Polly looked at her watch. They were nearing the center of Pickax. “I enjoyed having dinner with you.”
“Won’t you come up to the apartment for a nightcap?”
“Not tonight, thanks. I have things to do.” Her voice was curt.
The last few blocks were driven in silence. With a brief good-night she transferred to her own car in the library parking lot—the cranberry-red two-door he had given her for Christmas during a surge of holiday spirit, grateful sentiment, and emotional delirium. When she drove away, the blue silk scarf in the gift-wrapped box was still on the back seat of his car, quite forgotten.
It was too good to last, he thought, as he drove around the Park Circle to his carriage house. His relationship with Polly was inevitably coming to an end. Once loving and agreeable, she had become critical. She thought their intimacy gave her license to direct his life, but he was his own man. That was why his marriage had failed a dozen years before.
As he unlocked the door of the carriage house, he heard the telephone ringing, and he ran up the stairs, hoping . . . hoping that Polly had changed her mind . . . hoping she had driven a few blocks and had stopped at a phone booth . . .
The voice he heard, however, was that of Mr. O’Dell, the white-haired houseman who had been school janitor for forty years and now conducted his own one-man janitorial service.
“Sure, an’ it’s sad news tonight,” said Mr. O’Dell. “Young Harley was a good lad, but he married the wrong colleen, I’m thinkin’. Will yourself be needin’ me tomorrow, now? It’s a new grandson I have in Kennebeck, and the urge is upon me to lay eyes on the mite of a boy.”
“By all means take the day off, Mr. O’Dell,” said Qwilleran. “Was everything all right when you were here?”
“All but the little one. Herself did her dirty outside the sandbox again. It’s bothered about somethin’, she is.”
Qwilleran immediately phoned Lori Bamba in Mooseville, the young lady who seemed to know all about cats. He described the situation. “Yum Yum has always had good aim until recently. I bought a second commode, thinking she wanted facilities of her own, but she ignores the pan and bestows her souvenirs on the bathroom floor.”
“It might be stress,” Lori said. “Is she under stress?”
“Stress!” he shouted into the phone. “I’m the one who’s under stress! She lives a life of utter tranquility. She has a comfortable apartment with all conveniences—two gourmet meals every day, brushing three times a week. She has a reserved seat on my lap every time I sit down. And I hold intelligent conversations with both of them, the way you recommended.”
“Have you made any recent changes in her environment?”
“Only new wallpaper in the living room. I don’t see why that should concern her.”
“Well,” said Lori, “you should observe her closely, and if any other symptoms develop, take her to the doctor.”
Qwilleran did not sleep well that night. It worried him inordinately when anything was wrong with the Siamese. He regretted also what was happening between Polly and himself. In addition, he could not help grieving about the cold-blooded murder that had gripped the community with sadness and fear. As he lay awake, he heard the 1:30 A.M. freight train blowing its mournful whistle at unguarded crossings near the city limits. The weather was clear, and, with his ear on the pillow, he could hear the dull click of wheels on tracks, although it was almost half a mile away. When the 2:30 A.M. freight rumbled through town, he was still awake.
SCENE EIGHT
Place:
Downtown Pickax
Time:
The day before the Fitch funeral
Qwilleran tuned in the headline news on WPKX every half hour expecting to hear that suspects in the murder of Harley and Belle Fitch were being questioned, or that arrests had been made and charges brought, or that the murderer had given himself up, or that he had killed himself, leaving a confession in a suicide note. Despite the scenarios he composed, nothing of the sort happened. It was reported only that police were investigating.
It also was announced that the funeral would be held on Friday, and it was the wish of the family that it be private. Qwilleran knew the decision would disappoint most of the local citizens; funeral-going and funeral-watching were consuming interests in Pickax.
Further, it was announced that Margaret Fitch, mother of the slain man, had suffered a massive stroke and was in critical condition at the Pickax hospital.
All of this only aggravated Qwilleran’s impatience to know exactly what was happening, and he walked to the police station to confront Brodie—walking less briskly than usual; after a sleepless night he lacked pep. They had not talked together since the incident in West Middle Hum-mock, but Brodie would know everything and would be willing to reveal a few facts, off the record.
“Bad business, Brodie,” Qwilleran said upon entering the office.
“Bad business,” echoed the chief without lifting his eyes from his paperwork.
“Any suspects?”
“That’s not for me to say. It’s not my case.”
“I suppose West Middle Hummock is the sheriff’s turf.”
Brodie nodded. “And the state police are assisting.”
“Off the record, Brodie, do you suspect the punks from Chipmunk?”
The chief looked Qwilleran straight in the eye and said coolly, “No comment.”
This was a surprising response from the usually talkative lawman, but Qwilleran knew when to stop wasting his time. “Take it easy,” he said as he left.
His next stop was the office of the Moose County Something. In a newspaper city room one could always count on hearing inside information, true or false. He discovered, however, that Junior Goodwinter was taking a day off, having worked seven days a week since the inception of the project, and Roger MacGillivray was out on the beat, pursuing a story on wild turkeys.
