The Cat Who Played Brahms (7 page)

Qwilleran tried to start a blaze in the fireplace to dispel the dampness, using Wednesday's paper and some book matches from the hotel, but nothing worked. His chief concern was the condition of his hands and wrists. The itching was unbearable, and blisters were forming as large as poker chips. Furthermore he was beginning to itch here, there, and everywhere.

He dressed without shaving, fed the cats without ceremony, and—even forgetting to wear his new cap—steered the car nervously through the milky atmosphere.

There was a drug store on Main Street, and he showed his blisters to the druggist.

"Got anything for this?"

"Yikes!" said the druggist. "Worse case of poison ivy I've ever seen. You'd better go and get a shot."

"Is there a doctor in town?"

"There's a walk-in clinic in the Cannery Mall. You know the mall? Two miles beyond town-an old fish cannery made into stores and whatnot. In this fog you won't be able to see it, but you'll smell it."

There was hardly a vehicle to be seen on Main Street. Qwilleran hugged the yellow line, watching the odometer, and at the two-mile mark there was no doubt he had reached the Cannery Mall. He angle-parked between two yellow lines and followed the aroma to a bank of plate glass doors opening into an arcade.

The medical clinic, smelling appropriately antiseptic, was deserted except for a plain young woman sitting at a desk. "Is there a doctor here?" he asked.

"I'm the doctor ," she replied, glancing at his hands. "Where did you go to get that magnificent case of ivy poisoning?”

"I guess I picked it up in the old cemetery."

"Really? Aren't you a little old for that kind of thing?" She threw him a mischievous glance.

He was too uncomfortable to appreciate badinage. "I was looking at the old gravestones."

"A likely story. Come into the torture chamber, and I'll give you a shot." She also gave him a tube of lotion and some advice: "Keep your hands out of hot water. Avoid warm showers. And stay away from old cemeteries."

Leaving the clinic Qwilleran was in a sulky humor. He thought the doctor should have been less flip and more sympathetic. By the time he inched his car back to town through the fog, however, the medication was working, bringing not only relief but a heady euphoria, and he remembered that the doctor had attractive green eyes and the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.

At the hotel, where he stopped for coffee and eggs, four men at the next table were complaining about the weather. "The boats won't go out in this soup. Let's get a bottle of red-eye and play some cards."

At the table behind him a familiar voice said: "We're not leaving here (gasp) till we go fishing.”

A shrill flat voice answered: "Why are you so stubborn? You don't even like to fish."

"This is different, I told you. We go out (gasp) on thirty-six-foot trollers and catch maybe twenty-pound trout."

"You said it was too expensive."

"The prices at the main dock are highway robbery, but I found a boat (gasp) that'll take us for fifteen bucks."

Qwilleran's thrifty nature sensed an opportunity, and the combination of the medication and the unnatural atmosphere gave him a feeling of reckless excitement. When the couple left the dining room he followed them. "Excuse me, sir, did I hear you say something about a troller that's less expensive?"

"Sure did! Fifteen bucks for six hours, Split three ways (gasp) that's five bucks apiece. Not bad. Two young fellahs (gasp) own the boat. You interested?"

"Is fishing any good in this weather?"

"These young fellas say it doesn't make any difference, By the way," he wheezed, "my name's Whatley—from Cleveland—wholesale hardware." He then introduced his wife, whose manner was frosty, and he volunteered to drive, since he knew the way to the dock. "The boat ties up outside of town. That's why (gasp) it's cheaper, You have to shop around to get a good buy."

The trip to the dock was another slow agonizing crawl through earthbound clouds, At one point the three giant electric letters of the FCC glowed weakly through the mist.

Farther on, the Cannery Mall announced itself strongly although the building was invisible. Then there were miles of nothing. Each mile seemed like five. Whatley drove on grimly. No one talked, Qwilleran strained his eyes, peering at the road ahead, expecting to meet a pair of yellow foglights head-on or the sudden taillights of a stalled logging truck.

"How will you know when you get there?" he asked.

"Can’t miss it. There's a wreck of a boat (gasp) where we turn off."

When the wreck eventually loomed up out of the mist, Whatley turned down a swampy lane bordering a canal filled with more wrecks.

