Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

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 flashing 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 shivering, 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 shift. 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 God 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 glassy, and her hair was a mess. “Too bad,” she said. “Wally was a nice kid—and a big spender. I like big spenders.”