William Arden - The Secret of the Crooked Cat

“I don’t know,” Bob admitted. “When Jupiter has some big scheme, he usually forgets to tell us what it is until we’re doing it But he knows what he’s doing — I hope.”

They heard banging and thudding inside the mounds of junk. Jupiter seemed to be hurling heavy objects everywhere. At last they heard a cry of triumph, and the stocky First Investigator soon emerged into the open. He wore a broad grin and carried some strange, ragged object.

“I knew we had one here,” he exulted. “The Jones Salvage Yard has everything!” He held up the most dilapidated stuffed cat Bob and Andy had ever seen. It was spotted black and white; its legs were torn, one eye was missing, and the stuffing was coming out.

“What’s it for Jupiter?” Andy asked.

“Why, to answer the ad, of course,” Jupiter said.

“But, Jupe,” Bob objected, “that’s not anything like Andy’s crooked cats!”

“It will be, Records,” Jupiter stated. “Come on.” He hurried into Tunnel Two and up into Headquarters, with Bob and Andy following him. He went straight to a small workbench in a corner.

“Records, call that telephone number in the ad and find out where we have to go.”

While Bob made the call, Jupiter began to work on the ragged stuffed cat. He used quick drying, brush-on dye, needle and thread, and twisted pieces of wire to reconstruct and repair the cat. He worked quickly and in silence, his eyes bright with purpose. Bob hung up and joined Andy at the workbench.

“You have an address, Records?” Jupiter asked without looking up from his work.

“The number was an answering service,” Bob said. “They told me to go to 47 San Roque Way. That’s only about ten blocks from here, Jupe.”

“Good. We should be in plenty of time since the ad only came out in the evening paper. He probably used the answering service because he didn’t have an address when he placed that ad.”

Half an hour later, Jupiter sat back in satisfaction and buckled a red-dyed collar round the stuffed cat’s neck.

“There! One red-and-black, one-eyed, red-collared crooked cat. The wire twists the legs just right, I believe.”

“It still doesn’t look like Andy’s cats,” Bob decided.

“But good enough for our purposes,” Jupiter declared. “Now let’s go and sell a crooked cat!”

Fifteen minutes later Bob, Andy and Jupiter crouched in a grove of palm trees not far from 47 San Roque Way. It was a small stucco house set far back from the street, with a faded sign on it that showed it had once been the combination home-office of a watchmaker. It seemed deserted in the gloomy late afternoon, with no curtains at the windows and no lights inside.

The street was not deserted. A horde of boys and girls milled around with stuffed cats in their arms. The cats were of every possible description. The prospective sellers were eager, but it was clear that the door of the house was locked.

“Most of those cats are all wrong,” Bob pointed out. “Can’t those kids read right?”

“They all hope the buyer will make an exception for them,” Jupiter said. “They all want twenty-five dollars for cats worth maybe ten dollars.”

“Everyone wants something for nothing,” Andy said. “All carnival people know that.”

At that moment a small blue car stopped in the alley behind the stucco house. Someone got out and hurried round to the front of the house. He was too far away and moved too quickly for the boys to get a real look at him. The man unlocked the front door of the small house, and the horde of eager cat-sellers began to pour inside after him. Andy shifted with excitement where the boys crouched hidden among the palms.

“What do we do, Jupiter?” he asked quickly.

“First, Andy, do you recognize that blue car?” Andy peered hard towards the distant car.

“No, Jupe, I don’t think I ever saw it before. Most carnival people have bigger cars than that to pull their trailers.”

“Very well,” Jupiter nodded. “You and I will stay here and watch. One of us can sneak round in a few minutes and examine that car. We must be careful, though, not to be seen. I don’t think the thief can be aware that anyone is after him yet. Anyway, if I’m right about him being a carnival member, he would recognize you, Andy.”

“What do I do?” Bob asked. “As if I didn’t know.”

“Yes, Records,” Jupiter instructed, “you will go in and try to sell our stuffed cat. He’ll refuse to buy, if my deductions are correct, but you’ll see who he is and perhaps find out just what is so valuable about the crooked cats.”

“Okay, First,” Bob said, and remounted his bike.

Carrying the fake crooked cat, Bob pedalled up to the long front path of the stucco house. He rode on to the door and dismounted. Then he joined the stream of boys and girls still pouring into the house.

Inside, he found himself in a bare living room mobbed with the eager sellers. The only furniture was some straight chairs and a single long table. At a chair behind the table, almost hidden by the crowd of boys and girls, the man was taking the cats one by one and examining them.

“No, I’m sorry, boys, those three won’t do at all,” the man said in a hoarse voice to two older boys. “You see, I must have only a certain kind of cat. No, that one won’t do, either. I’m sorry. My ad made it very clear that I want specific stuffed cats.”

Then the man’s arm reached out quickly to take a crooked cat that looked exactly like the cat that Pete had won and then lost at the carnival. Bob stared. On the man’s left forearm was a large tattoo of a sailing ship, clear and unmistakable!

“Good, that’s just what I need, son,” the tattooed man said as he gave the owner twenty-five dollars.

But Bob wasn’t listening. He was thinking that if the man was a member of the carnival, Andy should know the tattoo! He didn’t see how Andy could have missed such a mark, and if — he was looking straight into the swarthy face of the tattooed man. The man’s eyes flickered, and he pointed at Bob. “You in the red sweater. Can I see your cat?” Bob walked up to the table, trying not to show how scared he was, but the man only reached out and took the cat. He glanced at the fake cat, then smiled up at Bob.

“Well, it’s been repaired, but it’s a good job. My kids at the home will like it. Here’s your money, son.”

Stunned, Bob took the twenty-five dollars without really knowing what was happening. He found himself staring at the tattooed man, but, fortunately, the man immediately returned to looking at other cats. Recovering himself, Bob backed away from the table.

As he did, he saw the pile of stuffed cats on the floor behind the table. One was his own, and one wasn’t any more like the cat Pete had lost than his was. But the other two were identical to Pete’s prize.

The stream of kids was thinning now, and Bob hesitated. He was torn between leaving before he attracted attention and staying to see if he could learn more about crooked cats. He decided to risk staying a little longer.

“I need cats to match a giant cat the children’s home has as a kind of mascot,” the tattooed man explained to some disappointed boys. “It was made in Germany a long time ago. We want similar cats to give to all our kids as Christmas presents.”

“Gee,” a boy who had just failed said, “maybe I know who has one like you want, mister. My friend Billy Mota won a cat at the carnival.”

“Did he?” the tattooed man said. “Unfortunately, I suppose he didn’t see my ad, and I only have today.”

“He lives near me, 39 Chelham Place,” the boy blurted out.

“I won’t have time, son,” the tattooed man said. For an instant, Bob was certain that the swarthy man’s dark eyes had flickered towards him. But he could not be sure that it hadn’t been his imagination. The crowd in the room had dwindled to a very few boys, and Bob realized that soon he would be too obviously hanging round after selling his cat.