The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Part 4

"Marmalade spends most of his time watching the back corner of the organ when he isn't sleeping, and I think there's an important mousehole behind it. He always gets perturbed when I plug up one of his mouseholes, but I've never seen him so mad as he was this morning."

"No wonder!" I said. "He thought someone was threatening his prime source of supply."

"Let's try an experiment to test my theory," Mr. Tibbitt said, heading for the drawing room with a brisk but jerky gait.

I followed. The cat was there, watching the organ, with his body bunched up and his head thrust forward. He was the essence of concentration.

"Walk toward the organ," Mr. Tibbitt instructed me, "and let's see how he reacts."

"Are you kidding?" I protested. The retired school princ.i.p.al was not kidding, and reluctantly I moved into the room, slowly and quietly. Marmalade's ears swiveled. He was listening. I moved closer, and he turned his head. Seeing me, he jumped up and glared at me with threatening yellow eyes.

"Keep going," said Mr. Tibbitt from his safe post in the entranceway.

The cat's back arched and his tail ballooned and he bared his murderous-looking fangs.

This was the animal that had rubbed my ankles affectionately and had brought me a gift!

I took one more step, and he turned into a howling, snarling maniac. With a shriek I ran back to safety, knocking over a Meissen plant stand in the process.

"See? I was right," Mr. Tibbitt announced.

"Thanks a lot," I said.

In the weeks following the Lockmaster experience I researched ten more small-town museums throughout the state. What they lacked in old masters, African spears, and Faberge eggs, they made up in serenity. The attendants said only, "Please sign the book," and "Thank you for coming." There were no belligerent mousers or bloodied rugs.

In each town I perused local newspapers and listened to the obituaries and bowling scores on local radio; there were no follow-up stories on the Lockmaster break-in or the escaped convict. Only the evidence in the little black box convinced me I had not dreamed the entire episode.

At last I started for home, and on the freeway I came to an exit fifty miles from the Lockmaster Museum. I decided to take a detour. Reaching the museum during visiting hours, I found several cars parked at the curb and not a police car in sight. A sign in the door said:OPEN -WALK IN.

The mild-mannered, white-haired attendants sat at the reception desk, discussing arthritis. "Please sign the guest book," said one of them. "Catalogs are three dollars," said the other.

The drawing room was now in perfect order, and visitors tiptoed through the rooms, speaking in whispers. In vain I looked for Rhoda Finney and Marmalade and Mr.

Tibbitt . . . . It had been a dream; the little black box lied!

I wandered through the main floor, then climbed the twenty-two stairs to have another look at the black onyx bathroom and the Faberge eggs. And there-among the peach velvet draperies and peach satin boudoir chairs-I found an old man in a dark business suit, down on his knees, plugging a mousehole. The work was being supervised by a sleek gray cat!

"Mr. Tibbitt!" I cried. "Remember me? Where's Marmalade?" He struggled to his feet, unlocking one joint at a time. "Marmalade took early retirement," he said in the thin high-pitched voice I remembered. "The poor cat went off his rocker completely, hara.s.sing visitors and intimidating the volunteer guides. He never got over his bad experience. He lives with me now."

"Does he miss his rich diet of mice?"

"No, no, no. He never ate mice. He was strictly a professional mouser. The guides always fed him regular catfood."

"And what about Dennis the Disappointment? I haven't heard a thing!"

"He's back in prison, I'm glad to say," said Mr. Tibbitt. "And they found the jewels."

"What jewels?"

"Why, the priceless gems that had been in the family since 1850! It was Dennis who had stolen them. He was living here then, and he hid them in the house, thinking he'd retrieve them when the investigation cooled off. Jewelers all over the world were on the lookout for the stuff, and it was right here in the house all the time. When Dennis escaped, he came back to collect his loot. Of course, he didn't succeed. Never succeeded at anything, that boy."

"Who found the jewels? And how did they know they were on the premises?"

"Let me sit down and rest a minute. I'm getting old," Mr. Tibbitt said, looking for a chair that was not peach satin or velvet. We found a black horsehair bench in the onyx bathroom, and he went on: "The detectives started noticing Marmalade's behavior, and they got suspicious about the organ. They remembered the unsolved case of the stolen jewels."

"But Marmalade was interested in mice, not music."

