“Something went wrong.”
“I’ll go right to the inn. I may be needed. Thanks, Qwill.”
Qwilleran felt a rush of blood, a burst of energy, a flashback to his old days as a police reporter Down Below. Koko, who had been sitting there to monitor the calls, was less involved. He pushed the script of the theatre club’s new play onto the floor.
“Not now,” Qwilleran said, picking it up and putting it in a safe place. He was asking himself: Where was the niece? What could she tell? When had she last seen the jewel cases? What had been done with the cash from the day’s purchasers? After leaving the dinner party early, where had they gone? What did they do?… And then his curiosity took a different turn. Why did Koko howl in the middle of the night? It was about two-thirty. What was the time of death? And why was the cat sitting near the phone, looking so wise?
No doubt about it, Qwilleran mused; he was an unusual animal. All cats have certain senses that are denied to humans; they tell time without a clock and find their way without a map. Koko’s intuition went beyond that. He knew right from wrong, and he had known that something was wrong at two-thirty A.M. Some things cannot be explained, and Qwilleran had learned to accept the cat’s uncanny perceptions.
His own curiosity about the murder would have to go unsatisfied; no facts were known. Even WPKX had nothing to offer when the first news bulletin interrupted the country music:
“A Chicago businessman registered at the Mackintosh Inn was found dead in the presidential suite this morning, a victim of homicide. No further details have been released, and the victim’s name is withheld until the notification of relatives. Local and state police are investigating.”
Qwilleran was aware that his newspaper would have reporters out in the field, hounding every news source in time for the noon deadline and afternoon publication. Still, he felt the urge to do a little snooping himself. He dressed hurriedly and walked downtown, without even saying goodbye to the Siamese – a courtesy that meant more to himself than to them.
His first stop was the public library, known as the information center of the county – not because of its extensive book collection and expensive computer system but because it was the hub of the Pickax grapevine. In moments of crisis its subscribers flocked to the library to exchange questions, hearsay, and rash guesses, all of which would be circulated throughout the county by phone, in coffee shops, and on street corners. It was a traditional system that worked – for better or worse.
Qwilleran walked slowly up the broad steps to the library, wondering what information and misinformation would be circulating at this early hour. He found the young clerks behind the desk in a huddle, speaking in hushed voices. Volunteers had their heads together in the stacks. Subscribers stood about in clusters, their solemn faces indicating they were not critiquing a bestseller. Only Mac and Katie, the two feline mascots, were unperturbed, being engaged in social grooming. Qwilleran spoke to them, and they looked up at him briefly with extended tongues. Then he bounded up the stairs to the mezzanine, where Polly could be seen in her glass-enclosed cubicle.
She was hanging up the phone as he entered. “Well!” she said vehemently. “Have you heard the news?”
“Off-putting, isn’t it?” he remarked. “You and I and the Lanspeaks must have been the last outside contacts he had! How did you hear about it?”
“One of our volunteers has a son who’s a day porter at the inn. She knew I’d met Mr. Delacamp.”
“Did her son have any particulars?”
“Only that the assistant hadn’t been around – probably upstairs being interrogated. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? What’s your mission this morning?”
“I’m on my way to see the Lanspeaks at the store.”
“Carol will be flabbergasted!”
At the department store he went directly to the office under the main staircase, standing outside until she had finished a phone call.
She beckoned to him to come in, but all she could say was, “I’m flabbergasted!”
He sat down without waiting to be invited. “How did you hear about it?”
“From Viyella, the morning clerk at the inn. She’s in my Sunday school class and was one of the French maids at the tea. She knew I’d be flabbergasted.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Do you have any inside information?”
“Only that the police are there, and half the third floor is cordoned off.”
“Viyella says they’re questioning the staff and the guests and cautioning everyone not to talk about the case.”
“How did she contact you?”
“She wrote a note, and the day porter brought it to me.”
“What’s Larry’s reaction to the news?”
