Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

"Do we identify the benefactor?"

"No. Keep it anonymous. How soon can you run it?"

"Friday."

"Good. I won't be here. I'm going to Lockmaster for a steeplechase weekend."

"You lucky dog! I hear it's a gas!"

It was too early for Qwilleran to go home; Mrs. Fulgrove would still be there, furiously mopping and cleaning and polishing. He went instead to the library - to tell Polly about his plans for the weekend. He had neither seen her nor talked with her for two days, not since the unexplained phone call that made her cheeks redden and her eyes sparkle.

In the vestibule of the library the daily quotation was: The evil that men do Lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones. The greetings from the clerks were appropriately solemn. As he headed for the stairs to the mezzanine, one of them called out, "She's not in, Mr. Q."

"She's having her hair done," the other explained.

"I'm just going up to read the papers," he said.

On the table in the reading room was a copy of the Lockmaster Logger, a publication established during lumbering days, more than a century before. Circulation: 11,500. Editor: Kipling MacDiarmid.

The first page of the Logger was devoted to steeplechase news: Five races with a combined purse of $75,000, preceded by the Trial of Hounds, the parade of carriages, and a concert by the Lockmaster High School band. A few parking spaces overlooking the course were still available for $100, but that would admit as many persons as could fit into the vehicle. There were sidebars listing the horses, owners, trainers, and riders who would participate in the event, and there were instructive features on what to wear to the races and what to pack in the picnic basket.

When Qwilleran heard Polly's sensible library shoes on the stairs, he put down his newspaper, and their eyes met. She was looking well-groomed but not as girlishly radiant as she had been on the day following the long brunch at the Palomino Paddock.

She walked immediately to his table. "Qwill, I'm so sorry about Dennis," she said softly. "You must be grieving."

"A lot of people are grieving, Polly."

"I suppose we can assume that Dennis... that the VanBrook case is closed now," she said, sitting down at the table.

"I don't assume anything, but I know that Moose County has lost a good builder and a talented actor."

"To some persons in Pickax the principal was such a villain that Dennis is now a candidate for a folk hero... Is that the Lockmaster Logger you're reading? What do you think of it?" Her face lighted up when she spoke the name of the town.

"It's more conservative than the Something in makeup, but it has a friendly slant. I hear Lockmaster is a friendly town. Did you find it friendly?" He gazed at her pointedly as he repeated the word.

Polly's eyes wavered for a fraction of a second. "I found everyone very cordial and hospitable." Then she added brightly, "Would you like to do something exciting this weekend? Would you like to go birdwatching in the wetlands near Purple Point?"

This was Qwilleran's moment. "I'd like to, but I'll be horse watching in Lockmaster. That's what I came to tell you. The Bushlands have invited me for the races. I'll be gone for three days."

"Oh, really?" she said with half- concealed disappointment. "You never told me you were interested in horses."

"Chiefly I'm interested in horse people. I may find some stuff for the 'Qwill Pen' column."

"Shall I feed Koko and Yum Yum while you're away?"

"Their royal highnesses are invited to go along - and have their portraits taken by a master photographer."

"How grand!" she said archly. "When do you leave?"

"Friday. After the funeral."

"Why don't you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I could prepare chicken divan."

"I wish I could, but Fran is hanging the new tapestries at five o'clock, and I don't know how long the operation will take or how many problems we'll encounter."

Polly straightened her shoulders and drew a deep breath as she always did when confronted by her personal demon: Jealousy. She stood up. "Then I'll see you when you return."

Qwilleran walked slowly back to the apple barn. The events of the morning had fired his determination to write a biography of the Mystery Man of Moose County. It would require prodigious research. First he would want to see Lyle Compton's file on the late principal. Teachers and parents in Pickax and Lockmaster would be glad to cooperate. VanBrook's attorney would no doubt grant an interview, and there would be Fiona Stucker, of course, whose connection with VanBrook might be a story in itself. The colleges that granted the man's degrees and the Equity records in New York would have to be researched. Qwilleran relished the challenge. He had a propensity for snooping and a talent for drawing information from shy, or reluctant subjects.

He recalled the letter from Fiona Stucker. If VanBrook would chisel a few hundred dollars from the Theatre Club, he might have a history of other misdeeds, great or small: a fling at embezzlement, a witty financial fraud, some successful tax evasion. He had the nerve and the brains to carry off such schemes. The smuggling of Oriental treasures would appeal to him, both intellectually and esthetically. What was in those hundreds of cartons on the second floor of his strangely furnished house?

As Qwilleran approached the barn he could hear the cats' yowling welcome, and that brought to mind another question: On the night of the party, when Koko stared so intently at VanBrook's head, was the cat sensing a questionable operator? A felonious mentality? Farfetched as the idea might seem, it was not beyond the capabilities of that remarkable animal.

On the other hand, Qwilleran had to admit, Koko might have been staring at hair that he recognized as false.

-7-

On Thursday morning Qwilleran emerged sleepily from his bedroom on the balcony and heard a familiar whistle: who-it? who-it? who-it? "Good question," he mumbled as he groped his way down the circular staircase to the computerized coffeemaker. "How about giving us a few answers?" He pressed a button and heard the grinding of the coffee beans, a reassuring sound. It was one of his constant fears that he might stumble down to the kitchen some bleak morning and find the machine out of order.

A feline imperative could be heard, drifting down from the upper reaches of the barn, and he went up the ramp to the top balcony to release the Siamese from their loft apartment. Yum Yum emerged sedately, like the princess that she knew herself to be, but Koko scampered down the ramp to the lower balcony, then flew through space, landing in the cushions of a lounge chair on the main floor. From there he rushed to the window-wall to greet his new-found friend. For a while he sat transfixed, fluttering the tip of his tail as the cardinal turned his head sideways to make eye contact. Shortly, the dump truck arrived to spread crushed stone on the trail, and the cardinal departed for more congenial surroundings.

Qwilleran thawed a Danish for his breakfast, fed the Siamese their roast beef from the deli with a garnish of Roquefort cheese, threw some clothing and towels into the washer, and finally showered and shaved in time to greet Susan Exbridge, who arrived in her long, sleek, top-of-the-line wagon.

"Oh, Qwill! I'm positively destroyed!" she said as she entered the barn and dropped into the nearest chair. "Dennis was such a darling! How could he throw it all away? What was his motive?"

Qwilleran said, "There's more to the story than meets the eye. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Could you add a touch of something comforting?"

"Like... rum?"

She nodded gratefully. "Okay, Susan, tell me how you're going to handle the crowds on Saturday."

After taking a few sips she opened her briefcase and ticked off the arrangements. "The tickets instruct people to use the Main Street parking lots belonging to the theatre, courthouse, and church. We've cleared it with all of them."