Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Played Post Office

Qwilleran watched the struggle for a while before pulling the bed away from the wall. Like a hawk Koko dived into the aperture, and soon there were sounds of moist chomping. "Revolting!" Qwilleran said. "You eat those filthy flies, but you won't eat catfood with added vitamins and minerals. Let's get out of here. We're going home." Koko remained behind the bed. "Chfff! Chfff!" It was that delicate cat-sneeze.

"It's dusty back there! Get out! Let's go!" The cat failed to respond, and Qwilleran felt the old tingling sensation on his upper lip. Once before, Koko had dredged up some telling mementoes from behind a bed. Kneeling on the mattress the man peered down into the shadows. Koko was hunched over something, sniffing it, nuzzling it, poking it with one inquisitive paw.

Qwilleran reached down and retrieved a notebook — a school notebook with tom and ruffled pages. Koko immediately jumped out of his hiding place, yowling and demanding his treasure. Some of the pages had obviously been nibbled by mice.

With the notebook in one hand and the indignant cat in the other, Qwilleran returned to the house and headed for the library. Koko was howling in high dudgeon, and Yum Yum came running from the solarium, shrieking in sympathy. They were followed by Mrs. Cobb. "What's the matter? What's going on here?" "Give them a treat, will you? Get them out of my hair!" "Treat!" she cried, and led the way to the kitchen like the Pied Piper.

Qwilleran closed the library door and settled down to inspect Koko's find. It was the cheapest kind of notebook, with ruled pages, some of them nibbled and all of them stained. It had a definite mousy odor.

"A diary!" he said aloud, as he thumbed through the soiled pages with distaste. He could distinguish dates, but the handwriting was completely illegible. Once upon a time he had known an artist who could make every letter of the alphabet look like a U; Daisy made every letter look like O. The cursive writing was a coil of overlapping circles. The art teacher's comment had been apt; Daisy's calligraphic invention was attractive to the eye but impossible to read.

After his bike ride, he decided, he would phone Mildred Hanstable and ask her to look at (he diary-and translate it if possible. Meanwhile he added it to the growing collection in the desk drawer: the ivory elephant, a gold bracelet, a postal card, and an envelope with a thousand in cash.

Every one of these memorabilia had been found by that phenomenal cat, he recalled. Yet Koko always made his discoveries seem so casual. This time he went through the motions of chasing a fly, pursuing it up the wall, batting it down as it tried to camouflage itself among the initials… What were the initials?

Qwilleran made a dash to the garage and back. Grabbing the little telephone directory, he combed two columns of listings. Only three subscribers had the right initials: Sam Gafner, Scott Gippel, and Senior Goodwinter.

If SG had been the object of Daisy's affection, it would have to be Gafner, he concluded. Scott Gippel was the enormous councilman who required two chairs. Junior's father — with his paper hat and bemused expression — would hardly appeal to a giddy young girl. Gafner, the real estate broker was the most likely candidate. After his bike ride, he decided, he would do some serious research.

It was a beautiful day for biking. Warmed by the sun and caressed by light breezes, Qwilleran headed for his favorite country road. The vegetation, freshly washed, was a vibrant green. Flocks of blackbirds rose from the brush and followed the lone rider, scolding with staccato chirps. Clicks in the sprocket and rear wheel added to the chorus. He remembered Mrs. Cobb's parting words: "Be careful with that broken-down contraption, Mr. Q. You really ought to buy a ten-speed." Everything on Ittibittiwassee Road smelled damp and clean. The sun and breezes had dried the pavement, but the roadside ditch was filled with rainwater. It was a good thirty feet from the pavement to allow for future widening of the road. This would be a major highway when the condominium development was completed. Too bad! He liked the quiet and the loneliness of the road.

Coming up on the right was the site of the old Buckshot Mine, where miners had died in a cave-in in 1913. As he pedaled past the ruins he listened intently for the eerie whistling sound said to emanate from the mineshaft. The abandoned shaft house, a weathered silver, had been drenched with rain.

