Bleue. Others he named Swan Lake . . . Fruit Salad Plate . . . Yes We Have No Bananas . . . or Wreck of the Hesperus. It killed time.

At that point male footsteps came tripping down the stairs behind him and stopped just behind his right shoulder. A hushed voice asked, “How's everything?”

“Boring!” Qwilleran muttered without turning his head.

“Anything I can do?” the innkeeper asked.

“Yes. Turn on the sprinkling system.”

“It's stuffy in here. I'll check the ventilators. . . . At four-thirty make your getaway and come to my office. Use the stairway.”

Then Qwilleran was alone again. According to his watch, he had another half hour to spend as Joe Buzzard of City Security Services. He tried rising on his toes, stretching his spine, flexing his muscles discreetly, blinking his eyes behind his dark glasses.

Polly had finished her duty at the tea table and was now circulating and chatting with other guests. She knew everyone! Gradually she made her way to the jewel table. He had told her to select something nice; it would be her Christmas present. She protested; she had her pearls and her opals, and she had no taste for diamonds. He had insisted, however, and now he saw her approach the leather cases reluctantly . . . explain to the assistant . . . look at shallow trays of baubles and shake her head . . . then show sudden interest, even enthusiasm. The assistant wrote something in her book, and Polly had another cup of tea.

Now what? Qwilleran consulted his watch. Twenty minutes more! He began to wish for a minor jewel heist, and he fantasized a scenario:

French maid drops a platter of cucumber sandwiches to divert attention . . . grabs an empty teapot and bashes jeweler's assistant . . . scoops handfuls of diamonds into her apron . . . dashes to the service exit pursued by a security guard waving a wooden gun and shouting “Stop thief!”

This exercise amused Qwilleran for five minutes.

Fifteen minutes more!

Now what?

He could search for fodder for the “Qwill Pen.” Could he write a thousand words on cucumber sandwiches . . . or the forgotten art of hand-kissing . . . or hats? Yes! There were cowboy hats, baseball caps, bike helmets, construction workers' hard hats, a bagpiper's bonnet, gob hats, a bishop's miter. Hats were important! There had been George Washington's cocked hat, Yankee Doodle's hat with a feather, Humphrey Bogart's snap-brim fedora, Maurice Chevalier's straw boater, Fred Astaire's silk top hat . . .

Before Qwilleran knew it, the piano music stopped, the tea-warmers were turned off, the jewel cases were locked, and he was running up the stairs to the innkeeper's office, gasping for a cup of coffee.

 

When Larry Lanspeak drove him back to the K Theatre, Qwilleran said, “Well, your jeweler camps it up, doesn't he? His getup is straight out of Arabian Nights, and his manners date back to Molegrave;re. . . . And you'll have to forgive me, Larry, but I can't help wondering if this hoopla is worthwhile—businesswise, that is.”

Larry said, “I'll be frank with you. We don't get a penny of commission from any of his transactions here, but—what the heck?—it's only once every five years, and in between, if a customer of ours wants to special-order a string of pearls or an engagement ring, we get the usual markup. Also, the ballyhoo is good public relations for us. It helps the Old Guard unload some of their old jewelry.”

“Do you think he offers them a fair price?”

“No one ever complains. He sends them roses, and they're always thrilled to have him visit their homes.”

Larry dropped Qwilleran at the side door of the theatre, handing him a small paperbound booklet. “Here's a script of the play that's about to open, in case you want to read it before opening night. . . . I assume you'll be reviewing it for the paper.”

“Who else?” It was a script for Night Must Fall.

“It was first produced in 1937. Emlyn Williams wrote the role of the houseboy for himself. It's a challenge for an actor.”

“Yes, I know,” Qwilleran said. “I saw a revival on Broadway several years ago. I suppose Derek Cuttlebrink will be playing the Emlyn Williams role.”

“Unfortunately, no. He could bring it off, but he's working nights at the inn. He's maître d' of the Mackintosh Room, you know. . . . Just leave your uniform and props on the table in the costume department, Qwill.”

“Okay, and thanks for everything, Larry. It was . . . an unforgettable experience.”

Qwilleran had misgivings about Derek as maître d'. The last two restaurants he managed had closed suddenly and permanently—one under a cloud of scandal, one under a cloud of dust.

 

In the late evening, when Qwilleran phoned Polly to report, Koko came running and hopped on the library table. Did he feel obliged to chaperon the conversation? Did he know there was a Siamese male named Brutus at the other end of the line? Or was he still trying to figure out how the mystifying instrument worked?

Her first words were, “Well, was the experience worth your while?”

