Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 4. Whole No. 245, April 1964

SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost by Lilian Jackson Braun

Does anyone write better cat stories — rather, better detective-crime-mystery stories about cats — than Lilian Jackson Braun? We doubt it...

When my sister and I returned from our vacation and learned that our eccentric neighbor in the wheel chair had been removed to a mental hospital, we were sorry but hardly surprised. He was a strange man, not easy to like, and no one in our apartment building seemed to be concerned about his departure — except our Siamese cat. The friendship between SuSu and Mr. Van was so close it was alarming.

If it had not been for SuSu, we would never have made the man’s acquaintance, for we were not too friendly with our neighbors. Our apartment house was very large and full of odd characters who, we thought, were best ignored. On the other hand, the old building had advantages: large rooms, moderate rents, a thrilling view of the river, and a small waterfront park at the foot of the street. It was there that we first noticed Mr. Van.

One Sunday afternoon my sister Gertrude and I were walking SuSu in the park, which was barely more than a strip of grass alongside an old wharf. Barges and tugs sometimes docked there, and SuSu — wary of these monsters — preferred to stay away from the water’s edge. It was one of the last nice days in November. Soon the river would freeze over, icy winds would blow, and the park would be deserted for the winter.

SuSu loved to chew grass, and she was chewing industriously when something diverted her attention and drew her toward the river. Tugging at her leash, she insisted on moving across the grass to the boardwalk, where a middle-aged man sat in a most unusual wheel chair.

It was made almost entirely of cast iron, like the base of an old-fashioned sewing machine, and it was upholstered in worn plush. With its high back and elaborate ironwork, it looked like a mobile throne, and the man who occupied this regal wheel chair presided with the imperious air of a monarch. It conflicted absurdly with his shabby clothing.

To our surprise this was the attraction that lured SuSu. She chirped at the man, and the man leaned over and stroked her fur.

“She recognizes me,” he explained to us, speaking with a haughty accent that sounded vaguely Teutonic. “I was-s-s a cat myself in a former existence.”

I rolled my eyes at Gertrude, but she accepted the man’s statement without blinking.

He was far from attractive, having a sharply pointed chin, ears set too high on his head, and eyes that were merely slits, and when he smiled he was even less appealing. Nevertheless, SuSu found him irresistible. She rubbed his ankles, and he scratched her in the right places. They made a most unlikely pair — SuSu with her luxurious blonde fur, looking fastidious and expensive, and the man in the wheel chair with his rusty coat and moth-eaten laprobe.

In the course of a fragmentary conversation with Mr. Van we learned that he and the companion who manipulated his wheel chair had just moved into a large apartment on our floor, and I wondered why the two of them needed so many rooms. As for the companion, it was hard to decide whether he was a mute or just unsociable. He was a short thick man with a round knob of a head screwed tight to his shoulders and a flicker of something unpleasant in his eyes, and he stood behind the wheel chair in sullen silence.

On the way back to the apartment Gertrude said, “How do you like our new neighbor?”

“I prefer cats before they’re reincarnated as people,” I said.

“But he’s rather interesting,” said my sister in the gentle way she had.

A few evenings later we were having coffee after dinner, and SuSu — having finished her own meal — was washing up in the down-glow of a lamp. As we watched her graceful movements, we saw her hesitate with one paw in mid-air. She held it there and listened. Then a new and different sound came from her throat, like a melodic gurgling. A minute later she was trotting to the front door with intense purpose. There she sat, watching and waiting and listening, although we ourselves could hear nothing.

It was a full two minutes before our doorbell rang. I went to open the door and was somewhat unhappy to see Mr. Van sitting there in his lordly wheel chair.

SuSu leaped into his lap — an unprecedented overture for her to make — and after he had kneaded her ears and scratched her chin, he smiled a thin-lipped, slit-eyed smile at me and said, “Goeden avond. I was-s-s unpacking some crates, and I found something I would like to give to you.”

