The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Part 13

In three leaps Madame Phloi crossed the ledge back to her own window and pushed through the screen to safety. After looking back to see if the fat man might be chasing her and being rea.s.sured that he was not, she washed Thapthim's ears and her own paws and sat down to wait for pigeons.

Like any normal cat Madame Phloi lived by the Rule of Three. She resisted any innovation three times before accepting it, tackled an obstacle three times before giving up, and tried each activity three times before tiring of it. Consequently she made two more sallies to the pigeon promenade and eventually convinced Thapthim to join her.

Together they peered over the edge at the world below. The sense of freedom was intoxicating. Recklessly Thapthim made a leap at a low-flying pigeon and landed on his mother's back. She cuffed his ear in retaliation. He poked her nose. They grappled and rolled over and over on the ledge, oblivious of the long drop below them, taking playful nips of each other's hide and snarling gutteral expressions of glee.

Suddenly Madame Phloi scrambled to her feet and crouched in a defensive position. The fat man was leaning from his window.

"Here, kitty, kitty," he was saying in one of those despised falsetto voices, offering some bit of food in a saucer. The Madame froze, but Thapthim turned his beautiful trusting eyes on the stranger and advanced along the ledge. Purring and waving his tail cordially, he walked into the trap. It all happened in a matter of seconds: the saucer was withdrawn and a long black box was swung at Thapthim like a baseball bat, sweeping him off the ledge and into s.p.a.ce. He was silent as he fell.

When the family came home, laughing and chattering, with their arms full of packages, they knew at once something was amiss. No one greeted them at the door. Madame Phloi hunched moodily on the windowsill, staring at a hole in the screen, and Thapthim was not to be found.

"The screen's torn!" cried the gentle voice.

"I'll bet he's out on the ledge."

"Can you lean out and look? Be careful."

"You hold Phloi."

"Can you see him?"

"Not a sign of him! There's a lot of gla.s.s scattered around, and the window next door is broken."

"Do you suppose that man . . . ? I feel sick."

"Don't worry, dear. We'll find him . . . . There's the doorbell! Maybe someone's bringing him home."

It was Charlie standing at the door, fidgeting uncomfortably. " 'Scuse me, folks," he said. "You missin' one of your kitties?"

"Yes! Have you found him?"

"Poor little guy," said Charlie. "Found him lyin' right under your window, where the bushes is thick."

"He's dead!" the gentle one moaned.

"Yes, ma'am. That's a long way down."

"Where is he now?"

"I got him down in the bas.e.m.e.nt, ma'am. I'll take care of him real nice. I don't think you'd want to see the poor guy."

Still Madame Phloi stared at the hole in the screen and waited for Thapthim. From time to time she checked the other windows, just to be sure. As time pa.s.sed and he did not return, she looked behind the radiators and under the bed. She pried open cupboard doors and tried to burrow her way into closets. She sniffed all around the front door. Finally she stood in the middle of the living room and called loudly in a high-pitched, wailing voice.

Later that evening Charlie paid another visit to the apartment.

"Only wanted to tell you, ma'am, how nice I took care of him," he said. "I got a box that was just the right size-a white box, it was, from one of the nice stores. And I wrapped him up in some old blue curtain. It looked real pretty with his fur. And I buried the little guy right under your windows, behind the bushes.

And still Madame Phloi searched, returning again and again to watch the ledge from which Thapthim had disappeared. She scorned food. She rebuffed any attempts at consolation. And all night she sat wide-eyed and waiting in the dark.

The living room window was now tightly closed, but the following day the Madame- when she was left by herself in the lonely apartment-went to work on the bedroom screens. One was new and hopeless, but the second screen was slightly corroded, and she was soon nosing through a slit that lengthened as she struggled out onto the ledge.

Picking her way through the broken gla.s.s, she approached the spot where Thapthim had vanished. And then it all happened again. There he was-the fat man-holding out a saucer.

"Here, kitty, kitty."

Madame Phloi hunched down and backed away.

"Kitty want some milk?" It was that ugly falsetto, but she did not run home this time.

She crouched on the ledge, a few inches out of his reach.

"Nice kitty. Nice kitty."

Madame Phloi crept with caution toward the saucer in the outstretched fist, and stealthily the fat man extended another hand, snapping his fingers as one would do to call a dog.

The Madame retreated diagonally-half toward home and half toward the dangerous brink.

"Here, kitty. Nice kitty," he cooed, leaning farther out of his window, but under his breath he muttered: "You dirty sneak! I'll get you if it's the last thing I ever do. Comin'

after my bird, weren't you?"

Madame Phloi recognized danger with all her senses. Her ears were back, her whiskers curled, and her white underside hugged the ledge.

A little closer she moved, and the fat man made a grab for her. She jerked back a step, with unblinking eyes fixed on his sweating face. He was furtively laying the saucer aside, she noticed, and edging his fat paunch farther out the window.

Once more she advanced almost into his grasp, and again he lunged at her with both of his powerful arms.

