Only a critical examination in the bathroom mirror forestalled the rash action.
After a night of fitful sleep he again busied himself with the catalogue cards, but the morning hours dragged by. He glanced at his watch every five minutes.
At long last Mrs. Cobb announced a bit of lunch in the kitchen. "Only leftover vichyssoise and a tuna sandwich," she said.
"I can eat anything," Qwilleran told her. "Leftover vichyssoise, leftover Chateaubriand, leftover strawberry shortcake — anything. I wonder how many Castilian monks sat at this table four centuries ago and had broiled open-face tuna sandwiches with Dijon mustard and capers. They're delicious, Mrs. Cobb." "Thank you. How are you getting along with the typing? Are you getting bored?" "Not at all. It's highly educational. I've just learned that the chest of drawers in the upstairs hall is late baroque in lignum vitae with heartwood oystering. The knowledge will enrich my life immeasurably." "Oh, Mr. Q! You're just being funny." "Where are the cats? They're suspiciously quiet. Can't they smell tuna?" "When I called you for lunch, they were both in the vestibule, waiting for the mail." "Crazy guys!" Qwilleran said. "They know it's not delivered until midaftemoon." Yet, he had to admit that he too was waiting for something to happen.
After lunch he returned to his typewriter and was translating "johirgi fiwil hax" into "Faberg jewel box" when the pitter-patter on the marble floor announced the arrival of the post. An influx of get-well cards was now added to the daily avalanche pouring through the mail slot. Next he heard sounds of swishing, skittering, and scrambling as the Siamese pounced on the pile, sliding and tumbling with joy and talking to themselves in squeaks and mumbles.
Qwilleran let them have their fun. He was busy recording a pair of Hepplewhite knife boxes with silver escutcheons, worth as much as a cabin cruiser, when Koko labored into the library lugging a long envelope in a rich ivory color.
Qwilleran knew that stationery, and his moustache sprang to attention. Feverishly he ran a letter knife across the top of the envelope. There were three pages of single-spaced typing on the Goodwinter and Goodwinter letterhead. It was dated two days before, and the signature had the eccentric e and r that he recognized.
He read the letter and said to himself, She was right; she should have been a writer; she could have written gothic romances.
Dear Qwill, If I disgraced myself last evening, please be understanding, and I implore you to read this letter with the sympathy and compassion you evinced during my visit.
As I write this I am of sound mind — and perfectly sober, I assure you. I am also bitter and contrite in equal proportions. Obviously I am still among the living, but such will not be the case when you receive this letter. Mrs. Fulgrove; has instructions to drop it in the mail in the event of my sudden demise. She is the only person I can trust to carry out my wishes. And if I seem calm and businesslike at this moment, it is because I am endeavoring to emulate you. I have, and always have had, a great deal of admiration for you, Qwill.
In writing this painful confession, my only hope is that you are alive to read it. Otherwise a great misfortune will f befall the people of Moose County. If I can save your life and prevent this — by accusing certain parties — I shall have done penance for my transgressions.
How does one begin?
I have always loved my brother with an irrational passion. Even as a child I was enamored and possessive, yearning for his attention and flying into a rage if he bestowed it elsewhere. Eventually Alex went away to prep school and I was sent to boarding school, but we were always together weekends.
When my father begged me to study law for Alex's sake, I put aside my ambition to be a writer and attended law school gladly. My grandfather had been a chief justice; my father was a brilliant attorney respected in the entire state.
It was intended that Alex should follow in their footsteps. Unfortunately, as my father pointed out, his only son — and — heir would never be more than a third-rate lawyer. I was elected to compensate for his shortcomings and maintain the Goodwinter reputation in the legal field.
I never regretted my role, because it meant Alex and I could be together constantly. My rude awakening occurred five years ago when I discovered he was having an affair with our live-in maid. It was a knife in my heart! Not only had he betrayed me, but he had consorted with the commonest of females — a girl from the Mull tribe. I dismissed her at once.
But worse was yet to come. It was the shattering news that she was pregnant and expected to marry her. Sandy, as she impudently called him. After a brief moment of panic, I steeled myself and devised a constructive solution. I would arrange to send her away for an abortion and pay her to relocate in another state.
But no! Her mother. a woman of dubious reputation, influenced her to decline the abortion and file a paternity suit. My God! That such a calamity should happen to our branch of the family! I was infuriated by the arrogance of these people! In desperation I approached one of Alex's boyhood acquaintances and enlisted his cooperation.
Let me explain. When Alex and I were young, Father insisted that we attend public school in Pickax, expecting democratization to shape our life attitudes. On the contrary, we were harassed by the hateful middle-class children. I used my wits to keep them in their place. but Alex was weak and an easy target for their cruelty. I was obliged to go to his rescue.
I hired the school bully — with my own money — to keep Alex's tormentors in line. He continued as bodyguard and avenger until Father saw fit to send us to better schools in the East.
Five years ago — in our new hour of trouble — I begged the same man to convince the Mull girl to submit to an abortion and leave town permanently, in return for a generous financial arrangement, of course. Lest the support payments be traced to their source, it was agreed that cash would regularly be turned over to our intermediary — to be forwarded. less his commission, to the girl. This subterfuge was my idea. How clever I thought I was! Actually, how naive!
At the time of the girl's departure there was a cave-in at Three Pines Mine, on the heels of which that thoroughly amoral and despicable man gloatingly informed us that she was buried a thousand feet underground and would make no more trouble. He pointed out, however, that we were accomplices before the fact.