Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

Qwilleran's arrival had activated a tinkling bell on the front door, and soon the proprietor materialized from the shadows. Eddington Smith was a small, thin man with gray hair and a gray complexion and nondescript gray clothing. He reminded Qwilleran of someone else he had known, except for his bland smile - a permanent smile expressing utter contentment.

"Greetings," the man said, softly and pleasantly. "Morning, Edd. Nice day, isn't it? How's Winston?" Qwilleran stroked the cat, and Winston accepted the attention with the dignity of a prime minister. "How old is this building, Edd? It's so hideous, it's fascinating."

"It's over a hundred years old-a blacksmith's shop originally. They say the mason who built it was strange in the head." He spoke gently and kindly.

"I believe it."

" `We shape our buildings, thereafter they shape us,' to quote Mr. Churchill. I guess it's true. My grandfather said the blacksmith was a regular caveman."

"Apparently the building hasn't had the same effect on you," Qwilleran said genially.

"That's right," Eddington said, still smiling. "I feel like something that lives under a stone. Dr. Halifax says I spend too much time in the shop. He says I should get out and join a club and have some fun. I'm not sure I'd like fun."

"Dr. Hal is a wise man. You should take his advice."

" 'Work is much more fun than fun!' That's what Noel Coward said... Is there something I can do for you today? Or do you want to browse?"

"I'm interested in finding a set of Brittanica published in 1910."

"The eleventh edition!" The bookseller nodded in approval. "I'll see what I can do. I'm still searching for your Shakespeare."

"Remember, I want the plays in separate volumes. They're easier to read."

Eddington's smile looked roguish. "A British scholar called Shakespeare the sexiest writer in the English language."

"That's why he's been popular for four hundred years." Qwilleran gave Winston two more strokes and started for the door.

Eddington followed him. "You belong to the Theatre Club, don't you?"

"Yes, I joined recently. I'm being initiated with a role in the next play."

"Harley Fitch invited me to join. Do you know Harley? He's a nice young man. Very friendly."

Qwilleran edged closer to the door. "I wouldn't be good at acting," said the bookseller, "but I could open and close the curtain, I suppose - something like that."

"Once you get up on that stage, Edd, you might discover hidden talents." Qwilleran now had his hand on the doorhandle.

"I don't think so. The others in the club are all smart and well-educated. Harley Fitch and his brother went to Yale. I've never been to college."

"You may not have a degree," Qwilleran assured him, "but you're a very well-read man."

Eddington lowered his head, smiling modestly, and Qwilleran took the opportunity to escape into the sunshine. He wondered about the enigmatic little man. How did he stay in business? How did he earn enough to buy sardines for Winston? There were never any customers in the store. He sold no greeting cards or paper napkins or scented candles as a sideline. Just old, faded, dusty, musty books.

Qwilleran also gave some thought to the celebrated Fitch family, a name that everyone mentioned with respect, if not adoration. The Fitches were "friendly... charming... clean-cut... a fine old family... real gentlemen... fun-loving... clever." The adulation could become cloying.

He stopped for a cup of coffee at the luncheonette and then went to the police station, where he found Brodie on the sergeant's desk. "The kids went cruising again last night," he said to the chief.

"Och! It's no laughing matter," Brodie said. "It'll cost the city a few hundred in water revenue, and a family on the west side saw their house bum down to the ground for lack of water pressure."

"How many hydrants did the vandals open?"

"Eight. They used pipe wrenches, so there's no damage to the hydrants themselves. I suppose we should be grateful to the delinquents for being so considerate."

"Where were the hydrants located?"

"East Township Line - industrial area - deserted at night. It happened about three or four in the morning, judging by the amount of water wasted. Senseless! Senseless!"

"When was it discovered?"

"About six o'clock this morning. The low pressure set off a sprinkler alarm at the plastics factory, and that alerted the fire department. Right after that the call came in from the west side."

"Whose house burned down?"

"Young couple with three kids and no insurance, There wasn't enough water in the tank to put the fire down, Mind you, two hundred and fifty thousand gallons lost! What gets me is this - we have plenty of floods and forest fires and tornadoes and hurricanes and droughts. We don't need man-made disasters as well."

"How come the prowl car didn't spot the gushing water during the night?"

Brodie leaned back in his chair wearily. "Listen. We have a force of six men, including me and the sergeant. There are seven days in the week and twenty-four hours in the day-and all this damned paperwork! That spreads us pretty thin. On Friday nights we have two cars out on the beat. That's payday, you know; the boozers whoop it up and sleep it off on Saturday. So we concentrate on the bars and party stores and school parking lot. There was a big dance at the school last night, and after that the kids went partying in the neighborhoods - making noise, raising hell, all the usual. We logged I don't know how many DPs. There were two brawls at taverns and three car accidents, and that's just within the city limits! Drivers and passengers all sloshed! Then there was a minor fire in a foster home for the elderly - some old geezer smoking in bed. No damage, but enough panic for a major earthquake! I tell you, Qwill, Friday night is hell-night in Pickax, especially in spring - just like it was a hundred years ago when the lumberjacks used to come into town and mix it up with the miners."

"I can see you had your hands full," Qwilleran said. "What were the state troopers doing all this time?"

"Oh, they assisted - when they weren't chasing drunk drivers all over the county. One high-speed chase ended up with the guy in the Ittibittiwassee River."

"It looks as if the vandalism is escalating, as you predicted."

"When they get tired of pulling up flowers, they look for bigger kicks. This is Saturday. They'll be out again tonight." Brodie looked at Qwilleran inquiringly. "There should be some way to outguess them."

"Forget about cat power, Brodie. It won't work."

Qwilleran saluted the chief and went on his way. He wanted to make one more stop before lunch. He wanted to meet the black sheep of the Lanspeak family.

The department store was the largest commercial building on Main Street-a Byzantine palace with banners flying from the battlements. That was the kind of dramatic touch that would appeal to Larry Lanspeak. He and his wife, Carol, were the lifeblood of the Theatre Club. Their energy and enthusiasm were legendary in Pickax; so was their store. In the 1880s it had served Moose County as a small general store, selling kerosene, gun powder, harnesses, crackers, cheese, and calico by the yard. Now the inventory included perfume and satin chemises, microwave ovens and television sets, fishing rods, and sweat shirts.

Sweat shirts! That was Qwilleran's cue. He headed for; the men's casual wear in the rear of the store. It meant zigzagging through the women's department with their seductive aromas and silky displays. Clerks who had sold him. sweaters, robes, and blouses in Polly Duncan's size brightened when they saw him.

"Morning, Mr. Q."

"Help you, Mr. Q? We just received some lovely silk scarfs. Real silk!"

In the sporting goods department a young man was leaning on a glass showcase, poring over a gun catalogue. His pigtail and Fu-Manchu moustache looked ludicrous for a conservative town like Pickax.