The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

by Lilian Jackson Braun; Nye

  “I’m having another drink,” Compton announced, bestowing his grouchy grimace on the other two judges.

  Mildred said, “I’m not sure I approve of a duplicate prize based on a forgery. What kind of values are we presenting to our young people?”

  Qwilleran said, “No one ever told me what the prize is going to be.”

  “Don’t you read your own newspaper?” she scolded. “It’s a case of catfood, fifty pounds of kitty gravel, and an all-expense weekend for two in Minneapolis.”

  “Let’s go through this bunch of fakes first,” said the superintendent, picking up the black-booted entries. He was accustomed to taking charge of a meeting. “The definitive marking, as we all know, is the so-called hat—the black patch over one ear and eye. That’ll eliminate most of them.”

  Qwilleran said, “I see black collars, black earmuffs, black moustaches, black sunglasses, black epaulets, and black cummerbunds, but no hats.”

  Mildred spotted a hat with a chin-strap.

  “Hang onto it. You may have a winner,” said Compton.

  “Are all these finalists going to be present in person?” Qwilleran asked.

  “That’s the idea. With fifty live cats in one room, there won’t be much sweetness of expression,” the superintendent predicted.

  The white-footed entries were in the minority, and there were only three with hats, as opposed to seven hatted contestants in the other category.

  “Having any luck?” asked Hixie when she breezed back into the dining room.

  “Here’s the best we can do.” Mildred spread the ten snapshots on the table.

  “Good! Turn them over, and you’ll see a code number on the back: W-2, B-6, B-12, and so forth. Okay? When the cats parade in front of you, each will be accompanied by a chaperon wearing the assigned code number. When you spot the ten pre-selected numbers, direct them to the runner-up platform. Then put your heads together and make the final decision. Take your time. Delay will add to the suspense . . . Now, is everything clear? I’ll be back to get you in an hour. Enjoy your dinner. Be sure to have the bread pudding for dessert; it’s super! . . . And wait till you see the enthusiastic crowd! This is the greatest thing that ever happened to Kennebeck! By the way, we have sweeter-and-funnier T-shirts for you if you care to wear them.”

  “Are you kidding?” Mildred asked.

  The judges watched Hixie stride from the dining room. Every time the restaurant door opened, the hubbub across the street could be heard, and Compton said, “Sounds more like a riot to me!” They ordered steaks, and he turned to Qwilleran. “My wife says your barn tour was a big success.”

  “So I hear. I was glad to be out of town.”

  “It’s true,” said Mildred. “The visitors loved it, and they were simply floored by the apple tree tapestry. They objected to the zoological prints, though. Why do people have such an antipathy to bats? They’re such cute little things, and they eat tons of mosquitoes.”

  “They’re disgusting,” Compton said.

  “Not so!” Mildred was always ready to defend the underdog. “When I was in the second grade at Black Creek Elementary, our teacher had a bat in a cage, and we fed him bits of our lunch on the point of a pencil.”

  “They’re filthy little monsters.”

  She flashed an indignant rebuttal at her boss. “We called him Boppo. He was very clean—always washing himself like a cat. I remember his bright eyes and perky ears, and he had a little pink mouth with sharp little teeth—”

  “—which can start a rabies epidemic.”

  Mildred ignored the remark. “He’d hang upside down from his little hooks, and then he’d walk on his elbows. Such a clown! And I’m sure that both of you educated gentlemen know that a bat’s wing structure is a lesson in aerodynamic design.”

  “I only know,” Compton said with a scowl, “that there are other topics I’d rather discuss with my steak.”

  They talked about the steeplechase, the questionable merits of tourism, the success of Henry VIII, and the VanBrook case. After coffee, when Mildred excused herself briefly, the superintendent hunched his shoulders and leaned across the table toward Qwilleran.

  “While she’s out of hearing,” he said, “I have something confidential to report. You questioned Hilary’s credentials the other day, so I did a little checking on the three colleges that supposedly granted his degrees. One institution doesn’t exist and never did, and the other two have no record of the guy—by either of his names.”

