Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Wasn't There

Before he left the barn to deliver his copy, however, he made a routine check. He never left home without knowing their whereabouts. This time they were not sleeping on the chairs in the lounge area, not huddled on the fireplace cube or the refrigerator, not hiding under a rug or behind the books on the shelves. They were in one of those voids in another time warp into wh cats are able to vanish at will. It happened frequently, and the only way to rout them out was to shout the secret password: Treat!

Then they would materialize from nowhere to claim their handful of crunchy cereal or morsel of cheese. It was the only guaranteed method, and to ensure its efficacy he never used the T word unless he meant to deliver. So Qwilleran yelled "Treat!" and they suddenly appeared in the kitchen.

"I'm going out," he told them as he dispensed their snack.

"Don't answer the phone if it rings." Being on a short deadline, he used the quick route downtown, through the woods that gave the apple barn its countrified seclusion, and he was able to deliver his copy to Junior Goodwinter in time for Wednesday's edition.

"Is this your piece on castles?" the editor asked.

"I've been waiting to read it. Everyone likes castles." "While churning it out," Qwilleran said, "I figured out how to solve the Goodwinter Boulevard problem. Turn it into an avenue of castles and sell tickets to tourists. The owners can reserve seven or eight rooms for their families, while the public tramps through the other ten or fifteen at $5 a head. The revenue from admissions will take care of taxes and maintenance." "I wish you weren't only kidding," Junior said.

"Do you know anything about the new chef at the hotel?

Have you eaten there since they hired him?" "No, but I hear he's pretty good, although anyone would be an improvement." Using Junior's phone, Qwilleran called Polly at the library.

"Are you feeling adventurous? Would you like to have dinner at the hotel?

They have a new chef." "That's what I heard. Is he good? What is his background?" "He's from Fall River, Massachusetts." Facetiously he added, "They say he's a legend in Fall River." It had to be an early dinner, because Polly had scheduled one of her frequent committee meetings at the library, and the members were gathering at seven thirty He often wondered how a small library in a small town could keep so many committees busy with whatever it was they did.

Meanwhile he killed time by listening to a few more of his Scottish tapes. The Siamese listened, too. When their dinner hour was approaching, their empty stomachs stimulated their interest in everything that Qwilleran did. One tape launched him on a new train of thought and aroused certain suspicions. It was a conversation with Lyle Compton toward the end of the tour. Lyle was saying: "Too bad we didn't see any smugglers' caves. I used to read about Dick Turpin, the notorious smuggler and highwayman, but Irma never mentioned smuggling at all. I wonder why. At one time in history it was a national industry. The ragged coastline, you know, with all those hidden coves and sheltering islands, was ideal for bringing in contraband by ship." "What did they smuggle, Lyle?" "Luxury items like rum, wine, tea, tobacco, lace, diamonds, and so on.

From Scottish coastal villages they were transported to major cities in Britain by wagon and stagecoach--disguised as something else, of course. It drove the government crazy, but it must have been an exciting operation. They had a network of tunnels and hiding places, including caves along the shore. A whole string of inns was involved.

" "With a great natural resource like the coast of Scotland, you can't tell me that they're not exploiting it today." "You're right, Qwill! Probably for drug smuggling." Click.

There was no vocal response from Koko during this tape, although his ears twitched whenever he heard Qwilleran's voice. Then it was five thirty and time to pick up Polly at the library. Qwilleran was wearing his new suede sports coat ordered from Scottie's Men's Store before the tour. He had never spent that much money on any item of clothing, but Scottie had assumed his Scots brogue and talked him into x. It was camel beige, and he wore it with brown trousers.

Polly said he looked wonderful. She was wearing a black and yellow kilt purchased in Inverness.

"It's a MacLeod tartan, but it goes with my black blazer," she explained.

"So much for clan loyalty," he said.

The "New" Pickax Hotel had been built in 1935 after the Old Pickax Hotel burned down, and now the locals were saying that it was time for another fire. In 1935 the public rooms had been furnished in Early Modern--not comfortable, not attractive, but sturdy. Recently a runaway snowplow had barged into the front of the building, demolishing the lobby but not the sturdy oak furniture. Qwilleran and his guest were the first to arrive in the dining room, and the hostess seated them at a window table overlooking Main Street. He remarked, "I hear you have a new chef." "He's completely redone the menu," she said.

"It's very exciting! Would you like something from the bar?" After ordering dry sherry for Polly and Squunk water with a twist for himself, Qwilleran scanned the menu card. Only a diner familiar with the hotel for the last forty years would consider the selection exciting: French onion soup instead of bean, grilled salmon steak instead of fish and chips, chicken cordon bleu instead of chicken and dumplings, and roast prime rib instead of swiss steak.

When the waiter brought the drinks, Qwilleran asked, "Is the chicken cordon bleu prepared in the kitchen, or is it one of those frozen, prefabricated artifacts shipped in from Ontario?" "No, sir. The chef makes it himself," the waiter assured him.

Qwilleran decided to try it, but Polly thought the ham and cheese stuffing would violate her diet; she ordered the salmon. The previous cooks had merely dished up the food; the new chef arranged the plates: parsley, boiled potatoes, broccoli, and a cherry tomato with the salmon; broccoli, a cherry tomato, and steamed zucchini straws with the chicken cordon bleu.

"I see they've gone all-out," Qwilleran commented. Surveying the neat bundle on his plate, he plunged his knife and fork into the chicken, and a geyser of melted butter squirted fifteen inches into the air, landing on his lapel and narrowly missing his left eye.

"This isn't what I ordered!" he said indignantly as he brushed the greasy streak with his napkin.

"Waiter! Waiter!" "It's chicken Kiev!" Polly cried. Qwilleran said to the young man, "Is this supposed to be chicken cordon bleu?" "Yes, sir." "Well, it's not!

It's something else. Take it back to the kitchen and tell Karl Oskar I want chicken cordon bleu." "Your coat is ruined!" Polly said in dismay.

"Do you think the cleaner can get it out?" The waiter soon returned with the plate.

"The chef says this is chicken cordon bleu, like it says on the menu." Blowing furiously into his moustache, Qwilleran said, "It may be so described in Fall River, but it's chicken Kiev in the rest of the civilized world! ... Come on, Polly.

We're going to the Old Stone Mill." To the bewildered hostess he said, "I'm sending you the bill for a new suede coat, and if I hadn't ducked, you'd be paying for an eye, too." Over dry sherry and Squunk water at their favorite restaurant, the pair tried to relax, but Qwilleran was in a bad humor, and he plunged recklessly into a subject that had been on his mind for a couple of days, his suspicions augmented by the tape he had heard before coming to dinner.

"You know, Polly," he blurted out, "I'm beginning to wonder if Irma's death could have been murder." Polly recoiled in horror.

"Qwill! What makes you say that? Who would do such a thing? And why?" "How well did you really know Irma?" She hesitated.