Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"Why does he loiter around here, Qwill?" She had the intelligence to know the answer, and Qwilleran knew she was aware of the reason, yet neither of them wanted to put it into words. Instead, he assured her that three police agencies would be working on it.

"But it will call for intensive vigilance on your part, Polly. I don't want you going anywhere alone! I'll drive you to and from work, take you shopping, deliver you to evening meetings. It will be a bore for you, but it won't last long. The police know exactly what they're looking for, and they'll soon pick him up for questioning." Qwilleran refused to abandon her until her equanimity was restored, so it was late when he left the carriage house. He almost forgot the birthday gift in the trunk of the car. The sight of the blue gown and robe ensemble did much to cheer her--or so she made it seem. It was unclear who was trying to reassure whom. The next morning, after driving Polly to the library, he took his white car to Gippel's garage.

"Give this crate the once-over, will you?" he asked the head mechanic.

"And let me have a loaner for the day." Gippel's loaners had decent engines, but the paint was dull, the fenders were bent, the springs were worn out, the interior was dirty, and the upholstery was torn--exactly the kind of vehicle Qwilleran wanted for a tour of Moose County. His first destination was Dimsdale, where his loaner looked quite normal in Shantytown. There was no maroon car there. Next he drove to Mooseville and checked the Shipwreck Tavern, the eatery called the Foo, and the shabby waterfront where he had once made the mistake of chartering a boat. From there he proceeded east along the lakeshore to the affluent resort area called Purple Point, which was completely deserted on a September Monday. Next came the village of Brrr, coldest spot in the county. Already it was in the throes of November winds from the northeast, and the scene was bleak. Even the parking lot of the Hotel Booze was empty, but Qwilleran went into the Black Bear Caf@e to see Gary Pratt, the proprietor. With his shaggy hair and beard he resembled the mounted black bear at the entrance. Gary was puttering behind the bar.

"Where's everybody?" Qwilleran asked.

"It's early. They'll be in for burgers at noon.

What brings you up here?" Automatically he poured a glass of Squunk water on the rocks.

"Just moseying around before snow falls. What kind of winter do you expect?" "Lots of snow but an early thaw. I see by the paper that you went to Scotland. How'd you like it?" "Nice country. Reminds me of Brrr. Did you do much sailing this summer?" "Not as much as I'd like to. Business was too good." "If you guys are going to promote tourism," Qwilleran said, "you can kiss your summer loafing goodbye... but then you can afford to go to Florida in the winter." "That's not for me. I like winters up here. I'm into dog-sledding." "Are you getting more out-of-state customers these days?" "Yeah, quite a few." "Have you run into a guy from Massachusetts called Charles Martin?

Wears a beard like yours.

Drives a maroon car." "There was a bearded guy in here, trying to sell cameras and watches to my customers--obviously hot. I threw him out," Gary said. Two other bartenders reported similar incidents.

Otherwise, no one knew a Charles Martin. Qwilleran visited Sawdust City, North Kennebeck, Chipmunk, Trawnto, and Wildcat and drank a lot of Squunk water that day. After returning the loaner he picked up Polly at the library and took her to dinner. Eight hours in the real world of the Dewey decimal system had helped her recover from the fright of the night before, but not from the dinner of the night before. All she wanted to eat, she said, was a simple salad and a bran muffin.

"What did you do all day?" she asked, as they settled in a booth at Lois's Luncheonette.

"Just cruised around, looking for ideas for my column. It was a good day to get out of the house because Mrs. Fulgrove was coming to clean and complain about cat hair I pay her extra for cat hair but she complains just the same." Polly said, "I looked up the origin of Scotland Yard. It was an area in London with a palace for visiting Scottish kings in the twelfth century. It later became headquarters for the CID." "Polly, you're the only person I know who follows through." "That's what libraries are all about," she said with professional pride.