Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

The man was moving fast enough to make good time but not fast enough to arouse the suspicion of the security guards. Qwilleran thought, That Chahles Mahtin is smaht! He followed him through the milling hordes on the sidewalk--all the way to Main Street, where the suspect drove off in a maroon car with a Massachusetts plate.

Qwilleran, who was without his car at the moment, jogged to the police station, hoping to catch Brodie in the office, but the chief was striding out of the building.

"Do you have a minute, Andy?" Qwilleran asked urgently.

"Make it half a minute." "Okay. I attended the preview of the Goodwinter sale and saw someone who is undoubtedly Charles Edward Martin." "Who?" "The guy I suspect of being the Boulevard Prowler. I tried to get him inffccversation, but he was close-mouthed. When Polly was threatened three months ago, you checked the registration and came up with the name of Charles Edward Martin. The same car has been spotted three times in the last few days: headed for Shantytown, parked near the Shipwreck Tavern, and pulling out of the parking lot at Indian Village." "Probably selling cemetery lots," Brodie quipped as he edged toward the curb.

"I can't pick him up for driving around with a foreign license plate.

Has Polly been threatened again? Has he been hanging around the boulevard after dark?" "No," Qwilleran had to admit, although he pounded his moustache with his fist. How could he explain? Brodie might accept the idea of a psychic cat, but he'd balk at a moustache that telegraphed hunches.

"Tell you what to do, Qwill. Get your mind off those damned license plates. Come to the lodge hall for dinner tonight. It's Scottish Night. Six o'clock. Tell 'em at the door you're my guest." Brodie jumped into a police car without waiting for an answer. Qwilleran went for a long walk. While he walked, he assessed his apprehensions in connection with the Boulevard Prowler.

As a crime reporter and war correspondent he had faced frequent danger without a moment's fear. Now, for the first time in his life, he was experiencing that heart-sinking sensation--fear for the safety of another. For the first time in his life, he had someone close enough to make him vulnerable. It was a realization that warmed his blood and chilled it at the same time. As for Brodie's patronizing invitation, he was inclined to ignore it. He knew many of the lodge members, and he had passed the hall hundreds of times-a three-story stone building like a miniature French Bastille--but he had never stepped inside the door. True, he had a certain amount of curiosity about Scottish Night, but he decided against it.

Brodie's cheeky attitude annoyed him. And how good could the food be at a lodge hall? In that frame of mind he returned to the apple barn, expecting to thaw some sort of meal out of the freezer. The Siamese met him at the door as usual and marched to the feeding station, where they sat confidently staring at the empty plate. Well aware of priorities in that household, Qwilleran opened a can of boned chicken for the cats before checking his answering machine and going up the ramp to change into a warmup suit. And then it happened again! He was halfway to the balcony when Koko rushed him. This time he heard the thundering paws on the ramp and braced himself before the muscular body crashed into his legs.

"What the devil are you trying to tell me?" he demanded as Koko picked himself up, shook his head, and licked his left shoulder. In the past Koko had thrown irrational cat fits when Qwilleran was making the wrong decision or following the wrong scent. Whatever his present motive, his violence put Brodie's invitation in another light, and Qwilleran continued up the ramp--not to change into a warmup suit but to shower and dress for Scottish Night. He drove to the lodge hall on Main Street, and as he parked the car he saw men in kilts and tartan trews converging from all directions. At the door he was greeted by Whannell MacWhannell, the portly accountant from the Bonnie Scots Tour, who looked even bigger in his pleated kilt, Argyle jacket, leather sporran, tasseled garters, and ghillie brogies.

"Andy told me to watch for you," said Big Mac.

"He's upstairs, tuning up the doodle sack but don't tell him I called it that." Most of the men gathering in the lounge were in full Highland kit, making Qwilleran feel conspicuous in a suit and tie. As a public figure in Pickax he was greeted heartily by all.

"Are you a Scot?" they asked.

"Where did you get the W in your name?" "My mother was a Mackintosh," he explained, "and I believe my father's family came from the Northern Isles. There's a Danish connection somewhere--way back, no doubt." The walls of the lounge were hung with colorful clan banners-reproductions, MacWhannell explained, of the battle standards that were systematically burned after the defeat at Culloden.

"What tartan are you wearing?" Qwilleran asked him.

"Macdonald of Sleat.