"This time I'll get you, you stinkin' cat," he mumbled, and raising one knee to the windowsill, he threw himself at Madame Phloi. As she slipped through his fingers, he landed on the ledge with all his weight.

A section of masonry crumbled beneath him. He bellowed, clutching at air, and at the same time a streak of creamy brown fur flashed out of sight.

The fat man was not silent as he fell.

As for Madame Phloi, she was found doubled in half-in a patch of suns.h.i.+ne on her living room carpet-innocently was.h.i.+ng her fine brown tail.

Tragedy on New Year's Eve "Tragedy on New Year's Eve" was first published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, March 1968.

January 1 Dear Tom, Another New Year is beginning. I hope and pray that the trouble will end soon, and you'll be stationed closer to home. You are constantly in my thoughts.

It's four in the morning on New Year's Day-strange hour for a mother to be writing to her son-but I'm so upset, Tom dear. A terrible accident just happened behind our apartment building. I'm home alone-Jim is working-and I've got to tell somebody about it.

Jim went on special duty with the Cleanup Squad tonight, so I curled up on the sofa and read a mystery novel, and at midnight I opened the window and listened to the horns blowing and bells ringing. (Excuse the smudge. There's a cat sitting on the desk, pawing the paper as I write. Just a stray that I picked up.) At midnight the neighborhood looked like a Christmas tree-green lights on the gas station-red neon on Wally's Tavern-traffic lights winking. The traffic was moving slowly-we'd had a freezing rain, then more snow-and I said a little prayer that Jim would get home safely.

After that I put on the pretty fleece robe he gave me for Christmas and had a snooze on the sofa, because I promised to wait up for him. The sirens kept waking me up-police, ambulance, fire-then I'd doze off again.

Suddenly loud noises jolted me awake. Bang-bang-CRASH-then shattering gla.s.s. It came from the rear of the building. I ran to the kitchen window and looked out, and there was this black car-up over the sidewalk-rammed into the old brick warehouse back there. The car doors were flung open, and the interior light was on, and something dark was sprawled out of the driver's seat with the head hanging down in the snow. Man or woman? I couldn't tell.

I was stunned, but I knew enough to call the police. When I went back to the window everything down on the street was quiet as a morgue. No traffic. No one came running.

No lights s.h.i.+ning out of apartment windows. And there was this stranger hanging out of the wrecked car-dead or dying.

I thought about you, Tom, and how I'd feel if you were injured and alone like that, and I couldn't help crying. So I went downstairs to the street. Grabbed Jim's hunting jacket- ran down three flights-couldn't wait for the elevator-then out the back door where they park the dumpsters-and across the street.

It was a young man about your age, Tom, and I thought my heart would break. His head was covered with blood, and the snow was stained, and I knew he was dead. I couldn't leave him there alone, so I stayed and prayed a little until the flas.h.i.+ng blue lights turned into the street.

There I was-standing in the snow in my slippers and robe and a hunting jacket, so I ran back to the building and watched from the shadow of the doorway.

An officer jumped out of the patrol car and yelled to his partner: "Radio for a wagon.

This one's had it!"

And that's when I saw something moving in the darkness. At first I thought it was a horrid rat, like they've got in this neighborhood. Then this black cat darted out of the shadows and came right up to me, holding up one paw. It wanted to get in out of the snow. I picked it up-you know how much I like cats-and its feet were like ice. I was s.h.i.+vering, too, so we both came upstairs to get warm.

I watched from the window till they took the body away, and I couldn't help thinking of his poor mother-and how the police would knock on the door and take her downtown to the morgue. I wonder who he was. Maybe it will be in the newspaper.

I wish Jim would get home. The cat sits on my desk staring at me and throwing a shadow across the paper so I can't see what I'm writing. He's very sleek and black-with yellow eyes. He must belong to someone in this building, but he's quite contented to stay here.

My mind keeps going back to that young man-drinking too much at some New Year's Eve party. Maybe he lived in this building and was coming home. I haven't met any of the neighbors. Jim says they're all kooks, and it's best if we stay to ourselves. The neighborhood is run-down, but the apartment is comfortable, and we're close to the precinct station.

When Jim retires next year we'll get a small house in Northport. I never thought I'd be married again-and to a detective! Remember how you and I used to read about Hercule Poirot and Inspector Maigret when we lived in Northport?

I hear Jim coming. Will finish this later.

New Year's afternoon Here I am again. Jim's taking a nap. I told him about the accident, and he said: "Another drunk! He was asking for it."

He doesn't know I went downstairs in my robe and slippers, and it was hard to explain where the cat came from. It's still here-follows me around like a shadow.

There! I just heard it on the radio! First traffic fatality of the year-Wallace Sloan, 25, of 18309 Hamilton-car rammed into a brick building after hitting two utility poles.

They towed the wreck away, and now they're fixing the poles. I asked the superintendent if any tenant lost a black kitty, but he didn't know.

Dear son, take care. We pray you'll be home soon.

