The Black Cats

Rittenhouse Redux

WHAT NERVE MIDNIGHT HAD, masquerading as a house-born cat when he’d sprung from the gutter like me. Our relationship commenced last fall when I was but a fledgling crime solver. I’d tracked my quarry, the Glass Eye Killer, as far as Rittenhouse Square before running out of clues and ideas. That’s when I happened upon Midnight—a chance meeting that led to, I am loath to admit, an infatuation. He dazzled me with kittenhood tales of velvet pillows, everlasting tuna, and silken collars, and in my naiveté, I believed every word. Having spent my formative years as a stray, living in a wooden crate behind Osgood’s Odd Goods, I was in no position to judge the veracity of his stories. Looking back, his proclivity for theft had hinted at a less than fortuitous upbringing. I’d just been too enamored to notice.

As the omnibus turned the corner of North 9^th onto Spring Garden, I thought of the ancient proverb: scratch me once, shame on you; scratch me twice, shame on me. I would not be scarred by Midnight again. The long four-horse carriage stopped at the curb near my paws.

“Afternoon, Miss Puss,” Mr. Coal said from the driver’s perch. His top hat swallowed his small head, and the size difference caused the hat to wobble when he spoke. “You’re looking well today. Catch any good mice lately?” I did not know Mr. Coal’s true name. Rather, I’d assigned it based on his route. He worked the black line, Mr. Goldenrod worked the yellowish line, Mr. Sky worked the blue line and so forth. Endearing myself to the city’s omnibus drivers had been easy; a plaintive mew, a blink of my eyes, and they were mine, present company included. “Mind your step,” he said, working the door lever.

I boarded the horse-bus and walked between a preponderance of legs, looking for a seat. After realizing the joys of transportation last autumn, I became a public transit devotee. Yes, yes, the cobblestones rattled a body, tail to teeth. But, oh, the convenience! The journey to Rittenhouse by paw would have taken until sundown, and I had neither the patience nor the stamina to see it through. I found a seat next to a bespectacled woman with a pheasant plume on her bonnet. The slender brown feathers fluttered in the open window behind her as the carriage lurched forward. Despite the gaiety of her hat, however, the woman’s face had all the charm of a pitted prune.

She leaned out of the window and shouted to Mr. Coal, “Driver, why does the cat ride free? I demand to know, where’s her dime?”

“I asked her for fare once, missus.” Mr. Coal’s voice floated in through the window. “She tried to carve me like a Sunday ham. But you go right ahead and get the money from her. I’d be much obliged.”

“Dear me,” the woman muttered. She rose and took a new seat, squeezing between two gentlemen in the rear of the coach. This suited me, and I settled into the rhythm of the horses’ steps. By and by, their cadence calmed me, lessening my need for blood. I would engage Midnight in a battle of wits, not claws, I decided. It took two transfers to reach my destination, but I made it to Rittenhouse near teatime.

I yowled to be let off and disembarked, taking in the familiar smell of the place. The odor of limestone and new construction prompted memories, both good and bad. I could not say I missed this neighborhood, not as I did Fairmount. I set out for Midnight’s imposing townhome, reaching it several blocks later. Climbing the steps the wide stone porch, I began a campaign of vocalizations until a small child answered my call. Her blonde curls sprang from her head like a bird’s nest. If memory served, this was Sarah, the miniature mistress of the house. In her arms, she carried a baby swaddled in a tapestry shawl with black fringe all around.

The girl knelt and patted me on the head, giving me a peek inside the bundle she carried. My first assessment had been incorrect. She held not a baby but a large grey kitten with a shiny ribbon tied round her neck. The tabby’s permanent teeth poked jaggedly through her gums, as if they hadn’t had an opportunity to grow in yet.

“You’re cute,” Sarah said to me. “Do you have a home? Would you like to come in? We’re playing house, and Lovie needs a sissy.” She bounced the kitten-baby in her arms.

Sissy? Could she have met Mrs. Poe? I doubted it. “I am looking for Midnight,” I said to the kitten. “Does he still live here?”

“For the time being.”

“Then will you get him for me?”

“He is napping,” the kitten said with a touch of boredom.

“He is a cat,” I said. “He is always napping, you supercilious scrap of fur. Now retrieve him at once, or I will reach into that blanket and—”

“Cattarina?” Midnight padded onto the porch. Sunlight glistened on his long black fur, lending him a regal air I found irresistible, even today. He still wore the blue ribbon round his neck, the one I remembered from our last visit, but it had frayed at the edges.

“Oh,” Sarah said, “she’s come for you, handsome boy.” She leapt to her feet and sang, “Midnight’s got a sweetheart. Midnight’s got a sweetheart.” She skipped into the house with her kitten-baby. As the door swung shut, the grey fur ball gave me a direct stare, ears tipped sideways. What insolence.

“A matched pair,” I said to Midnight. “Good riddance.”

“Sarah used to dote on me, until Lovie showed up,” he said to me. “But enough about them. Let’s talk about you and where you’ve been the last six moons.” He sat on his hindquarters and puffed his chest fur, displaying the white patch over his breastbone—the most glaring difference between him and the murdered cat. “I tried to visit you last winter, but your pal at Eastern State Penitentiary—”

“Big Blue?”

“Yes, that’s him. He couldn’t say where you’d gone.”

I turned my nose to the sky. “You kept busy with other mollies, I am certain.”

“None like you, Cattarina.”

I paused to consider my strategy, settling on Circle and Pounce. “Perhaps my charm comes from a feral upbringing.”

“Maybe.”

“You and I are different, aren’t we, Midnight? You have never known the hardships of street life. I, on the other hand, know them too well.” I circled him, treading with slow, soft steps.

“Well…yes. But don’t feel bad. Not everyone is fed from a silver spoon at birth.”

