Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 18 Who Said Cheese

"Are you Mr. Limburger?" Qwilleran called out as he mounted the six crumbling brick steps.

"Yah," said the old man without losing a beat in his rocking. His clothes were gray with age, and his face was gray with untrimmed whiskers. He wore a shapeless gray cap.

"I'm Jim Qwilleran from the Moose County Something. This is an impressive house you have here."

"Wanna buy it?" the man asked in a cracked voice. "Make an offer."

Always ready to play along with a joker, Qwilleran said, "How many rooms does it have?"

"Never counted."

"How many fireplaces?"

"Don't matter. They don't work. Chimney blocked up."

"How many bathrooms?"

"How many you need?"

"Good question," Qwilleran said. "May I sit down?" He lowered himself cautiously into a splintery rocking chair with a woven seat that was partly unwoven. A dozen stones as big as baseballs were lined up on the railing. "Do you know what year this house was built, Mr. Limburger?"

The old man shook his head and rubbed his nose with a fist as if to relieve an itch. "My grandfader built it. My fader was born here, and I was born here. My grandfader come from the Old Country."

"Is he the one who built the original Pickax Hotel?"

"Yah."

"Then it's been in the family for generations. How long have you been the sole owner?"

"Long time."

"How large a family do you have now?"

"All kicked the bucket, 'cept me. I'm still here."

"Did you ever marry?"

"None o' yer business."

A blue pickup drove onto the property and disappeared around the back of the house. A truck door slammed, but no one made an appearance. Thinking of the uncounted bedrooms, Qwilleran asked, "Do you take roomers?"

"You wanna room?"

"Not for myself, but I might have friends coming from out of town - "

"Send 'em to the hotel."

"It's an interesting hotel, no doubt about it," Qwilleran said diplomatically. "Lately I've noticed a fine looking woman there, dressed in black. Is she your new manager?"

"Don't know 'er." Limburger rubbed his nose again.

Qwilleran had an underhanded way of asking questions that were seemingly innocent but actually designed to goad an uncooperative interviewee. "Do you dine at the hotel frequently? The food is said to be very good, especially since you brought in that chef from Fall River. Everyone talks about his chicken pot pie."

The old man was rocking furiously, as he lost pa- tience with the nosy interviewer. He replied curtly, "Cook my own dinner."

"You do?" Qwilleran exclaimed with feigned admiration. "I envy any man who can cook. What sort of thing - "

"Wurst... schnitzel... suppe..." "Do you mind if I ask a personal question, Mr. Limburger? Who will get the hotel and this splendid house when you... kick the bucket, as you say?"

"None o' yer business."

Qwilleran had trouble concealing his amusement. The whole interview resembled a comic routine from vaudeville days. As he turned away to compose his facial expression and consider another question, he saw a large reddish-brown dog coming up the brick walk. "Is that your dog?" he asked.

For answer the old man shouted in his cracked voice, "Get outa here!" At the same time he reached for a stone on the railing and hurled it at the animal. It missed. The dog looked at the stone with curiosity. Seeing that it was inedible, he came closer. "Mis'rable mutt!" Limburger seized a stick that lay ready at his feet and struggled to stand up. Brandishing the stick in one hand and clutching a stone with the other, he started down the brick steps.

"Careful!" Qwilleran called out, jumping to his feet.

The angry householder went down the steps one at a time, left leg first, all the while yelling, "Arrrrgh! Get outa here! Filthy beast!" Halfway down the steps he stumbled and fell to the brick sidewalk.

Qwilleran rushed to his side. "Mr. Limburger! Mr. Limburger! Are you hurt? I'll call for help. Where's your phone?"

The man was groaning and flailing his arms. "Get the man! Get the man!" He was waving feebly toward the front door.

Qwilleran bounded to the veranda in two leaps, shouting "Help! Help!"

Almost immediately the door was opened by a big man in work clothes, looking surprised but not concerned.

"Call 911! He's hurt! Call 911!" Qwilleran shouted at him as if he were deaf.

The emergency medical crew responded promptly and proceeded efficiently, taking the old man away in an ambulance. Qwilleran turned to the big man. "Are you a relative?"

The answer came in a high-pitched, somewhat squeaky voice that seemed incongruous in a man of that size. He could have been a wrestler or football lineman. Also incongruous was his hair: long and pre- maturely white. The journalist's eye registered other details: age, about thirty... soft, pudgy face... slow-moving... unnaturally calm as if living in a daze. Here was a character as eccentric as Limburger.

The caretaker was saying, "I'm not a relative. I just live around here. I kinda look after the old man. He's gettin' on in years, so I keep an eye on him. Nobody else does. I go to the store and buy things he wants. He don't drive no more.