"I'm sorry I came," Mrs. Whatley announced in her first statement of the day.

Where the lane ended, a rickety wharf extended into the lake, and the three landlubbers groped their way across its rotting planks. The water lapped against the pilings in a liquid whisper, and a hull could be heard creaking against the wharf.

Previously Qwilleran had seen the gleaming white fishing fleet at the municipal pier.

Boats with names like Lady Aurora, Queen of the Lake, and Northern Princess displayed posters boasting of their ship-to-shore radios, fishing sonars, depth-finders, and automatic pilots. So he was not prepared for the Minnie K. It was an old gray tub, rough with scabs of peeling paint. Incrustations on the deck and railings brought to mind the visits of seagulls and the intimate parts of dead fish. The two members of the crew, who were present in a vague sort of way, were as shabby as their craft. One boy was about seventeen, Qwilleran guessed, and the other was somewhat younger. Neither had an alertness that would inspire confidence.

There were no greetings or introductions. The boys viewed the passengers with suspicion and, after collecting their money, got the boat hastily under weigh, barking at each other in meaningless syllables.

Qwilleran asked the younger boy how far out they were planning to cruise and received a grunt in reply.

Mrs. Whatley said: "This is disgusting. No wonder they call these things stink-boats."

"Whaddaya want for five bucks?" her husband said. "The Queen Elizabeth?"

The passengers found canvas chairs, ragged and stained, and the Minnie K moved slowly through the water, creating hardly a ripple. Mr. Whatley dozed from time to time, and his wife opened a paperback book and turned off her hearing aid. For about an hour the boat chugged through the total whiteness in apathy, its fishy emanations blending with exhaust fumes. Then the engine changed its tune to an even lower pitch, and the boys lazily produced the fishing gear: rods with enormous reels, copper lines, and brass spoons.

"What do I do with this thing?" Qwilleran asked. "Where's the bait?"

"The spoon's all you need," Whatley said. "Drop the line over the rail (gasp) and keep moving the rod up and down."

"And then what?"

"When you get a bite, you'll know it. Reel it in." The Minnie K moved through the placid lake with reluctance. Occasionally the engine died for sheer lack of purpose and started again unwillingly. For an hour Qwilleran waved the fishing rod up and down in a trance induced by the throbbing of the engine and the sense of isolation. The troller was in a tight little world of its own, surrounded by a fog that canceled out everything else. There was no breeze, not even a splash of water against the hull—just the hollow putt-putt of the engine and the distant moan of a foghorn.

Whatley had reeled in his line and, after taking a few swigs from a flask, fell asleep in his canvas chair. His wife never looked up from her book.

Qwilleran was wondering where they were—and why he was there—when the engine stopped with an explosive cough, and the two boys, muttering syllables, jumped down into the hold. The silence became absolute, and the boat was motionless on the glassy lake. It was then that Qwilleran heard voices drifting across the water—men's voices, too far away to be distinguishable. He rested the rod on the railing and listened. The voices were coming closer, arguing, getting louder. There were shouts of anger followed by unintelligible torrents of verbal abuse, then a sharp crack like splitting wood. . . grunts. . . sounds of lunging. . . a heavy thump. A few seconds later Qwilleran heard a mighty splash and a light patter of spray on the water's surface.

After that, all was quiet except for a succession of ripples that crossed the surface of the lake and lapped against the Minnie K. The fog closed in like cotton bat- ting, and the water turned to milk.

The crew had their heads bent over the contraption that passed for an engine. Whatley slept on, and his wife also dozed. Wonderingly Qwilleran resumed the senseless motion of the fishing rod, up and down, up and down, in exaggerated arcs. He had lost all sense of time and his watch had been left at home because of his itching wrists.

Thirty minutes passed, or an hour, and then there was a pull on the line, sending vibrations down the rod and into his arms. He shouted!

Whatley waked with a start. "Reel it in! Reel it in!" At that magic moment, with the roots of his hair tingling, Qwilleran realized the thrill of deep-sea fishing. "Feels like a whale!"

"Not so fast! Keep it steady! Don't stop!" Whatley was gasping for breath, and so was Qwilleran. His hands were shaking. The copper line was endless.

