The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1988 by Lilian Jackson Braun

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 0-7865-0323-8

  A JOVE BOOK®

  Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  Jove and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: May, 2002

  Jove titles by Lilian Jackson Braun

  THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS

  THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN

  THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF

  THE CAT WHO SAW RED

  THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS

  THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE

  THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE

  THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE

  THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND

  THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS

  THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH

  THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL

  THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN

  THE CAT WHO WASN’T THERE

  THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET

  THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST

  THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE

  THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE

  THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF

  THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

  THE CAT WHO SAW STARS

  THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES

  (short story collection)

  THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK

  in hardcover from G. P. Putnam’s Sons

  Phut Phat Concentrates

  “Phut Phat Concentrates” was first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, December 1963.

  Phut Phat knew, at an early age, that humans were an inferior breed. They were unable to see in the dark. They ate and drank unthinkable concoctions. And they had only five senses; the pair who lived with Phut Phat could not even transmit their thoughts without resorting to words.

  For more than a year, ever since arriving at the townhouse, Phut Phat had been trying to introduce his system of communication, but his two pupils had made scant progress. At dinnertime he would sit in a corner, concentrating, and suddenly they would say: “Time to feed the cat,” as if it were their own idea.

  Their ability to grasp Phut Phat’s messages extended only to the bare necessities of daily living, however.

  Beyond that, nothing ever got through to them, and it seemed unlikely they would ever increase their powers.

  Nevertheless, life in the townhouse was comfortable enough. It followed a fairly dependable routine, and to Phut Phat routine was the greatest of all goals. He deplored such deviations as tardy meals, loud noises, unexplained persons on the premises, or liver during the week. He always had liver on Sunday.

  It was a fashionable part of the city in which Phut Phat lived. The three-story brick townhouse was furnished with thick rugs and down-cushioned chairs and tall pieces of furniture from which he could look down on questionable visitors. He could rise to the top of a highboy in a single leap, and when he scampered from first-floor kitchen to second-floor living room to third-floor bedroom, his ascent up the carpeted staircase was very close to flight, for Phut Phat was a Siamese. His fawn-colored coat was finer than ermine. His eight seal brown points (there had been nine before that trip to the hospital) were as sleek as panne velvet, and his slanted eyes brimmed with a mysterious blue.

  Those who lived with Phut Phat in the townhouse were identified in his consciousness as ONE and TWO. It was ONE who supplied the creature comforts, fed his vanity with lavish compliments, and sometimes adorned his throat with jeweled collars taken from her own wrists.

  TWO, on the other hand, was valued chiefly for games and entertainment. He said very little, but he jingled keys at the end of a shiny chain and swung them back and forth for Phut Phat’s amusement. And every morning in the dressing room he swished a necktie in tantalizing arcs while Phut Phat leaped and grabbed with pearly claws.

  These daily romps, naps on downy cushions, outings in the coop on the fire escape, and two meals a day constituted the pattern of Phut Phat’s life.

  Then one Sunday he sensed a disturbing lapse in the household routine. The Sunday papers, usually scattered on the library floor for him to shred with his claws, were stacked neatly on the desk. Furniture was rearranged. The house was filled with flowers, which he was not allowed to chew. ONE was nervous, and TWO was too busy to play. A stranger in a white coat arrived and clattered glassware, and when Phut Phat investigated an aroma of shrimp and smoked oysters in the kitchen, the maid shooed him away.

  Phut Phat seemed to be in everyone’s way. Finally he was deposited in his wire coop on the fire escape, where he watched sparrows in the garden below until his stomach felt empty. Then he howled to come indoors.

  He found ONE at her dressing table, fussing with her hair and unmindful of his hunger. Hopping lightly to the table, he sat erect among the sparkling bottles, stiffened his tail, and fastened his blue eyes on ONE’s forehead. In that attitude he proceeded to concentrate—and concentrate—and concentrate. It was never easy to communicate with ONE. Her mind hopped about like a sparrow, never relaxed, and Phut Phat had to strain every nerve to convey his meaning.

  Suddenly ONE darted a look in his direction. A thought had occurred to her.

  “Oh, John,” she called to TWO, who was brushing his teeth, “would you ask Millie to feed Phuffy. I forgot his dinner until this very minute. It’s after five o’clock and I haven’t fixed my hair yet. You’d better put your coat on; people will start coming soon. And please tell Howard to light the candles. You might stack some records on the stereo, too . . . . No, wait a minute. If Millie is still working on the hors d’oeuvres, would you feed Phuffy yourself? Just open a can of anything.”

  At this, Phut Phat stared at ONE with an intensity that made his thought waves almost visible.

  “Oh, John, I forgot,” she corrected. “It’s Sunday, and he’ll expect liver. But before you do that, would you zip the back of my dress and put my emerald bracelet on Phuffy? Or maybe I’ll wear the emerald myself, and he can have the amethyst . . . John! Do you realize it’s five-fifteen! I wish you’d put your coat on.”

