Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Moved A Montain

Sherry said, "Hugh makes a lot of headlines himself. He's going to Michigan next week to play in an invitational."

"Bob Lessmore and I are competing," the golfer said.

"Ironically, the course here is under water, while Michigan is in the throes of a drought."

It was not much after four o'clock, and Qwilleran had a bombshell of a topic that he wanted to drop a little later. Meanwhile, it was important to keep the conversation polite, and he steered it through the details of Sherry's accident . . . Lucy's rescue mission in the woods . . . the preponderance of Lumptons in the Potatoes.

Qwilleran was sitting in Yum Yum's favorite lounge chair facing his guests, who were on the sofa in front of a folding screen. After a while he became aware of movement above their heads, and glancing upward he perceived Koko balancing on the top edge of the screen, having risen to its eight-foot summit without effort and without sound. Qwilleran avoided staring at him, but in the periphery of his vision there was an acrobatic cat teetering precariously with all four feet bunched on a very narrow surface. He was looking down on the visitors with feline speculation like a tiger in a tree, waiting for a gazelle.

Don't do it! Qwilleran was thinking, hoping Koko would read his mind. Koko could read minds, but only when it suited him.

Somewhat worried about the impending catastrophe, Qwilleran asked questions about white-water rafting, the new electronics firm, and the history of Spudsboro. Soon another air-borne bundle of fur appeared on top of the screen; Yum Yum had chosen this vantage point to observe the chopped liver on the cocktail table. Nervously the host talked about book publishing, the weather in Moose County, and the peculiar spelling of his name.

Eventually it was time to serve a second round of drinks, and he rose slowly from his chair and moved quietly from the room, hoping not to provoke the Siamese into any precipitous action.

Despite the menacing sound of the wind, his guests seemed to be enjoying the occasion. Conversation flowed easily, with a modicum of pleasant wit.

Qwilleran decided it was the auspicious time to launch his wild shot. It was his only recourse, considering his lack of credentials as an investigator.

"If either of you can suggest sources of information on J.J.," he began, "I'll appreciate your help. For dramatic effect I propose to start the book with his murder. Sherry, I hope this subject is not too painful for you . . , Then I'll flash back to his career and family life throughout the years, ending with the trial. And that brings up a sensitive question. In doing my research, I find reason to believe that the wrong man may have been convicted. It seems some new evidence has been brought to light."

"I was the defense attorney," Lumpton said briskly, "and this is the first intimation I've had of any new evidence—or even a rumor of such. What is your source of information?"

"That's something I don't wish to divulge at this time, but I suspect that the murderer was not a hot-headed environmentalist! Why does this interest me? First of all, I don't like to see an innocent man sent to prison. Secondly, to be perfectly frank, the expose of a crooked trial would make a damned good finale for my book. How do you react?"

Sherry was looking scared. Lumpton was moistening his lips. Both of them had set down their glasses on the cocktail table.

Lumpton said, "This is preposterous! I defended Bee-chum at the court's request, but there was no doubt from the very beginning that he was guilty."

Qwilleran said, "I'm reluctant to doubt your statement, but I'm led to suspect that more than one person was involved in the murder, and one or more persons may have committed the big P."

"What?" Sherry asked in a small voice.

"Perjury!"

What happened next may have been caused by the sudden gust of wind that slammed against the building. Whatever the cause, the cats' timing was perfect. Both of them flew down from the screen, narrowly missing the two heads on the sofa, and landed on the cocktail table, scattering drinks, nuts, coasters, and chopped liver.

"I knew it!" Sherry shrieked. "They're dangerous! Where are they? Where did they go?"

Qwilleran rushed to the kitchen for towels, while the guests dropped to their knees, sopping up wet spills with cocktail napkins, collecting cashews and ice cubes, and avoiding broken glass.

"I apologize," Qwilleran said. "They've never done that before. I think they were spooked by the wind. I hope you didn't cut yourselves. Let me get some fresh glasses, and we'll have another round."

"Not for me," said Sherry, noticeably shaken.

"No, thanks," said the attorney, "but I'd like to ask what you intend to do with your information."

"Naturally, I'd prefer to hold it for the publication of my book, but I feel morally obliged to report my findings to the police at once, namely, that J.J. wrote a blistering expose of certain criminal activities in this area. Someone knew the editorial was about to be published. Someone found it necessary to stop its publication by eliminating the editor. Someone came to the house at a prearranged time and threw him over the cliff. Someone forged death threats purportedly from Beechum, which conveniently disappeared before they could be introduced by the prosecution, but someone testified to having seen them."

He stopped, and there was silence in the room as his listeners considered his threatening statements. Outdoors the wind was banging a loose shutter or downspout.

"My only contribution to the inevitable investigation," he went on, "is some material evidence found in the foyer here, where the assault is said to have occurred. It's been hidden under a piece of furniture for a year. Would anyone like to see it?"

As he strode to the Fitzwallow huntboard, Lumpton sprang to his feet and followed. With the only light com- ing from the eight candles in the iron candelabrum, he half-stumbled over two cats streaking toward the staircase.

Qwilleran opened the drawer slowly and produced a handful of ash-blond hair mixed with lint and dust. "This is it," he said calmly, keeping his eyes on the attorney.

It took Lumpton a split second to recognize it and reach for the Queen Anne chair. As he swung it over his head, ready to crash down on his accuser's head, a burst of loud music from the second floor broke the rhythm of his swing just enough to give Qwilleran the edge. Qwilleran seized the iron candelabrum and rammed it into his attacker's midriff like a flaming pitchfork. The chair fell and Lump-ton bellowed and sank to his knees. Sherry screamed! Dropping the candelabrum, Qwilleran picked up the heavy burl bowl and overturned it on the attorney's head, rendering him a limp lump on the floor.

Candle flames were licking the carpet, and Sherry screamed again. "Fire!"

"Shut up and sit down!" Qwilleran ordered as he stamped his feet on the smouldering carpet. "Pick up that chair and sit in it!"

"Can I—"

"No! Sit there. Put your feet together. Fold your hands. You won't have long to wait."

In minutes a car could be heard pulling into the parking lot, and soon the Wilbanks were climbing the steps, struggling against gale-force winds.