The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Read online

  Then all kinds of strangers came to town and stayed at the hotel—examiners, inspectors, and I don’t know what-all. They found a heap of money missing. First it was $10,000, then $50,000, then $80,000. They said Mister Freddie kept two sets of books. They said the entries were in his handwriting.

  Matt told the inspectors he knew Mister Freddie was stealing, and he warned him. But Mister Freddie said: “Never you mind. It will all come out right in the end.” Matt was afraid to say any more because Mister Freddie would fire him. That’s what he told the inspectors.

  Eighty thousand dollars! Uncle Bill said it would take a man a whole lifetime to earn that much.

  What had Mister Freddie done with the money?

  What? Nobody could figure it out. His widow didn’t have it. Mr. Freddie didn’t gamble. He wasn’t a show-off. Why, he didn’t even drive a carriage—just a common buggy. And his sleigh coat was plain wool—not fur lined like the big nobs wore.

  Uncle Bill said: “By George, if Freddie was so successful at robbing the bank, why did he put a rope around his neck?” He said: “It’s my guess that Conscience walked into his private office and gave him that look.”

  Did they ever find the eighty thousand?

  What? . . . That old lady is hollering again. What time is it?

  Three o’clock, ma’am. Was the mystery ever solved?

  What? . . . I don’t know. I’m getting tired. I know Matt up and quit. Went to Chicago or somewhere. Something else happened, too. I don’t want to tell it.

  It’s all right to talk about it, ma’am. It’s history.

  Well . . . I don’t know . . . . Poor Conscience! . . . They found her out in the barn behind the bank. Stiff as a poker! Someone twisted a wire around her neck.

  Did Matt do it?

  I’m tired. I don’t want to talk anymore. I never told anybody the rest of it. I wish I had some chocolates. Do you have any chocolates?

  No, ma’am, but I’ll send you some. Won’t you tell the rest of the story? You’re a good storyteller.

  I don’t remember. I want my nap.

  What kind of chocolates do you like?

  Chocolates? . . . I like those little opera creams. Abigail always got opera creams when she went to Chicago.

  Who was Abigail?

  She got heaps of things in Chicago: silk waists, kid gloves, fancy high-buttoned shoes. Folks in Gattville talked about her. She was over twenty-one, and she didn’t have a husband. But she didn’t care . . . . She was the prettiest girl in town. Everybody said so.

  Excuse me, ma’am. Who was Abigail?

  Why, she was the stenographer at the bank! She could typewrite and everything. She knew what happened, but it was a secret.

  Did she know what happened to the eighty-thousand dollars?

  I promised not to tell, but . . . I don’t know. She never comes to see me. We were good friends, but she never comes to see me.

  Did Abigail get the money?

  Abigail? . . . No, Abigail didn’t get the money . . . . That Matt got it. He was the bank clerk. Mister Freddie gave it to him.

  Why? Can you remember?

  Remember? Of course I can remember! Matt threatened to tell everything if Mister Freddie didn’t pay him. Just a little bit at first. Matt told Mister Freddie he could fix it so nobody would find out . . . . What time is it? I’m getting tired.

  Please, ma’am, what did Matt threaten to tell? It’s all right to tell the secret. It happened a long time ago.

  I don’t know. I don’t remember . . . . It was about Chicago. They were carrying on, the two of them.

  Abigail and Mister Freddie?

  Abigail told me . . . . She would go to visit her grandmother. Then she’d skip away and meet Mister Freddie in a hotel. He bought her nice presents. And they did funny things.

  What to you mean by “funny things”?

  You know! Funny things! Abigail told me . . . . She knew it was wrong, but she felt sorry for Mister Freddie. Her mother wasn’t nice to him. She was sickly.

  Do you mean that Mister Freddie was married to Abigail’s mother? Then—he was Abigail’s stepfather.

  I don’t know. You ask too many questions.

  What happened to Abigail after the funeral—and after they discovered the bank shortage?

  I don’t know. She went away. I don’t know where she went. She never came to see me. We used to be very good friends . . . . She shouldn’t have hurt Conscience. I’m sorry about what she did to Conscience . . . . Go away now. I’m tired. Where’s the nurse? . . . I can hear her coming—squinch-squinch . . .

