The Cat Who Went Underground (21 page)

“Are you sure you should drive?” she asked. “If you feel drowsy, I’ll get Sharon to drive your car back to the cabin.”

“Thanks, Mildred, but I’m all right. Don’t worry.”

“All three times I went to your cabin there was a truck in the clearing. I suppose it belongs to your carpenter, but I didn’t see him around.”

“He was putting in window frames on the day of the tornado. I hope he wasn’t hurt. He’s so thin, a heavy wind could blow him away.”

At the FOO she declined Qwilleran’s invitation to have coffee and a doughnut, saying that FOO doughnuts would make better boat anchors.

“Thanks for the ride, Mildred, and it was good of you to take care of the cats.”

“No trouble at all. In fact, I enjoyed doing it.”

Qwilleran bought a copy of the midweek Something, which had gone to press before the tornado hit. Then he drove slowly to the cabin, thinking that Mildred was a wonderful woman who would make someone a good wife if only she would unload her absentee husband. When he turned into the K driveway, he was beginning to dread the first glimpse of the destruction, but he was eager to lay eyes on the Siamese. There had been times during those long, cold, wet hours when he thought he might never see them again. He shivered at the recollection.

The scene was exactly as Mildred had described it. Iggy’s truck was in the clearing, and the east wing was a shambles, but Qwilleran didn’t care; he was only glad to be alive. Although the drenching rain was turning the clearing into a lake, he waded through the puddles without noticing them. After what he had been through, what was an inch of rainwater?

He unlocked the door and said dully, “I’m home.”

The Siamese regarded him from a distance with an expression of silent resentment.

“You can be glad your meal ticket wasn’t drowned,” he said. “CEREAL!”

The two ingrates bounded across the floor, Koko walking the last few feet on his hind legs, to receive their treat.

Qwilleran made coffee for himself and was sipping it with gratitude and relief when Arch Riker phoned.

“Thank God you were all rescued, Qwill,” the editor said. “I heard about it on the radio Tuesday night and called the papers Down Below. It was too late for our midweek edition. Why doesn’t anything ever happen on our deadline? What were you doing out on that island anyway?”

“You may not believe this, Arch, but we were looking for scorched earth where a UFO was said to have landed.”

“You’re cracking up, Qwill!”

“Be that as it may,” he answered wearily, “I’m thinking of moving back to Pickax and crossing off this summer as a lost cause. The east wing is ruined. The sky is gray. The lake is even grayer. The rain is beating on the roof and flooding the windows, and the rotten weather is expected to continue. And it’s all on account of those lousy UFOs.”

There was a brief pause before Riker asked, “What kind of medication did they give you at the hospital, Qwill?”

“Ask Dr. Halifax. It’s his secret formula. Is Pickax flooded?”

“Main Street looks like the Grand Canal. All the creeks and rivers in the county are swollen, and some of the bridges may wash out. Better stay put till the rain stops. You sound tired. Get some rest. Catch up on your reading. Forget about the “Qwill Pen.” But when you get back to normal, you can write a hair-raising column about your ordeal.”

And still it rained, pounding the roof, flattening the beach grass. “Damn those visitors!” Qwilleran said, shaking his fist at the dreary sky.

He went to the back porch and looked at Iggy’s pickup in the clearing. The man might be living in it! He might be asleep in the truck-bed right now! Qwilleran realized he should investigate, but the rain was descending noisily, and he felt lethargic.

After a while Yum Yum forgave him for abandoning her, for shutting her up in a small room without food, for smelling like a hospital. When he stretched out on the sofa, she leaped lightly to his chest and uttered the seductive wail that meant she wanted to be petted. Koko, on the other hand, prowled about the cabin irritably, exploring remote corners, looking for a newspaper to shred, jumping on and off the moosehead repeatedly in a reckless waste of energy.

It was only when Koko crumpled the mudroom rug and started nosing the trap door with moist snorts that Qwilleran snapped to attention. His moustache bristled as a possibility flickered through his mind: Iggy might be under the floor, asleep!

He might have seen the funnel-shaped clouds and gone under the cabin to safety.

But how would he get into the cabin? The door was securely locked…. Well, he would knock out the temporary partition, step through the opening into the mudroom, and then nail the plywood back in place to keep out the gusting wind.