Arch Riker was on hand, huddled over his desk, but he had heard no rumors and could answer no questions.
Qwilleran said, “I’m curious about the background of Belle Fitch. My houseman says Harley married the wrong woman.”
“You hound-dog!” Riker exploded, pushing his chair away from his desk in an impatient gesture. “You’re never happy unless you’re sniffing the trail of something that’s none of your business!”
Surprised by his friend’s acerbic comment, Qwilleran said teasingly, “What’s eating you, Arch? Did Amanda refuse your ring?”
“That’s none of your business either,” the editor snapped. “When can we have your first column?”
“When do you want it?”
“Tomorrow noon for the weekend edition.”
This was the kind of short deadline that heated Qwilleran’s blood, concentrated his attention, and primed the flow of ideas. “How about a piece on the eccentric bookseller who does business in a former blacksmith shop?”
“What about pix? Do you have a camera?”
“Not good enough to shoot dark books and a dark cat in a dark store.”
“Okay, line it up, and we’ll assign our part-time photographer—if we can find him—and if he can find his camera.”
Qwilleran left the office with restored pep. About Riker’s late-blooming romance he had ambivalent reactions, however. The two of them had grown up together in Chicago, and he would be sorry to see his friend disappointed. On the other hand, it would mean that Riker would still be available for bachelor dinners at the Old Stone Mill and bull sessions at the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville.
He picked up a tape recorder and a notebook from the city room and walked briskly to the store called Edd’s Editions. The bell on the door tinkled, and Eddington Smith appeared out of the gloom.
“A terrible thing,” the little man said in a voice denoting grief. “Is there any more news about the murder?” At that moment Qwilleran realized for the first time that the perpetual smile on the bookseller’s face was a masklike grimace.
“The police are investigating,” he sa
id. “That’s all I know. Perhaps you heard that Mrs. Fitch has had a stroke. She’s in critical condition.”
The bookman shook his head sorrowfully. “I knew the whole family. It doesn’t seem like it’s really happening. ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players,’ as someone said.”
There was a tiny “meow” in a dark corner, and Winston came into view, waving his plumed tail and jumping across tables—from medical books to biographies to mysteries to cookbooks.
Qwilleran stroked the fluffy smoke-toned back. “I’d like to write a column about your enterprise for the new paper, Edd. In your ad you mentioned book repair. Is there much repair work in a town like this?”
“Not much. The library gives me some work, though. Mrs. Duncan is very nice. And this morning a lady from Sawdust City brought me a family bible to be repaired. She saw my ad.”
“Where do you do this work?”
“My bindery is in the back. Would you like to see it?”
“Yes, and I’d like to turn on my tape recorder and ask some questions.”
Eddington led the way into the back room, and Winston jumped off the cookbooks and followed.
“Did you ever see a hand bindery?” the bookman asked with a show of pride. He pulled cords dangling from the ceiling, and fluorescent tubes illuminated a roomful of bookpresses, cutting machines, a grindstone, workbenches, stools of varying heights, a small gas stove, and unusual tools.
Qwilleran started making notes on what he was seeing, and Eddington saw him staring at the small stove.
“That’s for heating the glue,” he said. “And my soup.”
The two men perched on stools, and Eddington handed Qwilleran an open book. “Look at page seventy-two. I can repair a tear with transparent Japanese tape and some cornstarch paste, and the mend is invisible.”
It was true. Page seventy-two looked flawless.
As Winston jumped onto the workbench where they were sitting, the bookman said, “He always comes into the bindery when I’m working. He likes the smell of glue and paste.”
“Koko likes to sniff glue, too. What kind do you use?”
“Nothing synthetic. I make my paste out of wheat flour or cornstarch. The glue comes from animal hides. I buy it in sheets and melt it. Did you know it’s the glue used in bookbindings that attracts bookworms?”
As Eddington talked about his craft, he was no longer the shy man who ran the bookshop with a soft sell and whispered his lines at the Theatre Club. He spoke softly but with authority and demonstrated book-binding operations with skilled assurance.
“How did you get interested in books?” Qwilleran asked.
“My great-grandfather was a book collector. You know the town called Smith’s Folly? He founded it in 1856. His mine failed twice, but the third time he struck it rich.”
“What happened to your great-grandfather’s fortune?” Qwilleran asked as he glanced around the room. In the far corner there was an uncomfortable-looking cot, a folding card table with a solitary folding chair, a small sink with a mirror hanging on the wall above it, and a shelf of dishes and canned goods.
“I’m sorry to say the next generation spent it all on lovely ladies,” said Eddington, blushing an unhealthy purple. “My father had to earn his living selling books from door-to-door.”
“What kind of books?”
“Classics, dictionaries, encyclopedias, etiquette books—things like that. People with no education wanted to improve themselves, and my father was like a missionary, telling them to read and live better lives. He never made much money, but he was honest and respected. As somebody said, ‘Virtue and riches seldom settle on one man.’ ”
“And how did you get into the used-book business?”