  Qwilleran said in a low voice, “There’s evidence that he was deceitful in petty ways, so I’m not surprised.”

  “This is off the record, of course. I see no need of announcing it, now that he’s gone. He did a helluva good job for us, even though he was a miserable tyrant.”

  “The amazing thing is that he had such a fund of erudition, or so it seemed. Did you check Equity?”

  “Yes, and I drew another blank—no evidence that he’d ever been a professional actor. But he wasn’t all bad.” Compton glanced around. “Here she comes. There’s more to the story. I’ll tell you later.”

  Mildred announced, “The crowd is fighting to get into the lodge hall. I hope they can control them during the judging.”

  At that moment Hixie arrived, flushed and breathless. “We have more people than we expected,” she said. “A troop of Cub Scouts came just to see the show, and the first three rows are filled with seniors from the retirement village. Every cat has from five to a dozen supporters. We didn’t count on that. The fire department may stop people from entering the building. All the chairs are taken, and yet most of those outside are contestants. We can’t start until they’re all in the hall, and we can’t throw the first-comers out.”

  “Turn on the fire hose,” Compton grumbled.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Mildred asked.

  “Just put on your judges’ badges and take your places on the platform. I’ll take you in the back door.”

  “Do I have to wear a badge?” Qwilleran asked. “I’d rather be anonymous when the shooting starts.”

  Hixie smuggled them into the lodge hall, and their appearance on the platform was greeted by cheers and whistles. They seated themselves at a long table covered with black felt, on which was a bushel basket of catnip toys thoughtfully provided by the promoters—one toy for each contestant whether a winner or not.

  The rows of folding chairs were already filled, and an overflow crowd was standing in the aisles. At the rear of the hall, members of the chamber of commerce, wearing sweeter-and-funnier T-shirts, were trying to reason with the horde that demanded admittance. Those carrying feline finalists were loudly vocal in their indignation. Overpowering the official attendants, they pressed into the hall, and soon the room was filled with squabbling families and caterwauling cats. Some were in arms and some were in carrying coops, but all were black-and-white and all were unhappy.

  “Something tells me,” Compton said dryly, “that this whole thing is not going to work.”

  In an effort to restore order and explain the unexpected situation, the president of the chamber of commerce appeared on the platform. He was greeted by a round of booing and catcalls. Raising his hand and shouting into the microphone, he tried to get the attention of the noisy audience, but the public address system was useless. Nothing could be heard above the din, and the feedback added ear-shattering electronic screeches to the pandemonium. Cat chaperons were shaking their fists at the stage. Mothers shrieked that their children were being trampled. Two black-and-white cats-in-arms flew at each other and engaged in a bloody battle. At the height of the confusion, a giant black-and-white tomcat broke away from his chaperon and bounded to the platform and the basket of catnip toys. Instantly, every cat who could break loose followed the leader, leaping across the white heads of screaming seniors in the front rows, until the judges’ table was alive with fighting animals and the air was thick with flying fur. The judges ducked under the table just as the police appeared on the platform with
bullhorns and, mysteriously, the sprinkler system went into operation.

  Under the table Compton yelled, “For God’s sake, let’s get out of here!” The three of them crawled backstage on hands and knees and escaped out the back door. For a moment they stood and looked at each other as they caught their breath.

  Mildred was the first to speak. “I move that we go back to Tipsy’s for a drink.”

  “I second the motion,” said her boss.

  “Too bad there’s no TV coverage in Moose County,” Qwilleran observed. “The crews would have a field day with this one. It has everything: kids, cats, old folks, even blood!”

  Main Street was choked with police cars and emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights flashing, as sheriff’s deputies and state police tried to control the mob. Ambulances were standing by, and fire trucks were primed for action. The only prudent way for the judges to reach the restaurant was to circle the block and enter through the kitchen door.

  In the relative quiet of Tipsy’s bar they collapsed into chairs. They saw no more of Hixie that evening, and as soon as it was deemed safe, they were glad to leave.

