Лилиан Браун - The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

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.

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ISBN: 1-101-15832-8

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

Contents

Phut Phat Concentrates

Weekend of the Big Puddle

The Fluppie Phenomenon

The Hero of Drummond Street

The Mad Museum Mouser

The Dark One

East Side Story

Tipsy and the Board of Health

A Cat Named Conscience

SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost

Stanley and Spook

A Cat Too Small for His Whiskers

The Sin of Madame Phloi

Tragedy on New Year’s Eve

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?”