  “And I wish you’d simmer down,” said TWO. “No one ever comes at the stated hour. Why do you insist on giving big parties, Helen, if it makes you so nervous?”

  “Nervous? I’m not nervous. Besides, it was your idea to invite your clients and my friends at the same time. You said we should kill a whole blasted flock of birds with one blasted stone . . . . Now, please. John, are you going to feed Phuffy? He’s staring at me and making my head ache.”

  Phut Phat scarcely had time to swallow his creamed liver, wash his face, and arrange himself on the living room mantel before people started to arrive. His irritation at the disrupted routine was
lessened somewhat by the prospect of being admired by the guests. His name meant “beautiful” in Siamese, and he was well aware of his pulchritude. Lounging between a pair of Georgian silver candlesticks, with one foreleg extended and the other exquisitely bent under at the ankle, with his head erect and gaze withdrawn, with his tail drooping nonchalantly over the edge of the marble mantel, he awaited compliments.

  It was a large party, and Phut Phat observed that very few of the guests knew how to pay their respects to a cat. Some talked nonsense in a false voice. Others made startling movements in his direction, or worse still, tried to pick him up.

  There was one knowledgeable man, however, who approached with the proper attitude of deference and reserve. Phut Phat squeezed his eyes in appreciation. The admirer was a distinguished-looking man who leaned heavily on a shiny stick. Standing at a respectful distance, he slowly held out his hand with one finger extended, and Phut Phat twitched his whiskers politely.

  “You are a living sculpture,” said the man.

  “That’s Phut Phat,” said ONE, who had pushed through the crowded room toward the fireplace. “He’s the head of our household.”

  “He is obviously of excellent stock,” said the man with the shiny cane, addressing his hostess in the same courtly manner that had charmed Phut Phat.

  “Yes, he could probably win ribbons if we wanted to enter him in shows, but he’s strictly a pet. He never goes out except in his coop on the fire escape.”

  “A splendid idea!” said the guest. “I should like such an arrangement for my own cat. She’s a tortoiseshell longhair. May I inspect this coop before I leave?”

  “Certainly. It’s just outside the library window.”

  “You have a most attractive house.”

  “Thank you. We’ve been accused of decorating it to complement Phut Phat’s coloring, which is somewhat true. You’ll notice we have no breakable bric-a-brac. When he flies through the air, he recognizes no obstacles.”

  “Indeed, I have noticed you collect Georgian silver,” the man said. “You have some fine examples.”

  “Apparently you know silver. Your cane is a rare piece.”

  He frowned in self-pity. “An attempt to extract a little pleasure from a sorry necessity.” He hobbled a step or two.

  “Would you like to see my silver collection downstairs in the dining room?” asked ONE. “All early examples, around the time of Wren.”

  Phut Phat, aware that the conversation no longer centered on his superlative qualities, jumped down from the mantel and stalked out of the room with several irritable flicks of the tail. He found an olive and pushed it down the heat register. Several feet stepped on him. In desperation he went upstairs to the guest room, where he discovered a mound of sable and mink and went to sleep.

  After this upset in the household routine Phut Phat needed several days to catch up on his rest, so the coming week was a sleepy blur. But soon it was Sunday again, with creamed liver for breakfast, Sunday papers scattered over the floor, and everyone lounging around being pleasantly routine.

  “Phuffy! Don’t roll on those newspapers,” said ONE. “John, the ink rubs off on his fur. Give him the Wall Street Journal; it’s cleaner.”

  “Maybe he’d like to go out into his coop and get some sun.”

  “That reminds me, dear. Who was that charming man with the silver cane at our party? I didn’t catch his name.”

  “I don’t know,” said TWO. “I thought he was someone you invited.”

  “Well, he must have come with one of the other guests. At any rate, he was interested in getting a coop like ours. He has a long-haired torty. And did I tell you the Hendersons have two Burmese kittens? They want us to go over and see them next Sunday and have a drink.”

  Another week passed, during which Phut Phat discovered a new perch. He found he could jump to the top of an antique armoire—a towering piece of furniture in the hall outside the library. Otherwise it was a routine week, followed by a routine weekend, and Phut Phat was content.

  ONE and TWO were going out on Sunday evening to see the Burmese kittens, so Phut Phat was served an early dinner, after which he fell asleep on the library sofa.

  When the telephone rang and waked him, it was dark and he was alone. He raised his head and chattered at the instrument until it stopped its noise. Then he went back to sleep, chin on paw.

  The second time the telephone started ringing, Phut Phat stood up and scolded it, arching his body in a vertical stretch and making a question mark with his tail. To express his annoyance he hopped on the desk and sharpened his claws on Webster’s Unabridged. Then he spent quite some time chewing on a leather bookmark. After that he felt thirsty. He sauntered toward the powder room for a drink.