“An old man died, and they threw his books on the dump. I carted them away in a wheelbarrow. I was only fourteen. Now I buy from estates. Sometimes there’s an odd book in the lot that’s worth something. I found a first of Mark Twain in a box with some old schoolbooks and etiquette books. And once I found a book that Longfellow inscribed to Hawthorne.”
“In your ad you mentioned library care as one of your services. What does that entail?” Qwilleran asked.
“If a customer has a good private library, I go and dust the books and treat the leather bindings and look for mildew and bookworms. Most people don’t even know how to put books on a shelf. If they’re too far apart, they yawn, and if they’re too close together, they can’t breathe.”
“Are there many good private libraries in this area?”
“Not as many as before. People inherit them and sell the books to buy yachts or put their children through college.”
“Could you name some of your clients?”
“Oh, no, that wouldn’t be ethical, but it’s all right to say that I took care of the Klingenschoen library when the old lady was alive.”
“How about the Fitch mansion? Off the record.” Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder. “I’ve heard they have some rare books.”
Almost in a whisper the bookseller said, “Cyrus Fitch’s collection is worth millions now. If they sell it at auction, it’ll be big news all over the world.”
“Do you suppose the burglars who shot the young couple were after rare books?”
“I don’t think so. Not around here. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Oh, nothing. Just a silly thought.” Eddington looked embarrassed.
“Are there professional book thieves—like the art thieves who steal old masters—who might come up here from Down Below?”
“I never thought of that. I should check the books against the inventory. But first I’d better talk to the lawyer.”
Qwilleran asked, “How long have you been making house calls to the Fitch mansion?”
“Almost twenty-five years, and when Mr. and Mrs. Fitch moved out, they told me to keep on taking care of the library.”
“So you knew Harley’s bride. What was she like?”
Eddington hesitated. “She had a pretty face—very pretty. A little-girl face. I don’t like to say anything unkind, but . . . she used to say some words that I wouldn’t repeat even in front of Winston.”
“What was her background?”
“Her name was Urkle. She came from Chipmunk. Of course, I knew her before Harley married her. She was one of Mrs. Fitch’s maids.”
Qwilleran remembered Mr. O’Dell’s remark: “He married the wrong colleen.” To Eddington he said, “One wonders why Harley would choose a girl of that class.”
“ ‘Love makes fools of us all,’ as Thackeray said. I think it was Thackeray,” said the bookseller.
Qwilleran stood up. “This has been an enlightening session, Edd. A photographer will come around tomorrow to get a few shots.”
“Maybe I’d better clean the front window.”
“Don’t overdo it!”
On his way to the exit Qwilleran stopped and asked, “When would you normally make your next house call to the Fitch collection?”
“Tuesday after next, but I don’t know what to do now. I’ll have to talk to the lawyer. I don’t want to bother Mr. Fitch, but the books should be taken care of.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d take me along,” Qwilleran said. “I might learn something.”
“Shall I ask the lawyer if it’s all right?”
“No, just take me along as your assistant. I’m good at dusting.”
As Qwilleran walked home he marveled at the knowledge of the modest, self-educated little man, at his complete joy in working with books, and at his shabby living quarters. He remembered the narrow cot, and the sad table and chair, and the shelf above the sink. On it were a cup and plate, a dented saucepan, some canned soup and sardines, a razor and comb, and a handgun!
Arriving at his apartment he knew there was a message on the answer-box even before he reached the top of the stairs. Koko’s mad racing back and forth told him the phone had been ringing in his absence.
The message was from Francesca. She would drop in at five o’clock. She had some stunning wallpaper samples for his bedroom. She also had some news, she said.
SCENE NINE
Place:
Qwilleran’s apartment; later Stephanie’s restaurant
Time:
The same day
Qwilleran went into his studio to organize his thoughts and compose a catchy lead for the Eddington Smith profile, taking care to confine the cats to their apartment. Ordinarily they assisted his creative process by sitting on his notes, biting his pen and stepping on the shift key of the typewriter, but this time he had a firm deadline. The Siamese were banished.
The job required concentration. In his workshop Eddington used a strange vocabulary: giggering and glairing; nipping up, blinding in, holing out, wringing down and fanning over; casing in, lacing in, and gluing up.
Eddington had said that Winston liked the gluing-up process. Was Koko smelling the glue when he sniffed the spines of books as if reading the titles? Could a cat possibly smell the glue on a seventy-five-year-old volume of Dickens or a century-old Shakespeare? It hardly seemed likely. But, ruling out glue as the attraction, why did Koko sniff books? Why did he sniff certain titles and not others? Were there bookworms in the bindings? Could he smell animal matter? When they spent the summer months in the country, the Siamese were always fascinated by ants, spiders, and ladybugs on the screened porch. Why not bookworms? Qwilleran decided he would ask Eddington to inspect Koko’s favorite titles. The cat had suddenly become interested in Moby-Dick and Captains Courageous.
These ruminations were not helping him meet his deadline, and when Francesca arrived with her wallpaper samples, he said, “Excuse me if I appear groggy. I’ve been working on a profile of Edd Smith, and I’m in a bookish fog. Tell me your news, Fran.”
The Cat Who Sniffed Glue Page 7
