The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“Don’t you think the occasion calls for champagne, darling?” his wife replied. “I’m so happy to see you safely home. There’s a bottle of D.P. chilling in the refrigerator.”

Her husband poured the champagne and proposed a sentimental toast to his lovely wife. Mrs. Hopple had been a national beauty queen twenty years before and still looked the part, whether wearing a Paris original to a charity ball or designer jeans around the farm.

“First tell me about the small fry,” Mr. Hopple said. “They’ve been on my mind all week.” The Hopples never called their children “kids.”

“Good news from John,” said his wife, looking radiant. “He’s won two more honors in math and has made the golf team. He wants to attend a math camp this summer, but first he’d like to bring five schoolmates home for a week of fishing and shooting.”

“Good boy! He has a well-balanced perspective. Is he interested in girls as yet?”

“I don’t think so, dear. He’s only ten, you know. Mary is having her first date this weekend, and it’s with an ambassador’s son—”

“From which country?” Mr. Hopple cut in quickly.

“Something South American, I believe. By the way, she’s won all kinds of equestrian ribbons this spring, and she wants our permission to play polo. Her grades are excellent. She’s beginning to talk about Harvard—and business administration.”

“Good girl! Someday it will be Hopple& Daughter, Inc. And how is Donald progressing?”

Mrs. Hopple glowed with pleasure.“His teacher says he’s three years ahead of his age group in reading, and he has a vivid imagination. We may have a writer in the family, dear. Donald is always making up little stories.”

Mr. Hopple shook his head regretfully.“I had hoped for something better than that for Donald. How much time does he spend with his computer and his telescope?”

“None at all, I’m afraid, but I don’t press him. He’s such a bright, conscientious child, and so good! Cats are his chief interest right now. The calico in the stable had a litter last month, you remember, and Donald acts like a doting godfather. Sometimes I think that he may be headed for veterinary medicine.”

“I hardly relish the prospect of introducing ‘my son the horse doctor.’ I’d rather have a writer in the family.” Mr. Hopple poured champagne again. “And how is the household running, dear?”

“The week was rather eventful, darling. I’ve made a list. First, it appears there was a power outage Wednesday night; all the electric clocks were forty-seven minutes slow on Thursday morning. There was no storm to account for it. I wish there had been. We need rain badly. Ever since the outage, television reception has been poor. The repairman checked all our receivers and can find nothing wrong. The staff is quite upset. The houseman blames it on secret nuclear testing.”

“And how is the staff otherwise?” The Hopples never referred to “servants.”

“There are several developments. Both maids have announced that they’re pregnant … . I’ve had to dismiss the stableboy because of his bad language … . And the cook is demanding more fringe benefits.”

“Give her whatever she asks,” Mr. Hopple said. “We don’t want to lose Suzette. I trust the gardeners are well and happy.”

Mrs. Hopple referred to her list.“Mr. Bunsen’s arthritis is somewhat worse. We should hire another helper for him.”

“Hire two. He’s a loyal employee,” her husband said. “Is the new houseman satisfactory?”

“I have only one complaint. When he drives Donald to school he alarms the boy with nonsense about Russian plots and visitors from outer space and poisons in our food.”

“I’ll speak to the man immediately. Were you able to replace the stableboy?”

“Happily, yes. The school principal sent me a senior who speaks decently. He’s well-mannered and has just won a statewide science competition. He may have a good influence on our son, dear. Today Donald wore his NASA suit for the first time.”

“That’s promising. What’s the boy’s name?”

“Bobbie Wynkopp. He lives in the little house beyond our south gate.”

“Remind me to inquire, dear, if he’s noticed any trespassers in the south meadow. I saw evidence of a bonfire when I came in for a landing this afternoon. I don’t object to picnickers, but I don’t want them to start grass fires in this dry weather.”

A melodious bell rang, and the Hopples finished dressing and went downstairs to dinner.

Donald appeared at the table in his little white Italian silk suit, basking in his parents’ approval and waiting eagerly for the conversation to be directed his way. After the maid had served the leeks vinaigrette, Mr. Hopple said: “Well, young man, have you had any adventures this week?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, his large eyes sparkling. “I saw a weird cat in the stable.” Elevated on two cushions, he attacked the leeks proficiently with his junior-size knife and fork, crafted to match the family’s heirloom sterling. “I don’t know where he came from. He’s got long whiskers.” Donald held up both hands to indicate roughly eighteen inches.

“That sounds like a fish story to me,” said Mr. Hopple with a broad wink.

Donald smiled at his father’s badinage. “It’s true. He’s too little to have such long whiskers. He’s weird.”

His mother said gently:“Young cats have long whiskers and large ears, darling. Then they grow up to match them.”

Donald shook his head.“He’s not a kitten, Mother. He acts grown-up. Sometimes his whiskers are long, and sometimes they’re short. He’s weird. I call him Whiskers.”

“Imagine that!” his father said, striving to maintain a serious mien. “Retractable whiskers!”

Donald explained:“They get long when he’s looking for something. He sticks his nose in everything. He’s nosy.”

“The word we use, darling, isinquisitive,” his mother said gently.

“His whiskers light up in the dark,” the boy went on with a sense of importance as his confidence grew. “When he’s in a dark corner they’re green like our computer screens. And his ears go round and round.” Donald twirled his finger to suggest a spinning top. “That’s how he flies. He goes straight up like a helicopter.”

A swift glance passed between the adults.“This Mr. Whiskers is a clever fellow,” said Mr. Hopple. “What color is he?”

Donald thought for a moment.“Sometimes he’s blue. Most of the time he’s green. I saw him turn purple yesterday. That’s because he was mad.”

“Angry, darling,” his mother murmured. “And what does the new stableboy think of Whiskers?”

“Bobbie couldn’t see him. Whiskers doesn’t like big people. When he sees grown-ups he disappears. Whoof! Like that!”

Mrs. Hopple rang the bell for the next course.“And what kind of voice does this wonderful little animal have, dear? Does he scold like the Siamese or meow like the other cats?”

Donald considered his reply while he properly chewed and swallowed the last mouthful of leek. Then he erupted into a loud babel of sounds:“AWK AWK ngngngngng hhhhhhhhhhhhhhh beep-beep-beep beep-beep-beep AWK.”

The maid’s eyes expressed alarm as she entered the dining room to remove the plates, and she was still regarding Donald with suspicion when she served the next course.

