The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

The Old Hulk is a big wooden box on the southwest edge of Pickax with the height of a five-story building and the shape of a coffin. No windows. It was once a depot and warehouse for feed and seed, and farmers came in horse-drawn wagons from three counties to stock up. The interior was a series of lofts connected by ramps. With the advent of paved roads and motor vehicles it was replaced by smaller depots around the county, but the dirty-tan exterior still saidFEED AND SEED across the top in letters four feet high, and the eyesore became lovingly known as the Old Hulk. And the stories they tell about it are nothing you would want to tell to your kids and mother-in-law.

Despite the building’s appearance and reputation, no one wanted the city to tear it down. But now it has burned down!

FIVE

Moose County was in shock. Police called it arson. Ruffians from Bixby County had torched the Old Hulk.

Qwilleran went to Lois’s Luncheonette for coffee and the public reaction to the disaster. Although the Old Hulk was empty and only the shell of the senior center and could be rebuilt, it was the idea of the crime that rankled. When the newspaper hit the streets, there were statements from city officials, clergy, the donors of the property, retirees, students. Funds would be available to build the Senior Health Club from scratch, but it was the loss of the Old Hulk that hurt. Qwilleran was asked to write a special Qwill Pen column—consoling, philosophizing, encouraging. At Lois’s Luncheonette, the customers were angry and vengeful.

While the public grieved or raged about the arson—as well they might—Qwilleran looked for a constructive approach.

One day while cashing a check at the bank downtown, he stood in line just ahead of Burgess Campbell, lecturer at the local college and revered leader of the Scottish community. Blind from birth, Burgess was always accompanied by his guide dog, Alexander.

Qwilleran said, “Burgess, do you have a minute to talk? I have a constructive suggestion.”

When their transactions were completed, they met in one of the bank’s small conference rooms, and Qwilleran said: “The K Fund could publish a small book on the Old Hulk, if your students would do some research. They could interview family members, neighbors, public leaders. It would be good experience. They could borrow snapshots and check the photo file at the newspaper. Then a postscript could put a positive slant on the subject by introducing the Senior Health Club.”

Alexander whimpered, and the two men considered that approval. He was a very smart dog.

Qwilleran had a bad habit of writing a news story before the news broke, or describing a building before it was built. Polly said he should be writing fiction. The products of his imagination always surpassed the actual thing.

As for the Old Manse at Purple Point, Qwilleran wanted to design it to match Hawthorne’s book.

And the approach to the mansion signified he might be right…. There was the iron gate between two rough stone gateposts…. Then a long, straight driveway between two rows of poplar trees, with beds of daffodils here and there…ending at a large building with a prisonlike look: gray brick, plain windows, and a severe entrance door.

The make-believe script ended when he clanged the heavy brass door knocker.

He expected to be admitted by a butler with silver buckles on his shoes, but Daisy Babcock opened the door in a pink pantsuit and a flurry of excitement.

Merrily she said, “You’re Mr. Q! Welcome to the Old Manse. Did you bring Cool Koko?”

Only devoted Qwill Pen readers talked nonsense like that. He liked her instantly.

He remembered meeting her at Linguini’s Party Store when ordering Squunk water, but her informality came as a shock in a two-story foyer with marble floor, tall mirrors, brocaded walls, a mammoth crystal chandelier, and a stairway as big as the Bridge over the River Kwai.

Soberly, Qwilleran replied, “Koko regrets that he had a previous appointment with his publisher. He hopes you’ll call on him at the barn.”

“I’d love to,” she said. “Alfredo has told me about it. He makes deliveries of Squunk water, he says.”

“It’s a far cry from this little palace. Do you give guided tours?”

“Where would you like to begin?”

“As the King of Hearts said to the White Rabbit, begin at the beginning and keep going till you come to the end. Then stop.”

The loaf-shaped building with modest architecture was one of four wings surrounding a great hall with skylight and a fortune in large oil paintings importantly framed.

There was a music salon with two grand pianos, a dining room that would seat sixteen, and an extensive library upstairs. Every suite had a four-poster bed and an eight-foot highboy.

There was Mrs. Ledfield’s pride and joy—a large cutting garden that supplied freshly cut flowers for the silver and crystal vases throughout the house…and there was Nathan Ledfield’s specialty: a formal garden of daylilies comprising five varieties compatible with a northern climate.