"Anyway, they brought in an expert on reed organs, and they told him about the screwdriver. The police found a screwdriver near the organ, near the family portraits. Do you remember?"

I remembered.

"Well, that was the clue! This organ expert took the screws out of the wind-chest, raised it a bit, and there they were-diamonds and emeralds worth a fortune!" I turned off the tape recorder and said goodbye to Mr. Tibbitt. As I walked down the twenty-two stairs he called after me: "Don't say anything about this in your book!" The Dark One "The Dark One" was first published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, July 1966.

Only Dakh Won knows the true reason for his action that night on the moonlit path. It is not a cat's nature to be vengeful-or heroic. He merely does what is necessary to secure food, warmth, comfort, peace, and an occasional scratch behind the ears. But Dakh Won is a Siamese, a breed known for its intelligence and loyalty.

He has always been called "the dark one," because his fur is an unusually deep shade of fawn. Between his seal brown ears and his seal brown tail, the silky back shades hardly at all. Only his soft underside is pale. He is a husky cat whose strength ripples under his sleek coat, and his slanted eyes are full of sapphire secrets.

During his early life at the cattery Dakh Won enjoyed food, warmth, comfort, attention, and-most of all-peace. Then one day after he was full-grown, he was handed over to strange arms and exposed for the first time to hostility and conflict.

Before he was placed in a basket and carried away, a gentle and familiar voice said: "Dakh Won is very special. I wouldn't sell him to anyone but you, Hilda."

"You know I'll give him a good home, Elizabeth."

"How about your husband? Does he like animals?"

"He prefers dogs, but I'm the one who needs a pet. Jack's away from home most of the time. All his construction jobs seem to be halfway across the state."

"Honestly, Hilda, I don't know how you stand it in the country. You were so active when you were a city gal."

"It's lonely, but I have my piano. I'd love to give lessons to the farm children in my community."

"Why don't you? It would be good for you."

"Jack doesn't like the idea."

"Why on earth should he object?"

Hilda looked uncomfortable. "Oh, he's funny about some things . . . . I hope Dakh Won likes music. Do cats like music?"

Elizabeth studied the face of her old friend. "Hilda, is everything all right with you and Jack? I'm worried about you."

"Of course everything's all right . . . . Now, I'd better leave if I'm going to catch that bus. I hope the cat won't mind the ride." Dakh Won was sniffing the strange pair of shoes and nibbling the tantalizing shoelaces; he had never seen laces with little ta.s.sels. Hilda said: "Isn't that adorable, Elizabeth? He's untying my shoelaces."

"Let me tie them for you."

"Thank you." There was a sigh. "Aren't these shoes horrible? The doctor says I'll never wear pretty shoes again."

"That was a terrible accident, Hilda-in more ways than one. You're lucky to be alive."

"It wasn't really Jack's fault, you know."

"Yes, you've told me that before. Do you still have pain?"

"Not too much, but I'll always have this ugly limp. That's one reason I don't mind hiding away in the country."

Then Dakh Won was handed over, making a small verbal protest and spreading his toes in apprehension, but when he found himself in a covered basket, he settled down and was quiet throughout the long journey. Occasionally he felt rea.s.sured by strong fingers that reached into the basket, and he amiably allowed his ears to be flattened and his fur gently ruffled.

Dakh Won's adopted home was a small house in the country, overlooking a ravine-a fascinating new world of fringed rugs, cozy heat registers, wide windowsills, soft chairs, and a grand piano.

He soon discovered the joys of sitting in this elevated box with half-opened lid, but it proved to be off-limits to cats. After lights were turned out for the night he was welcome, however, to share a soft bed with a warm armpit and rea.s.suring heartbeat. That was where he slept-except on weekends.

"Hilda, I'm telling you for the last time: Get that animal out of this bed!"

"He isn't bothering you, Jack. He's over on my side."

"I don't want him in this bedroom! Lock him up in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"It's damp down there. He'll howl all night."

"Okay, if that cat's more important than me, I'll go down and bunk on the sofa."

"Don't bother. I'll sleep on the sofa myself."

"Thanks."

"I knew you'd like the idea."

"Don't slam the door."

Dakh Won jumped out of the warm bed and followed the bedroom slippers as they moved slowly down the stairs, one careful step at a time. His ears were laid back, and his fur was sharply ridged. He disliked loud voices, and the tension that he sensed made him vaguely uncomfortable.

