The Cat Who Went Underground (12 page)

“What did you do?”

“I closed the bedroom door very softly and called the police on my bedroom phone. My sons made me have a bedroom phone. I’d never had one before.”

“Who was it in the kitchen?”

“A burglar. They caught him. That was the last time I ever heard the scratching.” Emma turned to the volunteer. “Wasn’t that the last time?”

“Yes, dear,” said Ms. Hasselrich, “that was the last time you heard the scratching.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wimsey,” said Qwilleran. “That’s a remarkable story. How do you explain it?”

“It was the Lord’s work,” said the little woman, her eyes shining. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

Emma Wimsey’s story haunted him as he drove back to the cabin. As a journalist he was conditioned to scoff at supernatural tales, but as the daily companion of a Siamese who could sense danger and sometimes transmit such information, he had second thoughts. There was something in this north country – a kind of primeval force – that unsettled one’s educated beliefs.

When he reached the cabin, he unlocked the door and called out, “Where’s the gang? I’ve brought fried chicken right from the farm!”

Yum Yum came running.

“Where’s your sidekick?” he asked her with a glance at the moosehead. “Where are you, Koko? Fried chicken!”

He expected to hear yikking and yowling, or at least a thump as Koko jumped down from a high place, but there was no audible response.

“Cereal!” That was their new buzzword.

Still there was no reply. Suddenly concerned, Qwilleran checked the bunkrooms, searched under bunks, opened closets and kitchen cabinets, opened the shower door – all with mounting anxiety. As a chilling thought crossed his mind, he felt tension in his throat and a flush spreading over his face. Joanna had been there to fix the water heater, and she had let Koko get out.

He tested the hot-water faucet. Yes, she had been there.

“Oh, God!” he groaned as he rushed from the cabin.

CHAPTER 7.

KOKO WAS LOST!

Qwilleran ran from the cabin, calling his name. He looked up in the trees. He searched the toolshed. He combed the woods. He plunged down the steps to the beach, calling… calling…

Then in panic he ran back to the cabin and grabbed the phone book. Hands trembling, he looked up Joanna Trupp on Hogback Road. She was not listed. He might have guessed as much. He dialed the Glinko number, thinking they could radio her.

The Glinko telephone rang once… twice… but before they could answer, Qwilleran heard a distant yowl. He slammed down the receiver and rushed outdoors again.

“Koko!” he bellowed and then listened. There was no answer. Again he searched the grounds, fearing that the cat might be injured – mauled by a dog or wild animal – lying helplessly in the brush, too weak to cry out. How could he be found in these acres of woods?

Again he called Koko’s name and listened to the answering silence. Had he imagined Koko’s yowl, just as Emma Wimsey had imagined the scratching?

Defeated, he returned to the cabin, aware that his heart was pumping fast. He sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands… Did he hear a faint yowl? It seemed to come from the fireplace! He tried to look up the chimney, but the damper was jammed. He looked in the woodbox. On a wild hunch he ran to the toolshed and brought the ladder, climbed up on the roof and looked down the chimney. There was no cap on the flue, no screening. A small animal could fall down and be trapped! If Koko had run out of the house and then found himself locked out, he might climb a tree, drop onto the roof and try to enter the house by way of the chimney. It would be good thinking – up to a point. How would Koko know the damper was closed – and jammed?

Qwilleran slid down the ladder, ripping his hands and tearing his trousers. He ran into the cabin, stuck his head in the fireplace and shouted up the chimney.

There was a distant answer, but this time it came from the opposite end of the cabin.

Qwilleran made a dash for the guestroom. “Koko!”

Once more he heard the ghostly reply. It was driving him mad, and Yum Yum was racing about the cabin and shrieking hysterically.

“Shut up!” he yelled at her.

Calm down, he told himself. Think carefully. Listen unemotionally. He’s got to be here – somewhere. “Koko!”

This time the answer came from the rear of the cabin. He rushed to the mudroom, kicked the rug aside and hoisted the heavy trap door.

“YOW!” said Koko as he jumped out of the hole and shook the cobwebs from his fur.

Qwilleran let the door drop with a crash. “How long have you been down there?”

he demanded.

