The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

Dinner was served. Chicken, of course, but the conversation never wandered far from the Grand Old Man who had lived to be almost a hundred. There was one question Qwilleran saved until after dessert: “What can you tell me about the Midnight Marchers?” He turned on the recorder.

“When Homer was nineteen, he used to call on a young lady in the next town—riding there on his bicycle and spending the evening on the porch swing, drinking lemonade and talking. Every half hour, he recalled, her mother came out to the porch to see if they had enough lemonade. At eleven o’clock she suggested that he leave for home, since it was a long ride.

“On one dark night, on the way home, he was mystified to see a long line of small lights weaving across the nearby hills!

“What he did not know—and what it turned out to be—was the annualritual of the Midnight Marchers. They were mourning the loss of thirty-eight miners in a mine disaster that orphaned an entire town.

“Furthermore, it was caused by a greedy mine owner who had failed to take the precautions practiced by competitors….

“Every year, the descendants of those orphans donned miners’ hats with tiny lights and trudged in silent file across the mine site. They have done it for three generations now, first the sons of orphans, then the grandsons of orphans, and now the great-grandsons. It always made Homer mad as a hatter! He said it was silly schoolboy stuff—putting on miners’ hats with lights and staging a spooky pageant. He said they should do something that would benefit the community—and do it in the name of the long-ago victims.”

“How did people react?” Qwilleran asked.

“Oh, he made enemies, who said he was disrespectful of the dead. But as the years went on, the Marchers sounded more and more like a secret society who got together and drank beer. And then Homer got a letter from Nathan Ledfield, that dear man! He said Homer was right. He asked for Homer’s help in changing the purpose of the Midnight Marchers without changing the name. Mr. Ledfield wanted the Midnight Marchers to benefit orphans. And it proved to be successful.

“The beauty of it is,” said Rhoda, “that churches and other organizations got behind it, and the Midnight Marchers changed their purpose.”

“Hmmm…this sounds vaguely familiar…”

“Yes, other philanthropists have copied the Midnight Marchers—not only in Moose County, I believe.”

Qwilleran said, “Homer must have been pleased to have his lifelong campaign succeed.”

“Yes, but he never wanted any credit.”

Strangely, Qwilleran’s mind went to Nathan Ledfield’s protégée, but it was getting late, and he saw Rhoda glance at her wristwatch. They returned to Ittibittiwassee Estates.

SEVEN

Expecting Polly home for Sunday brunch, Qwilleran biked downtown early for the SundayNew York Times, unloading such sections as Fashion & Style, Business, Sports, and Classifieds. Otherwise, it would not fit in the basket of his British Silverlight. There were always fellow citizens who were glad to get his leavings.

By the time he returned to the barn, Koko was doing his contortions in the kitchen window, meaning there was a message on the machine.

It would be Polly, he knew, announcing her arrival and making plans for the day…. Instead, when Qwilleran pressed the button, the voice was that of Wetherby Goode: “This is Joe. Polly called and asked me to give her cats their breakfast. She said to tell you she won’t be home till late afternoon.”

Qwilleran fortified himself with a cup of coffee and dialed the weatherman. He said, “Appreciate the message, Joe. Did she mention what was happening in that jungle down there?”

“Just what I was going to ask you, pal.”

“She went to a dinner last night, leaving her cats on the automatic feeder and expecting to drive back this morning for the usual Sunday activities. No telling what changed her mind.”

“Anything can happen south of the border.”

“You should know, Joe.” (He was a native of Horseradish down there.) “Polly went to a birthday party for a friend who was library director of Lockmaster but left to manage the family bookstore.”

“Sure, I know the store. Bestbooks. It’s been there forever. Why weren’t you invited?”

“I was, but I declined. They play guessing games at their parties.”

“I know what you mean….”

“Stop in for a snort on your way to your broadcast tomorrow and I’ll fill you in—on who won.”

During this conversation, the Siamese had sat side by side, quietly awaiting developments. He gave them a good brushing with the silver-backed hairbrush…then played a few rounds of the necktie game…then announced, “Read!” Koko leaped to the bookshelf and knocked downPortrait of a Lady. It had more gilt on the spine, he observed, than others that had come in the last purchase.

The first chapter was interrupted by the phone—and the comfortable voice of Mildred Riker, inviting him to an afternoon repast with the Rikers. “But I can’t find Polly,” she said. “She wasn’t at church.”

“She’s out of town,” Qwilleran explained.