With a courtly flourish he handed me a small framed picture, whereupon I was more or less obliged to invite him in. He wheeled his ponderous chair into the apartment with some difficulty, the rubber tires making deep gouges in the pile of the carpet.

“How do you manage that heavy chair alone?” I asked. “It must weigh a ton.”

“But it is-s-s a work of art,” said Mr. Van, rubbing appreciative hands over the plush upholstery and the lacy ironwork of the wheels.

Gertrude had jumped up and poured him a cup of coffee, and he said, “I wish you would teach that man of mine to make coffee. He makes the worst zootje I have ever tasted. In Holland we like our coffee sterk with a little chicory. But that fellow, he is-s-s a smeerlap. I would not put up with him for two minutes if I could get around by myself.”

SuSu was rubbing her head on the Dutchman’s vest buttons, and he smiled with pleasure, showing small square teeth.

“Do you have this magnetic attraction for cats?” I asked with a slight edge to my voice. SuSu was now in raptures because he was twisting the scruff of her neck.

“It is-s-s only natural,” he said. “I can read their thoughts, and they read mine of course. Do you know that cats are mind readers? You walk to the icebox to get a beer, and the cat she will not budge, but walk to the icebox to get out her dinner, and she will come bouncing into the kitchen from any place she happens to be. Your thought waves have reached her, even though she seems to be asleep.”

Gertrude agreed it was probably true.

“Of course it is-s-s true,” said Mr. Van, sitting tall. “Everything I say is-s-s true. Cats know more than you suspect. They can not only read your mind, they can plant ideas in your head. And they can sense something that is-s-s about to happen.”

My sister said, “You must be right. SuSu knew you were coming here tonight, long before you rang the bell.”

“Of course I am right. I am always right,” said Mr. Van. “My grandmother in Vlissingen had a tomcat called Zwartje that she was-s-s very fond of, and after she died my grandmother came back every night to pet the cat. Every night Zwartje stood in front of Grootmoeder’s chair and stretched and purred, although there was-s-s no one there. Every night at half-past eight.”

After that visit with Mr. Van, I referred to him as Grandmother’s Ghost, for he too made a habit of appearing at 8:30 several times a week. He would say, “I was-s-s feeling lonesome for my little sweetheart,” and SuSu would make an extravagant fuss over the man. I was pleased that he never stayed long, although Gertrude usually encouraged him to linger.

The little framed picture he had given us was not exactly to my taste. It was a silhouette of three figures — a man in top hat and frock coat, a woman in hoop skirt and sunbonnet, and a cat carrying his tail like a lance. To satisfy my sister, however, I hung it over the kitchen sink.

One evening Gertrude, who is a librarian, came home from work in great excitement. “There’s a signature on that silhouette,” she said, “and I looked it up at the library. Auguste Edouart was a famous artist, and our silhouette is over a hundred years old. It might be valuable.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “We used to cut silhouettes like that in the third grade.”

Eventually, at my sister’s urging, I took the object to an antique shop, and the dealer said it was a good one, probably worth $150.

When Gertrude heard this, she said, “If the dealer quoted $150, it’s worth $250. I think we should give it back to Mr. Van. The poor man doesn’t know what he’s giving away.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “maybe he could sell it and buy himself a decent wheel chair.”

At 8:30 that evening SuSu began to gurgle and prance.

“Here comes Grandmother’s Ghost,” I said, and shortly afterward the doorbell rang.

“Mr. Van,” I said, as soon as Gertrude had poured his coffee, “remember that silhouette you gave us? We’ve found out it’s very valuable, and you must take it back.”

“Of course it is-s-s valuable,” he said. “Would I give it to you if it was-s-s nothing but rommel?

“Do you know something about antiques?”

“My dear Mevrouw, I have a million dollars’ worth of antiques in my apartment. Tomorrow evening you ladies must come and see my treasures. I will get rid of that smeerlap, and the three of us will enjoy a cup of coffee.”