Quarreling was not the only discomfort on weekends. There was the onslaught of feet.

Nowhere on the floor could Dakh Won feel safe. He liked to sprawl full length in any patch of sun that warmed the rug. The floor was his domain, and feet were expected to detour. But on weekends his rights were ignored.

One Sat.u.r.day he waked with a snarl of anguish when a crushing weight came down on the tip of his tail, and the next day he received a cruel blow to his soft underside when he was stretched trustingly in the middle of the hallway.

"d.a.m.n that cat! I tripped over him! I could have broke my leg. Hilda, do you hear me?"

"You should look where you're going. Have you been drinking again?"

"You think more of that stinking beast than you do of me."

"He smells better than that cigar you're smoking."

"It's my house, and I'll smoke what I like and walk where I like, and if that flea bait don't keep out of my way-"

"You're beginning to talk like those trashy people you a.s.sociate with."

"If he don't keep out of my way, I'll drown him!"

"He doesn't have fleas, and you're not going to touch him. He's mine. I'm not going to die of loneliness in this G.o.dforsaken place. You don't know what it's like to be isolated all week-"

"What's wrong with you women? You want all kinds of labor-saving gadgets, and then you gripe about having nothing to do. Why don't you bake some bread or something instead of buying everything ready-made, if you're so bored?"

"Stop pacing up and down-or else take those clumsy boots off. You're ruining the floor."

"Try scrubbing clothes with a washboard, if you're so bored."

"I'm a pianist, not a laundress. You seem to forget that I gave up a career to marry you.

One of these days I'm going to start giving lessons-"

"And let people think I can't support a . . . a sick wife?"

"If you'd stop pacing the floor and listen-"

"And have a lot of dirty farmers' kids tramping through the house? Over my dead body!"

"Look out! You almost stepped on his paw!"

"Fool cat!"

Dakh Won soon learned to keep out of sight on weekends. Most of the time he stayed outdoors. He liked high places, and the path that ran along the edge of the ravine was a balcony overlooking Dakh Won's universe. At the bottom of the rocky slope there was a gurgling stream with woods beyond it and mysterious noises in the underbrush.

Dakh Won could sit on the ravine trail for hours, entertaining his senses. He watched a leaf being tickled by the breeze, smelled wild cherries and the toasted aroma of earth warmed by the sun, tasted bitter gra.s.s and the sourness of insects that he caught with his paw, heard the whispers of the soil as a root reached down for moisture.

His ear was also tuned to sounds from the house-the loud and jarring voices, the slamming doors, the stamping of the cruel boots. High-laced, thick-soled, blunt-toed, they made him feel like a small and vulnerable creature.

When the weekend was over, he again felt safe. As if he knew he was needed, he stayed close, sitting on the piano bench while fingers danced on the keys and a foot tapped the pedal. The shoes were tied with leather ta.s.sles that bounced with every move.

Afternoons he followed the bobbing ta.s.sels down the ravine trail. The path was a narrow aisle of well-trodden clay, bordered on one side by wild cherry bushes and on the other by clumps of gra.s.s that drooped over the edge of the ravine. The ta.s.sled shoes always walked haltingly down the ravine trail, stopping to rest at a rustic bench before continuing to the wire fence at the end. There was a gate there, and another house beyond, but the ta.s.seled shoes never went farther than the fence.

One day following the afternoon walk, the big round table in the kitchen was set with a single plate and a single cup and saucer, and Dakh Won sat on a chair to watch morsels of food pa.s.sing from plate to fork to mouth.

"You're good company, Dakh Won. You're my best friend." He squeezed his eyes.

"You're a big, strong, brave, intelligent cat."

Dakh Won licked a paw and pa.s.sed it modestly over his seal brown mask.

"Would you like a little taste of crabmeat?"

With guttural a.s.sent Dakh Won sprang to the tabletop.

"Oh, dear! Cats aren't supposed to jump on the dinner table." Dakh Won sat primly, keeping a respectable distance from the cream pitcher.

"But it's all right when we're alone-just you and me. We won't tell anyone." For the rest of the week, meals were companionable events, but when Friday night came, Dakh Won sensed a change in the system.