“Yow!” said Koko, batting the cobwebs from his whiskers. He walked calmly to his water bowl in a corner of the kitchen and took a long drink.

Qwilleran washed and bandaged his hands. “Don’t ever do that to me again!” he said sternly. Now it was clear what had happened: Joanna had gone down under the cabin to deal with the defective water heater; Koko followed without her knowledge and was probably exploring some remote corner when she closed the trap door, locking him in the crawl space. Then she replaced the rug and left the premises. Koko had been down there for how long? An hour? Two hours? Three hours? It would teach him a lesson!

Qwilleran apologized to Yum Yum for shouting at her and then chopped the fried chicken for them, although his right hand was still shaking and he gripped the knife with difficulty. After placing the plate of chicken on the floor, he went for a walk on the beach to calm himself.

The loneliness of the shore, the gentle lapping of the water, the vast expanse of lake and sky… all these natural tranquilizers worked together to quiet his nerves. Nerves? He had never in his entire life exhibited nervous symptoms.

And yet, his hands had been trembling when he consulted the phone book; they were still shaking when he chopped the chicken. During his career as a crime reporter he had faced life-threatening crises without flinching. Of course, he had been younger then. Now he was fiftyish, and it had been two years since his last physical examination. Perhaps he had been drinking too much coffee. Polly Duncan had urged him to cut down. Every woman he had known in recent years had nagged him about his health. Every woman except Mildred, that is. They hovered about his life like a Greek chorus, chanting, “Eat right… Get more exercise… Quit smoking!” He had given up his pipe. He had bought a bicycle. He ate broiled fish. And now Polly was campaigning to limit his caffeine.

Slowly he ambled along the beach, breathing deeply, stopping at intervals to gaze across the placid lake. Even before he reached Seagull Point he saw Russell walking toward him, wearing sunglasses and her usual drab attire.

“Hi!” he said. “Where are your feathered friends today?”

“I fed them early,” she said.

“Just taking a walk?”

She nodded.

“I’m walking to lower my blood pressure,” he told her. “I’ve just had a traumatic experience.”

She looked at his bandaged hands. “You’re hurt.”

“That’s nothing, but it’s part of the story. You see, I thought my cat was lost in the woods. I have two cats, and they’re not supposed to go out. In fact, they never go out. When I came home and found one of them missing, I don’t mind telling you that I panicked! My cats mean a great deal to me. Actually, they’re all the family I have. I worried about roving dogs, wild animals, hawks, even kidnappers. It turned out that the plumber came in my absence and opened the trap door to the crawl space. Koko went down under the floor and was trapped. He’s the male. The female is Yum Yum. They’re Siamese. Would you like to meet them?”

He realized he was babbling like a simpleton, but it helped him to talk about the distressing experience.

After a moment’s hesitation Russell answered his question with a timid yes. He continued to talk all the way to the cabin.

She accepted a chair on the lake porch, sitting on the edge of it.

“Would you care for a ginger ale?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

“The cats are around somewhere,” Qwilleran said. “They’ll come out when they hear us talking about them. They’re incredibly vain, and they like to be admired. Yum Yum is a lapcat, very affectionate, with all kinds of catly traits. Koko is something else, though! He’s a remarkable animal with a keen intuition about people, situations, and events… I wonder where they are. Excuse me a moment.”

He found the Siamese in deep slumber on the guestroom bunk – Koko evidently exhausted after his ordeal in the crawl space, Yum Yum glad to curl up in companionable proximity, and both of them stuffed with fried chicken. Picking them up in two hands, he carried them to the porch, one under each arm, their legs and heads and tails drooping, their bodies a dead weight. He set them down gently on the porch rug.

Yum Yum shook herself awake and looked at Russell with mild curiosity, then speculated on the laces in her canvas shoes. Koko, on the other hand, froze in the spot where he had been deposited, bushed his tail, and chattered at the visitor with the hostility he usually reserved for squirrels and stray cats.

“Koko! Watch your manners!” Qwilleran scolded.

“They’re interesting,” Russell said.

The tail gradually resumed its normal shape, and Koko walked back into the cabin with one or two backward glances at the stranger.

In embarrassment Qwilleran said quickly, “Would you like to see the new addition?”