“Not really,” he said. “What did you think of the hats?”

“They were just teasing Mr. Delacamp. He pretended to think they were fabulous.”

“What did you think of his private collection?”

“He had some spectacular things, such as a vintage pin paced with thirteen carats of diamonds—and signed. He was asking thirty-five thousand.”

“It won't sell in Moose County!”

“Don't be too sure. Signed pieces are collectible, and there are persons of means around here who buy for investment but never advertise the fact. I saw a solid gold Tiffany tea-strainer for eighteen hundred that was already sold. It won't be used to strain tea!”

“Did you find something you like?”

“Yes, I did!” she said with enthusiasm. “A cameo ring!”

“A cameo!” His tone indicated a distaste for cameos.

“Not the commercial quality that's sold to tourists, Qwill. Antique cameos with incredibly fine carving are making a comeback. I saw a pin depicting Venus and Cupid in a forest, and the carving was so detailed, I could count the leaves on the trees! The ring, though, is something I can see myself wearing. The subject is the Three Graces in a gold mounting. They're the goddesses of beauty, refinement, and the arts.”

“It sounds like you, Polly. Grab it!”

“They're holding it for me. My appointment is Thursday at two.”

“Good! I'll write a check. How much?”

“They don't accept checks or credit cards—only cash.”

“That's odd,” he said, thinking of the diamond pin for thirty-five thousand. “But it's all right. I'll make a withdrawal Thursday morning and deliver it to you at the library—or even in the lobby of the inn at two o'clock. . . . How much?”

“Eight hundred.”

“Is that all? I had visions of eighteen thousand! I was prepared to hire an armored truck from the bank.”

“Actually,” she said with a ripple of laughter, “it's only seven-ninety-five. And that includes tax.”

“I'll withdraw eight hundred, and be sure to get your five dollars change.”

Qwilleran replaced the receiver thoughtfully as he questioned the terms of sale: cash only . . . no tax.

“What do you think of that gambit?” he asked Koko, who was sitting near the phone.

The cat jumped to the floor and walked slowly and with deliberation to the kitchen cabinet where the Kabibbles were stored, while Yum Yum shrieked from the top of the refrigerator, hitting a high C that would curdle one's blood.

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9—
Chickens always come home to roost
.

 

After the Siamese had breakfasted and performed their morning ablutions (three licks to the paw, four swipes over the ear, etc.), they were treated to a workout with Qwilleran's old paisley tie. He enjoyed whipping it around over their heads and watching their midair contortions. When they were tired and ready to stretch out in a patch of morning sun, he went to his studio on the first balcony to work on the “Qwill Pen” column for Friday.

Halfway through a sentence he was interrupted by urgent yowling on the main floor, and he took the shortcut to the kitchen, down the spiral staircase. Koko was standing on the kitchen counter, staring out the window. Qwilleran made a quick check. There were no vehicles in the barnyard, no prowlers on the grounds. “False alarm!” he said to the cat. “You can get arrested for that!”

Just then a small red car came bouncing through the wooded area and pulled up to the kitchen door. Koko knew it was coming, certainly knew who was driving, and probably knew what she was bringing!

“My apologies, old boy,” Qwilleran said. Going out to greet the visitor, he exclaimed, “Celia! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Look in the backseat, Chief. There's some stuff for your freezer. I was gonna sneak in and leave it in the pirate chest.” A weathered sea chest stood at the back door for package deliveries.

“No one sneaks in when the Inspector General is on duty.”

Celia laughed happily. She always laughed at the mildest quip from “the Chief.” She explained, “I've brought you two meals of macaroni and cheese and a two-pound meat loaf. It's sliced so you can thaw some for a sandwich. I didn't put much onion in it because you might like to give some to the kitties, and I know they're particular. . . . Ooh! You have new bar stools!” she squealed when she went indoors. “We're so busy! I had to hire a helper. We're catering a wedding reception Saturday.”

“Will you have time left for volunteer work? You were a real asset.”

“Only one thing—teaching adults to read. My first student is a forty-year-old woman who's tickled to be able to read recipe books. In fact, she's the one I hired as my helper. . . . Have you rented my old apartment yet?”

“To the new manager of the Mackintosh Inn. He says he has a strange feeling that some wonderful person lived there before him.”

“Oh, Chief! You're a big kidder!”

 

In mid-afternoon Qwilleran walked downtown to Lois's Luncheonette for a slice of her famous apple pie. Lois Inchpot was a loud, bossy, good-hearted woman who had been feeding downtown shoppers and workers for decades—in a dingy backstreet lunchroom. The shabbier it became with the years, the more the customers cherished it; they felt comfortable there.