  Oh, you naughty girl! You’ve been talking too much and tiring yourself. We have to put you to bed now. Say goodbye to your visitor, Abby. Wake up and say goodbye. Abigail! Abigail! Wake up!

  SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost

  “SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost” was first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, April 1964.

  When my sister and I returned from vacation and learned that our eccentric neighbor in the wheelchair had been removed to a mental hospital, we were sorry but hardly surprised. He was a strange man, not easy to like, and no one in our apartment building seemed concerned about his departure—except our Siamese cat. The friendship between SuSu and Mr. Van was so close it was alarming.

  If it had not been for SuSu we would never have made the man’s acquaintance, for we were not too friendly with our neighbors. The building was very large and full of odd characters who, we thought, were best ignored. On the other hand, our old apartment had advantages: large rooms, moderate rent, and a thrilling view of the river. There was also a small waterfront park at the foot of the street, and it was there that we first noticed Mr. Van.

  One Sunday afternoon my sister Gertrude and I were walking SuSu in the park, which was barely more than a strip of grass alongside an old wharf. Barges and tugs sometimes docked there, and SuSu—wary of these monsters—preferred to stay away from the water’s edge. It was one of the last nice days in November. Soon the river would freeze over, icy winds would blow, and the park would be deserted for the winter.

  SuSu loved to chew grass, and she was chewing industriously when something diverted her attention and drew her toward the river. Tugging at her leash, she insisted on moving across the grass to the boardwalk, where a middle-aged man sat in a most unusual wheelchair.

  It was made almost entirely of cast iron, like the base of an old-fashioned sewing machine, and it was upholstered in worn plush.

  With its high back and elaborate ironwork, it looked like a mobile throne, and the man who occupied the regal wheelchair presided with the imperious air of a monarch. It conflicted absurdly with his shabby clothing.

  To our surprise this was the attraction that lured SuSu. She chirped at the man, and he leaned over and stroked her fur.

  “She recognizes me,” he explained to us, speaking with a haughty accent that sounded vaguley Teutonic. “I was-s-s a cat myself in a former existence.”

  I rolled my eyes at Gertrude, but she accepted the man’s statement without blinking.

  He was far from attractive, having a sharply pointed chin, ears set too high on his head, and eyes that were mere slits, and when he smiled he was even less appealing. Nevertheless, SuSu found him irresistible. She rubbed against his ankles, and he scratched her in the right places. They made a most unlikely pair—SuSu with her luxurious blond fur, looking fastidious and expensive, and the man in the wheelchair, with his rusty coat and moth-eaten lap robe.

  In the course of a fragmentary conversation with Mr. Van we learned that he and the companion who manipulated his wheelchair had just moved into a large apartment on our floor, and I wondered why the two of them needed so many rooms. As for the companion, it was hard to decide whether he was a mute or just unsociable. He was a short thick man with a round knob of a head screwed tight to his shoulders and a flicker of something unpleasant in his eyes. He stood behind the wheelchair in sullen silence.

  On the way back to the apartment Gertrude said:
“How do you like our new neighbor?”

  “I prefer cats before they’re reincarnated as people,” I said.

  “But he’s rather interesting,” said my sister in the gentle way that she had.

  A few evenings later we were having coffee after dinner, and SuSu—having finished her own meal—was washing up in the downglow of a lamp. As we watched her graceful movements, we saw her hesitate with one paw in midair. She held it there and listened. Then a new and different sound came from her throat, like a melodic gurgling. A minute later she was trotting to our front door with intense purpose. There she sat, watching and waiting and listening, although we ourselves could hear nothing.

  It was a full two minutes before our doorbell rang. I went to open the door and was somewhat unhappy to see Mr. Van sitting there in his lordly wheelchair.

  SuSu leaped into his lap—an unprecedented overture for her to make—and after he had kneaded her ears and scratched her chin, he smiled a thin-lipped, slit-eyed smile at me and said: “Goeden avond. I was-s-s unpacking some crates, and I found something I would like to give you.”

