Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

First, the local moonshiner produces the whiskey, running it in filthy stills hidden in mountain caves and using additives to fake quality, as well as dangerous short-cuts to make a cheaper product!! Then the hauler has a contract to transport it out of the mountains disguised as honest cargo—in a furniture van or under a load of logs!!! Finally the big-city boot-legger waters it down and sells it to the dregs of society! Everyone makes a profit except the consumer, who dies of lead poisoning!!

Now brace yourself for the most shocking fact!!! The distilling and hauling operations are financed by local investors who innocently or not so innocently buy shares in the illegal and aptly named Hot Potato Fund, which is purported to promote the local economy! Civic leaders, church deacons, and elderly widows are sinking their savings in this profitable, damnable underground venture!! They never question that their quarterly dividends are unreported and said to be non-taxable! Or do they?

Who is guilty? Look around you!! Your next-door neighbor is guilty! Your boss is guilty!! Your golf partner is guilty!!! Your good old uncle is guilty!!!!"

When Qwilleran finished reading, he looked up at his listener and waited for a reaction. Carmichael was thinking, with lowered eyes and twirling thumbs.

"How about that?" Qwilleran demanded. "Have you heard of the Hot Potato Fund? Is this why Taters discourage outsiders from prowling around their mountain? Is this why Lumpton Transport is doing so well?"

"What are you going to do with that information?" the editor wanted to know.

"If I'm on the right track, it'll be used as evidence in court. There'll be a new trial."

"Give me that pad," Colin said, "and forget you ever saw it."

"Why?" Qwilleran asked mockingly. "Is the Gazette involved in this, too?"

"All right, I'll tell you something I'm not supposed to, but for God's sake, keep it under your hat. Okay?"

Qwilleran held up his right hand. "I swear," he said lightly.

"We received an anonymous tip about a week ago. I don't know why informers like to tip off the media, but they do. I spoke to Del Wilbank about it and learned that the feds have been investigating the Potatoes for months. They have undercover agents in the valley and the mountains. We can expect a major bust any day now. And believe me, it'll be a big story when it breaks, hitting all the wire services. So ... until then, you don't know anything."

Qwilleran pushed the pad across the desk. "You can have it, but keep it in your safe. How do you suppose Hawkinfield knew about the operation?"

"From what I hear, he had everything but wire taps."

"I still want to find his killer, but I need evidence before I take the matter to the police . . . How would you like to break for lunch, Colin?"

"Not today. How about Monday?" the editor suggested.

Qwilleran went alone to The Great Big Baked Potato, after he had stopped at Five Points for some delicacies for the Siamese, including the white grape juice that was champagne to Koko. Just in case Sherry Hawkinfield's plane landed, he put in a supply of cashew nuts, crackers, and a chopped liver canape spread.

His enforced confinement had whetted his appetite for steak, and he ordered a twelve-ounce cut, medium rare. "But no potato," he specified to the waitress.

"No potato? Is that what you said?" she repeated in a whining voice.

"That's right. No potato."

"But that's our specialty."

"Be that as it may, hold the potato!"

She returned with the manager. "Sir, is this your first rime here?" he asked. "We're famous for our baked potatoes."

"Where are they grown?" Qwilleran inquired, expecting to hear Idaho or Maine or Michigan.

"Right here in the foothills, sir, where the soil is ideal for growing potatoes with flavor."

Now Qwilleran knew why these were the Potato Mountains! As he pondered a decision, a young woman at the next table leaned over and said in a pleasant voice, "Take the potato. It's better than the steak." He noticed that she was eating only a potato with a variety of toppings. He noticed also that she had hair like black satin. He took her advice. She had left the restaurant when his meal was served; otherwise he would have thanked her. The steak tasted of tenderizer, but the potato was the best he had ever eaten.

By the time Qwilleran drove home, the fog had burned off in the valley, but halfway up Hawk's Nest Drive it closed in like a white blanket, and he reduced his speed. Although it was difficult to see anything but a small patch of pavement, he was aware of rivulets of water running diagonally across the road. Farther along, the asphalt was covered with mud, and he slowed even more, hugging the cliff on the right and watching for downbound foglights. He had just passed the spot where the Lessmore house should be, when something loomed up in front of him. He eased on the brakes, leaned on the horn, and veered across the yellow line, stopping his car just before crashing into the obstruction. It was another vehicle, skidded diagonally across the road and smashed against the roadside cliff. Backing into his own lane, he turned on the flashers and hurried to the wreck. The cause of the accident was obvious: a mudslide . . . fallen rocks ... a tree across the road.

As he approached the driver's side of the wrecked car, a woman behind the wheel signaled frantically and shouted, "I can't open the door! I can't open the door!" It was the woman with black satin hair.

CHAPTER 16

The woman trapped in the wrecked car on the mountainside was in a panic. "I can't get out!" she screamed.

"Are you hurt?" Qwilleran shouted through the glass as he tried the door handle. It was jammed.

"No, but I can't get out!"

"Turn off the ignition!"

"I did! What shall I do?"

"Can you roll down the window?"

"Nothing works!"

It was a two-door model, and Qwilleran tried the opposite door, but the fenders were folded in, and the car was wedged between the wall of rock and the large tree that had tumbled down from the top of the cliff.

"I'll go for help!" he shouted at the driver.

"It might explode!" she cried hysterically.

"No chance! Stay cool! I'll be right back!"

Starting uphill at a jogtrot, he was amazed that his ankle would support the effort. Running downhill to the Lessmore house might have been easier, but he was sure the couple were both at work downtown. He knew how the road curved near the Wilbank residence, and he was sure Ardis would be at home on a day like this. If not, he was prepared to run all the way to Tiptop. Now he wished he had invested in a CB radio or cellular phone.

At the Wilbank driveway he shouted "Hallo! Hallo!" while jogging toward the house. By the time the front door materialized through the mist, Ardis was standing on the deck.

"Trouble?" she called out.

"Accident down the hill! Call the police and a wrecker! A woman's trapped in the car but not hurt!"

"Del's home," she said . . . "Del, there's an accident!"

Qwilleran started back downhill and was picked up by the off-duty sheriff on the way to the scene. Together they set out flares. Already the sirens could be heard in the valley, amplified by the stillness of the atmosphere.