Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Wasn't There

"Give me the Edinburgh phone number, and I'll see what I can find out." He avoided mentioning Koko's death dance around the obituary or his own murder theory. She said, "I'd invite you over for coffee or something, but I need to do some laundry and get myself together for work tomorrow. Let me know what luck you have." After hanging up, Qwilleran checked his watch. It was too late to call Edinburgh, but the next morning he took his first cup of coffee to the telephone desk, locked the meddlesome Koko in the loft, and placed a call to Katie. He said, "This is Jim Qwilleran, a friend of Irma Hasselrich." He used a sincere and cordial tone of voice intended to inspire confidence.

"Yes?" the woman replied warily.

"I'd like to speak to Kathryn Gow. Or is it Kathryn Mac Bean "I'm Mrs. Mac Bean "I'm phoning from the States--from Irma's hometown of Pickax." "Where is she?" came a sharp reply.

"I mean, I expected her to ring me up." "She never reached Edinburgh, I'm sorry to say," Qwilleran said, introducing a grieved note to prepare his listener for bad news.

"I was a member of her Scots Tour, and while we were still in the Western Highlands, she suffered a heart attack and died.

" "Died! ... That's perfectly awful!" "It pains me to break the news, but her family felt you'd want to know." There was a blank silence.

"Hello? Hello?" he said. In a softer voice Katie said, "I do declare, this is a bit of a shock! I mean, she was fairly young." "Her body was flown back here, and she was buried two days ago. We're notifying a list of her friends." "Was the rest of the tour canceled? My brother was the driver. Odd that he didn't notify me." "Bruce Gow! Is he your brother?" "Ah... yes." "He's an excellent driver, and he was very courteous to a busload of crotchety American tourists." "Yes, he's... very good. What is your name, did you say?" "Jim Qwilleran. My mother was a Mackintosh. We're branches of the same clan. There was a Mac Bean a giant of a man, who fought at Culloden and killed thirteen English with his broadsword, fighting with his back to a wall." This was intended to proclaim his Scottish sympathies and win her good will.

"Ah... yes... there's a fair number of Mackintoshes about." Her attention was wandering as if she were concerned about her brother.

"When did it happen?" "Almost a week ago." "Honestly, I'm in a state! I'm not sure I know quite what to say, Mr.... Mr...." "Qwilleran. It would help to console Irma's parents if you would write them a note. How long had you known her?" "More than twenty years. We met in art school. In Glasgow." She seemed to be speaking in a guarded way.

"Do you have any snapshots or other memorabilia that you could part with? I'm sure her parents would welcome any little memento." "I expect that's the least I can do, isn't it?" "Do you have the address?" "Goodwinter Boulevard? Yes, of course." "I'll send you a clip of the obituary that ran in the local newspaper.

It has a very good photo of Irma." "That would be kind of you. If you could spare two cuttings..." "Glad to do it, Mrs. Mac Bean "And thank you for calling, Mr...." "Qwilleran." He verified her address before concluding the conversation and hung up with a strong feeling of satisfaction. Now he was ready to talk with Chief Brodie. He walked briskly downtown to the police station, and the sergeant at the desk nodded him into the inner office before a word was spoken. Brodie looked up in surprise.

"When did you get back, laddie?" "Saturday. Did you hear the bad news?" The chief nodded.

"I played the bagpipe at her funeral." "You probably heard that she had a fatal heart attack, but there's more to the story than that, and I'd like your advice." Qwilleran glanced toward the outer office and closed the door.

"Pour a cup of coffee and sit down.

How was Scotland, apart from that?" "Beautiful!" "Get your fill of bagpipes?" "Believe it or not, Andy, we didn't hear so much as a squeal, all the time we were there." "You went to the wrong places, mon. You should come to Scottish Night at my lodge. We'll show you what piping is all about... So, what's buggin' you?" Qwilleran pulled up a chair.

"Well, there were sixteen of us on the bus traveling around Scotland," he began, "and our driver was a Scot named Bruce, a sullen fellow with red hair who spoke only to Irma.

They conversed, I believe, in Gaelic." "She knew Gaelic? That's a tough language." "They seemed to communicate all right. Then one morning she was found dead in bed by her roommate, Polly Duncan.

Cause of death: cardiac arrest, according to Dr. Melinda, who was traveling with us. The next day the bus driver disappeared, and so did Grace Utley's luggage, containing a small fortune in jewels. I suppose you know about her spectacular jewelry--and the way she flaunts it." "That I do! She's a walking Christmas tree!" "We notified the village constable and gave a description of Bruce, but no one knew the guy's last name except Irma, and she was dead!" "And Scotland is full of redheads by the name of Bruce. So what's the advice you want?" "I have reason to believe," and here Qwilleran smoothed his moustache proudly, "that the heart stoppage was drug induced We hear of young athletes dropping dead because of substance abuse. If it can happen to them, it can happen to a forty year-old woman with an existing heart condition." "You can't tell me that Irma was doing drugs. Not her! Not that woman!" "Listen, Andy.

Every night after dinner she went out with Bruce. There was a lot of gossip about it." "Why would a classy dame like her hang around with a bus driver?" "We've since found out--from correspondence in her briefcase--that he was an old flame. Also, it appears, an ex-con. If he was plotting a jewel heist, wouldn't he get rid of the one person who could identify him? I suspect he slipped her some kind of drug." Brodie grunted.

"Do the police over there know that you suspect homicide?" "No, it's a new development. But here's the good news, Andy." Qwilleran waved a slip of paper.

"We've found the name, address, and phone number of Bruce's sister in Edinburgh, and through her we learned his last name is Gow." "Give it here," said the chief, reaching across the desk.

"Also the name of the town where you reported the larceny. Do you know what we're getting into?

They'll want to exhume the body!" Then he added, partly in jest and partly because he believed in Koko's extraordinary gifts, "If Scotland Yard can't find the suspect, we'll assign your smart cat to the case." "Yes," said Qwilleran, going along with the gag.

"Too bad Koko wasn't there!" He left the police station with a light step, knowing he had contributed vital information to the investigation, and he treated himself to a good American breakfast of ham and eggs at Lois's Luncheonette, with a double order of her famous country fries. His elation was short-lived, however. When he returned home, the barn was a scene of havoc: torn newspapers everywhere, books on the floor, the telephone knocked off its cradle, and the rest of Qwilleran's morning coffee spilled on the desk and floor, while Koko was in the throes of a cat fit He raced around and around the main floor, almost faster than the eye could see, then up the circular ramp to the catwalk under the roof, where he screamed like a banshee before pelting down the ramp again, rolling on the floor, and fighting an imaginary adversary. Qwilleran watched in helpless astonishment until the cat, having made his point, sat down on the coffee table and licked himself all over. He had staged cat fits before, and it was always a desperate attempt to communicate.

"What's it all about, Koko?" Qwilleran asked as he cleaned up the mess.

"What are you trying to say?" It was Irma's obituary that had been shredded, and he was trying to convey that she had not died of natural causes; of that Qwilleran was sure. He had learned to read Koko's body language and the nuances of his yowling. The varying inflections and degrees of intensity--like the subtleties of Oriental speech--registered affirmation or negation, approval or disapproval, excitement or indifference, imperious demand or urgent warning. Now, as Qwilleran watched that rippling pink tongue grooming that snowy white breast, an idea flashed through his head.