Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“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.

“At this point it’s hard to say,” the detective said, “but you may be able to help us. Have you noticed any strange incidents lately? Any unusual telephone calls?”

“Yes,” said ONE. “Several times recently the phone has rung, and when we answered it, no one was there.”

“That’s the usual method. They wait until they know you’re not at home.”

ONE gazed into Phut Phat’s eyes. “Did the phone ring tonight while we were out, Phuffy?” she asked, shaking him lovingly. “If only Phut Phat could tell us what happened! He must have had a terrifying experience. Thank heaven he wasn’t harmed.”

Phut Phat raised his paw to lick between his toes, still defiled with human blood.

“If only Phuffy could tell us who was here!”

Phut Phat paused with toes spread and pink tongue extended. He stared at ONE’s forehead.

“Have you folks noticed any strangers in the neighborhood?” the lieutenant was asking. “Anyone who would arouse suspicion?”

Phut Phat’s body tensed, and his blue eyes, brimming with knowledge, bored into that spot above ONE’s eyebrows.

“I can’t think of anyone. Can you, John?”

TWO shook his head.

“Poor Phuffy,” said ONE. “See how he stares at me; he must be hungry. Does Phuffy want a little snack?”

The cat squirmed.

“About those bloodstains on the windowsill,” said the detective. “Would the cat attack anyone viciously enough to draw blood?”

“Heavens, no!” said ONE. “He’s just a pampered little house pet. We found him hiding under the bed, scared stiff.”

“And you’re sure you can’t remember any unusual incident lately? Has anyone come to the house who might have seen the silver or jewelry? Repairman? Window washer?”

“I wish I could be more helpful,” said ONE, “but honestly, I can’t think of a single suspect.”

Phut Phat gave up!

Wriggling free, he jumped down from ONE’s lap and walked toward the door with head depressed and hind legs stiff with disgust. He knew who it was. He knew! The man with the shiny stick. But it was useless to try to communicate. The human mind was so tightly closed that nothing important would ever penetrate. And ONE was so busy with her own chatter that her mind . . .

The jingle of keys caught Phut Phat’s attention. He turned and saw TWO swinging his key chain back and forth, back and forth, and saying nothing. TWO always did more thinking than talking. Perhaps Phut Phat had been trying to communicate with the wrong mind. Perhaps TWO was really Number One in the household and ONE was Number Two.

Phut Phat froze in his position of concentration, sitting tall and compact with tail stiff. The key chain swung back and forth, and Phut Phat fastened his blue eyes on three wrinkles just underneath TWO’s hairline. He concentrated. The key chain swung back and forth, back and forth. Phut Phat kept concentrating.

“Wait a minute,” said TWO, coming out of his puzzled silence. “I just thought of something. Helen, remember that party we gave a couple of weeks ago? There was one guest we couldn’t account for—a man with a silver cane.”

“Why, yes! He was curious about the coop on the fire escape. Why didn’t I think of him? Lieutenant, he was terribly interested in our silver collection.”

TWO said: “Does that suggest anything to you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, it does.” The detective exchanged nods with his partner.

“This man,” ONE volunteered, “had a very cultivated voice and a charming manner. He walked with a limp.”

“We know him,” the detective said grimly. “The limp is phony. We know his method and what you tell us fits perfectly. But we didn’t know he was operating in this neighborhood again.”

ONE said: “What mystifies me is the blood on the windowsill.”

Phut Phat arched his body in a long, luxurious stretch and walked from the room, looking for a soft, dark, quiet place. Now he would sleep. He felt relaxed and satisfied. He had made vital contact with a human mind, and perhaps—after all—there was hope. Some day they might learn the system, learn to open their minds and receive. They had a long way to go before they realized their potential. But there was hope.

Weekend of the Big Puddle

Ghosts were no novelty to Percy. In England, his birthplace, they had them all the time. But British ghosts had always shown their good breeding; the uncouth pair that turned up at Percy’s summer residence in Michigan left him outraged and chagrined.

Percy was a comfortable middle-aged bachelor with quiet tastes and fastidious habits, who distributed his contempt equally among small children, yipping dogs, and noisy adults. His own manners were impeccable, his reputation blameless. In fact, Percy would have been considered somewhat stuffy, had he been a man. Being a cat, he was admired for his good behavior.