"It's a long way off," Liz said. "Sometimes we hear distant thunder for two days and nights before the storm reaches us. It's rather exciting."
"Nevertheless, we should take this tired nag back to the stable for his afternoon nap," Qwilleran said.
Downtown he checked the post officethere was no mail from Pollyand hailed a cab to take Liz home.
"I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my mind and my heart," she said. "Would you be my guest for lunch at the clubhouse some day?"
He agreed, hoping the invitation would be delayed un til he was safely back in Pickax. He had done his gooc deedtwo of them, in fact. He had listened sympatheti cally and allowed himself to be adopted as a godfather of sorts. From a practical point of view, meeting the roya family had been unproductive, supplying no material for his column and no leads in his investigation. Further more, if and when he ever wrote his book, it would no be about people like the Appelhardts . . . What prompted this asocial thinking was an immediate concern of his own, prompted by Lyle Compton's casual remark that Polly might decide to stay in Oregon. Qwilleran's uneasiness increased as each day passed without a postcard.
CHAPTER 16
After dropping his lunch date at The Pines, Qwilleran went into the lounge at the Domino Inn to borrow some newspapers. There were few guests in evidence, but that was understandable; it was a weekday, and weather predictions for the next five days were iffy. Thunder still rumbled sporadically. It was not coming any closer; it was simply a warning of something that might never happen.
At the fruit basket he was glad to see that the pears had been replaced by apples. He was helping himself to one red and one green when the vice president in charge of communications and deliveries dashed up to him with two slips of paper, a foil-wrapped package the size of a brick, and an excited announcement in the language that Qwilleran was beginning vaguely to understand. As far as he could construe, either Sherman had had kittens, or Sheba was afraid of thunder, or Shoo Shoo had thrown up a hairball. He nodded and thanked Mitchell and then read his two telephone messages:
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TO: Mr. Q
FROM: Andrew Brodie
REC'D: Tuesday 1:15 P.M.
MESSAGE: George Dulac. Lake Worth FL
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To Qwilleran the name sounded Slavic. This was the ill-fated hotel guest who had conversed with a woman in a foreign language. The other message was from Dwight Somers: "Leaving the island. Information you want is in the mail." From these few words Qwilleran deduced that the public-relations man had been fired, possibly for snooping in the hotel's confidential records. If that were the case, Qwilleran rationalized, his friend was better off; he was too good for XYZ; he deserved more civilized working conditions; he could start his own agency.
When Qwilleran returned to Four Pips, he found two restless cats. They could hear the far-off thunder, and they knew instinctively what was in store. They might, in fact, know more than the weather forecasters. Koko was prowling and looking for ways to get into trouble. Yum Yum was murmuring to herself as she tried to open a desk drawer. When Qwilleran opened it to show her that is was empty, that was even more frustrating to her feline sensibility. He tried reading to the Siamese from the editorial page of the Moose County Something, but they were bored. So was he. All three of them were at sixes and sevens.
Polly was on his mind, along with the reasons why she would decide to move to Oregon: Her old school chum pressured her into relocating; the opportunities for bird-ing were irresistible; a suburban library needed a librarian with Polly's expertise and made her a good offer; she had reached the restless age and was ready for a new challenge. Although he tried to be understanding, Qwilleran found it difficult to imagine life without Polly. True, he had many friends, and two animal companions, and an enviable place to live, and a column to write for the newspaper, and a host of devoted readers, and money to spend. Yet, Polly filled a long-felt need in his life.
"Enough of this sentimentality!" he said to the Siamese, and he made a meatloaf sandwich. They muddled through the evening, hearing sounds of yet another audition at Five Pips. The atmosphere was calm, and the unceasing thunder seemed to be coming from several directions. Shortly before midnight he gave the cats their bedtime treat and retired, taking care to close the bedroom door. When the weather was threatening, they liked to crowd into his bed. He thought he would have trouble sleeping, but ...
Qwilleran was sound asleep when the disturbance started outside his doorfirst the yowling, then the urgent scratching on the door panels. He sat up in bed and checked the hour; it was almost two o'clock. Then he smelled smoke. It was not tobacco this time; it was something burning. He checked his own kitchen burners hastily and then stepped outside with a flashlight.
Black smoke was issuing from the cottage next door. Without a second's hesitation he ran to Five Pips and pounded on the door, shouting "June! June! Fire!" The door was locked. He tried to kick it in, but he was wearing only light slippers. He lunged at it, but it held fast. He smashed the front window with his flashlight and then ran up the lane to ring the firebell. He clanged it again and again. Lights appeared instantly in certain windows of the inn, and Nick's voice shouted. "Where is it?" "The last cottage!" "Get out! Get everybody out!"
Qwilleran ran back to pull on some clotheshe was still in pajama bottoms and slippersand stuff the cats into their carrier. He could hear a motor vehicle in the distance and the emergency beepbeepbeep. As soon as he emerged, lugging the carrier, Nick was running down the lane in full firefighting gear.
"Get everybody to the inn!" he yelled.
Now the motors of heavy vehicles could be heard on the still night air. The family in the first cottageparents and two childrenstood outside, confused and frightened.
"Go to the inn!" Qwilleran shouted. "Keep out of the way! The fire trucks are coming!" Already the police car was rounding the building.
In the lounge, where guests were standing around in nightclothes and robes, the Bamba cats hissed and growled at the sight of the caged Siamese invading their territory.
"Take them upstairs and shut them up in any vacant room," Lori said to Qwilleran. She was moving among the guests and saying, "Everything's under control ... Don't be alarmed ... The fire trucks are on the way ... We've got plenty of water in the lake ... There's no wind tonight, so it won't spread."
From the upstairs window Qwilleran saw the police car floodlighting the burning building. Black smoke billowed from the windows. Then the tanker and pumper arrived, and a line was run down to the lake. Soon his own cottage was being hosed down with torrents of water. An ambulance lumbered onto the scene, and a stretcher was rushed to the end of the lane. When another firefighter came running, helmet in hand, he recognized Harriet Beadle; she went to work as a backup on the hose.
The Siamese, sensing the tension of the emergency, were solemnly quiet when he released them from the carrier and left them alone.
Downstairs Lori said, "I'm fixing coffee for the firefighters. Does anyone want to help make sandwiches?" "I can do that," Qwilleran offered. While she cut lunchmeat and separated cheese slices, he spread mayonnaise on bread. "I saw her being loaded into the ambulance," he said gruffly.
"We were afraid she'd get us into trouble," Lori said in a quiet voice. "She was so self-willed."
"Today she was walking around the yard with a lighted cigarette and an ashtray, and she told me she was observing house rules. I assumed she had reformed, but she had company tonight, and they may have been careless."
Lori looked out the window. "I don't see flames. They must have contained the fire. Thank God there's no wind. You won't be able to use your cottage, Qwill. We'll make up a suite, and you can spend the rest of the week upstairs . . . Listen! I hear the chopper. They're taking her to the mainland."