At that moment the boy shouted:“There he is! There’s Whiskers!” He pointed to the window, but by the time the adults had turned their heads to look, Whiskers had disappeared.

The main course was the kind of simple provincial dish the Hopples approved: a medley of white beans, lamb, pork ribs, homemade sausages, herbs, and a little potted pheasant. Their cook, imported from the French wine country, would have nothing to do with microwave ovens or food processors, so they had built a primitive kitchen with a walk-in fireplace to keep Suzette happy. The cassoulet that was now served had been simmering in the brick oven all day. With it came a change of subject matter, and the meal ended without further reference to Whiskers.

After dinner Donald performed his regular chore of feeding the Gang—taking their dinner tray upstairs in the glass-enclosed elevator, rinsing their antique silver drinking bowl (attributed to Paul Revere), and filling it with bottled water. Meanwhile his parents were served their coffee in the library.

“You were right about the boy,” Mr. Hopple remarked. “His imagination runs away with him.”

His wife said:“Donald’s story is probably an elaboration on an actual occurrence. No doubt the cat is a stray, perhaps the runt of a litter, unwanted, and thrown out of a passing car.”

“You have an explanation for everything, sweetheart. And you are so efficient. Did you make any plans for the weekend?”

“No, darling. I knew you’d be coping with jet lag. But I invited the gardener’s grandchildren to have lunch with Donald. They’re his own age, and he needs to meet town children occasionally.”

On Saturdays the Hopples usually breakfasted in festive style in the conservatory, but both maids were suffering from morning sickness the next day, so the family trooped into the kitchen. There they sat at an ancient wooden table from a French monastery, under a canopy of copper pots and drying herbs, while Suzette cooked an omelette in a long-handled copper skillet over an open fire.

After breakfast Donald said:“Mother, can I take some of the Gang’s catfood to the kittens in the stable?”

“May I, darling,” she corrected softly. “Yes, you may, but ask yourself if it’s advisable to spoil them. After all, they’re only barn cats.”

“Two of the kittens are very smart, Mother. They’re as smart as the Siamese.”

“All right, Donald. I value your opinion.” After he had scampered away, Mrs. Hopple said to her husband: “See? The Whiskers story was only a fantasy. He’s forgotten about it already … . By the way, don’t forget to ask Bobbie about the bonfire, dear.”

Her husband thanked her for the reminder and went to buzz the stable on the intercom.“Good morning, Bobbie. This is Hopple speaking. We haven’t met as yet, but I’ve heard good reports of you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Since you live near the south gate, I’m wondering if you’ve observed any trespassing in the meadow. Someone had a bonfire there, and that’s bad business.”

“No, sir. Never saw anything like that,” the new stableboy said, “but I’ve been away for three days at a science conference, you know.”

“If you notice any unauthorized activity, please telephone us immediately—any hour of the day or evening.”

“Sure thing,” said Bobbie.

“One more question: Have you seen any …unusual cats in the stable or on the grounds?”

“Only a bunch of kittens and an old mother cat.”

“No strange-looking stray with long whiskers?”

There was a pause, and then the young man said:“No, I only heard some funny noises—like a duck quacking, and then some kind of electronic beep. I couldn’t figure where it came from.”

“Thank you, Bobbie. Keep up the good work.”

Mr. Hopple flicked off the intercom and said to his wife:“Donald is making those ridiculous noises in the stable. How long should we allow this to go on before consulting the doctor?”

“Darling, he’s just playing games. He’ll grow out of it soon. It’s common for young children to invent imaginary friends and have conversations with them.”

“I can assure you thatI never did,” said her husband, and he went to his study, asking not to be disturbed.

Before noon the houseman took the Mercedes into town to pick up the Bunsen twins, a boy and a girl. Mrs. Hopple welcomed them warmly and gave them a picnic basket in which the cook had packed food enough for twelve children.“Wear your beeper, Donald darling,” she reminded him. “I’ll let you know when it’s time to bring your guests back.”

Donald drove the twins to the meadow in the pony cart. Having observed his father in social situations, he played the role of host nicely, and the picnic went smoothly. No one fell down. No one picked a fight. No one got sick.

When Mrs. Hopple beeped her son, he drove his guests back to the house with brief detours to the dog kennel, rabbit hutch, chicken coop, and horse stable.

“Did you have a nice time?” Mrs. Hopple asked the excited twins.

“I ate four chocolate things,” said the boy.

“My mother told me to say thank you,” said the girl.

“I saw a snake,” the boy said.

“We saw Whiskers,” the girl said.

“He’s green!”

“No, he’s blue with green whiskers.”

“His eyes light up.”

“Sparks come out of his whiskers.”

“He can fly.”

“Really?” said Donald’s mother. “Did he say anything to you?”

The twins looked at each other. Then the boy quacked like a duck, and the girl said:“Beep beep beep!”

Mrs. Hopple thought: Donald has coached them! Still, the mention of sparks made her uneasy. Living so far from town, the Hopples had an understandable fear of fire. She left the house hurriedly and rode a moped to the stable.

Bobbie was in the corral, exercising the horses. Donald was unhitching the pony. The barn cats were in evidence, but there was no sign of a creature with red-hot whiskers. Her usual buoyant spirit returned, and she laughed at herself for being gullible.

On the way back to the house she overtook the head gardener, laboring arthritically up the hill, carrying a basket of tulips and daffodils. She rebuked him kindly.“Mr. Bunsen, why didn’t you send the flowers up with one of the boys?”

“Gotta keep movin’,” he said, “or the old joints turn toce—ment.”

“Mr. Hopple is arranging to hire some more help for you.”

“Well, ’twon’t do no good. Nobody wants to do any work these days.”

“By the way, you have two delightful grandchildren, Mr. Bunsen. It was a pleasure to have them visit us.”

“They watch too much TV,” he complained … . “Lookit that grass turnin” brown. No rain for ten days! … Somethin’ else, too. Some kind of critter’s been gettin’ in the greenhouse. Eats the buds off the geraniums. And now the tractor’s broke. Don’t know what happened. Just conked out this afternoon.”

“You must call the mechanic early Monday morning,” Mrs. Hopple said encouragingly. “Ask for priority service.”

“Well, ’twon’t make no difference. They come when they feel like it.”

