Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

Leaving the scene and heading back to Pickax, he said to his passenger, “Do you want to be dropped at Lois’s house? How will you reach your truck in the morning? Is there anything I can do? Let me give you some money for gas, Better not give Lois any of the details.”

Lenny was in a fog. He just wanted to go home. He had lost a brother. He felt guilty His intentions had been good. He should have stayed in Duluth. He should have left everything to fate. He was jinxed.

Qwilleran listened sympathetically, murmuring remonstrance, encouragement, condolences – whatever was needed.

Seventeen

Tuesday, September 22 – ‘Can a leopard change his spots?’

AFTER THE LATE-HOURS episode at the Big B mine, Qwilleran wanted to sleep late, but the Siamese had other ideas. They howled outside his door at twenty-minute intervals and were suspiciously quiet in between. When he shuffled down the ramp to investigate. he found that someone had pried open a kitchen drawer… and someone had removed the twenty-one previous pages torn from Culvert’s calendar… and someone had distributed them throughout the main floor. He presumed it to be a collaboration – what he called their Mungojerrie-Rumpelteazer act – and he collected the litter of paper with grudging admiration. They knew how to capture a person’s attention!

During the morning he avoided news bulletins on WPKX, preferring to wait for the two o’clock edition of the Moose County Something. Meanwhile, he delivered a vanload of books and personal belongings to his condo – Unit Four at The Willows. A moving van from Boston was unloading at Unit Two, and the Jaguar was parked under the visitors’ carport.

On the way back to town it occurred to him that now might be a good time to present Polly with a gift he had special-ordered and was saving for Sweetest Day. Now he reasoned, however, that his move back to Indian Village had a celebratory aspect, and in midday he walked into her office with a gift-wrapped package.

She was having a vegetarian lunch at her desk, “Have some celery straws,” she invited slyly, knowing he despised them. Then she saw the small box in gilt paper and ribbons, “For me? What’s the occasion, Qwill?”

“It’s Tuesday,” he said with characteristic calm.

After fumbling excitedly with the wrappings, she uncovered an octagonal bottle of French perfume encased in gold filligree. She was stunned! She tripped over her words – had never seen such a beautiful bottle – had never dreamed she’d have such a famous scent to spray on her skin.

Both of them were remembering an evening last month, between sunset and dark, when twilight descended on the world like a blue mist and brought a magical silence – l’heure bleue.

“Glad you like it,” Qwilleran said. He grabbed a handful of celery straws.

Pickax commercial establishments and government agencies no longer observed the quaint custom of shutting down for lunch between twelve and one, but it was still wise to avoid that hour for making transactions. Qwilleran went home to give the cats their midday treat and to start cleaning out the refrigerator for his own lunch. Celia’s catered specialties that he had been stockpiling in the freezer would be transported to winter quarters in dry ice.

He had a list of individuals to notify about his move. It was only a gesture – to the bank manager, postmaster, garage owner, bookseller, and so forth. The truth was that everyone in town knew where Mr. Q was living at any given time, but it was a compliment to be on his list.

Foremost was the chief of police. His department always kept an eye on the barn when Qwilleran was not in residence.

“Andy, tonight’s your last chance to drop in for a nightcap,” Qwilleran said to the disgruntled officer sitting at the computer. Brodie was always irked and impatient when confronted with the contraption that he loathed.

“Be there at ten o’clock,” the chief said brusquely. “Can’t stay long.”

At two o’clock the Moose County Something reached the newsstands with the headline:

SUSPECT DIES IN MINESHAFT

A fugitive from the law fell to his death in the shaft of the abandoned Big B mine early this morning, John Campbell, who was wanted for murder and two counts of theft, was hiding out in the shafthouse when an unidentified motorist noticed a light in the tower and called 911 after hearing a gunshot.

The sheriff’s department, Pickax police and rescue squad personnel responded.

The suspect, known locally as Boze Campbell, had won a gold medal for a perfect three-out-of-three caber-toss in the Highland Games earlier this month, before disappearing into the woods, assaulting a deputy, stealing her revolver and hijacking the city’s bookmobile.

He was 25, a native of Moose County with no known parentage, a student at MCCC, and a parttime employee of the Mackintosh Inn. He leaves no survivors.

A sidebar on the same page was headed:

BOZE MOURNED BY SPORT FANS

When news of John (Boze) Campbell’s death became known, sport fans gathered at Lois’s Luncheonette to grieve, extol his athletic feats, praise his woodsmanship, and refuse to believe he was guilty of crimes.

Lois Inchpot, who had known him since he was a young boy, said, “He was a nice young man – kind of sweet – but he’d had no bringing up, and my son Lenny and I sort of adopted him. He didn’t drink or smoke, and he loved the woods. When he won the gold medal, I felt like my own son had won it. We’re gonna have a nice funeral for him, and my customers are taking up a collection to buy him a headstone. I hope they find the real murderer. I know Boze couldn’t have done it.”

After reading this, Qwilleran was hardly surprised to hear from Lenny, phoning from the kitchen of the lunchroom, against a clatter of pots and pans and his mother’s shouted commands.

“Did you read it?” Lenny asked abruptly.

“Yes. Your mother’s statement was very touching. She’s a goodhearted woman, Lenny.”

“They didn’t tell how Boze was tricked into doing it!”

“The paper printed information released by the police. Use your common sense! Don’t you suppose the authorities are on the trail of the woman who duped him? She’s done it before! She’s a menace! Sit tight, and see what they discover.”

“There’s another thing, Mr. Q. When we heard the gunshot last night. I thought Boze had shot himself, but today… I’m wondering if… he tripped and fell and the gun went off accidentally. What do you think?”

“Good question. We’ll never know, will we? Whatever makes you comfortable in your mind, it seems to me, that’s what you should believe.”

Qwilleran was struggling with questions of his own – about Koko’s recent behavior. All cats, he knew, are psychic to a degree, but Koko, who had more than the normal number of whiskers, was exceptionally prescient. It was his system of communication that baffled one.

He howled in the night. He knocked books off the shelf. He tossed pencils around like Boze tossing the caber. He licked photographs He dug up clues and hid others.

Who could say how much was pertinent evidence and how much was catty playfulness? And how much was strictly coincidence?

When Koko pilfered Brazil nuts from the nut bowl, did his actions have anything to do with a cruel trick played on Boze Campbell? Or had he found something deliciously oily into which he could sink his fangs?

Qwilleran would have liked a confidant with whom to discuss such arcane matters, but even his close friends were unreceptive. The least likely candidate happened to be the best prospect, and he was coming to the barn for a drink at ten o’clock. Chief Andrew Brodie had scoffed at Qwilleran’s “smart cat” at the beginning, but he was gradually coming around.