  Qwilleran pulled Lyle Compton aside. “What else were you going to tell me about VanBrook? You said there was more to the story.”

  “It hasn’t been officially announced,” the superintendent said in confidential tones, “and I haven’t even told the school board yet, but his attorney notified me today that VanBrook left his entire estate to the Pickax school system. I believe we’ve earned it, to be perfectly frank.”

  Qwilleran heard the news with skepticism. “What’s the catch? Do you have to rename it VanBrook High School?”

  “Nothing like that, although we might name the library after him. His book collection is supposed to number ninety thousand volumes.”

  Later that evening Qwilleran made a call to Susan Exbridge. “What time tomorrow are we unpacking books?”

  “How about nine o’clock? It’s a big job—and probably a dirty job. Wear old clothes,” she advised.

  “Would you object if I brought Koko along? He has a nose like a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out rare books.”

  “Darling . . . do whatever makes you happy.”

  Qwilleran was exhilarated, the VanBrook revelation having canceled out the Tipsy fiasco. He said to the Siamese, “How would you guys like a little sport? Something new!” He produced a bubble pipe and whipped up a bowl of suds in the kitchen, watched by two bemused cats who were baffled by a bowl of anything that was inedible and unpotable.

  “You stay down here,” he said as he carried the equipment to the first balcony. They followed him up the ramp.

  He dipped the pipe in the suds and put it to his lips, making one mistake. His pipe-smoking days had accustomed him to drawing on a pipe; bubble blowing was different. He spat it out and tried again. This time he produced one beautiful bubble—iridescent in the barn’s galaxy of uplights and downlights—until it burst in his face. He tried again, gradually mastering the technique.

  “Okay. Go downstairs,” he commanded the cats, adding a tap on the rump. “Down! Down!” They wanted to go up! It was past their bedtime. They stayed on the balcony.

  To tantalize them he blew a series of bubbles and bubble clusters and bubbles within bubbles, wafting them into space, watching them float lazily in the air currents until they spontaneously disappeared. The Siamese were unimpressed. They watched this absurd specimen of homo sapiens blowing a pipe, waving his arm, and peering over the railing. Bored, they ambled up the ramp to their loft.

  “Cats-s-s!” Qwilleran hissed.

  THIRTEEN

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, would be one of the most memorable days in Qwilleran’s four-year residency in Pickax. It started routinely enough. He fed the cats, thawed a roll for his own breakfast, and harnessed Koko for the trip to Goodwinter Boulevard. He also buckled up Yum Yum for the sake of practice, hoping she might eventually accept the idea. This time, instead of falling over, she stood in the awkward crazy-leg posture that resulted from the buckling process. Koko, on the other hand, strutted on his slender brown legs, dragging his leash, eager for action. For two minutes and seven seconds, according to Qwilleran’s watch, Yum Yum remained in her unlovely pose as if cast in stone, with an air of martyrdom, until he removed the harness. Then she walked away with the exasperatingly graceful step of a female Siamese who has succeeded in making her point.

  Moments later, Susan Exbridge arrived in her wagon, and Qwilleran placed Koko’s carrier on the backseat. As they set out for VanBrook’s house he asked, “Have you had a chance to spend any time at Hilary’s place?”

  “A couple of mornings,” she said. “I have to keep my shop open in the afternoon, you know. But I’m getting an overview of his collection, and in the evening I check my art books. It’s really fascinating!”

  “Have you found anything valuable?”

  “Definitely! There’s a Japanese screen with horses in color and gold that the horsey set in Lockmaster will swoon over! And there’s a magnificent cloisonné vase, two feet high, that I’d love to have myself. Then—hidden away in lacquered cabinets—are small objects like inro and netsuke and fans. It’s all very exciting! Hilary had a staggering collection of fans.”

  “Fans?” Qwilleran echoed, doubting that he’d heard correctly.

  “Folding fans, you know, with ivory sticks and hand-painted leaves, most of them signed! To research these I may have to fly to Chicago . . . Want to come along?” she added playfully.

  “How about the stuff on the second floor?”

