Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Knew A Cardinal

Putting the salescheck in his pocket, Qwilleran went out to meet Eddington Smith.

"I found something for you," said the elderly bookseller.

"Why didn't you phone me? I could have picked it up."

"Dr. Hal told me to start taking walks. It wasn't far. Only a few blocks." He was breathing hard. "It's a nice day. I think this will be the last warm weekend we have."

Qwilleran reached for the book. Like most of the stock in Eddington's shop it had lost its dust jacket, and the cover suggested years of storage in a damp basement. Then he looked at the spine. "City of Brotherly Crime! It's my book!" he yelped. "You found it! This is worth a lot to me, Edd."

"You don't owe me anything, Mr. Q. I want you to have it. You're a good customer."

Qwilleran clapped the frail man on the back. "Come in and have a drink of cider. Let me show you around the barn. Say hello to the cats."

"I was here the night Mr. VanBrook was shot, but I didn't see much of the barn. Too many people."

Qwilleran served cider with a magnanimous flourish and explained the design of the building: the fireplace cube, the triangular windows, the ramps and catwalks, and the use of tapestries.

"That's quite an apple tree," said Eddington, looking up at the textile hanging overhead. He was chiefly impressed, however, by the presence of books on every level. Even in the 10ft apartment the cats had their own library: Beginning Algebra, Learning to Drive, Xenophon's Anabasis, and other titles from the ten-cent table at his shop.

After climbing the ramps - slowly, for the old man's sake - they reached the topmost catwalk and could look down on the dramatic view of the main floor.

"I've never been this high up, where I could look down," the bookseller said in wonder.

Yum Yum, who had followed them on the tour, jumped to the catwalk railing, now conveniently cushioned by the top edge of the tapestry, and arranged herself in fiddle position: haunches up, body elongated, and forelegs stretched forward like the neck of a violin.

"Siamese like a high altitude," Qwilleran explained. "It's their ancient heritage. They used to be watch-cats on the walls of temples and palaces."

"That's interesting," said Eddington. "I never knew that before."

"Yes, so they say, at any rate. But Yum Yum's developed a bad habit of pulling everything apart with her paw... NO!" he scolded, tapping the corner of the tapestry back on the tack-strip.

She gazed into space, afflicted by sudden deafness, a common disorder in felines.

"Someone's coming," said the bookseller. "I'd better get back to the store." A van winding up the Trevelyan Trail was visible through the high triangular windows.

"That's my five o'clock appointment," Qwilleran mumbled. He combed his moustache with his fingertips. "I'd appreciate it, Edd, if you'd stay a little longer."

"It's getting late."

"I'll drive you home."

"I shouldn't put you to the trouble, Mr. Q."

"No trouble."

"Won't I be in the way?"

"You'll be doing me a favor, Edd. Just stay up here and listen." Qwilleran started down the ramp. "And keep out of sight," he called over his shoulder.

The bookseller opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. What could he say? It was a strange request from a good customer.

In the barnyard Qwilleran greeted Redbeard as he jumped out of his van. "Nice day," he said.

"Yeah, this is the last warm weekend coming up. It's gonna rain, though, sometime. I can always tell by the way the horses act."

"I envy someone like you who's an expert on horseflesh," Qwilleran said, indulging in gross flattery. He himself was an expert in uttering complimentary untruths.

"Spent my whole life with the buggers," said Steve. "Ought to know something by this time."

"Come on in and have a drink... How long does it take you to drive up here?" Qwilleran asked as they entered the barn.

"Fifty minutes. Sometimes less. I like to drive fast."

"One thing you don't have to worry about is red lights."

"Yeah. Only problem is the old geezers driving trucks and tractors down the middle of the road like they owned it." Steve was eyeing the pale tweed sofas with uncertainty.

"Let's sit over there," Qwilleran suggested, motioning toward the library area. "It's closer to the bar."

"Man, I'm all for that! It's been a hard day. I could use a drink." He dropped his jacket on the floor and sank into a big leather chair with a sigh that was almost a groan. "Shot and a beer, if you've got it."

Koko had taken up a position on the fireplace cube where he could keep the visitor under surveillance, his haunches coiled, his tail lying flat in a horseshoe curve.

Without ceremony Qwilleran put a shot glass and a can of beer on a table at Steve's elbow. His own drink of Squunk water was in a martini glass, straight up, with a twist. "I hear you had an accident at the farm today," he said casually.

The trainer tossed off the whiskey. "Where'd you hear that?"

"On the radio." Not true, of course.

"Yeah. Too bad. He was a good horse - great promise - but we hadda put him down."

"What about the rider? Did he get up and walk away?"

"Damn that Robbie! It was his own fault - pushing too hard, taking chances! You know how kids are today - no discipline! Serves him right if he has to quit riding. There'll be other riders and other horses, I always say. You can't let yourself get upset about things like that."

"You're remarkably philosophical."

"You hafta be in this business. But we got some good news. Wanna hear some good news?"

"By all means."

"Mrs. Amberton is staying on at the farm after it's sold. She's a helluva good instructor, and it'd be a crime to lose her. Plus, she has an idea for a tack shop - setting it up right on the farmgrounds. Only top-grade gear - everything from boots and saddles to hats and stock-ties. It'll be a big investment, but it'll payoff. The kids around here have a lotta dough to spend, and Lisa - Mrs. Amberton, that is - insists they've gotta have the best turnout if they ride under her colors. A good tack shop will be a money-maker!"

"Who are these kids you talk about?"

"Local kids, crazy about riding - some talented, some not - but they're all hell-bent on winning ribbons and working their way up to Madison Square Garden! Lisa - Mrs. Amberton - has as many as fifty in some of her classes. If you like young chicks, we've got 'em in all shapes and sizes."

"How often do they compete?"

"Coupla times a month. Lessons three times a week. Costs them plenty, but they've got it to spend. There's all kinds of money in Lockmaster."

Qwilleran stood up and headed for the bar. "Do it again?"

"Sounds good," said Steve.

"Same way?"

The trainer made an okay sign with his fingers. Koko was still staring at the visitor. Qwilleran kept the man talking and drinking, and eventually he began to fidget in his chair. "Well, whaddaya think about the farm? How does it sound, price and all?"

"Sounds tempting," Qwilleran said, "but first I wanted to ask you a question."

"Shoot."

"Why did you land in Lockmaster?"

"Tried everywhere else. Nice country up here. Good working conditions. Healthy climate. Everybody'll tell ya that."

"Is it true you got into trouble Down Below?" Qwilleran asked the question in an easy conversational tone.

"Whaddaya mean?"

"I heard some scuttlebutt about... illegal drugs at the racetrack."

Steve shrugged. "Everybody was doin' it. I just got caught."

"I have a bone to pick with you," Qwilleran said in a casual way.

"Yeah? What is it?"

"When you were here yesterday, you shot a bird on the way out."

"So? Something wrong with that?"

"We don't shoot birds around here."

"Hell! You got millions more. One'll never be missed. I can't say no to a redbird."