When Qwilleran phoned Polly at eleven o'clock, his first words were 'What do you know about George Ade?'
`American humorist,' she said. 'Turn of the last century.' `Once a librarian, always a librarian,' he said.
Chapter 22
On Wednesday morning Qwilleran fed the cats and recited a few lines of Rudyard Kipling as their thought for the day. He himself had a bowl of cereal with a sliced banana, followed by the obligatory cup of coffee.
Thus fortified, he called the city room at the paper and asked to speak to Whiskers.
`He doesn't work here any more,' said the deskman. `Since when?' was the shocked response.
`Since yesterday.'
`What happened?'
`I don't know. Talk to the boss.'
Qwilleran sat down with a second cup of coffee and reflected: was he fired? Did he quit? In either case, what was the reason? Was he in trouble? Had he blurted out too many secrets and suspicions while under the influence of Squunk water and a sympathetic listener?
Qwilleran phoned the managing editor. 'Junior! What happened to Whiskers?'
`He quit to go back to school.'
`So suddenly?'
`Well, you know . . . these young kids don't know which way is up.'
Did he leave a forwarding address? I owe him for some legwork he did.'
`No address. He'll probably send you a bill. How about running copy for us until we can hire a replacement?'
`You couldn't afford me.'
Hanging up abruptly, Qwilleran next called Peggy at the Winston Park apartments. 'This is Qwill. What happened to your neighbour with the whiskers?'
`I don't know. I had a dinner date with - guess who! -Wetherby Goode! We went to - guess where! - the Palomino Paddock! And when I got home, there was a note from Kenneth asking me to turn in his rental car and collect what you owe him for his research assignment. Does that make sense?'
`I understand that, but what I don't understand is why. Did he leave an address?'
`Nothing! I thought you and Ken had a good working arrangement.'
`We did, and he did good work. So his defection comes as a surprise. Let me know what expenses need to be covered. How did you like the Palomino Paddock?'
`Super! Wetherby said it was informal, and I expected some kind of hayseed operation, but it was quite classy in spite of all the horsy atmosphere.'
Qwilleran had met Judd Amhurst briefly at Hibbard House one evening, and they had exchanged the fraternal handshake of Squunkers. A growing number of thirsty citizens of Moose County were adopting the local mineral water as their drink of choice.
Now Connie suggested Judd as the best source of contemporary trivia about the Big House on the Hill.
So Qwilleran phoned and invited him to the Village for an afternoon of memories about Hibbard House. As Qwilleran recalled, he was a retired engineer, distinguished by a crop of snow-white hair. It was not as full and rampant as that of Thornton Haggis, but it had the same kind of attraction for Koko and Yum Yum.
They met him in the foyer of Unit Four, with tails waving. Judd asked, 'Are these the two characters who write the "Qwill Pen" column?'
`The secret is out! I hope it won't go any further. Have you visited Indian Village before?'
`I've attended a couple of meetings of the bird club, and once I gave a talk on the birds of the Hibbard estate. It took a lot of research, but I enjoyed it.'
Qwilleran said, 'It sounds like data that could be used in the book. Do you have your notes?'
`Better yet, the bird club taped my remarks, and a transcription should be available.'
They sat in the two lounge sofas, facing each other across the opulent pile rug.
`It's even shaggier than Alden's,' Judd said. 'His sitting room is quite modern.'
Then he explained that the four male residents had quarters in a stone guest house down the hill from the main building.
`Cyrus, the first Hibbard, was in the sawyer business and was infatuated with wood - which is all very well, but his descendants have lived in fear of fire ever since.' Qwilleran said, 'I'd like to tape this.'
The following account was recorded:
Violet's grandfather, Geoffrey, was educated at schools in New England and abroad and was a highly social creature. He would invite his whole fraternity up in the summer, a few at a time. They would arrive by train, which had replaced the stagecoach. They would spend a couple of weeks, housed in a guest house of quarry stone that Geoffrey built down the hill on the edge of a picturesque pond. It was a common frog pond, and the bullfrogs kept the guests awake with their amorous croaking. He had given the elegant guest house a snooty French name, but waggish guests changed it to the Froggery, and frog legs a la Provencal were frequently on the menu.
Dinners were black-tie every night, Violet said, with music by a string trio, footmen to serve, and a butler to pour.
But the twentieth century was making life more casual, and her father, Jesmore, was more interested in literature than entertaining, so the Froggery was boarded up. It came to life only when Violet inherited - with a new name. Alden called it the Old Rock Pile.
The facilities are fantastic. Each of our suites has a sitting room lavishly furnished, and a whirlpool bath. Evenings in the main house are made very special by Violet's hospitality . . . That's the story!
Qwilleran turned off the tape recorder and asked, 'Are you a duck hunter like the others?'
`No. I'm a bookworm. What attracted me to the residence was the extensive library. Violet gave a lot of books to ESP, but there are hundreds remaining - not current bestsellers but famous oldies, like Portrait of a Lady and Mill on the Floss.
`What I like about Alden is that he can discuss books. I've never known anyone else who shared my particular interest. Otherwise, we watch sports on TV and play cards.'
Qwilleran inquired politely if Alden's marriage had put a crimp in ping-pong tournaments, card games, and so on.
`No,' he said. 'She's quite a bit older, you know, and not in the best of health, they say, so she retires early and Alden can stay up playing ping-pong or pinochle.
`And speaking of ESP, as we were, I was a Saturday regular at Edd Smith's shop. I spent a lot of time on his ladder and bought a lot of sardines for Winston. Your speech at the lit club brought it all back.'
The two men gazed into space for a few moments until Qwilleran asked, 'How did the residents at Hibbard House react to Violet's sudden marriage?'
`We all said the right things, but no one said what he was really thinking. Alden's a good guy - talented and all that - but he comes on a little strong . . . I'm talking more than I should. Don't quote me.'
`Have no fear. This is merely local colour . . . for my ears only! What I need now is the kind of folklore that's soaked up in the woodwork of old buildings, myths and mysteries.'
`I'll scout around. Violet's father left a diary—'
`Perfect!'
`I'll ask her if I can see it . . . and even if she says I can't, I know where it is.'
He stood up to leave, and the Siamese - who had been listening to his every word for reasons of their own - stepped aside to let him pass.
`Nice cats!' he said.
`They're on their best behaviour. You should be here when a big storm is coming and they go bananas!'
`Do you let them out?'
`Never!'
`That's good,' Judd said. 'There are coyotes in the woods this year.'
Late in the afternoon, Qwilleran felt thumping vibrations coming through the wall to the north. The Siamese felt it, too, and stared at the wall. He knew what they did not know -Wetherby was rehearsing a piano number to play just before his six-o'clock weather forecast.