  With a flourish he handed me a small framed picture, whereupon I was more or less obliged to invite him in. He wheeled his ponderous chair into the apartment with some difficulty, the rubber tires making deep gouges in the pile of the carpet.

  “How do you manage that heavy chair alone?” I asked. “It must weigh a ton.”

  “But it is-s-s a work of art,” said Mr. Van, rubbing appreciative hands over the plush upholstery and lacy ironwork and wheels.

  Gertrude had jumped up and poured him a cup of coffee, and he said: “I wish you would teach that man of mine to make coffee. He makes the worst zootje I have ever tasted. In Holland we like our coffee sterk with a little chicory. But that fellow, he is-s-s a smeerlap. I would not put up with him for two minutes if I could get around by myself.”

  SuSu was rubbing her head on the Hollander’s vest buttons, and he smiled with pleasure, showing small square teeth.

  “Do you have this magnetic attraction for all cats?” I asked with a slight edge to my voice. SuSu was now in raptures because he was twisting the scruff of her neck.

  “It is-s-s only natural,” he said. “I can read their thoughts, and they read mine of course. Do you know that cats are mind readers? You walk to the refrigerator to get a beer, and the cat she will not budge, but walk to the refrigerator to get out her dinner, and what happens? Before you touch the handle of the door she will come bouncing into the kitchen from anyplace she happens to be. Your thought waves reached her even though she seemed to be asleep.”

  Gertrude agreed it was probably true.

  “Of course it is-s-s true,” said Mr. Van, sitting tall. “Everything I say is-s-s true. Cats know more than you suspect. They can not only read your mind, they can plant ideas in your head. And they can sense something that is-s-s about to happen.”

  My sister said: “You must be right. SuSu knew you were coming here tonight, long before you rang the bell.”

  “Of course I am right. I am always right,” said Mr. Van. “My grandmother in Vlissingen had a tomcat called Zwartje just before she died, and for years after the funeral my grandmother came back to pet the cat. Every night Zwartje stood in front of the chair where Grootmoeder used to sit, and he would stretch and purr although there was-s-s no one there. Every night at half past eight.”

  After that visit with Mr. Van I referred to him as Grandmother’s Ghost, for he too made a habit of appearing at eight-thirty several times a week. (For Gertrude’s coffee, I guessed.)

  He would say: “I was-s-s feeling lonesome for my little sweetheart,” and SuSu would make an extravagant fuss over the man. It pleased me that he never stayed long, although Gertrude usually encouraged him to linger.

  The little framed picture he had given us was not exactly to my taste. It was a silhouette of three figures—a man in frock coat and top hat, a woman in hoopskirt and sunbonnet, and a cat carrying his tail like a lance. To satisfy my sister, however, I hung the picture, but only over the kitchen sink.

  One evening Gertrude, who is a librarian, came home in great excitement. “There’s a signature on that silhouette,” she said, “and I looked it up at the library. Augustin Edouart was a famous artist, and our silhouette is over a hundred years old. It might be valuable.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “We used to cut silhouettes like that in the third grade.”

  Eventually, at my sister’s urging, I took the object to an antique shop, and the dealer said it was a good one, probably worth several hundred dollars.

  When Gertrude heard this, she said: “If the dealer quoted hundreds, it’s probably worth thousands. I think we should give it back to Mr. Van. The poor man doesn’t know what he’s giving away.”

  I agreed he could probably sell it and buy himself a decent wheelchair.

  At eight-thirty that evening SuSu began to gurgle and prance.

  “Here comes Grandmother’s Ghost,” I said, and shortly afterward the doorbell rang.

  “Mr. Van,” I said after Gertrude had poured the coffee, “remember that silhouette you gave us? I’ve found out it’s valuable, and you must take it back.”

  “Of course it is-s-s valuable,” he said. “Would I give it to you if it was-s-s nothing but rommel?”

  “Do you know something about antiques?”

  “My dear Mevrouw, I have a million dollars’ worth of antiques in my apartment. Tomorrow evening you ladies must come and see my treasures. I will get rid of that smeerlap, and the three of us will enjoy a cup of coffee.”

