"Gritty had always wanted to marry a Goodwinter, and she always did exactly what she wanted. It was a strange match. She's a spirited girl who likes a good time. Senior had no spirit at all and was certainly not my idea of a good time. How they produced Junior, I can't explain. He's too small to be Gritty's offspring — she's such an amazon! — and too smart to be Senior's son."
"Recessive genes," Qwilleran said. "He resembles his grandmother."
"You are a charming man, Mr. Qwilleran. I wish Junior might have had you for a father."
"You are a charming woman, Mrs. Gage."
They both paused for a moment of mutual admiration, and he found himself wishing she were thirty years younger. Spirit — that's what she had — spirit! Probably the result of all that breathing.
"Do you think Junior shows promise?" she asked.
"Great promise, Mrs. Gage. You can be proud of him. Were you aware that the Picayune was failing?"
"Of course I was aware. I tried to help. I don't know what that man did with my money, unless..."
"Unless what, Mrs. Gage?"
"I'll be perfectly frank. Let it all hang out, as Junior says. You see, I learned in a roundabout way that Senior had been making frequent one-day trips Down Below. To Minneapolis, as a matter of fact. If my son-in-law had ever shown any spirit, I would have guessed it was another woman. Under the circumstances, I could only deduce that he was gambling as a last resort — gambling and losing."
"Has it occurred to you that his death may have been suicide?"
She looked startled. "Senior would not have the spirit, Mr. Qwilleran, to take his own life."
Upon leaving, he said, "You are an excellent subject for an interview, Mrs. Gage. I hope we can meet again — perhaps for dinner some evening."
"I shall be delighted to accept if the invitation is still good in the spring. I leave for Florida tomorrow," she said. "This has been such a pleasure, Mr. Qwilleran. Now don't forget to breathe!"
Qwilleran was in a good mood that evening as he lounged in his favorite leather chair in the library, stroking the cat on his lap and waiting for a book to hit the carpet. He had stopped remonstrating; the book trick was becoming a game that he and Koko played together. The cat pulled out a title; Qwilleran read aloud, accompanied by purrs, iks, and yows.
On this occasion Koko's selection was The Life of Henry' V, a good choice, Qwilleran thought. He thumbed through the pages for a passage he liked: the king' s pep talk to his troops. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends; once more!"
Koko assumed his listening position, sitting tall and attentive on the desktop, his tail curled around his front paws, his blue eyes sparkling black in the lamplight.
It was a powerful speech, filled with graphic detail. "But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger!"
"Yow!" said Koko.
With such an appreciative audience Qwilleran was not shy about dramatizing the script. With a terrible look in his eyes he wrinkled his brow, stiffened his sinews, bared his teeth, stretched his nostrils, and breathed hard. Koko was purring hoarsely.
Bellowing at full volume, Qwilleran delivered the last line: "Cry God for Harry! England and Saint George!"
"YOW-OW!" Koko howled. Yum Yum fled from the room in alarm, and Mrs. Cobb came running.
"Oh! I thought you were being murdered, Mr. Q."
"Merely reading to Koko," he explained. "He seems to enjoy the sound of the human voice."
"It's your voice he likes. Last night everyone was saying you should join the theater group," she said.
When the household returned to its normal calm, a name flashed across Qwilleran's mind — Harry Noyton. He had had dealings with Harry Down Below. The man was a reckless entrepreneur who was always searching for a new challenge or a financial gamble. No matter how absurd the proposition, Harry always made it pay. He was currently living alone in Chicago, in a penthouse atop an office tower he had built.
On an impulse Qwilleran dialed Noyton's apartment, and a subhuman voice stated that he could be reached at his London hotel.
"How's that for a coincidence?" Quilleran asked Koko. "Harry's in England!" He glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. It would be the middle of the night in London. All the better! Noyton had often roused him from sleep at an un- earthly hour, and without apology.
He dialed the London hotel, expecting it to be the Saint George, but it was Claridge's. When Noyton's voice came on the phone he sounded as vigorous as he did at high noon; his energy was phenomenal.
"Qwill! How's the boy? I hear you're living high on the hog since leaving the Flux. What's cookin'? I know you never spend a quarter on a phone call unless it's urgent."
"How would you like to be a newspaper tycoon, Harry?"
"Is the Fluxion up for sale?"
Qwilleran described the situation in Pickax, adding, "It would be a crime to prostitute a century-old newspaper as an advertising throwaway. The county needs a paper, and the Picayune name is part of everyone's life. It's had national publicity this week, and there's more to come. If someone made the widow a better offer, she might see the light."
"Hell, I'll talk to the widow. I'm good at talking to widows."
Qwilleran believed it. Noyton was a self-made man with a talent for attracting women as well as money, although he had never acquired any polish. Even in a tailor-made three-piece suit he succeeded in looking like a scarecrow. He had several ex-wives and was always looking for another.
"I'm flying home tomorrow," he said. "How do I get to Pickax? Never heard of the place."
"You fly to Minneapolis and then pick up a hedgehopper to Moose County. Sorry I don't know the schedule. Probably they've never had one."
"I'll charter something. I'll get there somehow. Nobody can keep me on the ground for long."
"Better get here before snow flies."
"I'll give you a ring from Minneapolis."
"Good! I'll pick you up at the airport, Harry."
With a comfortable feeling of accomplishment, Qwilleran began his nightly house check and, in so doing, found another pigskin book on the floor. This time it was All's Well That Ends Well.
"It hasn't ended yet, old boy," he told Koko as he dropped the two protesting cats into the wicker hamper.
He was right. At two o'clock in the morning he was roused from sleep by a telephone call from Jody.
"Mr. Qwilleran, I'm so worried. Juney hasn't come home."
"Maybe he went to his mother's house. Have you called there?"
"There was no answer. Pug has gone back to Montana, and Mrs. Goodwinter is probably staying... in Indian Village. I called Grandma Gage earlier, and she thought Juney was still Down Below. I even called Roger, his friend in Mooseville."
"Then we'd better notify the police. I'll call the sheriff. You sit tight."
"I'm going crazy, Mr. Qwilleran. I feel like going out and looking for him myself."
"You can't do that, Jody. You should call a friend and have her stay with you. How about Francesca?"
"I hate to call her so late."
"I'll call her for you. A police chief's daughter is used to emergencies. Now you hang up so I can call the sheriff. And drink some warm milk, Jody."
7
Saturday, November sixteenth. "Possibility of snow squalls today with falling temperatures. Presently it's twenty-five degrees. Last night's low, fifteen... And now for the news: A hunter reported missing early this morning has been found by sheriffs deputies aided by state troopers. Junior Goodwinter is listed in fair condition at Pickax Hospital, suffering from exposure and a broken leg."
As Qwilleran later learned from police chief Brodie, a deputy on routine patrol of side roads on the opening day of hunting season had spotted the red Jaguar parked near a wooded area. When Junior was reported missing, they were able to start the search at that point, using tracking dogs and the mounted posse, a volunteer group of farmers who were expert horsemen.