Love from Mother January 4 Dear Tom, Glad the fruitcake arrived in one piece. Are you getting decent food? Did you get my letter about the accident? Here's more news: When Jim heard the victim's name, he said: "That's the young guy that owns Wally's Tavern. It's a real dive." Then I got the Monday paper and read the obituary. Wallace Sloan left a wife and four children! So young! My heart went out to the family. I know what it's like to be a widow with a young son. Imagine being left with four! That poor woman!

Tom, you may think this is strange, but-I went to the funeral. Jim thought I was going downtown to shop the January sales. It was terribly depressing-hardly any mourners- and the widow looked like a mere child! Outside the funeral home I got talking to a neighbor of the Sloans, and she said: "People think Wally was a drunk, but I'm telling you-he never touched liquor. He worked hard, day and night. Had to, I guess, with four kids to support-and another one on the way. Must have been dead tired and fell asleep at the wheel."

Very peculiar! You see, Tom, he was traveling east, evidently coming from the big lot behind the gas station, where the bar customers park. If he was cold sober, would he fall asleep after driving half a block? Not on that street! It's so full of frozen ruts, it shakes your teeth out!

Don't know why I'm so concerned. Probably because I read too many mystery stories.

Do you have a chance to read, Tom? Shall I send you some paperbacks?

Well, anyway, I asked some questions at the grocery store, and I found out two things for sure. Wally Sloan always parked in the lot behind the gas station, AND he never took a drink.

The cat is still here, following me around. He must be lonely. I call him Shadow. I bought some catfood and fixed a toidy box for him. He doesn't want to go out-just stays close to me. Really a nice cat.

Now I must set the table for dinner. Jim has switched to the day s.h.i.+ft. We're having your favorite meat loaf tonight. Will write again soon.

Love from Mother January 5 Dear Tom, I've been listening to the news bulletins and thanking G.o.d you're in the ground crew.

Are you all right? Is there anything I can send you?

I must tell you the latest! Today I called on Wally Sloan's widow. I told her a fib-said I knew Wally at the tavern. I took her a homemade fruitcake and a large jar of my strawberry jam, and she almost fainted. I guess city folks don't expect things like that.

It's not like Northport.

I thought it might comfort her to know that someone stood by on the night of the accident. When I told her, she squeezed my hand and then ran crying into the bedroom.

They have a nice house. Her mother was there, and I said: "Do you think your daughter will be able to manage?" I was thinking of the four little ones, you know.

"She'll manage all right," the mother said, kind of stern and angry, "but no thanks to him! He left nothing but debts."

"What a pity," I said. "Wally worked so hard."

She snorted. "Running a bar? What kind of work is that? He could've had a nice job downtown, but he'd rather mix with riffraff and spend his afternoons at the racetrack." Aha, Dr. Watson! A new development! Now, we know Wally was a gambler! When I got home I tried to figure out a plan. The cat was hanging around, getting his nose into everything I tried to do, and I said to him: "Shadow, what would Miss Marple do in a case like this? What would Hildegarde Withers do?" Shadow always stares at me as if he knows what I'm saying-or he's trying to tell me something.

Well, after dinner, Jim went to his lodge meeting, and I started ringing doorbells in our building. At 408 an elderly man came to the door, and I said: "Excuse me, I'm your neighbor in 410. I picked up a stray cat on New Year's Eve and somebody said it might be yours. It's black."

"Our cat's ginger," he said, "and she's right there behind the radiator." I rang about twenty doorbells. Some people said no and slammed the door, but most of the tenants were nice. We'd have a few pleasant words about the cat, and then I'd mention the accident. Quite a few knew Wally from going to the tavern.

At 503 a middle-aged woman came to the door, looking like a real floozy. She invited me in for a drink. Jim would have a fit if he knew I accepted, but all I drank was a tiny beer.

She said: "The blankety-blank tavern's closed now, and you gotta drink at home. It ain't no fun." Her eyes were sort of gla.s.sy, and her hair was a mess. "Too bad," she said.

"Wally was a nice kid-and a big spender. I like big spenders."

"His bar business must have been very successful," I said.

She grinned at me. (Terrible teeth!) "You kidding? Wally had something going on the side. Don't we all?"

I said I understood he played the horses.

"Play 'em? h.e.l.l, he was a bookie! He'd lose his liquor license if they found out, so he kept it pretty quiet. Gus was his pickup man."

"Gus?"

"You know Gus-the mechanic at the gas station. He picked up bets for Wally. There was a big ha.s.sle at the bar New Year's Eve. Gus was slow with a payoff, and the guy tried to take it out of his hide."

"Was anyone hurt?"

"Gus got a s.h.i.+ner, that's all. Wally threw 'em both outa the bar. Can't blame Larry. He bet five hundred and the horse payed twenty-to-one."

"Larry?"

"You know Larry-on the third floor. Big guy. Male nurse at the hospital. Could've broke Gus in two."

Of course, I went right down to the lobby and looked at mailboxes. There was an L.