The Cat Who Tailed a Thief by Lilian Jackson Braun Read Free Book Online

unwrapping it with exaggerated care, he exclaimed, “I can only quote the bard: I am amazed and know not what to say! It’s a sporran!”
    “You could have fooled me,” said Arch. “I thought it was something for cleaning the windshield.”
    “A sporran, for your information, Arch, is a fur pouch worn with a kilt by men in the Scottish Highlands. It’s used to carry money, car keys, driver’s license, cigarettes, lighter, credit cards, sunglasses, and possibly a sandwich.” He turned to Polly. “How did Bootsie find out I’d bought a kilt?”
    “Everyone in town knows it, dear. There are no secrets in Pickax.”
    “Well, we’re now a two-sporran family. Yum Yum has a cat-size sporran attached to her underside. It flaps from side to side when she trots, but hers is real fur. I think this one can be machine-washed and tumble-dried.”
    * * *
    When dusk fell and the gaslights on River Lane began to glow, it was snowing, so Arch drove Polly and Qwilleran home with their loot and foil-wrapped packs of turkey for their cats. Qwilleran minced some before going to Polly’s for mint tea and a recap of the afternoon:
    “Carol gets the credit for selecting your suit, Polly.”
    “Mildred made your sporran, Qwill.”
    “The snowshoes are good-looking enough to hang on the wall when I’m not using them.”
    “Did you know Adriana was the last role Tebaldi sang before she retired?”
    “Eddington Smith searched a whole year for a Melville collection. This one turned up in Boston.”
    It had stopped snowing when Qwilleran finally went home, and he was surprised to find footprints in the fresh snow on his front walk, leading to and from his doorstep. They were a woman’s footprints. There were no tire tracks. She lived in the Village and had walked. Who in the Village would pay a call without phoning first or being invited? Not Hixie or Fran. Certainly not Amanda Goodwinter. Opening the storm door, he found a gift on the threshold, wrapped in conservative holly paper and about the size and weight of a two-pound box of chocolates. He felt obliged to quote Lewis Carroll: Curiouser and curiouser! He carried it indoors, hoping it was not chocolates.
    The Siamese, dozing on the sofa, raised their heads expectantly.
    “Three guesses!” he said to them as he tore open the paper. It was a book with an unusual binding: leather spine and cloth-covered boards in a red and green Jacobean design, leafy and flowery. The gold tooling on the spine spelled out The Old Wives’ Tale.
    “Hey,” he yelped, alarming the cats. Arnold Bennett was one of his favorite authors, and this was considered his best novel. It was obviously a special edition of the 1908 book, with heavy quality paper, deckled edges, and woodcut illustrations. There was a note enclosed:
    Qwill—You mentioned Bennett in your column last week, and I thought you’d like to have this precious book from my father’s collection.
    —Your Number-One Fan—Sarah
    Qwilleran was flabbergasted. Sarah Plensdorf was the office manager at the Something —an older woman, rather shy. She lived alone in the Village, surrounded by family treasures.
    Clutching the book, he dropped into his favorite easy chair and propped his feet on the ottoman. Koko and Yum Yum came running. Reading aloud was one of the things they did together as a family.
    Bennett had been a journalist, and his novels were written in an unromantic style with detailed descriptions. As Qwilleran read, he dramatized with sound effects: the resounding call of the cuckoo in the English countryside, the clanging bell of the horse-car in town, the snores of Mr. Povey, asleep on the sofa with his mouth wide open. (He had taken a painkiller for his aching tooth.) When the prankish Sophie reached into the gaping mouth with pliers and extracted the wobbly tooth, Mr. Povey yelped, Qwilleran yelped, Yum Yum shrieked. But where was Koko?
    Some muttering could be heard in the foyer, where Qwilleran had piled all the Christmas