Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

Upstairs, the crowds were less dense. Chests and dressers and disassembled beds were pushed back, and long tables were piled with blankets, towels and such. Clothing filled portable racks. One room, which was empty, had obviously been Melinda's; she had removed her furnishings to her apartment, but her distinctive fragrance lingered.

At the rear of the second floor there was a large room that no one entered, although an occasional viewer would poke a head through the doorway and back away quickly. It was two stories high and had three large north windows. This had been Dr.

Hal's studio. Hanging in every wall space and filed on floor-to ceiling shelves like books were brightly colored paintings on stretched canvas or rectangles of wall-board, and hundreds more were stacked on the Bid-a-Bit tables. It was the output, Qwilleran surmised, of twenty-five lonely years. None was bigger than an ordinary book. All were flat, two-dimensional depictions of animals against unrealistic landscapes of kelly green and cobalt blue. Red cats and turquoise dogs stood on hind legs and danced together.

Orange ducks with purple beaks faced each other and quacked sociably.

Tigers and kangaroos flew overhead like airplanes. These were the "animules" that had caused old Mr. Hornbuckle both wonderment and amusement. A sign saying "Pictures $1.00" prompted Qwilleran to run downstairs to the kitchen and phone the high school where Mildred Hanstable taught art as well as home ec.

"She's in class at this hour," said an anonymous voice in the school office.

"This is urgent! Jim Qwilleran calling! Get her on the phone!" He was willing to throw his name around when it served a good purpose.

"Just a minute, Mr. Q." A breathless art teacher came on the line.

"Mildred, this is Qwill," he said.

"I'm at the Goodwinter house previewing the tag sale, and there's something here that you must definitely see!

How fast can you make it over here?" "I'm free next hour, but the period's just started." "Cut class! Get here on the double! You'll be back before anyone misses you. Come in the back way. Use my name.

" Meanwhile he went upstairs and closed the door to Dr. Hal's studio.

When Mildred arrived, they climbed the servants' stairs from the kitchen, Qwilleran explaining, "Dr. Hal had a secret hobby. He painted pictures." "My God!" Mildred gasped when she saw them.

"My words exactly! They're marked a dollar apiece, and no one is interested. A hundred dollars would be more appropriate. They might sell for a thousand in the right gallery. I don't know anything about art, but I've seen crazier stuff than this in museums." "It's contemporary folk art," she said.

"They're charming! They're unique!

Wait till the art magazines get hold of these!" "Wait till the psychologists get their claws into them! It's the Noah's Ark of a madman." "I'm weak," Mildred said.

"I don't know what to say." "Go back to your class. I simply wanted an opinion to corroborate my own hunch." "What are you going to do about it, Qwill?" "First, take the decimal point out of that sign. Then notify the K Foundation." Reluctantly the art teacher tore herself away from the bizarre collection, and Qwilleran went back to asking questions downstairs: "Do you collect antiques? ... Are you a dealer? ... Have you ever seen a sale to equal this? ... What do you plan to buy?" It was while taping their uninspired answers that he caught a glimpse of a bushy-haired, bushy-bearded young man in jeans and faded sweatshirt, wearing a fanny pack. He was browsing among odds and ends on a table toward the rear of the main floor. Qwilleran's moustache bristled; he remembered that shaggy head from the reading room at the public library. It had been three months before, but he was sure this was the person who drove away in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate and who was later identified as Charles Edward Martin. The man was reading labels on old LP records and fingering household tools. He examined the initials on the silver pocketknife. He picked up a cast-iron piggy bank and shook it; there was no rattle. Sidling up to him, Qwilleran asked in a friendly way, "Quite a bunch of junk, isn't it?" "Yeah," said the fellow.

"Find anything worth buying?" "Nah." "What do you think of the prices? Aren't they a bit high?" The young man shrugged. Hoping to hear him say a few words with an eastern accent, Qwilleran remarked, "I have a feeling we've met somewhere. Ever go to the Shipwreck Tavern in Mooseville?" "Yeah." "That's where I've met you! You're Ronald Frobnitz!" Qwilleran said.

The subject was supposed to say, "No, I'm Charles Martin," or better yet, "Chahles Mahtin." Instead he shook his head and scuttled away.

Noting that the silver pocketknife had scuttled at the same time, Qwilleran followed him to the front door, hindered by the crowds.