The gardener’s grouchy outlook had no effect on Mrs. Hopple, who was always cheerful. Mentally reciting a few lines of Wordsworth, she carried the flowers into the potting shed, a room entirely lined with ceramic tile. There she was selecting vases from a collection of fifty or more when a commotion in the nearby kitchen sent her hurrying to investigate.

Suzette was standing in the fireplace—which was now cold and swept clean—and she was banging pots and pans and screaming up the chimney. From the cook’s raving—three parts English and two parts French—it appeared that adiable up on thetoit was trying to get down thechemin?e into thecuisine.

Mrs. Hopple commended the cook on her bravery in driving a devil off the roof but assured her that the chimney was securely screened and nothing could possibly enter the kitchen by that route, whether a raccoon or squirrel or field mouse or devil.

Back in the potting shed she found a silver champagne bucket for the red tulips and was choosing something for the daffodils, when the buzzing intercom interrupted.

“Tractor’s okay, Miz Hopple,” said the gardener. “Started up again all by itself. But there’s some glass busted out in the greenhouse.”

She thanked Mr. Bunsen and went back to her flowers, smiling at the man’s perverse habit of tempering good news with a bit of bad. As she was arranging daffodils in a copper jug, Donald burst into the potting shed. “I couldn’t find you, Mother,” he said in great distress. “The rabbits are gone! I think somebody stole them!”

“No, dear,” she replied calmly. “I think you’ll find them in the greenhouse, gorging on geranium buds. Now, how would you like strawberries Chantilly tonight?” It was the family’s favorite dessert, and Donald jumped up and down and gave his mother a hug.

Later, she said to Suzette, speaking the cook’s special language: “I’ll drive to theferme and pick up thefraises and thecr?me.” Mrs. Hopple liked an excuse to breeze around the country roads in the Ferrari convertible with the top down. Today she would drive to the strawberry farm for freshly picked fruit and to the dairy farm for heavy cream.

First she ran upstairs to find a scarf for her hair. As she passed the door of the Gang’s suite, she heard Donald making his ridiculous noises and the cats replying with yowling and mewing. She put her hand on the doorknob, then decided not to embarrass her son by intruding.

When she returned a moment later, silk-scarved and cashmere-sweatered, Donald was leaving the suite, looking pleased with himself.

“Are you having fun, darling?” she asked.

“Whiskers was in there,” he replied. “He was climbing around the waterwheel, and he looked in the window. I let him in. He likes our cats a lot.”

“He likes themvery much, darling. I hope you closed the window again. We don’t want the Gang to get out, do we?”

Blithely Mrs. Hopple went to the garage and slipped into the seat of the Ferrari. She pressed a button to lift the garage door and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. There was not even a cough from the motor and not even a shudder from the big door. She persevered. She used sheer willpower. Nothing happened.

The houseman had not returned with the Mercedes after taking the twins home, but there were three other cars. She climbed into the Rolls; it would not start. The Caddy was equally dead. So was the Jeep.

Something, she thought, is mysteriously wrong. The houseman would blame it on the KGB or acid rain.

Resolutely she marched back to the house and confronted her husband in his study, where he was locked in with computer, briefcase, and dictating machine. He listened to her incredible story, sighed, then went to inspect the situation, while Mrs. Hopple did a few deep-breathing exercises to restore her equanimity.

“Nothing wrong,” he said when he returned. “The cars start, and the doors open. I think you need a change of scene, sweetheart. We’ll go out to dinner tonight. Wear your new Saint Laurent, and we’ll go to the club. Suzette can give the boy his dinner.”

“We can’t, darling. We’re having strawberries Chantilly, and I promised Donald.”

So the Hopples stayed home and enjoyed an old-fashioned family evening. Dinner was served on the terrace, followed by croquet on the lawn and corn-popping over hot coals in the outdoor fireplace. Donald made no mention of Whiskers, and his parents made no inquiries.

Early Sunday morning, when the June sunrise and chattering birds were trying to rouse everyone at an abnormal hour, the telephone rang at Hopplewood Farm.

Mr. Hopple rose sleepily on an elbow and squinted at the digital clock radio.“Four-thirty! Who would call at this ungodly hour?”

Mrs. Hopple sat up in bed.“It’s five twenty-five by the old clock on the mantel. There’s been another power failure.”

Her husband cleared his throat and picked up the receiver.“Yes?”

“Hi, Mr. Hopple. This is Bobbie Wynkopp. Sorry to call so early, but you told me—if I saw anything …”

“Yes, Bobbie. What is it?”

“That place in the meadow that was burned—how big was it?”

“Hmm … as well as I could estimate from the air … it was … about ten feet in diameter. A circular patch.”

“Well, there’s another one just like it.”

“What! Did you see any trespassing?” Mr. Hopple was fully awake now.

There was a pause.“Mr. Hopple, you’re not gonna believe this, but last night I woke up because my room was all lit up. I sleep in the attic, on the side near the meadow, you know. It was kind of a green light. I looked out the window … . You’re not gonna believe this, Mr. Hopple.”

“Go ahead, Bobbie—please.”

“Well, there was this aircraft coming down. Not like your kind of plane, Mr. Hopple. It was round, like a Frisbee. It came straight down—very slow, very quiet, you know. And it gave off a lot of light.”

“If you’re suggesting a flying saucer, Bobbie, I say you’ve been dreaming—or hallucinating.”

“I was wide awake, sir. I swear! And I don’t smoke. Ask anyone.”

“Go on, Bobbie.”

“The funny thing was … it was sosmall! Too small to carry a crew, you know, unless they happened to be like ten inches high. It landed, and there was some kind of activity around it. I couldn’t see exactly. There was a fog rising over the meadow. So I ran downstairs to get my dad’s binoculars. They were hard to find in the dark. The lights wouldn’t go on. We were blacked out, you know … . Are you still there, Mr. Hopple?”

“I’m listening. What about your parents? Did they see the aircraft?”

“No, but I wish they had. Then I wouldn’t sound like some kind of crazy. My mother works nights at the hospital, and when Dad goes to bed, he flakes right out.”

“What did you see with the binoculars?”

“I was too late. They were taking off. The thing rose straight up—very slow, you know. And when it got up there … ZIP! It disappeared. No kidding. I couldn’t sleep after that. When it got halfway daylight I went out to the meadow and had a look. The thing scorched a circle, about ten feet across. You can see for yourself. Maybe you should have it tested for radioactivity or something. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone near it, you know.”