When Qwilleran arrived, the place was empty, and Lois was in the kitchen, working on dinner. “Whaddaya want?” came a demanding voice through the pass-through window.

“Apple pie and a cuppa!” he shouted back.

“Apple's all gone! You can have cherry.”

He walked to the pass-through and said, “I'm not enthusiastic about cherry pie.”

“How come? You un-American—or something?”

“I did my patriotic bit when I helped choose the queen for the cherry festival.”

Lois shoved a mug of coffee across the shelf and then banged a plate of cherry pie beside it, chanting, “Cherries every day keep the gout away!”

“Is that propaganda for the cherry-growers? Or are you practicing medicine without a license?”

“Eat it!” she ordered. “You'll love it!”

He had to admit the pie was good—not too tart, not too sweet, not too gelatinous, not too soupy. Obviously it had never been in a freezer or a microwave oven. “Not bad!” he declared as he returned his empty plate. “Keep practicing, and someday you'll get it right.”

“Oh, pish posh!” she said grouchily but with a half smile. She liked Qwilleran.

“Where's Lenny?”

Her voice softened. “He has classes 'most all day on Wednesday, and I don't allow nothin' to interfere with that boy's education. He'll finish school if I hafta scrub floors! Did you know he's workin' part-time at the hotel?—I mean, the inn? Six to midnight. And he's captain of the desk clerks,” she said proudly.

“Someday he'll be chief innkeeper,” Qwilleran predicted, knowing that was what she wanted to hear.

“Lenny says old Mr. Muckety-Muck is here again, registered in the fancy suite on the third floor. You seen him?”

“To
whom
 . . . are you referring?” Qwilleran asked to tease her.

“Don't get la-de-da with me! You know who I mean.”

“No, I haven't seen him. I thought I might catch a glimpse of him here, eating cherry pie.”

“Hah!” she huffed with contempt, banging the lid on a soup kettle for emphasis.

Just then her son burst into the restaurant and threw his textbooks on a table in the rear booth. “Got any pie, Mom?” He helped himself to a mug of coffee. “Hi, Mr. Q! Going to the games this weekend? The inn's booked solid for Friday and Saturday nights.”

“Do you participate in the athletic events, Lenny?”

“Only the footraces. I leave the hammer-throw and all that to the big guys, but our night clerk tosses the caber. He has the strength for it. I introduced him to you at the party Saturday night. We call him Boze, short for Bozo.” Lenny moved his coffee mug to Qwilleran's table. “I'm sort of his manager. He needs somebody to prod him, make his decisions, keep him on track, you know.”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since high school. I was managing the football team, and Boze was a great tackle. Not much of a student, though, and he wanted to drop out. So my mom and I took him on as a private crusade. I tutored him, and she fed him and read the riot act. She's good at both of those! . . . And he managed to squeak by with a diploma.”

“What were his parents doing all this time?”

“He's an orphan. Grew up in different foster homes. After graduation he got a job as woodsman with a forestry company, and I worked at the old hotel until it was bombed.”

“What brought Boze out of the woods?” Qwilleran asked.

“A soft job at the hotel, a small scholarship to MCCC, and a berth on the Moose County team for the Highland Games. Boze can toss the caber like nothing you ever saw! It's not just brute strength, you know. It's tricky, and he's mastered the knack.”

“Should I know what a caber is?”

“It's a pole—a tree trunk—about twenty feet long and weighing about two hundred pounds. Boze tosses it like a toothpick and tumbles it end-over-end, the way you're supposed to. If we can beat those Bixby bums Saturday, it'll give the whole county a big charge. Are you gonna be there?”

“I've never attended a Scottish Gathering, but I'll be there, rooting for you guys. Altogether it's quite a lively week in the sleepy town of Pickax. Have you met the distinguished guest?”

“No, he checked in while Viyella was on the desk. She says he comes on pretty strong, but his niece is kind of mousy. Not after eleven o'clock when I'm on the desk, though! I guess her uncle's gone to bed, and she comes down to the lobby in false eyelashes, short-short skirts and lots of lipstick. She likes to hang around the desk and talk about rock bands. I couldn't care less. I go for country-western. Besides, I have a lot of studying to do, and I can use some quiet time on the desk. . . . So I follow Mr. Morghan's rule: Act friendly but don't get friendly.”

“Lenny!” his mother shouted from the kitchen. “If you're gonna gab instead of studyin' your books, get off your rusty dusty and help me with dinner!”

Lenny jumped up and grinned. “Gotta go!”

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 10—The early bird gets the worm.

