Braun, Lilian Jackson - The Cat Who 009

Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. “Suppose some local person, who guessed the loot might be under the house, lured the carpenter down there with the promise of a split, got him digging for the treasure, hit him on the head after he found it, and pushed him into the hole he had dug!”

“And then left with the whole caboodle! Neat trick!” Nick said.

“If it’s true, it might explain how Iggy’s body got down there. But if it’s true, I suspect it’s only part of the story,”

Qwilleran said. “It’s my guess that the murderer is a serial killer operating in Mooseville.”

“What!”

“YOW!” came a voice from the moosehead.

“Koko agrees with me. I contend that the victims were not only my builder but Clem Cottle and Buddy Yarrow and-“

He was interrupted by a triple-thump as the cat came down from his lofty perch, growling a gutteral threat.

“What’s that?” Nick snapped. “He hears someone coming up the drive!”

“No, look at him! He’s sniffing the trap door. It’s the same performance he staged before he found Iggy’s body.”

Nick jumped to his feet. ” “There’s something else down there. Want me to go and see?”

“I’ll go,” Qwilleran said.

“No, I’ll go. I’m smaller.” Nick grabbed his spotlight, threw open the trap door, and slipped through the hole nimbly. Koko streaked after him.

Yum Yum approached the scene cautiously, but Qwilleran intercepted her and shut her up in the guestroom. “Sorry, sweetheart. This is no business for a sensitive cat.”

Down in the crawl space Nick was talking to Koko and getting an occasional “ik ik ik” in reply.

“Find anything?” Qwilleran shouted. “What’s he doing?”

“He’s at the far end,” Nick yelled. “Come on, Koko ol” boy. Whatcha got over there?”

“YOW!”

“Is he digging?”

“No. Not digging. But excited.” Nick’s voice became more and more remote as he worked his way toward the far end of the crawl space.

The wait seemed interminable. “Any luck?”

There was no answer.

“Nick! What’s going on down there?”

“Hey, Qwill!” shouted a muffled voice. “Come on down here!”

Qwilleran lowered himself through the trap door, thrusting his legs out as he had learned to do, chinning on the edge, then rolling over. The far end of the crawl space was brightly illuminated by the high-powered light. Nick and Koko had progressed as far as they could go. They were up against the fieldstone foundation, the man staring at the floor joists above him and the cat on his hind legs, pawing the air.

Qwilleran scudded across the sand like a lizard, amazed at his own agility, ignoring the cobwebs that clung to his face, and inching through tight spots with only a twelve-inch overhead.

“Get a load of this!” Nick said as Qwilleran approached. “You have to squeeze in between the foundation and the first joist, or you can’t see it. Only a cat could have found it!”

Qwilleran twisted his body into the tight space and looked up as Nick swept his spotlight across the overhead timber. There were marks on the joist, but the wood was dark with age, and they were hard to decipher.

“It’s written in bloodl” Nick said. “Koko must have smelled the Wood!”

“I was right!” Qwilleran exulted as he spelled out the obscure message. “They were serial killings!”

“YOW!” said Koko, racing across the sand to the trap door and hopping out of the crawl space.

“Let’s get out of this damned hole,” Nick said. “The cobwebs make me itch all over. You bring the spotlight.”

He started to belly-crawl across the sand, and Qwilleran followed with the light, but not until he had reached up and touched the lettering on the joist.

It wasn’t blood; it was lipstick.

The two men brushed the sand off their clothing, then sprawled on the white sofas, talking and drinking coffee and listening for prowlers, their firearms close at hand. The Siamese, sensing the tension, sat on the sofas with their haunches elevated as if ready to spring. Twice the sheriffs helicopter buzzed the shoreline and searchlighted the Klingenschoen property.

At dawn Nick announced he would continue his journey Down Below if Qwilleran would promise to return to the safety of Pickax. “And when are you going to report to the police what we found?”

“As soon as I’ve put some food in my stomach and splashed some cold water on my face,” said Qwilleran, who was adept at inventing false replies when the occasion demanded.

As soon as the camper pulled away from the cabin he telephoned the Glinko night number. “Qwilleran again,” he said with the clipped speech of urgency. “We’ve got a plumbing emergency!”

“Allrighty. I’ll dispatch Ralph,” said Mrs. Glinko as if 5 a.m. emergencies were routine.

“Couldn’t you dispatch Little Joe? She knows the plumbing setup here.”

“Oh, so you want Little Joe, do you?” the woman said with a leering laugh. “You want her in a hurry, eh?”

“The toilet’s backed up,” Qwilleran said sternly.

“Okay, I’ll try to find her. No tellin” where that babe is shackin” up now.”