“Thank you, Bobbie. That’s an extremely interesting account. We’ll discuss it further, after I’ve made some inquiries. Meanwhile, I’d consider it classified information if I were you.”

“Classified! Don’t worry, Mr. Hopple.”

“Was that the stableboy?” his wife asked. “Is anything wrong? …Darling, is anything wrong?”

Mr. Hopple had walked to the south window and was gazing in the direction of the meadow—a study in preoccupation. “I beg your pardon. What did you say? That boy told me a wild story … . Ten-foot diameter! He’s right; that’s remarkably small.”

There was a loud thump as a six-year-old threw himself against the bedroom door and hurtled into the room.

“Darling,” his mother reminded him, “we always knock before entering.”

“They’re gone! They’re gone!” he shouted in a childish treble. “I wanted to say good morning, and they’re not there!”

“Who’s not there, darling?”

“The Gang! They got out the window and climbed down the waterwheel!”

“Donald! Did you leave the window open?”

“No, Mother. The window’sbroke. Broken,” he added, catching his mother’s eye. “The glass is kind of …melted! I think Whiskers did it. He kidnapped them!”

She shooed him out of the bedroom.“Go and get dressed, dear. We’ll find the Gang. We’ll organize a search party.”

Mrs. Hopple slipped into a peignoir and left the suite. When she returned, a moment later, her husband was still staring into space at the south window.“Donald’s right,” she said. “The glass has actually beenmelted. How very strange!”

Still Mr. Hopple stared, as if in a trance.

“Dearest, are you all right? Did you hear what Donald said?”

Her husband stirred himself and walked away from the window. He said:“You can organize a search party if you wish, but you’ll never find the Gang. They’re not coming back. Neither is Whiskers.”

He was right. They never came back. The two smartest kittens in the stable also disappeared that night, according to Donald, but the rabbits were found in the greenhouse, having the time of their lives.

Life at Hopplewood Farm is quite ordinary now. Garage doors open. Cars start. Television reception is perfect. Only during severe electrical storms does the power fail. No one lets the rabbits out of the hutch. The tractor is entirely reliable. Nothing tries to sneak down the chimney. Window glass never melts.

And little Donald, who may suspect more than he’s telling, discusses planets and asteroids at the dinner table and spends hours peering through his telescope when his parents think he’s asleep.

THE SIN OF MADAME PHLOI

“The Sin of Madame Phloi” was first published inEllery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1962.

From the very beginning Madame Phloi felt an instinctive distaste for the man who moved into the apartment next door. He was fat, and his trouser cuffs had the unsavory odor of fire hydrant.

They met for the first time in the decrepit elevator as it lurched up to the tenth floor of the old building, once fashionable but now coming apart at the seams. Madame Phloi had been out for a stroll in the city park, chewing city grass and chasing faded butterflies, and as she and her companion stepped on the elevator for the slow ride upward, the car was already half-filled with the new neighbor.

The fat man and the Madame presented a contrast that was not unusual in this apartment house, which had a brilliant past and no future. He was bulky, uncouth, sloppily attired. Madame Phloi was a long-legged blue-eyed aristocrat whose creamy fawn coat shaded to brown at the extremities.

The Madame deplored fat men. They had no laps, and of what use is a lapless human? Nevertheless, she gave him the common courtesy of a sniff at his trouser cuffs and immediately backed away, twitching her nose and showing her teeth.

“GET that cat away from me,” the fat man roared, stamping his feet thunderously at Madame Phloi. Her companion pulled the leash although there was no need; the Madame with one backward leap had retreated to a safe corner of the elevator, which shuddered and continued its groaning ascent.

“Don’t you like animals?” inquired the gentle voice at the other end of the leash.

“Filthy, sneaky beasts,” the fat man said with a snarl. “Last place I lived, some lousy cat got in my room and et my parakeet.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you don’t need to worry about Madame Phloi and Thapthim. They never leave the apartment except on a leash.”

“You gotTWO? Well, keep’em away from me or I’ll break their rotten necks. I ain’t wrung a cat’s neck since I was fourteen, but I remember how.”

And with the long black box he was carrying, the fat man lunged at the impeccable Madame Phloi, who sat in her corner, flat eared and tense. Her fur bristled, and she tried to dart away. Even when her companion picked her up in protective arms, Madame Phloi’s body was taut and trembling.

Not until she was safely home in her modest but well-cushioned apartment did she relax. She walked stiff-legged to the sunny spot on the carpet where Thapthim was sleeping and licked the top of his head. Then she had a complete bath herself—to rid her coat of the fat man’s odor. Thapthim did not wake.

This drowsy, unambitious, amiable creature—her son—was a puzzle to Madame Phloi; she herself was sensitive and spirited. She didn’t try to understand him; she merely loved him. She spent hours washing his paws and breast and other parts he could easily have reached with his own tongue. At dinnertime she consumed her food slowly so there would be something left on her plate for his dessert, and he always gobbled the extra portion hungrily. And when he slept, which was most of the time, she kept watch by his side, sitting with a tall regal posture until she swayed with weariness. Then she made herself into a small bundle and dozed with one eye open.

Thapthim was lovable, to be sure. He appealed to other cats, large and small dogs, people, and even ailurophobes in a limited way. He had a face like a beautiful brown flower and large blue eyes, tender and trusting. Ever since he was a kitten he had been willing to purr at the touch of a hand—any hand. Eventually he became so agreeable that he purred if anyone looked in his direction from across the room. What’s more, he came when called; he gratefully devoured whatever was served on his dinner plate; and when he was told to get down, he got down.

His wise parent disapproved of this uncatly conduct; it indicated a certain lack of character, and no good would come of it. By her own example she tried to guide him. When dinner was served she gave the plate a haughty sniff and walked away, no matter how tempting the dish. That was the way it was done by any self-respecting feline. In a minute or two she returned and condescended to dine, but never with open enthusiasm.

Furthermore, when human hands reached out, the catly thing was to bound away, lead them a chase, flirt a little before allowing oneself to be caught and cuddled. Thapthim, sorry to say, greeted any friendly overture by rolling over, purring, and looking soulful.

From an early age he had known the rules of the apartment:

“No sleeping in the cupboard with the pots and pans.”

“Sitting on the table with the typewriter is permissible.”