At six o'clock Qwilleran picked up Polly in Indian Village for the drive to West Middle Hummock, where the Lanspeaks had their country estate. His first words were, “Did you get the ring?”

“It's breathtaking! I can't believe that it's mine—or will be after December 25.”

“Nonsense! Start wearing it now. Where is it?”

“I went directly to the bank and put it in my lockbox. But I can't wait for you to see it!”

“How was the appointment with Old Campo?”

“All business. No hand-kissing or compliments. I declined a cup of tea and kept looking at my watch. They showed me the ring, and I handed over the cash.”

“Did they count it?”

“The assistant took it into the other room. I'm sure she counted it.”

Qwilleran said, “Both you and I must avoid any slip of the tongue that would reveal my presence at the tea.”

West Middle Hummock was an exclusive enclave of country estates, and the landscape was a panorama of woods and meadows, winding roads bordered with wildflowers, and rustic bridges over gurgling streams.

“Isn't it lovely?” Polly murmured.

“Would you like to live here?”

“No, but I like to visit once in a while. Carol is preparing dinner; it's her cook's night off.”

The Lanspeaks lived in an unpretentious farmhouse furnished with country antiques that looked like museum quality. When their children were young, they had kept a family cow, riding horses, and a few chickens and ducks. Now Carol and Larry were alone—except for the couple who took care of the housekeeping and grounds—and they concentrated on running the department store and participating in the theatre club, historical society, genealogy club, and gourmet group.

Larry met them on the front steps, saying, “The visiting firemen will be a little late, so we'll start the Happy Hour without them. Old Campo doesn't drink, anyway.”

Uh-huh, Qwilleran thought.

Carol came out of the kitchen, where she was preparing her famous breast of duck with prosciutto and mushroom duxelles.

Qwilleran asked, “Has this year's Delacamp expedition been a success so far?”

“He never discusses that aspect of his visit,” Carol said, “but I know that Mrs. Woodinghurst sold her famous brooch yesterday, and he's agreed to take Maggie Sprenkle's torsade.”

They talked in chummy fashion about the Tuesday Tea, and Qwilleran entertained them with an account of his discomforts and boredom as a security guard. Then the honored guests arrived, and the mood became formal. What happened next is best described in Qwilleran's own words, which he recorded in his personal journal:

This guy Delacamp has been coming up here for more than twenty years and is not on first-name terms with anyone—even Carol and Larry. His niece was introduced as Ms. North. “Pamela,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes cast down. Could this be the chick who pestered Lenny Inchpot at the reception desk in the late hours? She was wearing her tailored suit, and her uncle wore a blazer obviously tailored to flatter his expanding girth.

He said to me, “Haven't we met in the last few days? At the country club perhaps?” I professed regret at not having had the pleasure, but I began to wonder if my disguise had been less effective than Carol insisted.

Quickly she said, “Mr. Qwilleran writes a column for the newspaper, and his picture appears at the head of it. That's the answer.”

Unconvinced, Old Campo continued to throw glances in my direction all evening. He asked for a cup of tea when Larry was ready to serve a second round of drinks, leading me to challenge him. “As a journalist and a confirmed coffee-drinker, may I ask why you prefer tea?”

“Tea is the thinking man's coffee,” he began. “For five thousand years in China it has been known as a revitalizing beverage, increasing concentration and alertness. Later, the Japanese promoted harmony and tranquillity with the tea ceremony. Dutch and Portuguese traders introduced tea to England and Russia. Caravans of two or three hundred camels used to bring chests of tea to the Russian border. Clipper ships raced each other from China to London.”

His niece was yawning. She spoke only when spoken to but paid deferential attention to Old Campo. At one point she whispered to him, and he said, “Now I know where I've seen you! In my suite there's a portrait of Mark Twain. You could be brothers!”

During Carol's excellent dinner he discussed the three thousand kinds of tea in the world, and then the seven grades of tea. The latter sounded like a comic routine, and I was glad I had my miniature tape recorder in my pocket when he recited them: Pekoe, orange pekoe, flowery orange pekoe, golden flowery orange pekoe, tippy golden flowery orange pekoe, finest tippy golden flowery orange pekoe, and special finest tippy golden flowery orange pekoe.

The after-dinner tea was Darjeeling, “the champagne of teas,” we were told. “Grown in India in the Himalayan foothills. Sometimes on a forty-five-degree slope.”

The special guests left shortly after that, and the rest of us had some good strong coffee while we recapped the evening and had a few laughs.

At one point Polly excused herself and returned with a look of wonderment. “Carol! You've done over the powder room! It's spectacular!”