Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 114, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 697 & 698, September/October 1999

Cat Thief by Ernest Dudley

©1999 by Ernest Dudley

Londoner Ernest Dudley is a newcomer to EQMM. “Cat Thief” was originally published in the U.K., under the title “The White Mog,” for a collection of stories by the Crime Writers Association. It then saw further life in a collection of church-related stories in the U.K. We’re happy to say that its third life is its first in the U.S. — may it have at least six lives more.

First time Fred Ellis saw the white cat, it was only for a few seconds, then it I was gone. Like a ghost, you might say, it being so white and all. He saw it through the railings of the garden in the square. Obviously, it had come from one of the houses in the square. But even though it had only been this brief flash, the white cat made him catch his breath — he could feel himself drooling at the thought of grabbing it and shoving it in his sack. He reckoned Bernie ought to cough up twice as much as usual for fur like this one.

He’d been smart enough to check the time by his watch when he’d seen it. Just gone ten o’clock. Next night, he’d be there, same time. He knew from experience people mostly put their cats out about the same time every night.

It was a late summer night, and Fred Ellis had been on his usual prowl. He was a cat thief. He averaged seven to ten cats a week, at up to fifty pounds a time, cash, no questions asked by a certain Bernie Hollins, who ran a furrier’s behind Paddington Station as a cover for his activities... His vivisectionist clients looked down their noses at thin, scraggy specimens, and your fur dealers, too, go for a healthy cat with a good amount of well-kept fur. Though it was your regular vivisectionists who were your most regular customer. Needed all the cats you could throw at them, they did. Never-ending, the demand is, with vivisectionists. But take the fur business, well, it had its ups and downs.

Fred made his cat-prowl nearly every night, covering in his travels every part of London — sometimes, if he had a hunch, he’d nip out to the suburbs, like Croydon, Wimbledon, or Streatham, in his little van. This is all the gear you need for this job. A little van, as inconspicuous as you could make it, and a strong sack or two, into which you shoved the mogs. So long as they had enough air to breathe, they were okay. They might yowl and fight sometimes, but that didn’t matter, so long as you brought ’em back alive. Bernie Hollins needed a dead cat like he needed a hole in the head.

But this white mog he’d spotted in this square just off Gloucester Place, it was a real beaut. Your better-class area usually supplied your better-class cat, so he was there all right, next time. He had a specially large sack with him for the white cat. And suddenly, there it was. In the light of one of the street lamps, it looked a gleaming, brilliant white. Made your eyes pop, it was that white, and it even looked bigger than the first time. It was then he had the funny feeling it was expecting him. But, as before, it was there for only a few moments before it vanished into the shadows.

He cursed to himself. He wondered what had made it take off like that. Then it reappeared a few yards further along the railings. It was a misty night, so perhaps because of the mist, it hadn’t seen Fred. He approached it cautiously, his sack gripped tight in his left hand, held partly behind his back. He rounded the corner of the garden, and still it hadn’t moved. Something told Fred his luck was going to be in. Stealthily he went forward, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound.

The cat saw him. But it didn’t make off. It stood there, its thick, furry tail flicking to and fro. Its eyes glowed greenish gold. Fred could almost make himself believe it was purring. He was only a couple of yards away — this was the moment to pounce. But the cat turned and proceeded alongside the railings. Fred muttered a curse and followed. He meant to nab the thing tonight, and no blinkin’ error. He could feel his heart starting to race and his mouth went dry.

Once more, it stopped. It glanced back at him, those wonderful eyes aglow in the beautiful white head. Fred kept going, still cautiously. Once again, he was a couple of yards from it. And again it moved on. Fred began to think it was playing some sort of follow-my-leader game with him. Well, he’d put a stop to that. His eyes slitted angrily, his mouth became a thin line. He wasn’t going to allow some bloody cat to make a bloody fool out of him— But not to panic, relax — take it slow and easy.

“Hello, white cat,” he said softly. “Come on, white moggy, we’re pals, ain’t we?”

Its pinkish-white ears twitched, then it turned and went on. Sometimes it seemed to merge into the mist. Fred kept after it without hurrying, calling to it in a soft, persuasive voice. “Come on, whitey — come on now, let’s be friends.”

So it went for about forty yards, till the gardens came to an end. Now, the white cat paused, then turned down a narrow cul-de-sac, which sloped to a small row of garages. Fred followed. It looked as if it was going to play right into his hands — if he could only get it into a corner, it was his.

His face under his cap was pale, strained with concentration. He was gritting his teeth as he followed the cat.

Halfway down the incline, it paused. It looked over its shoulder at Fred. Its eyes glowed with a greater intensity than ever. Fred drew nearer, talking cajolingly.

He saw that the half-door of the end garage to his left was slightly ajar. Then he realised the white mog was making for it. His heart leapt; he could have laughed out loud with triumph. Couldn’t be better, the cat was running straight into a trap. Once inside the garage, it would be cornered and at Fred’s mercy. He guessed the garage was empty, there wouldn’t be a car in there, or the doors wouldn’t be left open. It was empty, sure enough.

He followed the cat more quickly.

Yes, it was going into the garage—!

He stopped to watch the white cat slip inside the slightly open door, then he dashed forward. As he’d expected, the garage was empty, no car the cat could shelter under. He was slamming the door behind him, groping for his torch in his pocket, which he always carried...

Then he froze.

Dozens of pairs of cats’ eyes glowed at him from the darkness. The garage was alive with the white ghostly shapes of cats, their eyes, greenish gold, blazing at him, Fred’s whole body crawled with terror; he gulped with horror and turned away.

But before he could get out, the eyes sprang at him. He let out a frightful scream as the claws ripped and tore him to pieces. Yowling and spitting with venom, dozens of cats slashed claws at his face, tore at his neck...

At that moment, two cops who’d been on duty at a nearby embassy passed the top of the cul-de-sac. Fred’s agonised shrieks reached them and they dashed to the garage. One pulled the door open, the other following him. Their torches blazed and one of them switched on the light.

In its glare, Fred Ellis lay sprawled on the floor, one hand grasping the sack, the other flung out as if to protect his face, contorted in a grimace of horror. One of the cops bent and felt his pulse, listened to his heart. He looked up, shaking his head. Fred was dead.

“What in hell was all that about?” the other asked.

The cop who’d checked Fred’s heart shrugged and glanced around the empty garage. “Must have had a heart attack — or something—”

He glanced again at the dead man. There wasn’t a mark on him. Not a sign of cats’ claws slashing and tearing Fred’s face to pieces.

Not a mark.