“Sitting on the table with the coffeepot is never allowed.”

The sad truth was that Thapthim obeyed these rules. Madame Phloi, on the other hand, knew that a rule was a challenge, and it was a matter of integrity to violate it. To obey was to sacrifice one’s dignity … . It seemed that her son would never learn the true values in life.

To be sure, Thapthim was adored for his good nature in the human world of typewriters and coffeepots. But Madame Phloi was equally adored—and for the correct reasons. She was respected for her independence, admired for her clever methods of getting her own way, and loved for the cowlick on her white breast and the squint in her delphinium blue eyes. In appearance and behavior she was a classic Siamese. By cocking her head and staring with heart-melting eyes, she could charm a porterhouse steak out from under a knife and fork.

Until the fat man and his black box moved in next door, Madame Phloi had never known an unfriendly soul. She had two companions in her tenth-floor apartment—genial creatures without names who came and went a good deal. One was an easy mark for between-meal snacks; a tap on his ankle always produced a crunchy tidbit. The other served as a hot-water bottle on cold nights and punctually obliged whenever the Madame wished to have her underside stroked or her cheekbones massaged.

Life was not all petting and treats, however; Madame Phloi had her regular work. She was official watcher and listener for the household.

There were six windows that required watching, for a wide ledge ran around the building flush with the tenth-floor windowsills, and this was a promenade for pigeons. They strutted, searched their feathers, and ignored the Madame, who sat on the sill and watched them dispassionately but thoroughly through the window screen.

While watching was a daytime job, listening was done after dark, requiring greater concentration. Madame Phloi listened for noises in the walls. She heard termites chewing, pipes sweating, and sometimes the ancient plaster cracking, but mostly she listened to the ghosts of generations of deceased mice.

One evening, shortly after the incident in the elevator, Madame Phloi was listening. Thapthim was sleeping, and the other two were quietly turning pages of books, when a strange and horrendous sound came from the wall. The Madame’s ears flicked to attention, then flattened against her head.

An interminable screech was coming out of that wall, like nothing the Madame had ever heard. It chilled the blood and tortured the ears. So painful was the shrillness that Madame Phloi threw back her head and complained with a piercing howl of her own. The strident din even waked Thapthim. He looked about in alarm, shook his head wildly, and clawed at his ears to get rid of the offending noise.

The others heard it, too.

“Listen to that!” said the one with the gentle voice.

“It must be the new man next door,” said the other. “It’s incredible!”

“How could anyone so crude produce anything so exquisite? Is it Prokofiev he’s playing?”

“I think it’s Bart?k.”

“He was carrying his violin in the elevator today. He tried to hit Phloi with it.”

“He’s a nut … . Look at the cats! Apparently they don’t care for violin music.”

Madame Phloi and Thapthim, bounding from the room, collided with each other in a rush to hide under the bed.

That was not the only noise emanating from the next-door apartment in those upsetting days after the fat man moved in. The following evening, when Madame Phloi walked into the living room to commence her listening, she heard a fluttering sound dimly through the wall, accompanied by highly conversational chirping. This was agreeable music, and she settled down on the sofa to enjoy it, tucking her brown paws neatly under her creamy body.

Her contentment was soon disturbed, however, by a slamming door and then the fat man’s voice bursting through the wall like thunder.

“Look what you done, you dirty skunk!” he bellowed. “Right in my fiddle! Get back in your cage before I brain you!”

There was a frantic beating of wings.

“GET down off that window or I’ll bash your head in!”

The threat brought a torrent of chirping.

“Shut up, you stupid cluck! Shut up and get back in that cage or I’ll …”

There was a splintering crash, and then all was quiet except for an occasional pitiful“peep!”

Madame Phloi was fascinated. In fact, when she resumed her watching chore the next day, pigeons seemed rather insipid entertainment. Thapthim was asleep, and the others had left for the day, but not before opening the window and placing a small cushion on the chilly marble sill.

There she sat, a small but alert package of fur, sniffing the welcome summer air, seeing all and knowing all. She knew, for example, that the person walking down the tenth-floor hallway, wearing old tennis shoes and limping slightly, would halt at the door, set down his pail, and let himself in with a passkey.

Indeed, she hardly bothered to turn her head when the window washer entered. He was one of her regular court of admirers. His odor was friendly, although it suggested damp basements and floor mops, and he talked sensibly; there was none of that falsetto foolishness with which some persons insulted the Madame’s intelligence.

“Hop down, kitty,” he said in a musical voice. “Charlie’s gotta take out that screen. See, I brought some cheese for the pretty kitty.”

He held out a modest offering of rat cheese, and Madame Phloi investigated it and found it was the wrong variety, and she shook one fastidious paw at it.

“Mighty fussy cat,” Charlie laughed. “Well, now, you sit there and watch Charlie clean this here window. Don’t you go jumpin’ out on the ledge, ‘cause Charlie ain’t runnin’ after you. No sir! That old ledge, she’s startin’ to crumble. Someday them pigeons’ll stamp their feet hard, and down she goes! … Hey, lookit the broken glass out here! Somebody busted a window.”

Charlie sat on the marble sill and pulled the upper sash down in his lap, and while Madame Phloi followed his movements carefully, Thapthim sauntered into the room, yawning and stretching, and swallowed the cheese.

“Now Charlie puts the screen back in, and you two guys can watch them crazy pigeons some more. This screen, she’s comin’ apart, too. Whole buildin’s crackin’ up.”

Remembering to replace the cushion on the cool, hard sill, he went on to clean the remaining windows, and the Madame resumed her post, sitting on the edge of the cushion so that Thapthim could have most of it.

The pigeons were late that morning, probably frightened away by the window washer. When the first visitor skimmed in on a blue gray wing, Madame Phloi first noticed the tiny opening in the screen. Every aperture, no matter how small, was a temptation; she had to prove she could wriggle through any tight space, whether there was a good reason or not.

She waited until Charlie had limped out of the apartment before she started pushing at the screen with her nose, first gingerly, then stubbornly. Inch by inch the rusted mesh ripped away from the frame until the whole corner formed a loose flap. Then Madame Phloi slithered through—nose and ears, slender shoulders, dainty Queen Anne forefeet, svelte torso, lean flanks, hind legs like steel springs, and finally proud brown tail. For the first time in her life she found herself on the pigeon promenade. She shuddered deliciously.