Qwilleran was studying the ruins with such concentration that he was unaware of a truck approaching from the opposite direction-unaware until its motor roared. He looked ahead in time to see its burst of speed, its sudden swerve into the eastbound lane, a murderous monster bearing down upon him and his rickety bicycle. He yanked the handlebars and plunged down toward the ditch, but his front wheel hit a rock, and he went sailing over the handlebars. For an interminable moment he was airborne…

When he climbed out of the ditch, dazed and wet and bleeding, he staggered painfully to the deserted highway, not knowing where he was or why he was there.

Roads go somewhere. Follow the road. Move. Keep moving.

In a few minutes or a few hours a car stopped. A man jumped out, shouting, and put him in the front seat. For a few minutes-or hours-he sat in a speeding car. The man kept shouting.

What is he saying? I don't know — I can't — He was wheeled into a building. Bright lights. Strange people, talking, talking — He was tired.

The next morning he opened his eyes and found himself in a strange bed in a strange room.

Before Qwilleran was released from Pickax Hospital, he had a consultation with Dr. Melinda.

"All your tests turned out fine," she said. "You're a very healthy guy — for your age." "And for a young chick you're a very smart doctor." "I'm so smart, lover, that I sneaked in a Wassermann test in case you want to apply for a marriage license. I'm also writing you a prescription for a crash helmet. With your head injury you could have drowned in that drainage ditch." "I'm sure the hit-runner thought he was leaving me for dead." "Some strange things are happening in Moose County," Melinda said. "Amanda may be right about the tourist invasion. You should report it to the police." "On the strength of what? My dream? Brodie would think I damaged something else besides my bicycle. No, Melinda, I'm merely going to keep a sharp lookout for a certain truck. In my dream I could see it clearly, coming at me fast, a rusty grille grinning at me, towering over me, It was one of those terrain vehicles." "Junior was one scared kid when he brought you in, He though you were a zombie." "It was a strange experience, Melinda. When I opened my eyes in a hospital bed and didn't know where I was or who I was, it didn't disturb me at all. It was simply a puzzle that aroused my curiosity. Glad you got Arch Riker up here to straighten me out." Riker picked Qwilleran up at the hospital in a rental car from the airport. "I have time for a cuppa, Qwill, before I catch my plane." "Then head north at the traffic light and we'll tune in the coffee hour at the Dismal Diner, If you think the Press Club is a gossip mill, wait till you hear the boys up here." "What did your tests show? Everything okay?" "Everything's fine, but I have some ugly suspicions about my bike mishap, It was no accident, Arch! It was a hit-run attempt on my life." "I warned you! Why do you get mixed up in criminal investigations that are none of your business? Leave it to the authorities." "This has nothing to do with the missing housemaid. It's something else entirely. I came to that conclusion when I was lying in that hospital bed. You know the conditions of the Klingenschoen bequest: I have to live in Pickax for five years or the estate goes to a syndicate in New Jersey. Well, what happens if I die before the five years are up?" "Without knowing anything about probate law," Riker said, "I'd guess that the dough goes to New Jersey." "So it's to their advantage if I fade out before the five years are up. In fact, the sooner the better." Riker gave his passenger an incredulous glance. "That's a jarring thought, Qwill, Why do you suspect them?" "It's a so-called foundation involved in some dubious venture in Atlantic City. I don't trust those people." The editor said, "When I first heard about the Old Lady's will, I knew it was too good to be true. Forget the inheritance, Qwill. You never wanted a fortune anyway. You know you can have your job back at the Fluxion." "Then the money will leave Moose County." "Don't try to be a hero. Get out of here and save your skin. Let those forty-seven affluent Goodwinters buy some new books for the library." Qwilleran fingered his moustache with uncertainty. "I'll figure out something. I've got an appointment with the attorney this afternoon. And maybe we'll hear some scuttlebutt at the diner." The coffee hour was effervescing in a haze of blue smoke. A few men in feed caps nodded to Qwilleran as he and Riker helped themselves to coffee and doughnuts. The two newsmen sat at a side table, listening.