“And what, pray tell, came on your silver spoon?”

“Oh, you know…the usual.”

“Minced lamb? Creamed tuna? Bacon drippings?” I circled tighter.

“Of course.”

“Ha!” I spat. “Lie upon lie upon lie!”

“What are you talking about?”

I faced him, hackles raised. “Why didn’t you tell me you were born a stray, Midnight? Or should I call you Crow?”

His pale eyes shone bright, twin moons against his dark fur. “H-how did you find out?”

“Silas and Samuel, my new neighbors.” I walked to the edge of the stoop and wrapped my tail around me. “I am sure you are acquainted with their caretaker, Mr. Eakins.”

“Yes, I know Mr. Eakins. If not for him, I would probably be dead by now.”

Like the cat in the tree. I dismissed the thought. “Then why did you hide the truth, particularly when we share the same heritage? To humiliate me?”

“What? No! To impress you.” He joined me on the top stair. “There have been other mollies, Cattarina, but none with your…fire.”

“I do have fire, don’t I?” I unwrapped my tail and cast it lazily upon the steps.

“Yes,” he said. “Enough to burn down the whole of Philadelphia.”

“And my ears. Do you like them? I think they are my best feature.”

“They are, without a doubt, your best feature.”

We brushed cheeks. All was forgiven.

“So you came all the way to Rittenhouse to catch me in a lie?” Midnight said. “I’m flattered.”

“No, of course not,” I countered. Many untruths had been told this afternoon; I did not mind adding to their number. “My purpose lies with another stray, hanged this very morning near Green Street. To find the tom’s executioner, I must learn his identity. So I am speaking to as many of our kind as possible in the hope that someone knows something. He looked a little like you but all black. On the small, scrawny side with a single orange eye. I shan’t tell you about the other eye.”

Midnight swallowed. “When you say orange, do you mean pumpkin or copper?”

“I don’t see what difference—”

“Please!”

“Very well, copper-ish.”

“If it’s who I think it is, the cat’s name is Snip. I hadn’t thought about him in…” He stared at a passing wagon filled with anthracite. “Well, it’s been ages. We met during our stay with Mr. Eakins. The old man placed me in a home first, and I never thought about him or that old life until today.” He sighed. “Funny little tom. Always worked for the laugh. He ran loops around the Coon Cats. Loved to spill their water dish and watch them play in the mess. He was quite the entertainer.” Midnight faced me, his eyes narrowed. “I hope you find who killed him, Cattarina.”

“As do I.” I arose and paced the stoop. “The black cat— I mean, Snip’s death has proved most discomforting to Sissy, the mistress of Poe House. And my Eddy can scarcely think of anything else. I am hunting for them, you see, as well as Snip.”

“Now who’s the liar, Cattarina?” Midnight said. “I see the excitement in your tail.”

I looked back at the aforementioned item and found it sticking straight in the air. I lowered it, dusting the limestone. “Very well. It is exhilarating to hunt for big game. But my family is no less the reason. Nor is retribution for a fallen brother.”

“Maybe I can help,” he said. “When you called on your neighbors, Silas and Samuel, did you happen to see a large leather-bound book in their home?”

“The cookery book?”

Midnight cocked his head.

“Never mind. I know of it.”

“Midnight!” Sarah screeched from the front hall. “Let’s play hopscotch!” The sound of her voice flattened Midnight’s ears. It had a similar effect on me, driving me back to the steps.

“Mr. Eakins scribbles things inside it,” he said quickly.

“That’s what humans do,” I said. “It’s how they communicate. Though I cannot read the marks, they are of great importance to Eddy.”

“It’s possible Mr. Eakins wrote about Snip’s new owners in the book.” The door opened, banging against the inside wall. Sarah snatched Midnight under the ribcage, his back legs dangling. “Find Snip’s entry, and find your answers,” he wheezed. “Charmed to see you, Cattarina. Do come ag—”

The door slammed, cutting our conversation short. Fiddlesticks. I longed to heed his advice, except the memory of this morning’s capture troubled me. Then I had to overcome the small problem of my illiteracy, at least in the ways of human writing. Even if I located the book, its contents would be indecipherable. I arched my back, releasing the crick in my spine, and left for the omnibus stop.

The carriage trip home gave me an opportunity to reflect on Midnight’s advice, enough so that when I reached Spring Garden, I’d talked myself into visiting Mr. Eakins. Heading north, I reached the Butcher’s dwelling and climbed to his kitchen windowsill. I peered through the glass. The old man sat at the dining table, charcoal twig in hand, doodling in his leather-bound cat-pendium. Dash it all. Before I could snoop for clues, Mr. Eakins would have to set his drawing aside, a difficult task given the allure of the feline form. I watched him a while longer, fascinated by the movement of his hand on the paper. Eddy usually frowned as he worked; I think it helped him. But Mr. Eakins smiled—a fool’s grin, toothy and without reason—as he sketched. The task consumed him such that the folly of his Coon Cats passed unnoticed.

Behind him, Silas and Samuel crept to the sideboard where they plundered a near-empty soup pot. The brothers took turns, each allowing the other a few licks of broth. It was a polite affair until Silas—in a fit of gluttony—butted Samuel out of the way, jumped into the vessel, and upended himself by accident. His back legs punched the air as he tried to extract himself from the stew he’d gotten himself into. Stew. I twitched my whiskers, pleased with the pun. Samuel elected to escape trouble and dashed into the parlor out of view.

Mr. Eakins laid down his twig and closed his book. When he rose to help Silas, he brushed the tablecloth with his leg, revealing the cage hidden beneath it. I could not be an inmate of parrot prison again! Terrified, I leapt to the ground and ran straight home. There had to be another way to help Snip.