Inside the screen the lethargic Thapthim, jolted by this strange turn of affairs, watched his daring parent with a quarter inch of his pink tongue protruding. They touched noses briefly through the screen, and the Madame proceeded to explore. She advanced cautiously and with mincing step, for the pigeons had not been tidy in their habits.

The ledge was about two feet wide. Moving warily, Madame Phloi advanced to its edge, nose down and tail high. Ten stories below there were moving objects but nothing of interest, she decided. She walked daintily along the extreme edge to avoid the broken glass, venturing in the direction of the fat man’s apartment, impelled by some half-forgotten curiosity.

His window stood open and unscreened, and Madame Phloi peered in politely. There, sprawled on the floor, lay the fat man himself, snorting and heaving his immense paunch in a kind of rhythm. It always alarmed her to see a human on the floor, which she considered feline domain. She licked her nose apprehensively and stared at him with enormous eyes. In a dark corner of the room something fluttered and squawked, and the fat man opened his eyes.

“SHcrrff!GET out of here!” he shouted, struggling to his feet and shaking his fist at the window.

In three leaps Madame Phloi crossed the ledge back to her own window and pushed through the screen to safety. After looking back to see if the fat man might be chasing her and being reassured that he was not, she washed Thapthim’s ears and her own paws and sat down to wait for pigeons.

Like any normal cat Madame Phloi lived by the Rule of Three. She resisted any innovation three times before accepting it, tackled an obstacle three times before giving up, and tried each activity three times before tiring of it. Consequently she made two more sallies to the pigeon promenade and eventually convinced Thapthim to join her.

Together they peered over the edge at the world below. The sense of freedom was intoxicating. Recklessly Thapthim made a leap at a low-flying pigeon and landed on his mother’s back. She cuffed his ear in retaliation. He poked her nose. They grappled and rolled over and over on the ledge, oblivious of the long drop below them, taking playful nips of each other’s hide and snarling gutteral expressions of glee.

Suddenly Madame Phloi scrambled to her feet and crouched in a defensive position. The fat man was leaning from his window.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” he was saying in one of those despised falsetto voices, offering some bit of food in a saucer. The Madame froze, but Thapthim turned his beautiful trusting eyes on the stranger and advanced along the ledge. Purring and waving his tail cordially, he walked into the trap. Itall happened in a matter of seconds: the saucer was withdrawn and a long black box was swung at Thapthim like a baseball bat, sweeping him off the ledge and into space. He was silent as he fell.

When the family came home, laughing and chattering, with their arms full of packages, they knew at once something was amiss. No one greeted them at the door. Madame Phloi hunched moodily on the windowsill, staring at a hole in the screen, and Thapthim was not to be found.

“The screen’s torn!” cried the gentle voice.

“I’ll bet he’s out on the ledge.”

“Can you lean out and look? Be careful.”

“You hold Phloi.”

“Can you see him?”

“Not a sign of him! There’s a lot of glass scattered around, and the window next door is broken.”

“Do you suppose that man … ? I feel sick.”

“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll find him … . There’s the doorbell! Maybe someone’s bringing him home.”

It was Charlie standing at the door, fidgeting uncomfortably.“ ’Scuse me, folks,” he said. “You missin’ one of your kitties?”

“Yes! Have you found him?”

“Poor little guy,” said Charlie. “Found him lyin’ right under your window, where the bushes is thick.”

“He’s dead!” the gentle one moaned.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s a long way down.”

“Where is he now?”

“I got him down in the basement, ma’am. I’ll take care of him real nice. I don’t think you’d want to see the poor guy.”

Still Madame Phloi stared at the hole in the screen and waited for Thapthim. From time to time she checked the other windows, just to be sure. As time passed and he did not return, she looked behind the radiators and under the bed. She pried open cupboard doors and tried to burrow her way into closets. She sniffed all around the front door. Finally she stood in the middle of the living room and called loudly in a high-pitched, wailing voice.

Later that evening Charlie paid another visit to the apartment.

“Only wanted to tell you, ma’am, how nice I took care of him,” he said. “I got a box that was just the right size—a white box, it was, from one of the nice stores. And I wrapped him up in some old blue curtain. It looked real pretty with his fur. And I buried the little guy right under your windows, behind the bushes.

And still Madame Phloi searched, returning again and again to watch the ledge from which Thapthim had disappeared. She scorned food. She rebuffed any attempts at consolation. And all night she sat wide-eyed and waiting in the dark.

The living room window was now tightly closed, but the following day the Madame—when she was left by herself in the lonely apartment—went to work on the bedroom screens. One was new and hopeless, but the second screen was slightly corroded, and she was soon nosing through a slit that lengthened as she struggled out onto the ledge.

Picking her way through the broken glass, she approached the spot where Thapthim had vanished. And then it all happened again. There he was—the fat man—holding out a saucer.

“Here, kitty, kitty.”

Madame Phloi hunched down and backed away.

“Kitty want some milk?” It was that ugly falsetto, but she did not run home this time. She crouched on the ledge, a few inches out of his reach.

“Nice kitty. Nice kitty.”

Madame Phloi crept with caution toward the saucer in the outstretched fist, and stealthily the fat man extended another hand, snapping his fingers as one would do to call a dog.

The Madame retreated diagonally—half toward home and half toward the dangerous brink.

“Here, kitty. Nice kitty,” he cooed, leaning farther out of his window, but under his breath he muttered: “You dirty sneak! I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I ever do. Comin’ after my bird, weren’t you?”

Madame Phloi recognized danger with all her senses. Her ears were back, her whiskers curled, and her white underside hugged the ledge.

A little closer she moved, and the fat man made a grab for her. She jerked back a step, with unblinking eyes fixed on his sweating face. He was furtively laying the saucer aside, she noticed, and edging his fat paunch farther out the window.

Once more she advanced almost into his grasp, and again he lunged at her with both of his powerful arms.

“This time I’ll get you, you stinkin’ cat,” he mumbled, and raising one knee to the windowsill, he threw himself at Madame Phloi. As she slipped through his fingers, he landed on the ledge with all his weight.

A section of masonry crumbled beneath him. He bellowed, clutching at air, and at the same time a streak of creamy brown fur flashed out of sight.

The fat man was not silent as he fell.

As for Madame Phloi, she was found doubled in half—in a patch of sunshine on her living room carpet—innocently washing her fine brown tail.