“By the way, what is a smeerlap?” I asked.

“It is not very nice,” said Mr. Van. “If somebody called me a smeerlap, I would punch him in the nose... Bring my little sweet-heart when you come, ladies. She will find some fascinating objects to explore.”

Our cat seemed to know what he was saying.

“SuSu will enjoy it,” said Gertrude. “She’s locked up in this apartment all winter.”

“Knit her a sweater and take her to the park in cold weather,” the Dutchman said in the commanding tone that always irritated me. “I often bundle up in a blanket and go to the park in the evening. It is-s-s good for insomnia.”

“SuSu is not troubled with insomnia,” I informed him. “She sleeps twenty hours a day.”

Mr. Van looked at me with scorn. “You are wrong. Cats never sleep. You think they are sleeping, but cats are the most wakeful creatures on earth. That is-s-s one of their secrets.”

After he had gone, I said to Gertrude, “He must be off his rocker.”

“He’s just a little eccentric,” she said.

“If he has a million dollars’ worth of antiques, which I doubt, why is he living in this run-down building? And why doesn’t he buy a wheel chair that’s easier to operate?”

“Because he’s a Dutchman, I suppose.”

“And how about all those ridiculous things he says about cats?”

“I’m beginning to think they’re true,” said Gertrude.

“And who is this fellow that lives with him? Is he a servant, or a nurse, or a keeper, or what? I see him coming and going on the elevator, but he never speaks — not one word. He doesn’t even seem to have a name, and Mr. Van treats him like a slave. I’m not sure we should go tomorrow night. The whole situation is too strange.”

Nevertheless, we went. The Dutchman’s apartment, we found, was jammed with furniture and bric-a-brac, and Mr. Van shouted at his companion, “Move that rommel so the ladies can sit down.”

Sullenly the fellow removed some paintings and tapestries from the seat of a carved sofa.

“Now get out of here,” Mr. Van shouted at him. “Get yourself a beer,” and he threw the man a crumpled dollar bill with less grace than one would throw a bone to a dog.

We sat on the sofa to drink our coffee, while SuSu explored the premises, and then Mr. Van showed us his treasures, propelling his wheel chair through a maze of furniture. He pointed out Chippendale-this and Affleck-that and Newport-something-else. Perhaps they were treasures to him, but to me they were musty relics of a dead past.

“I am in the antique business,” Mr. Van explained. “Before I was-s-s chained to this stupid wheel chair, I had a shop and exhibited at all the major shows. Then... I was-s-s in a bad auto accident, and now I sell from the apartment. By appointment only.”

“Can you do that succesfully?” Gertrude asked.

“And why not? The museum people know me, and collectors come here from all over the country. I buy. I sell. And my man Frank does the legwork. He is-s-s the perfect assistant for an antique dealer — strong in the back, weak in the head.”

“Where did you find him?”

“On a junk heap. I have taught him enough to be useful to me, but not enough to be useful to himself. A smart arrangement, eh?” Mr. Van winked. “He is-s-s a smeerlap, but I am helpless without him... Hoo! Look at my little sweetheart! She has-s-s made a discovery.”

SuSu was sniffing at a silver bowl with two handles.

Mr. Van nodded approvingly. “It is-s-s a caudle cup made by Jeremiah Dummer of Boston in the late 17th century — for a certain lady in Salem. They said she was-s-s a witch. Look at my little sweetheart! She knows!”

I coughed and said, “Yes, indeed, you’re lucky to have Frank.”

“You think I do not know it?” said Mr. Van. “That is-s-s why I keep him poor. If I gave him wages, he would get ideas.”

“How long ago was your accident?”