  No lights were on, and no moonlight came through the windows, yet he moved through the dark rooms with assurance, sidestepping table legs and stopping to examine infinitesimal particles on the hall carpet. Nothing escaped his attention.

  Phut Phat was lapping water, the tip of his tail was waving rapturously, when something caused him to raise his head and listen. His tail froze. Sparrows in the backyard? Rain on the fire escape? There was silence again. He lowered his head and resumed his drinking.

  A second time he was alerted. Something was happening that was not routine. His tail bushed like a squirrel’s, and with his whiskers full of alarm he stepped noiselessly into the hall, peering toward the library.

  Someone was on the fire escape. Something was gnawing at the library window.

  Petrified, he watched—until the window opened and a dark figure slipped into the room. With one lightning glide Phut Phat sprang to the top of the tall armoire.

  There on his high perch, able to look down on the scene, he felt safe. But was it enough to feel safe? His ancestors had been watch-cats in Oriental temples centuries before. They had hidden in the shadows and crouched on high walls, ready to spring on any intruder and tear his face to ribbons—just as Phut Phat shredded the Sunday paper. A primitive instinct rose in his breast, but quickly it was quelled by civilized inhibitions.

  The figure in the window advanced stealthily toward the hall, and Phut Phat experienced a sense of the familiar. It was the man with the shiny stick. This time, though, his presence smelled sinister. A small blue light now glowed from the head of the cane, and instead of leaning on it, the man pointed it ahead to guide his way out of the library and toward the staircase. As the intruder passed the armoire, Phut Phat’s fur rose to form a sharp ridge down his spine. Instinct said: “Spring at him!” But vague fears held him back.

  With feline stealth the man moved downstairs, unaware of two glowing diamonds that watched him in the blackness, and Phut Phat soon heard noises in the dining room. He sensed evil. Safe on top of the armoire, he trembled.

  When the man reappeared he was carrying a bulky load, which he took to the library window. Then he crept to the third floor, and there were muffled sounds in the bedroom. Phut Phat licked his nose in apprehension.

  Now the man reappeared, following a pool of blue light. As he approached the armoire, Phut Phat shifted his feet, bracing himself against something invisible. He felt a powerful compulsion to attack, and yet a fearful dismay.

  “Get him!” commanded a savage impulse within him.

  “Stay!” warned the fright throbbing in his head.

  “Get him! . . . Now . . . now . . . . . . NOW!”

  Phut Phat sprang at the man’s head, ripping with razor claws wherever they sank into flesh.

  The hideous scream that came from the intruder was like an electric shock; it sent Phut Phat sailing through space—up the stairs—into the bedroom—under the bed.

  For a long time he quaked uncontrollably, his mouth parched and his ears inside-out with horror at what had happened. There was something strange and wrong about it, although its meaning eluded him. Waiting for time to heal his confusion, he huddled there in darkness and privacy. Blood soiled his claws. He sniffed with distaste and finally was compelled
to lick them clean.

  He did it slowly and with repugnance. Then he tucked his paws under his warm body and waited.

  When ONE and TWO came home, he sensed their arrival even before the taxicab door slammed. He should have bounded to meet them, but the experience had left him in a daze, quivering internally, weak and unsure. He heard the rattle of the front door lock, feet climbing the stairs, and the click of the light switch in the room where he waited in bewilderment under the bed.

  ONE gasped, then shrieked. “John! Someone’s been in this room. We’ve been robbed!”

  TWO’s voice was incredulous. “How do you know?”

  “My jewel case! Look! It’s open—and empty!”

  TWO threw open a closet door. “Your furs are still here, Helen. What about money? Did you have any money in the house?”

  “I never leave money around. But the silver! What about the silver? John, go down and see. I’m afraid to look . . . No! Wait a minute!” ONE’s voice rose in panic. “Where’s Phut Phat? What happened to Phut Phat?”

  “I don’t know,” said TWO with alarm. “I haven’t seen him since we came in.”

  They searched the house, calling his name—unaware, with their limited senses, that Phut Phat was right there under the bed, brooding over the upheaval in his small world, and now and then licking his claws.

  When at last, crawling on their hands and knees, they spied two eyes glowing red under the bed, they drew him out gently. ONE hugged him with a rocking embrace and rubbed her face, wet and salty, on his fur, while TWO stood by, stroking him with a heavy hand. Comforted and reassured, Phut Phat stopped trembling. He tried to purr, but the shock had contracted his larynx.

  ONE continued to hold Phut Phat in her arms—and he had no will to jump down—even after two strange men were admitted to the house. They asked questions and examined all the rooms.

  “Everything is insured,” ONE told them, “but the silver is irreplaceable. It’s old and very rare. Is there any chance of getting it back, Lieutenant?” She fingered Phut Phat’s ears nervously.