TRAGEDY ON NEW YEAR’S EVE

“Tragedy on New Year’s Eve” was first published inEllery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, March 1968.

January 1

Dear Tom,

Another New Year is beginning. I hope and pray that the trouble will end soon, and you’ll be stationed closer to home. You are constantly in my thoughts.

It’s four in the morning on New Year’s Day—strange hour for a mother to be writing to her son—but I’m so upset, Tom dear. A terrible accident just happened behind our apartment building. I’m home alone—Jim is working—and I’ve got to tell somebody about it.

Jim went on special duty with the Cleanup Squad tonight, so I curled up on the sofa and read a mystery novel, and at midnight I opened the window and listened to the horns blowing and bells ringing. (Excuse the smudge. There’s a cat sitting on the desk, pawing the paper as I write. Just a stray that I picked up.)

At midnight the neighborhood looked like a Christmas tree—green lights on the gas station—red neon on Wally’s Tavern—traffic lights winking. The traffic was moving slowly—we’d had a freezing rain, then more snow—and I said a little prayer that Jim would get home safely.

After that I put on the pretty fleece robe he gave me for Christmas and had a snooze on the sofa, because I promised to wait up for him. The sirens kept waking me up—police, ambulance, fire—then I’d doze off again.

Suddenly loud noises jolted me awake. Bang—bang—CRASH—then shattering glass. It came from the rear of the building. I ran to the kitchen window and looked out, and there was this black car—up over the sidewalk—rammed into the old brick warehouse back there. The car doors were flung open, and the interior light was on, and something dark was sprawled out of the driver’s seat with the head hanging down in the snow. Man or woman? I couldn’t tell.

I was stunned, but I knew enough to call the police. When I went back to the window everything down on the street was quiet as a morgue. No traffic. No one came running. No lights shining out of apartment windows. And there was this stranger hanging out of the wrecked car—dead or dying.

I thought about you, Tom, and how I’d feel if you were injured and alone like that, and I couldn’t help crying. So I went downstairs to the street. Grabbed Jim’s hunting jacket—ran down three flights—couldn’t wait for the elevator—then out the back door where they park the dumpsters—and across the street.

It was a young man about your age, Tom, and I thought my heart would break. His head was covered with blood, and the snow was stained, and I knew he was dead. I couldn’t leave him there alone, so I stayed and prayed a little until the flashing blue lights turned into the street.

There I was—standing in the snow in my slippers and robe and a hunting jacket, so I ran back to the building and watched from the shadow of the doorway.

An officer jumped out of the patrol car and yelled to his partner:“Radio for a wagon. This one’s had it!”

And that’s when I saw something moving in the darkness. At first I thought it was a horrid rat, like they’ve got in this neighborhood. Then this black cat darted out of the shadows and came right up to me, holding up one paw. It wanted to get in out of the snow. I picked it up—you know how much I like cats—and its feet were like ice. I was shivering, too, so we both came upstairs to get warm.

I watched from the window till they took the body away, and I couldn’t help thinking of his poor mother—and how the police would knock on the door and take her downtown to the morgue. I wonder who he was. Maybe it will be in the newspaper.

I wish Jim would get home. The cat sits on my desk staring at me and throwing a shadow across the paper so I can’t see what I’m writing. He’s very sleek and black—with yellow eyes. He must belong to someone in this building, but he’s quite contented to stay here.

My mind keeps going back to that young man—drinking too much at some New Year’s Eve party. Maybe he lived in this building and was coming home. I haven’t met any of the neighbors. Jim says they’re all kooks, and it’s best if we stay to ourselves. The neighborhood is run-down, but the apartment is comfortable, and we’re close tothe precinct station.

When Jim retires next year we’ll get a small house in Northport. I never thought I’d be married again—and to a detective! Remember how you and I used to read about Hercule Poirot and Inspector Maigret when we lived in Northport?

I hear Jim coming. Will finish this later.

New Year’s afternoon

Here I am again. Jim’s taking a nap. I told him about the accident, and he said: “Another drunk! He was asking for it.”

He doesn’t know I went downstairs in my robe and slippers, and it was hard to explain where the cat came from. It’s still here—follows me around like a shadow.

There! I just heard it on the radio! First traffic fatality of the year—Wallace Sloan, 25, of 18309 Hamilton—car rammed into a brick building after hitting two utility poles.

They towed the wreck away, and now they’re fixing the poles. I asked the superintendent if any tenant lost a black kitty, but he didn’t know.

Dear son, take care. We pray you’ll be home soon.

Love from Mother

January 4

Dear Tom,

Glad the fruitcake arrived in one piece. Are you getting decent food? Did you get my letter about the accident? Here’s more news: When Jim heard the victim’s name, he said: “That’s the young guy that owns Wally’s Tavern. It’s a real dive.”

Then I got the Monday paper and read the obituary. Wallace Sloan left a wife and four children! So young! My heart went out to the family. I know what it’s like to be a widow with a young son. Imagine being left with four! That poor woman!

Tom, you may think this is strange, but—I went to the funeral. Jim thought I was going downtown to shop the January sales. It was terribly depressing—hardly any mourners—and the widow looked like a mere child! Outside the funeral home I got talking to a neighbor of the Sloans, and she said: “People think Wally was a drunk, but I’m telling you—he never touched liquor. He worked hard, day and night. Had to, I guess, with four kids to support—and another one on the way. Must have been dead tired and fell asleep at the wheel.”

Very peculiar! You see, Tom, he was traveling east, evidently coming from the big lot behind the gas station, where the bar customers park. If he was cold sober, would he fall asleep after driving half a block? Not on that street! It’s so full of frozen ruts, it shakes your teeth out!

Don’t know why I’m so concerned. Probably because I read too many mystery stories. Do you have a chance to read, Tom? Shall I send you some paperbacks?

Well, anyway, I asked some questions at the grocery store, and I found out two things for sure. Wally Sloan always parked in the lot behind the gas station, AND he never took a drink.

The cat is still here, following me around. He must be lonely. I call him Shadow. I bought some catfood and fixed a toidy box for him. He doesn’t want to go out—just stays close to me. Really a nice cat.

Now I must set the table for dinner. Jim has switched to the day shift. We’re having your favorite meat loaf tonight. Will write again soon.

Love from Mother

January 5

Dear Tom,

I’ve been listening to the news bulletins and thanking God you’re in the ground crew. Are you all right? Is there anything I can send you?