He would know that all such beachhouses have crawl spaces, so he would find the trap door, go down in the hole, and close it after him. Then he would stretch out on the sand and go to sleep. Iggy could sleep anywhere! It was an interesting theory, but not plausible, Qwilleran decided. Even a somnolent carpenter wouldn’t sleep thirty-six hours. Nevertheless, he shoved Koko away from the trap door, opened it a few inches, and shouted the man’s name. There was no answer from Iggy but an ear-shattering yowl from Koko.

Qwilleran was aware he was not thinking clearly. He felt groggy. As he watched the rain cascading off the cabin roof, he thought, Iggy might have been injured when the roof of the east wing collapsed; he might have been killed; his body could be lying under the rubble; or it might have been blown into the woods, along with sections of the roof and siding. Qwilleran realized he should investigate, but the rain deterred him, and he lacked ambition.

His curiosity began to overwhelm his weariness, however, when Koko’s behavior caused his moustache to quiver, ever so slightly. The cat was sniffing the trap door eagerly, passionately. Qwilleran remembered seeing a flashlight – somewhere – and he fumbled in drawers and cabinets before finding it in the mudroom. Koko, sensing his intention, pranced with long legs and rampant tail.

Qwilleran swung open the trap door and flashed the light into the dark hole.

There was nothing in sight but sand. He tried sprawling on the mudroom floor with his head hanging over the edge in order to flash the light in several directions. He saw sand everywhere – a few rocks – a few pipes leading who-knew-where.

Koko had been racing around the mudroom, yikking and yowling at the spectacle of this large man lying on the floor. Now he peered down into the hole with his four feet tightly bunched, teetering on the edge. “No!” Qwilleran commanded.

“Yow!” said Koko defiantly as he jumped down into the crawl space.

“Koko! Get out of there!”

The cat had disappeared into the shadows and failed to reply, much less obey.

Qwilleran tried the magic words, “Cereal! Cereal!” Yum Yum came trotting, but there was no response from Koko, the most obstinate creature he had ever encountered, and that included an ex-wife and two case-hardened editors. He flashed the light again, speculating on the feasibility of following the cat.

There was about a two-foot clearance, in some spots less, between the sand and the floor joists of the cabin. “Dammit, I’m not going after you!” he shouted to the miscreant under the floor. “You can stay there all day! I was marooned on an island; I came close to death; I narrowly avoided pneumonia; and I’ve lost the east wing. I’m not going to belly-crawl in the sand after a cat!”

Qwilleran scrambled to his feet, closed the heavy oak door with a crash and straightened the rug over it, leaving Koko alone in the dark. Then he drove into Mooseville for lunch, first giving Yum Yum some affectionate stroking and a tidbit of bacon salvaged from his breakfast tray at the hospital.

“I hope he can smell this bacon,” he said to Yum Yum. “Let him eat his heart out!”

Qwilleran was in no mood for conversation, and he found a secluded table at the Northern Lights Hotel. Even so, the waitress wanted to know all about his experience on the island. She had heard the news on the radio and had read about it in the Daily Fluxion.

Qwilleran pointed to his throat and mouthed the words, “Can’t talk.”

“You caught cold!” she said.

He nodded.

“It must have been freezing out there, with your clothes all wet and the wind blowing fifty miles an hour!”

He nodded.

“How about some cream of mushroom soup? That should feel good going down.”

He nodded and also pointed to the half-pound cheeseburger with fries and cole slaw. When he had fortified himself with solid food and three cups of coffee, he felt alive once more.

Back at the cabin the rain was still hammering the roof, soaking the remains of the east wing, drenching the woods, and blotting out the lake view. Yum Yum greeted him nervously. She disliked being alone. She cried piteously.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Qwilleran said, “we’ll give him another chance.”

He opened the trap door, expecting a contrite Koko to bound out of the hole, shake himself, and spend the next hour cleaning his fur, but the cat did not make an appearance. Once more Qwilleran sprawled on the floor, hanging his head over the edge – a maneuver of discomfort as well as indignity. It was then that he heard a distant rumble – the kind of noise that Koko made when he was busy with some engrossing task. He was talking to himself under his breath.

“What are you doing, Koko?”

There was more mumbling, almost a growl.

