The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

After Koko had finished his breakfast, he walked directly to the glove box as if it were his assignment for the day. It was still open, and he jumped in, settling down in a huddled posture to fit the space: back humped, head and ears alert, tail drooping over the outside of the box.

It was obvious to Qwilleran that the cat’s body seemed elevated as if on a cushion. He brought a ruler from his desk and measured the height of the box and the depth of the interior. It was six inches outside, four inches inside.

“A false bottom!” he said aloud. “Sorry to disturb you, old boy.”

He closed the lid and turned the box over for examination. As he did so, there was an unexpected sound from within-not a rattle but a swish. He grasped the box firmly and shook it hard. Something was sliding about inside: an old love letter? A deed to the old homestead? A forgotten stock certificate now worth millions? Whatever it was, Koko had known that something was entombed. It might be the skeleton of a mouse or the turnkey from a sardine can. Chuckling, Qwilleran tackled the secret compartment-pressing, prying, pounding while Koko yowled at his elbow. The more vigorous the attack, the more active the contents and the louder the yowls. Attracted by the excitement, Yum Yum was adding her shrieks.

“Shut up!” the man yelled, and the cats turned up the volume.

Qwilleran had an urge to take a hatchet to the stubborn chunk of wood but was saved by the telephone bell.

“Good morning, dear,” said Polly. “I’ll be chained to my desk all day and would appreciate some oranges and pears, if you’re coming in to Toodle’s.”

He agreed and at the same time solved his own problem. Susan Exbridge had a desk in her shop with a secret compartment; she would have a suggestion. The box he would leave at home, however. He was not supposed to have it. Polly would not want it known that she had given away Kirt’s heirloom, and Susan would be too curious about what came out of it.

Her store hours were eleven maybe to five-maybe. He dressed and drove downtown at eleven. Of course, she was not there. He stood on the street corner trying to decide where to go for coffee.

The center of town seemed unusually crowded. It looked as if a parade were scheduled. There were two PPD patrol cars in evidence. Qwilleran went to investigate.

Three officers were milling around, and one of them was Andrew Brodie; it had to be important to bring the chief out. Pedestrians were spilling out into the street, and police were detouring southbound traffic through Book Alley. One lane was kept open for northbound. Qwilleran quickened his pace when he realized the crowd was surging around the post office. They were noisy but not belligerent.

“What’s up, Andy?” he called out.

“Protest about the murals. Peaceful so far.”

There were no picket signs, no photographers, no officials to hear the complaints-just townfolk feeling bad and saying, “Isn’t it terrible?”

The chief said, “We need to bring it to a head, Qwill, so they’ll go home and let traffic get back to normal-before some hothead throws a brick.… Why don’t you go up there and talk to them?”

“Me?”

“You’ve got the gift of gab, and they’ll listen to you.” Without further words, Brodie grabbed his arm and started hustling him through the crowd. “Coming through! Make way! Step back, please!”

Onlookers recognized the moustache. “Is that him? … It’s Mr. Q! … Is he gonna talk to us?”

A flight of four steps on one side, and a ramp on the other, led to the post office doors. Qwilleran mounted the steps to the small concrete stoop and turned to face the assemblage. The babble of voices became a tumult of cheers and applause, until he raised his hand for silence.

Before he could speak, a man’s voice called out, “Where’s Koko?”

There was a burst of laughter.

Koko’s amusing and exasperating antics were chronicled in the “Qwill Pen,” reminding readers of their own unpredictable felines.

Qwilleran, speaking with his theatre voice that required no microphone or bullhorn, said that Koko was at home, devising something special in the way of a catfit to usher in the Big One.

The tension was broken. He surveyed his audience with the brooding gaze that they always construed as sympathetic. “I know why you’re here, and I know how you feel. I feel the same way. Most of you have had a lifelong friendship with these murals. You know the nineteenth-century pioneers as if they were your neighbors. You can see them with your eyes closed: tilling a field with a horse-drawn plow, spinning wool on a wheel, building a log cabin, shoeing a horse, riding a log run down the river, drying fishnets on the beach, carrying a pickax and a lunch bucket to the mine. And you know what he’s got for lunch.”

“A pasty!” everyone shouted.

“But time changes all things. The colors are fading, and the paint is flaking-a serious health hazard. Do we want to board up the murals and paint the walls government tan?”

“No! No!”