I must tell you the latest! Today I called on Wally Sloan’s widow. I told her a fib—said I knew Wally at the tavern. I took her a homemade fruitcake and a large jar of my strawberry jam, and she almost fainted. I guess city folks don’t expect things like that. It’s not like Northport.

I thought it might comfort her to know that someone stood by on the night of the accident. When I told her, she squeezed my hand and then ran crying into the bedroom.

They have a nice house. Her mother was there, and I said:“Do you think your daughter will be able to manage?” I was thinking of the four little ones, you know.

“She’ll manage all right,” the mother said, kind of stern and angry, “but no thanks to him! He left nothing but debts.”

“What a pity,” I said. “Wally worked so hard.”

She snorted.“Running a bar? What kind of work is that? He could’ve had a nice job downtown, but he’d rather mix with riffraff and spend his afternoons at the racetrack.”

Aha, Dr. Watson! A new development! Now, we know Wally was a gambler! When I got home I tried to figure out a plan. The cat was hanging around, getting his nose into everything I tried to do, and I said to him:“Shadow, what would Miss Marple do in a case like this? What would Hildegarde Withers do?” Shadow always stares at me as if he knows what I’m saying—or he’s trying to tell me something.

Well, after dinner, Jim went to his lodge meeting, and I started ringing doorbells in our building. At 408 an elderly man came to the door, and I said:“Excuse me, I’m your neighbor in 410. I picked up a stray cat on New Year’s Eve and somebody said it might be yours. It’s black.”

“Our cat’s ginger,” he said, “and she’s right there behind the radiator.”

I rang about twenty doorbells. Some people said no and slammed the door, but most of the tenants were nice. We’d have a few pleasant words about the cat, and then I’d mention the accident. Quite a few knew Wally from going to the tavern.

At 503 a middle-aged woman came to the door, looking like a real floozy. She invited me in for a drink. Jim would have a fit if he knew I accepted, but all I drank was a tiny beer.

She said:“The blankety-blank tavern’s closed now, and you gotta drink at home. It ain’t no fun.” Her eyes were sort of glassy, and her hair was a mess. “Too bad,” she said. “Wally was a nice kid—and a big spender. I like big spenders.”

“His bar business must have been very successful,” I said.

She grinned at me. (Terrible teeth!)“You kidding? Wally had something going on the side. Don’t we all?”

I said I understood he played the horses.

“Play ‘em? Hell, he was a bookie! He’d lose his liquor license if they found out, so he kept it pretty quiet. Gus was his pickup man.”

“Gus?”

“You know Gus—the mechanic at the gas station. He picked up bets for Wally. There was a big hassle at the bar New Year’s Eve. Gus was slow with a payoff, and the guy tried to take it out of his hide.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Gus got a shiner, that’s all. Wally threw ’em both outa the bar. Can’t blame Larry. He bet five hundred and the horse payed twenty-to-one.”

“Larry?”

“You know Larry—on the third floor. Big guy. Male nurse at the hospital. Could’ve broke Gus in two.”

Of course, I went right down to the lobby and looked at mailboxes. There was an L. Marcus in 311. I went up and rang his doorbell, but he wasn’t home.

I wonder why Gus was slow in paying off. Twenty-to-one! Why, that’s ten thousand, isn’t it? Do you think Wally’s accident had anything to do with that bet?

If I hear more, I’ll write.

Love from Mother

P.S.

Now it’s Friday. Didn’t get a chance to mail this yesterday. This morning I was stroking Shadow and thinking about the accident, and I could recall the scene plain as day—everything black and white like an old movie. Black blood on the white snow—black warehouse—parked cars covered with white snow—black tire tracks where Wally’s car went over the sidewalk—two black utility poles knocked over—even a black cat.

Then I remembered something about Wally’s car. It was all black! Wouldn’t it have some snow on the top or the hood if it had been parked in the open lot? Even the collision wouldn’t knock it all off. It was freezing and snowing off and on all evening.

Tom, do you remember Uncle Roy’s accident three years ago? Do you remember what caused it? Well, that gave me an idea, and I went to the gas station to talk to Gus. Jim rode to work with his partner this morning, so I took our car to the garage and told Gus the fan belt was making a funny noise. (Another fib.) Then I mentioned the accident. I said: “We all know Wally didn’t drink. Maybe something went wrong with his car.”

Gus said:“Yeah, he told me the steering was on the blink. I told him to leave it in the lot and gimme the keys and I’d fix it Monday. But I guess he tried to drive it home—crazy fool! We could’ve given him a loaner.”

Then I told him about finding the mysterious black cat right after the accident.

He said:“Wally’s kids—they got a black cat. Wally brought it to the bar sometimes when the rats got bad.”

“Was the cat in the bar New Year’s Eve?”

“I dunno,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”

And yet there was a big yellow ring around his eye!“Oh, dear!” I said. “You got a bad poke in the eye, looks like.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Been playin’ ice hockey.”

That’s all so far, Tom. Write when you can. I read your letters over and over.

Mother

January 9

Dear Tom,

A quick note to let you know my suspicions were correct! After dinner Friday night I said to Jim:“Do you believe in Providence, dear? When Wally Slaon was killed, Providence arranged to have a detective’s wife looking out the window—an old busybody who reads mystery stories.” I said: “I think Wally Sloan was murdered. I think the garage mechanic loosened a steering knuckle on his carso Wally would lose control when it hit the first bump. You know Gus at the gas station? The police ought to pick him up for questioning. The woman in 503 might know something, too. Also a male nurse in 311.”

Tom, I wish you could have seen the flabbergasted look on Jim’s face.

That was Friday. Today the Homicide men got the whole story. Gus lost Larry’s five hundred in a crap game—never placed the bet at all! Then Gus tried to wiggle out of the mess by blaming it on Wally. To cover up, he rigged Wally’s car for the fatal accident.

There was no snow on that car, so I was sure it had been inside the garage, and on a crazy hunch I suspected Gus of tampering with it. Jim is very proud of me, and I hope you are, too, Tom dear.

Love from Mother

P.S.

Forgot to tell you. Shadow disappeared mysteriously Friday night. He got out somehow, and we haven’t seen him since. It’s almost as if he wanted to tell me something, and after the truth came out, he just vanished! Too bad. He was a nice cat. I liked him.