Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

It was too early to dress for dinner and too late to start another serious project, so he sat in a comfortable chair and leafed through the latest newsmagazine. In the large empty silence of the barn the only sound was the turning of pages, until:.. His ear was alert to cat noises, and he heard a special kind of mumbling. Yum Yum never mumbled. It was obviously Koko, talking to himself as he undertook a difficult task. Qwilleran was out of his chair in a flash.

The foyer was the scene of Koko’s investigation. He lay on his left side on the flagstone floor, and extended a long left foreleg under the rug; then he withdrew it and rolled over to stretch the other foreleg under the Oriental – which happened to be very thin, very old, and very valuable. Yum Yum watched with interest from a nearby table; Qwilleran watched with admiration Koko’s diligence and perseverance. The determined animal now tried a frontal attack, flattening himself on his belly and squirming under the carpet nose-first like a snake. His ears disappeared, then his forelegs, then half of his long torso. When he finally backed out, he had a treasure clamped in his mouth.

It was a foil gum-wrapper! Barry Morghan had dropped it into the Chinese water bucket two weeks before. It was Yum Yum’s hobby to scour wastebaskets for collectibles to store in secret places, and this was probably the first gum-wrapper she had ever seen. Why did she want it now? Did Koko know she wanted it? How did he know she wanted it? If he knew, would he be likely to do her a favor? Did cats do favors for other cats?

Questions about cat behavior have no answers, Qwilleran decided. He gave them an early dinner and had time for one more letter before leaving for the Riker party. Date: January 1:

Dear Fanny –

Happy New Year! And thank you so much for your generous check. I thought Dana would be pleased with the thoughtful Christmas gift, but for some strange reason he was angry. Then I said it was a loan, to be repaid after the baby comes, but he raved and ranted. He’d been drinking and was really out of control. He tore up the check and said he wasn’t going to accept charity from his wife’s girlfriend. Oh, dear! What to do? Sometimes I’m at my wit’s end! One minute he’s wonderful, and after a drink he’s not the same person. His masculine pride is hurt because he can’t support us. Yesterday he was yelling, “I’ll support my wife and child even if I have to work the garbage trucks or hold up gas stations!” That’s when he tore up your check. And today he was hung over and filled with remorse. Then he gets suicidal. Today I screamed at him, “Don’t talk like that in front of our baby!” I’ve never screamed at anyone in my life! Have you ever heard me scream, Fanny? I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Love from Annie

Qwilleran threw the letter back in the box. There was something naggingly familiar about the scene Annie had described.

On the way to Indian Village to meet Polly’s “charming” antiquarian, he stopped at the Mackintosh Inn to have another look at Lady Anne – so serene, so poised. That was the way he remembered her. A few minutes later he was at The Willows, greeting Polly, also poised and serene.

They walked to The Birches. He was carrying a bottle of wine and yellow mums for their hosts; she had a jar of honey tied with a ribbon for the guest of honor.

“It’s the traditional house-warming gift,” she explained. “Do you know the line, Qwill, about honey and plenty of money from Edward Lear? Kirt has a book of Lear’s nonsense poems that’s valued at twelve thousand. We were talking about it yesterday.”

“Has he moved in?” Qwilleran asked.

“No. The moving van arrives tomorrow.”

When they arrived at the Riker condo, the vehicle with Massachusetts tags was parked in the visitor’s slot.

“Isn’t that an exciting car?” Polly cried. It was a Jaguar.

They presented their gifts, Polly saying to the book dealer, “Here’s to honey and lots of money!”

He was introduced as Kirtwell Nightingale but said he liked to be called Kirt. Qwilleran sized him up as an ordinary-looking man of ordinary build, with ordinary clothing and haircut and handshake.

Cocktails were served, and Arch proposed a toast. “In your garden of life may your pea pods never be empty!”

Qwilleran asked, “What brings you to Little Arctica, Kirt?”

“I grew up around, here,” the man said, “and at a certain age one has a yearning to come home.”

“Did you live in Pickax?”

“No. Out in the country.” He’s evasive, Qwilleran thought; probably grew up in Mudville or Ugley Gardens.

Mildred said, “Qwill has a fabulous collection of old books in his barn.”

“An accumulation, not a collection,” he corrected her. “I simply wander into Eddington Smith’s place and buy something I’d like to read, or something I’ve read before and never owned.”

“Not all collectors buy for investment,” the dealer said. “Many buy for personal reading pleasure. My only advice is to check the book’s condition. It should have a secure binding and all its pages, with no tears or underlining – and of course a clean cover.”

Qwilleran asked, “What if your cat has a hobby of knocking books off the shelf?”

“You have a problem.”

Polly’s question was: “If I want to collect books, how do I start?”

“First decide whether you want to be a generalist or a specialist. It’s my humble opinion that specialists have more fun. If you focus on one category – zoology, shipwrecks, or Thomas Edison, for example – the hunt can be exciting.”

Polly said she would choose ornithology; Mildred, old cookbooks; Arch, life in early America.

Qwilleran said, “I have an old copy of ‘Domestic Manners of the Americans’ that you can have for twenty bucks.”

“Sure. You bought it for three.”

“Qwill,” said Kirt, “you’re on your way to becoming an antiquarian bookseller. All it takes is one profitable sale, and you get the fever… and by the way, Polly gave me some back copies of your column. You’re a splendid writer! And she tells me that’s a portrait of your mother in the lobby of the inn. A handsome woman!”

Mildred interrupted by announcing dinner: individual casseroles of shrimp and asparagus, green salad with toasted sesame seeds and Stilton cheese, and cranberry parfaits.

On the way home Polly asked Qwilleran what he thought of their new neighbor.

“Not a bad guy!” he said.

It was midnight when the brown van drove into the barnyard, and Qwilleran expected a scolding. Instead, Koko and Yum Yum staged a demonstration in the foyer – prowling back and forth and jumping at the two tall windows that flanked the double doors. Qwilleran floodlighted that side of the building, expecting to see a marauding raccoon. There was no sign of wildlife, but shadowy movement could be seen behind the screens of the gazebo.

A prowler, he thought. Boze Campbell!

Before he could call the police, however, a thin figure materialized out of the shadows and came running toward the barn with waving arms and shouts of “Mr. Q! Mr. Q!”

“Lenny!” Qwilleran shouted back, going out to meet him. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Duluth!”

“I came back. Do you have any food? I’m starved. I spent my last nickel on breakfast.”

“How did you get here? Where’s your truck?”

“Out of gas on the highway. I walked the rest of the way.”

“Come in! Come in! I’ll make a ham and cheese sandwich. What would you like to drink? Beer? Coffee? Cola?”

“Milk, if you’ve got it.”

Qwilleran put a glass and a plastic jug of milk on the snack bar. “Help yourself while I throw the sandwich together. Mustard? Horseradish?”