Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Came To Breakfast

"Sorry," he said. "I had something on my mind. The name's Qwilleran. That's spelled with a QW."

"I'm Shelley, and my partners are Mary and Midge."

"How's business?" he asked, noticing that none of the roomful of equipment was in use.

"We're just getting organized. The rush won't start till July. Our picnic lunches are the most popular so far. Want to try one?"

He was going out to dinner, but it appeared that they needed the business, so he paid his money and took home a box that proved to contain a meatloaf sandwich, cole- slaw, cookies, and ... a pear! He put it in the refrigerator and dropped into his lounge chair. Oops! He had forgot-ten the broken spring. He seated himself again, this time with circumspection.

Then: What are those cats doing? he asked himself.

Koko was on the porch, trying to catch mosquitoes on the screen, the problem being that they were all on the outside.

"And you're supposed to be a smart cat," Qwilleran

Yum Yum was in the tiny kitchen area, fussing. When Yum Yum fussed, she could work industriously and stub-bornly for an hour without any apparent purpose and without results. In Qwilleran's present mood he found the unexplained noises nerve-wracking — the bumping, click-ing, thudding, and skittering.

"What on God's green earth are you doing?" he finally aid in exasperation.

She had found a rusty nail in a crevice and, having worked and worked and worked to get it out, she pushed :t back into another crevice.

"Cats!" he said, throwing up his hands.

Nevertheless, the rusty nail brought to mind the front steps of the Domino Inn. The aged carpenter blamed the collapse of the steps on rusty nails. Lori blamed a careless nspection. Nick wanted to blame the troublemakers from Lockmaster, Qwilleran favored the David-and-Goliath theory. Meanwhile, it was advisable to return to the Buccaneer Den while the bartender still remembered him and his magnanimous tip.

The bartender's craggy face-hardened after eighteen years in Chicago's Loop— brightened when Qwilleran slid onto a bar stool. "Have a good day?" he asked jovially as he toweled the bartop.

"Not bad. Has the bar been busy?"

"Typical Monday." Bert waggled a double old-fashioned glass. "Same?"

"Make it a four-alarm this time. Gotta rev up for one of those Cajun specials in the Corsair Room."

"Yep, pretty good cook we've got. I send a Sazerac to the kitchen several times a day." He placed the blood-red glassful on the bar and waited for Qwilleran's approval. "How long y'here for?"

"Coupla weeks."

"Staying in the hotel?"

"No. At the Domino Inn. Friend of mine owns it."

"Sure, I know him. Short fella, curly black hair. Nice guy. Family man."

"What do you think of his inn?"

"Sensational!" said Bert. "That treebark siding has acid in it that keeps insects out. That's why it's lasted. Besides that, it looks terrific!"

"Have you been to the lighthouse?" Qwilleran asked.

"Sure. A bunch of us went up there in a wagon before the hotel opened. Mr. Exbridge arranged it. He's a good boss. Very human. Owns a third of XYZ, but you'd never know it from his attitude. Pleasure to work for him."

"I've heard he's a good guy. Too bad about the food poisoning and the drowning. Were they accidents? Or did someone have it in for XYZ?"

Bert paused before answering. "Accidents." Then he became suddenly busy with bottles and glasses.

Qwilleran persisted. "The guy that drowned—do you remember serving him?"

"Nope."

"Was he drinking in the lounge or by the pool?"

The bartender shrugged.

"Do any of the poolside waiters remember him?"

Ben shook his head. He was looking nervously up and down the bar.

"Was he a boater or a guest at the hotel? It would be interesting to know who was drinking with him."

Bert moved away and went into a huddle with his two assistants, who turned and looked anxiously at the customer with a sizable moustache. Then all three of them stayed at the far end of the bar.

So Exbridge had imposed the gag rule. Qwilleran had messed as much when having dinner with Dwight Som-ems. Finishing his drink, he went to the Corsair Room for jambalaya, a savory blend of shrimp, ham, and sausage. He had been on the island twenty-four hours, although it seemed like a week. There was something about an island that distorted time. There was also something about jam-balaya that made one heady.

He hailed a cab for the ride home—a spidery vehicle with a small body slung between two large spoked wheels that looked astonishingly delicate. He climbed in beside the lumpish old man holding the reins and said, "Do you know the Domino Inn on the west beach?"

"Ay-uh," said the cabbie. He was wearing the shapeless, colorless clothes of the islanders. "Giddap." The gig moved slowly behind a plodding horse with a swayback.

"Nice horse," Qwilleran said amiably.

"Ay-uh."

"What's his name?"

"Bob."

"How old is he?"

"Pretty old."

"Does he belong to you?"

"Ay-uh."

"Where do you keep him?"

"Yonder."

"How do you like this weather?" Qwilleran wished he had brought his tape recorder.

"Pretty fair."

"Is business good?"

"Pretty much."

"Have you always lived on the island?"

"Ay-uh."

"Do you get a lot of snow in winter?"

"Enough."

"Where is Piratetown?"

"Ain't none."

Eventually the cab reached the Domino Inn, and Qwilleran paid his fare plus a sizable tip. "What's your name?" he asked.

"John."

"Thanks, John. See you around."

The old man shook the reins, and the horse moved on.

CHAPTER 6

It was sunset time. Guests filled the porch swings as Qwilleran walked up the front steps of the inn.

"Beautiful evening," said the man who wore a French beret indoors and out. He spoke with a pleasant voice and a warmly benign expression on his wrinkled face.

"Yes, indeed," Qwilleran replied with a special brand of courtesy that he reserved for his elders. "I'm Arledge Harding, and this is my wife, Dorothy." "My pleasure. My name is Qwilleran—Jim Qwilleran." The retired vicar moved with a physical stiffness that added to his dignity. "We're quite familiar with your name, Mr. Qwilleran, being privileged to read your column in the Moose County newspaper. It's most refreshing! You write extremely well."

"Thank you. I was sorry to hear about your accident. Which was the faulty step?" "The third from the top, alas." "Were you walking down or coming up?"

"He was going down," said Mrs. Harding. "Fortunately he had hold of the railing. I always remind him to grip the handrail. It's strange, though. Arledge weighs like a feather, and that husky young man who rides a bicycle runs up and down the steps all the time—"