Qwilleran had been born with the same kind of curiosity that has killed centuries of cats, and he threw off his waterproof jacket and lowered himself into the hole. The opening was about two feet square, and he was a big man. He made several attempts before learning the knack: squat down, slide the legs forward while chinning on the edge, then roll over. Now he could flash the light to all corners of the crawl space. It was, as he had previously surmised, mostly sand, but now he noticed some lumps of concrete or hardened mortar, a sprinkling of acorn shells left there by tunneling chipmunks, and a beer can. He hoped there would be no snakes or skunks. It was dusty, and he sneezed a few times.

Cobwebs tickled his face and were vastly unpleasant when they caught on his moustache.

He had no time to wonder about the beer can. Koko’s behavior was disconcerting.

The cat was in the center of the crawl space, approximately under the dining table, and he was digging industriously.

With Mrs. Ascott’s message ringing in his mind, Qwilleran started a torturous belly-crawl toward him. The chunks of mortar had sharp corners, and the seventy-five-year-old joists were four-by-sixes, hard and unyielding. Ahead of him, sand was flying, propelled by the cat’s frantic paws.

Qwilleran’s moustache prickled as he approached Koko, and he felt a peculiar sensation in his scalp. “What have you found?” he called out.

Koko ignored him and kept on digging. Qwilleran crawled closer, trying to keep the beam of the flashlight on the scene of the excavation. The cat was uncovering something that he could not identify. It was something solid, with a shape that was becoming more defined. Qwilleran inched forward. And then the light went out. He shook the flashlight, joggled the thumb-switch and cursed the thing, but the battery was obviously dead. He threw it aside.

Now he was operating in total darkness. He knew he was within reaching distance of the cat, and he extended his right arm and grabbed a handful of furry hide.

Koko struggled and yowled in protest as Qwilleran hauled him back and used his other hand to feel for the treasure.

It was a shoe – a canvas shoe with shoelaces. Inside the shoe was a foot, and connected to the foot was a leg.

CHAPTER 16.

UPON DISCOVERING THE body Qwilleran notified the sheriff, though not until he had tipped off the Moose County Something. Once more two protesting Siamese were locked in the guestroom as police maneuvered Koko’s grisly treasure from its burial place and up through the trap door – no simple operation! There were grunts, shouts, arguments, and muttered maledictions during the process. The rain continued, and the vehicles of the sheriff department, state police, coroner and technicians churned the driveway and clearing into mud.

Unofficial visitors were stopped by a roadblock at the entrance to the K property, Arch Riker being one of these. The editor and publisher of the Something chose to cover the incident himself, since Roger MacGillivray was still in the hospital. Also, Riker thought, Qwilleran might need moral support in his present medicated condition. The night on Three Tree Island and the destruction of the east wing, followed by the discovery of a dead body under the house, would be enough to shake even a veteran journalist if he happened to be taking Dr. Halifax’s potent pills. The editor, showing his press card, was allowed to park on the shoulder of the highway and walk up the long muddy driveway in the rain. Upon arriving at the cabin, he was restricted to the back porch.

Indoors the mudroom was living up to its name, as feet came and went in the course of grim, official business. The atmosphere was one the cabin had never known: the awesome hush of a murder scene under investigation, punctuated by the terse comments and orders of lawmen at work, not to mention the occasional complaints of offended Siamese issuing from the guestroom. Qwilleran was asked to stand by but keep out of the way, as samples of sand were collected and the premises were photographed, measured, and dusted for prints.

Dr. Halifax’s formula notwithstanding, Qwilleran’s energy and alert curiosity were miraculously renewed by the excitement of the crime. When asked to identify the body, he was able to say it was the carpenter known as Iggy, an appellation that tallied with the name on the driver’s license found in the pickup truck. It surprised him that Iggy possessed anything so conventional as a driver’s license, and it disturbed him – now that the man was dead – that he had never known his full name, had never asked, had never needed to ask. Despite obnoxious work habits and unattractive personal habits, Iggy was a fellow human who deserved more than a dog’s name. He was Ignatius K. Small.

In Qwilleran’s opinion the cause of death had been a smashing blow to the skull, although no one bothered to inform him of the coroner’s decision. Today Qwilleran was not the richest man in the county; he was not the leading philanthropist; he was not the star writer for the Something. He was merely the occupant of a house in which the body of a murdered man had been found.