  “Oh, that junk! I threw out a roomful of dead plants, but there were a lot of growing lights that will be salable.”

  It occurred to Qwilleran that she might have thrown out a $20,000 crop of whatever VanBrook was cultivating in the back room.

  “I haven’t touched the books,” she was saying. “Most of the cartons are sealed, so I brought a craft knife for you to use and a legal pad in case you want to make notes, or lists, or whatever. I don’t know how to tell you to sort them. You can decide that when you see what’s there.”

  “I wonder if Hilary catalogued his books. There should be a catalogue.”

  “If there is, you’ll probably find it in his study upstairs. It’s really good of you, Qwill, to do this for me.”

  “Glad to help,” he murmured.

  “Yow!” came a comment from the backseat.

  Koko entered the spacious high-ceilinged house in grand style, seated regally in his carrier as if in a palanquin. He was conducted around the main floor on a leash to avoid accidental collision with a two-foot cloisonné vase. He was tugging, however, toward the staircase, a fact that Qwilleran considered significant. The cat liked books, no doubt about it. He enjoyed sniffing the spines of fine bindings, probably detecting glue made from animal hides, and occasionally he found cause to knock a pertinent title off the bookshelf. (To discourage this uncivilized practice, Qwilleran had installed a shelf in the cats’ apartment, stocked with nickel-and-dime books that Koko could knock about to his heart’s content, although it was characteristic of feline perversity that he ignored them.)

  “Where shall we start?” Qwilleran asked as the cat pulled him up the stairs.

  For answer, Koko tugged toward VanBrook’s study with its four walls of bookshelves. There he prowled and sniffed and jumped effortlessly onto shelves eight feet above the floor, while Qwilleran made a superficial search for a catalogue of the 90,000 books. Ninety thousand? He found it difficult to believe. Unfortunately the desk drawers were locked and the Oriental box had been removed from the desktop, no doubt by the attorney. Either place would be the logical spot for a catalogue.

  “No luck,” Qwilleran said to his assistant. “Let’s go next door and start unpacking.” There were several large rooms on the second floor, originally bedrooms but now storerooms for book cartons. He chose to begin with the room nearest the staircase. Like the others, it contained nothing but casual stacks of corrugated car
tons, formerly used for shipping canned soup, chili sauce, whiskey, and other commodities. Now, according to the adhesive labels, they contained Toynbee, Emerson, Goethe, Gide and the like, as well as classifications such as Russian Drama, Restoration Comedy, and Cyprian History. Each sticker carried a number in addition to identification of the contents.

  “There’s got to be a catalogue,” Qwilleran muttered, for the benefit of any listening ear.

  There was no reply from Koko. The cat was surveying the irregular stacks of boxes like a mountain goat contemplating Mount Rushmore, and soon he bounded up from ledge to ledge until he reached the summit and posed haughtily on a carton of Western Thought. Meanwhile, Qwilleran closed the door and went to work with his craft knife, slitting open a box of Dickens, labeled A-74.

  It was no idle choice, Dickens being a writer he admired greatly. It was no treasure trove either; the volumes were inexpensive editions. He took time, however, to look up his favorite passages: the opening paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities; the description of the coachman’s coat in The Pickwick Papers; and a scene from A Christmas Carol that he knew virtually by heart. Every Christmas Eve, he remembered, his mother had read aloud the account of the Cratchits’ modest Christmas dinner, beginning with that mouth-filling line: “Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence.” A wave of nostalgia tingled his spine. The room was quiet except for an occasional murmur or grunt from Koko as he explored his private mountain, and Qwilleran read greedily from The Pickwick Papers until alerted by the unmistakable sound of claws on corrugated cardboard. The thinking man’s cat was diligently scratching a box on the fifth tier, labeled “Macaulay A-106.” Qwilleran immediately pulled it down, slit the flaps, and found the famous three-volume History of England, plus essays, biographies, and the questionably titled collection of poems, Lays of Ancient Rome. He huffed into his moustache as he realized that the Macaulay box had originally contained a shipment of canned salmon. Koko was no fool.