Everyone was watching. The young skipper was leaning over the rail. "Gaff!" he yelled, and the other boy threw him a long-handled iron hook.

"Gotta be fifty pounds!" Qwilleran shouted, straining to reel in the last few yards.

He could feel the final surge as the monster rose through the water. "I've got him! I've got him!"

The huge shape had barely surfaced when he lost his grip on the reel.

"Grab it!" cried Whatley, but the reel was spinning wildly. As it began to slow, the skipper pulled pliers from his pocket and cut the line.

"No good," he said. "No good."

"Whaddaya mean?" Whatley screamed at him. "That fish was thirty pounds (gasp) if it was an ounce!"

"No good," the skipper said. He swung himself up to the wheelhouse; the younger boy dropped into the hold, and the engine started.

"This whole deal is a fraud!" Whatley protested. His wife looked up from her book and yawned.

"I don't know about you people," Qwilleran said, "But I'm ready to call it a day."

The boat picked up speed and headed for what he hoped would be dry land. On the return voyage he slumped in the canvas chair, engrossed in his own thoughts. Whatley had another swig and dozed off.

Qwilleran was no fisherman, but he had seen films of the sport, and this experience was hardly typical. His catch didn't fight like a fish; when it broke the surface it didn't splash like a fish; and it certainly didn't look like a fish.

Back in Mooseville he headed straightway for the tourist bureau. He was not feeling amiable, but first he had to engage in the weather amenities. "You were right about the fog, Roger. How long do you think it will last?"

"It should clear by noon tomorrow."

"Did your wife get home all right?"

"One-thirty this morning. Took her two hours to drive the last twenty miles. She was a basket case when she finally got in. What have you been doing in this fog, Qwill?"

"I've been trolling."

"What! You're hallucinating. The boats didn't go out today."

"The Minnie K went out. We were out for four hours, and that was three hours too many."

Roger reached for a file. "I never heard of the Minnie K. And she's not here on the list of registered trollers. Where did you find her?"

"A guest at the hotel lined up the expedition. His name is Whatley."

"Yeah, I know him. Overweight, short of breath. He's been in here three times, complaining. How much did they charge? I assume you didn't catch any fish."

"No, but I caught something else," Qwilleran said. "It didn't behave like a fish, and when I got it to the surface, the skipper cut my line and took off for shore in a hurry.

He didn't like the look of it, and neither did I. It looked like the body of a man."

Roger gulped and stroked his black beard. "It was probably an old rubber tire or something like that. It would be hard to tell for sure in the fog. The boaters lash tires to the side of the wharf—to act as bumpers, you know. They can break loose in a storm.

We had a big storm Tuesday night. . ."

"Knock it off, Roger. We all know the Chamber of Commerce writes your script. I'd like to report this—this rubber tire to the police? Where do I find the sheriff?"

Roger flushed and looked guilty but not contrite. "Behind the log church. The building with a flag."

"By the way, I got a surprise last night," Qwilleran continued in a more genial humor.

"Your mother-in-law left some turkey and a note at my cabin, but she didn't sign her name. I don't know how to thank her."

"Oh, she's like that—scatter-brained. But she's nice. Laughs a lot. Her name's Mildred Hanstable, and she lives at Top o' the Dunes, east of you. I should warn you about something. She'll insist on telling your fortune and then expect a donation."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"It's for charity. She's helping to raise money for some kind of heart machine at the Pickax Hospital."

"Count me in," Qwilleran said. "I'll need the machine before this restful vacation is over."

When he returned to the cabin, it was still daylight, filtered through fog. Indoors he smelled vinegar, reminding him of the homemade brass polish used by antique dealers. Sure enough, the brass lantern hanging over the bar was newly polished. Tom had been there in spite of the stipulation; he had been told not to come to the cabin until called.

Qwilleran had left his old watch and some loose change on the dresser in the bunkroom, and they were still there. He shrugged.

When he called to his friends, Yum Yum came running from the guest room, but Koko was too busily engaged to respond. He was perched on the moose head, fussing and talking to himself in small musical grunts that originated deep in his snowy chest.

"What are you doing up there?" Qwilleran demanded.