They walked around to the back of the cabin. “Big chimney,” Russell remarked as they passed the huge block of fieldstone. “Another porch,” she commented when she saw the one in the rear.

“It’s handy to have porches fore and aft. One is always cool, and one is always sheltered.”

“Tall trees,” she said, looking up at the hundred-foot pines.

“Very old,” he said, nodding and looking wise.

As they stood in front of the east wing, he explained the floor plan, discussed the method of connecting it to the original cabin, and described the proposed exterior of board-and-batten.

Russell observed everything in silence, nodding noncommittally, and when he had completed the prospectus, she said in a hollow voice, “I hope… they… get it finished.”

As soon as Russell had headed down the steps to the beach, Qwilleran felt an urge to talk with Mildred Hanstable. “Thank you for steering me to Emma Wimsey,” he said. “That’s a good cat story, and it makes one think. I’ll have to fix it up a little, but I think the readers will like it.”

“And how about the reunion? Did you find it worthwhile?”

“Quite! It’s enlightening to see how the other half lives. While I was there I felt envious, but now that I’m home, I find the idea of all those relatives somewhat suffocating.”

“How long were you there?”

“About three hours, and when I reached the cabin, I got a real shock. I thought I’d lost Koko.”

“What!”

“The plumber had let him get down into the crawl space, and I had some uneasy moments until I found him.”

“How dreadful, Qwill! I know how you feel about those kitties.”

“After that, I had a visit from your next-door neighbor. We spent a half hour together, and she said all of fifteen words in that time.”

“I’m glad to hear she’s loosening up,” Mildred said.

“Who is this woman?” he demanded. “Where did she come from? Why is she here? She seems to be in her late twenties, but she dresses like 1935. Apparently she can afford a thousand dollars a month for a cottage.”

“Maybe she’s a poor girl who inherited some money from an old uncle.”

“And inherited the wardrobe from an old aunt. When Koko met her he reacted as if she’d come from outer space. I think he knows more than we do… And another curious thing about that girl, Mildred: She detects something unsavory about the Dunfield house. Did you tell her what happened there?”

“Not a word!”

“And when I showed her the new addition, she said she hopes it gets finished. I’m beginning to worry.”

“What is there to worry about?” Mildred said. “You have a splendid young man working for you.”

“That’s what I worry about. He’s too good to be true.” Qwilleran combed his moustache with his fingertips. “Clem didn’t march in the parade Friday; he didn’t show up for work yesterday; he didn’t attend the reunion with his fiancee today. Maryellen’s excuse was that Clem was out of town, but she wasn’t very convincing.”

“Oh, Qwill! You’re always so suspicious. It’s not unthinkable that a person would go out of town on a big holiday weekend.”

Qwilleran huffed into his moustache, mumbled something about hoping for the best, and said goodnight. He refrained from mentioning that Koko had been tapping his tail in a significant way for the last three days.

CHAPTER 8.

QWILLERAN HAD BECOME accustomed to six-thirty reveille on weekday mornings, sounded by the rumble of Clem’s truck, the whine of the table saw, and the staccato blows of the hammer. On Monday he slept until eight o’clock, however, and only the weight of two cats on his chest caused him to open his eyes.

His doubts about the carpenter’s whereabouts proved to be well-founded; Clem did not appear. Qwilleran kept glancing at his watch and smoothing his moustache anxiously. Finally he telephoned the Cottle farmhouse.

A weary-voiced woman answered – Clem’s mother, he assumed.

“Hello, Mrs. Cottle? This is Jim Qwilleran. I’d like to speak with Clem, if he’s there.”

There was a breathless pause. “You want… to talk to… Clem?”

“Gimme that phone,” said a gruff male voice. “Who is this?”

“Mr. Cottle? This is Jim Qwilleran. Clem is doing some construction work for me, and he didn’t show up on Saturday. I’m wondering when I can expect him.”

“He’s out of town,” the man snapped.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Don’t know. I’ll tell him to call you.” The chicken farmer hung up.

Here was a situation that called for the moral support of caffeine, and Qwilleran made himself a cup of coffee – weaker than usual, in the wake of his nervous snakes the night before. How long should he wait for Clem to return?

Would Clem ever return? An uneasy sensation on his upper lip was intensifying.