“Five years, and it was-s-s that idiot’s fault! He did it! He did this to me!” The Dutchman’s voice rose to a shout, and his face turned red as he pounded the arms of his wheel chair with his fists. Then SuSu rubbed against his ankles, and he stroked her and began to calm down. “Yes, five years ago,” he said. “Five years in this miserable chair. We were driving to an antique show in the station wagon. That smeerlap went through a red light — fifty miles an hour — and hit a truck. A gravel truck!”

“How terrible!” Gertrude said, putting both hands to her face.

“I still remember packing the wagon for that trip. I was-s-s complaining all the time about sore arches. Hah! What I would give for some sore arches today yet!”

“Wasn’t Frank hurt?”

Mr. Van made an impatient gesture. “His-s-s head only. They kicked Waterford crystal out of his-s-s cranium for six hours. He has-s-s been gek ever since.” The Dutchman tapped his temple.

“Where did you find your unusual wheel chair?” I asked.

“My dear Mevrouw, never ask a dealer where he found something,” said Mr. Van. “This chair is-s-s unique. It was-s-s made for a railroad millionaire in 1872. It has-s-s the original plush. If you must spend your life in a wheel chair, have one that gives some pleasure. And now we come to the purpose of tonight’s visit. Ladies, I want you to do something for me.”

He wheeled himself to a desk, and Gertrude and I exchanged anxious glances.

“Here in this desk is-s-s a new will I have written, and I need witnesses. I am leaving a few choice items to museums, then everything else is-s-s to be sold and the proceeds used to establish a Foundation.”

“What about Frank?” asked Gertrude, who is always genuinely concerned about others.

“Bah! Nothing for that smeerlap!... But before you ladies sign the paper, there is-s-s one thing I must write down. What is-s-s my little sweetheart’s full name?”

Gertrude and I both hesitated, and I finally said, “SuSu’s registered name is Superior Suda of Siam.”

“Good! I will call it the Superior Suda Foundation. That gives me pleasure. Making a will is-s-s a dismal business, like a wheel chair, so give yourself some pleasure.”

“What... ah... will be the purpose of the Foundation?” I asked.

Mr. Van blessed us with a benevolent smile. “It will sponsor research,” he said. “I want the universities to study the highly developed mental perception of the domestic feline and apply this knowledge to the improvement of the human mind. Ladies, there is-s-s nothing better I could do with my fortune. Man is-s-s eons behind the smallest fireside grimalkin.” He gave us a canny look, and his pupils seemed to narrow. “I am in a position to know,” he added.

We signed the papers. What else could we do? A few days later we left on our vacation and never saw Mr. Van again.

Gertrude and I always went south for three weeks in winter, taking SuSu with us, and when we returned, the sorry news about our eccentric neighbor was thrown at us without ceremony.

We met Frank on the elevator, and for the first time he spoke! That in itself was a shock.

He said, “They took him away.”

“What’s that? What did you say?” We both clamored at once.

“They took him away.” It was surprising to find that the voice of this chunky man was high-pitched and rasping.

“What happened to Mr. Van?” my sister demanded.

“He cracked up. His folks come from Pennsylvania and took him back home to a nut hospital.”

I saw Gertrude wince, and she said, “Is it serious?”

Frank shrugged.

“What will happen to all his antiques?”

“His folks told me to dump the junk.”

“But they’re valuable things, aren’t they?”

“Nah. Junk. He give everybody that guff about museums and all.” Frank shrugged again and tapped his head. “He was gek!”

Wonderingly my sister and I returned to our apartment, and I could hardly wait to say it: “I told you the Dutchman was unbalanced.”

“It’s such a pity,” she said.

“What do you think of the sudden change in Frank? He acts like a free man. It must have been terrible living with that old Scrooge.”

“I’ll miss Mr. Van,” Gertrude said. “He was. very interesting. SuSu will miss him, too.”

But SuSu, we observed later that evening, was not willing to relinquish her friend in the wheel chair as easily as we had done.

