Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

Shortly after six-thirty the restaurant emptied, and the diners converged on the Old Stone Church. The lofty sanctuary was filled to overflowing, both the cushioned pews and the folding chairs in the side aisles. The first three pews were roped off, and the audience was mystified. Guesses and rumors circulated. The anticipation was palpable.

"Do you object to sitting in the back row on the side aisle?" Qwilleran asked Polly. "I want to leave right before the last note, so I can check the museum before the guests arrive."

At seven o'clock Mr. O'Dell slipped into a folding chair nearby, and the two men exchanged nods.

Then the performers appeared — first the orchestra in gray livery. The chorus filed in wearing powdered wigs and pastel costumes — the women in lace fichus and voluminous skirts; the men in knee breeches, waistcoats, and stocks. Finally the soloists made a dramatic entrance in jewel-toned velvets, creating a stir in the audience.

The conductor turned to face the expectant listeners. "Ladies and gentlemen, all rise for His Majesty, King George."

The doors at the rear were flung open, and while the orchestra played coronation music, the royal party moved down the center aisle in dignified procession — a panoply of red velvet, ermine, white satin, and purple damask. The audience gasped, then murmured in wonder, then applauded with delight.

Qwilleran whispered to Polly, "I wish my mother could have seen this. She would have flipped."

The church was noted for its excellent acoustics; the chorus was well rehearsed; the soloists and instrumentalists were professionals; the pipe organ was magnificent. It was a performance Qwilleran would never forget — for more reasons than one.

Toward the end of the oratorio Mr. O'Dell slipped out, giving an explanatory nod to Qwilleran. The orchestra played the opening bars leading up to the first explosive and spine-tingling hallelujah. The king and his royal party rose; the audience rose; and Qwilleran lost himself in the majesty of the music and his own personal nostalgia.

The hallelujahs built up with mounting intensity and joyous celebration, ascending to that dramatic moment — that breathtaking pause — the two seconds of hollow silence!

In that fraction of a fraction of time Qwilleran heard a false note — the wail of a siren. Bruce Scott, seated several rows ahead, slid out of the pew and scuttled up the aisle. Two other men made quick exits. Qwilleran scowled. It was unfortunate timing for the fire siren.

The "Hallelujah" chorus ended, and an aria began. Then a door behind Qwilleran opened, and an usher tapped his arm and whispered.

Qwilleran was out of his seat instantly, running across the narthex and down the steps. On the other side of the park the museum was aglow — not with light but with a red glare.

"Oh, my God! The cats!" he yelled.

He dashed across the street, dodging traffic. He cut through the park, plowing frantically through deep snow.

Flashing red and blue lights surrounded the building. More sirens were sounding.

"The cats!" he shouted.

Black-coated figures were unreeling lines and hoisting ladders. “Stay back!" they ordered.

Qwilleran dashed past them. "The cats!" he bellowed. , The red glare spread to the second-story windows. Glass exploded and tongues of flame licked out.

"Stop him!"

He was headed for the back door, nearest the kitchen.

"Keep him out!"

Strong arms restrained him. He looked up and saw the glare spreading to the third floor. Ladders went up. Windows shattered, and black smoke billowed out.

Qwilleran groaned in defeat.

Monday, November twenty-fifth. Qwilleran turned on the radio in the bedroom of his garage apartment. "Headline news at this hour: The Klingenschoen Museum on Park Circle was totally destroyed by fire Sunday night, the result of arson, according to fire chief Bruce Scott. A charred body found in the building, allegedly that of the arsonist, has not yet been indentified. Thirty fire fighters, four tankers, and three pumpers responded, with surrounding communities assisting the Pickax volunteers. No firemen were injured... We can expect warmer temperatures today and bright sunny skies — “

"Sunny!" Qwilleran muttered, snapping off the radio. He stared with mournful eyes at the gray scene outdoors: the cold, heavy, leaden sky... the ground black with frozen mud and soot ... the smoke-damaged skeleton of a three- story fieldstone building that had once been a showplace. The windows, doors, and roof were gone, and the blackened stone walls enclosed a mountain of charred rubble. The acrid smell of smoke that hung over the ruin also seeped into his apartment.

Polly walked to his side and held his hand in silent sympathy.

"Thank you for helping me get through this ghastly night," he said. "Are you warm enough?" She was wearing a pair of his pajamas. "We didn't get heat until an hour ago. The power came on about five o'clock, but the phone is still dead. The last fire truck didn't leave until daylight."

Gazing at the depressing sight, Polly said, "I can't understand it."

"It's beyond comprehension. Would you like coffee? There's nothing here for breakfast except frozen rolls, What time are you due at the library?"

"YO-W-W-W!" came a loud and demanding howl from the adjoining room.

"Koko heard a reference to breakfast," Qwilleran said as he went to open the door of the cats' parlor.

They walked out with expectant noses and optimistic tails.

"Sorry," he said. "The only aroma this morning is stale smoke. There's no food until I go to the store. Just be glad you're alive."

"Here comes Mr. O'Dell," Polly said.

"Better go and get dressed."

She grabbed her clothes and disappeared into the bathroom as the houseman plodded up the stairs.

Qwilleran greeted him in a minor key. "It's a sad day, Mr. O'Dell, but we're thankful you saved the cats."

"That boy-o there, it was himself that did it, carryin' on like a banshee an' scratchin' the broom closet door that I waxed only a week since. I opened the door, and it was the picnic basket he was wantin' to get into. Scoldin' the little one, he was, till she jumped in after himself. You were wantin' me to leave them in the house, but it was a divil of a row he was makin', so I carried them over here before goin' to listen to the music a little. A wonder, it is!"

"Koko knew something was going to happen," Qwilleran explained. "He sensed danger. Have you heard anything about the arsonist? On the radio they said he's still unidentified."

"That I did," said O'Dell. "My old friend Brodie stopped to see this mornin'. It's himself been tryin' to get you on the phone."

"The line has been out of order all night. What did Brodie have to say?"

The houseman shook his head dolefully. "Sure an' I feel sorry for the poor woman — herself in the hospital and her new husband burned to death and a criminal."

Qwilleran was silent. It was the kind of thing that man would do — burn down the museum to stop his wife from working. He was a madman! He was crazy to think he could get away with it.

"I was there when they were after puttin' him in a canvas bag," the houseman said. "It's black, he was, like a burned hot dog, split open and pink inside."

"Spare us the details, Mr. O'Dell. Now it's Mrs. Cobb we have to worry about. We all know how much the museum meant to her."

"Is there any thin' I can do, now, for the poor soul?"

"You can take this money, buy some flowers, and deliver; them to the hospital. Not pink roses! Wait a minute: I'll write a note to enclose."

The houseman left, and Polly emerged from the bathroom wearing the winter-white dress she had worn to the concert. "This is not what I usually wear for a hard day's work in the stacks," she said. "How can I explain that I lost my luggage in the museum fire?"