  “By the way, what is a smeerlap?” I asked.

  “It is-s-s not very nice,” said Mr. Van. “If somebody called me a smeerlap, I would punch him in the nose . . . . Bring my little sweetheart when you come, ladies. She will find some fascinating objects to explore.”

  Our cat seemed to know what he was saying.

  “SuSu will enjoy it,” said Gertrude. “She’s locked up in this apartment all winter.”

  “Knit her a sweater and take her to the park in winter,” said the Hollander in the commanding tone that always irritated me. “I often bundle up in a blanket and go to the park in the evening. It is-s-s good for insomnia.”

  “SuSu is not troubled with insomnia,” I informed him. “She sleeps twenty hours a day.”

  Mr. Van looked at me with scorn. “You are wrong. Cats never sleep. You think they are sleeping, but cats are the most wakeful creatures on earth. That is-s-s one of their secrets.”

  After he had gone, I said to Gertrude: “I know you like the fellow, but you must admit he’s off his rocker.”

  “He’s just a little eccentric.”

  “If he has a million dollars’ worth of antiques, which I doubt, why is he living in this run-down building? And why doesn’t he buy a wheelchair that’s easier to operate?”

  “Because he’s a Dutchman, I suppose,” was Gertrude’s explanation.

  “And how about all those ridiculous things he says about cats?”

  “I’m beginning to think they’re true.”

  “And who is the fellow who lives with him? Is he a servant, or a nurse, or a keeper, or what? I see him coming and going on the elevator, but he never speaks—not one word. He doesn’t even seem to have a name, and Mr. Van treats him like a slave. I’m not sure we should go tomorrow night. The whole situation is too strange.”

  Nevertheless, we went. The Hollander’s apartment was jammed with furniture and bric-a-brac, and he shouted at his companion: “Move that rommel so the ladies can sit down.”

  Sullenly the fellow removed some paintings and tapestries from the seat of a carved sofa.

  “Now get out of here!” Mr. Van shouted at him. “Get yourself a beer,” and he threw the man some money with less grace than one would throw a dog a bone.

  While SuSu explored the premises we drank our coffee, and then Mr. Van showed us his treasures, propelling his wheelchair through a maze of furniture. He pointed out Chippend
ale-this and Affleck-that and Newport-something-else. They were treasures to him, but to me they were musty relics of a dead past.

  “I am in the antique business,” Mr. Van explained. “Before I was-s-s chained to this wheelchair, I had a shop and exhibited at the major shows. Then . . . I was-s-s in a bad auto accident, and now I sell from the apartment. By appointment only.”

  “Can you do that successfully?” Gertrude asked.

  “And why not? The museum people know me, and collectors come here from all over the country. I buy. I sell. And my man Frank does the legwork. He is-s-s the perfect assistant for an antique dealer—strong in the back, weak in the head.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “On a junk heap. I have taught him enough to be useful to me, but not enough to be useful to himself. A smart arrangement, eh?” Mr. Van winked. “He is-s-s a smeerlap, but I am helpless without him . . . . Hoo! Look at my little sweetheart. She has-s-s found a prize!”

  SuSu was sniffing at a silver bowl with two handles.

  Mr. Van nodded approvingly. “It is a caudle cup made by Jeremiah Dummer of Boston in the late seventeenth century—for a certain lady in Salem. They said she was-s-s a witch. Look at my little sweetheart. She knows!”

  I coughed and said: “Yes, indeed. You’re lucky to have Frank.”

  “You think I do not know it?” Mr. Van said in a snappish tone. “That is-s-s why I keep him poor. If I gave him wages, he would get ideas. A smeerlap with ideas—there is-s-s nothing worse.”

  “How long ago was your accident?”

  “Five years, and it was-s-s that idiot’s fault. He did it! He did this to me!” The man’s voice rose to a shout, and his face turned red as he pounded the arms of his wheelchair with his fist. Then SuSu rubbed against his ankles, and he stroked her and began to calm down. “Yes, five years in this miserable chair. We were driving to an antique show in the station wagon. Sixty miles an hour—and he went through a red light and hit a truck. A gravel truck!”