We were unpacking the vacation luggage after dinner when SuSu staged her demonstration. She started to gurgle and prance, exactly as she had done all winter whenever Mr. Van was approaching our door. Gertrude and I stood there watching her, waiting for the bell to ring. When SuSu trotted expectantly to the front door, we followed. She was behaving in an extraordinary manner. She craned her neck, made weaving motions with her head, rolled over on her back and stretched luxuriously, all the while purring her heart out; but the doorbell never rang.

Looking at my watch, I said, “It’s eight thirty. SuSu remembers.”

“It’s quite touching, isn’t it?” said Gertrude.

That was not the end of SuSu’s demonstrations. Almost every night at half-past eight she performed the same ritual.

“Cats hate to give up a habit,” I remarked, recalling how SuSu had continued to sleep in the guest room long after we had moved her bed to another place. “But she’ll forget after a while.”

SuSu did not forget. A few weeks passed. Then we had a foretaste of spring and a sudden thaw. People went without coats prematurely, convertibles cruised with their tops down, and a few hopeful fishermen appeared down on the wharf at the foot of our street, although the river was still patched with ice.

On one of these warm evenings we walked SuSu down to the park for her first spring outing, expecting her to go after last year’s dried weeds with snapping jaws. But the weeds did not tempt her. Instead, she tugged at her leash, pulling toward the boardwalk. Out of curiosity we let her go, and there on the edge of the wharf she staged her weird performance once more — gurgling, arching her back, craning her neck with joy.

“She’s doing it again,” I said. “I wonder what the reason could be.”

Gertrude said softly, “Remember what Mr. Van said about cats and ghosts?”

“Look at that animal! You’d swear she was rubbing someone’s ankles. I wish she’d stop.”

“I wonder,” said my sister very slowly, “if Mr. Van is really in a mental hospital.”

“What do you mean?”

“Or is he — down there?” Gertrude pointed uncertainly over the edge of the wharf. “I think Mr. Van is dead, and SuSu knows.”

“That’s too fantastic,” I said. “How could that happen?”

“I think Frank pushed the poor man off the wharf, wheel chair and all — perhaps one dark night when Mr. Van couldn’t sleep and insisted on being wheeled to the park.”

“Really, Gertrude—”

“Can’t you see it?... A cold night. The riverfront deserted. Mr. Van trussed in his wheel chair with a blanket. Why, that chair would sink like lead! What a terrible thing! That icy water. That poor helpless man.”

“I just can’t—”

“Now Frank is free, and he has all those antiques, and nobody cares enough to ask questions. He can sell them and be set up for life. Do you know what a Newport blockfront chest is worth? I’ve been looking it up in the library. A chest like the one we saw in Mr. Van’s apartment was sold for $40,000 at some auction in the east.”

“But what about the relatives in Pennsylvania?”

“I’m sure Mr. Van had no relatives — in Pennsylvania or anywhere else.”

“Well, what do you propose we should do?” I said in exasperation. “Report it to the manager of the building? Notify the police? Tell them we think the man has been murdered because our cat sees his ghost every night at eight thirty? We’d look like a couple of middle-aged ladies who are getting a little gek.”

As a matter of fact, I was beginning to worry about Gertrude — that is, until the morning paper arrived.

I skimmed through it at the breakfast table, and there — at the bottom of page seven — one small item leaped off the paper at me. Could I believe my eyes?

“Listen to this!” I said to Gertrude. “The body of an unidentified man has been washed up on a downriver island. Police say the body apparently has been held underwater for several weeks by the ice... About fifty-five years old and crippled... No one fitting that description has been reported to the Missing Persons Bureau.”

For a moment my sister sat staring at the coffee pot. Then she rose from her chair and went to the telephone.

“Now all the police have to do,” she said with a slight quiver in her voice, “is to look for an antique wheel chair in the river at the foot of the street. Cast iron. With the original plush.” She blinked at the phone. “Will you dial?” she asked me. “The numbers are blurred.”