The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

As they talked, Qwilleran’s gaze was prone to wander across the room to a table where three women were lunching in unusual hats.

He remarked, “Polly would go for those bizarre hats, and she could wear one well.”

The editor corrected him. “Moira says they’re called art hats.”

“I beg everyone’s pardon” was the facetious apology. “Do you know the women who’re wearing them? They keep looking over here at us.”

“They’re looking at your moustache. They all know who you are. They see your photo in the Qwill Pen on Tuesdays and Fridays…. I still think you should syndicate it to theLedger. ”

“Pleasant thought, but it wouldn’t work.” He grabbed the check when it came to the table. “My treat. Tell Moira she can invite us to dinner when Polly gets back.”

The editor left, and Qwilleran signed the check and left a tip, noting that two art hats had left the room, and the other woman was still eyeing his moustache.

On the way out of the restaurant he said to the hostess, “I’m embarrassed. I know that woman at the fireplace table, but I can’t place her.”

The hostess’s face brightened. “There are usually three. The public library is closed on Thursday, and they call themselves the Librarians Who Lunch. That one is Vivian Hartman, the chief librarian.”

She looked very pleasant when he approached. Her hat, he noted, was brimmed and about a foot in diameter…two shades of velvet, and a large silk sash with a realistic peony.

“I beg your pardon, are you Miss Hartman? I’m Jim Qwilleran from theMoose County Something .”

“Yes, I know! Won’t you sit down?” she answered, and he pulled up a chair.

“I must say I admire the hats you ladies wear.”

“We make them ourselves…in memory of your Thelma Thackeray. Her brother Thurston had a veterinary hospital here. We’re still grieving over both of them. Not to mention her loss of twenty-five art hats.” She looked for his reaction.

He nodded somberly. “Did you know that they had been photographed just before the calamity?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No one in Lockmaster knew!”

“Our photographer was commissioned, and I went along to hold his lights. I could show you a set of glossy prints—if you would come for lunch at my barn next Thursday,” he said. “Thelma had commissioned a California woman to write a book, but she lost interest when the hats were destroyed…. Perhaps…”

“Yes…perhaps,” the librarian said, “we might revive the idea.”

TEN

As F Day approached, Polly became more distracted. There was no time for dining at fine restaurants followed by a classical concert on the magnificent music system of Qwilleran’s barn. She spent her days instructing Judd and Peggy to take over the Pirate’s Chest in her absence. She spent her evenings making packing lists, reading about Paris, brushing up on her college French, having long telephone conversations with Shirley Bestover; Qwilleran felt left out. His offers of “any kind of assistance” were appreciated but apparently unneeded.

That evening and in those to come, Qwilleran took the initiative to phone at elevenP .M., knowing that Polly would be distracted with last-minute considerations of all kinds. She had not yet told him when she was leaving, and he stubbornly refused to ask. He said not a word about his Theater of the Absurd project (she had always despised that kind of play) or the Librarians Who Lunch.

Polly told him, “Wetherby Goode will take Brutus and Catta to the Pet Plaza and visit them twice a week. Isn’t that thoughtful of him? Dr. Connie will water my plants and take in my mail. We have such wonderful neighbors at the Willows.” (Qwilleran had no comment.)

She said, “There’s a five-hour difference in time between Paris and Pickax, dear, so we’ll have to forgo our late-night chats.”

“I’ll give you a pocket recorder to take along, and you can dictate a running account of your adventures to bring home.”

He told her, “If any problems arise in Paris, don’t hesitate to contact me collect—at any hour of the day or night, regardless of time differential.”

When his parting gifts were delivered (blue gabardine for her, khaki gabardine for Shirley), the two women were overwhelmed. It was not until they had left for the Lockmaster airport in Shirley’s son’s limousine that Qwilleran felt at ease again, and not even lonely! After all, he had Koko and Yum Yum for companions, two columns a week to write for the newspaper. He was committed to deadline on Homer Tibbitt’s biography. He was working on his program for the Senior Health Club, to be given at the community hall since the redesigned building was far from complete. Also, the Literary Club’s visiting lecturer on Proust was scheduled to be his overnight guest at the barn. (He was said to be an ailurophile, so Koko’s aerial demonstrations would be amusing, not threatening.) Plus, to write a play in the absurdist style. All this…and Polly would be gone only two weeks!

Later that evening Qwilleran called Kip MacDiarmid at home. “Were you serious about my writing an absurdist play?”

“I think it would be a hoot,” Kip replied.