The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

Toward the end of the meal Qwilleran asked, “How do you feel about the Last Drink party?”

“Not strongly. How do you feel?”

“It’s April fifteenth trying to be New Year’s Eve, but we should make an appearance. I have to be home by ten; I’m expecting an important phone call.”

When they left the dining room, the innkeeper asked if they had enjoyed their dinner, and they were trying to say something tactful, when the young housekeeper came bouncing down the stairs again.

“Mr. Knox! The lady on the third floor wants to know if Nicodemus could spend the night with her! She’s lonesome for her five cats.”

Hearing his name, a sleek black cat slinked into their midst-a cat with eyes that burned like live coals.

“Certainly,” the innkeeper said. “Take him upstairs, and don’t forget his water dish and commode.”

Ah! Qwilleran thought. Maggie’s still here!

nineteen

When Qwilleran and Polly arrived at the party, they were greeted effusively by their neighbors: “We were afraid you weren’t coming! … Derek has written a new song… . What are you drinking?… Try some of the chicken liver pate.”

Wetherby Goode played a fanfare on the piano and announced, “And now the moment you have been waiting for! Derek Cuttlebrink plays his latest creation: ‘Pickax the Proud’!”

There were cheers as everyone’s favorite folksinger stepped to the microphone, strummed a few chords, and sang:

We’re the friendly folk of Pickax, U.S.A. We find each other’s puppies when they stray.

Our bosses give us raises

And we always sing their praises, And we’re getting better-looking every day.

If someone does us dirt we never sue. We lend the guy next door a buck or two.

We’re the first at paying taxes

And the last at grinding axes. And gossiping we never, never do!

When someone suggested making it the official anthem of Pickax City, the Villagers roared their approval. Derek winked broadly at Qwilleran, who left immediately with Polly-both of them murmuring excuses and regrets.

Around ten o’clock the Siamese were watching

Qwilleran prepare a tray of beverages and cheeses when their heads swiveled toward the foyer. An unearthly sound was coming from the street.

On the sidewalk stood Andrew Brodie in the fatigues he usually wore to rake leaves, and he was piping a wild Scottish dance.

When the last bouncing, heel-clicking notes had trailed off into silence, Qwilleran called out, “Andy! What’s that insane tune?”

“The Drunken Piper.”

“Then come in and sober up.”

He followed Qwilleran into the kitchen, dropping the bagpipe on the sofa. There the Siamese could sniff the strange animal and decide whether it was dead or alive.

“How did it go at the hospital?”

“I played his favorite hymns, and he was peaceful when I left.”

The refreshments were served in the living room, where there was a small fire crackling in the grate. The guest looked about appreciatively. “Pretty big robins, those … are those apples real?… That pitcher is some chunk of glass!” Then he asked, “How come you aren’t out having a Last Drink?”

“This is my Last Drink.”

“Are you one of those idiots who rush out into the street when snow starts to fly and stick out their tongues?”

“I can’t say I fit that description.”

“If a snowflake lands on your tongue, it’s supposed to be good luck. Downtown will be full of crazy fools running around with tongues hanging out like overheated dogs.”

The telephone rang. “Let it ring,” Qwilleran said. “I think they’ll leave a message.”

After a few rings, a man’s voice said, “Qwill, this is Kirt. The answer is yes. Tomorrow at twelve noon. You’re making a wise choice.”

“Are you ready for the Big One tonight?” Brodie asked.

“I don’t expect it as soon as the National Weather Service predicts. When my weather cat stages his meteorological catfit, it’ll be time to batten down the hatches.”

“One of my neighbor’s kids won a pencil in your contest. He wrote a poem about his cats… . Where are your chums?”

“The little pickpocket has an eye on your wristwatch. The smart one, as you call him, is staring at you from the stairs and wondering when the law agencies are going to solve a perfectly obvious case.”

“What’s his take on the situation?” Brodie asked as seriously as if consulting Hercule Poirot.

“First, let me refresh your drink,” Qwilleran said, “and help yourself to the cheese.” He took his time before answering the question. “If you’ve never heard Koko’s death howl in the middle of the night, you don’t know what cold sweat is all about. It means murder! He howled at the precise moment when Ruff Abbey was shot…. and again when Cass Young was killed. But first he howled when the thousands of books were burned. Koko considers that murder… . and by the way, arson was ruled out, but I have a theory about that.”

“Let’s hear it!”

“Some unauthorized individual let himself in the back door, and Edd’s cat escaped, thus saving his life. Winston had never wanted to go out, but his animal instinct warned him of impending evil-the same instinct that charges Koko’s batteries.”