was Qwilleran’s motto, and he was remarkably healthy, certainly wealthy, and—if not exactly wise—he was witty. On that particular January morning at seven o’clock, he was sleeping peacefully when he was jolted awake and virtually catapulted from his bed by the crashing drums and brasses of the “Washington Post March,” as if the entire U.S. Marine Band were bursting through his bedroom wall. He required a few seconds to realize where he was: on the balcony of a poorly built condominium in Indian Village, and his next-door neighbor was playing John Philip Sousa. Before he could find Wetherby Goode’s phone number, the volume was toned down. One could still hear and feel the thrum-thrum-thrum of the drums, but the music itself was replaced by the sound of gushing, pelting water. Wetherby Goode was taking a shower. Only then did Qwilleran recall the news of the night before: the arrest of a robbery suspect, name withheld. He knew he could cajole Brodie into confiding the name if he went downtown to headquarters, so he dressed, fed the cats, and left the house without coffee.
What do You think about The Cat Who Tailed A Thief?
