Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit

I have it. Call me Darwin! (But only as a middle name. It is an extremely wimpy name and I only claim it in the abstract sense.) The chimpanzee before me betrays the clay feet of the entire human race.

Diapers. This creature is wearing that so-undignified banana bandana that marks a creature who is hopelessly retarded in its elimination. The feline, on the other hand, is notable for its neat personal habits indoors or out (unless subjected to intolerable emotional stress). This has made us a boon to humankind from time immemorial. No other animal species is so remarkably tidy. This makes us King of the Beasts. Or Queen, if Midnight Louise is listening in.

Once the innate inferiority of the creature before me is clear, despite its agile fingers and brain, I sit down and take charge.

“All right. Settle down, Chiquita-chomper. I suppose I should know if you are a dude or a dudette. Well?”

The thing chitters at me in monkeyese. I scratch my nose in puzzlement. It repeats the gesture.

What a silly mug! Naked as a slug, despite the hairy coat that would do honor to a goat. And the thing smells to high heaven. No wonder it is locked up far from human sniffers.

I speak slow-ly and clear-ly. "Me Louie. You . . . well? Me Louie, you—"

“Chitter, chitter, chitter, chatter."

“Enough of the chit-chat. Me Louie, you . . . ?”

The big ape starts pounding itself on the chest. Big hairy deal. If I had wanted a drummer, I would have asked for one.

Then I finally tumble. The critter is trying to use sign language. He is not saying "chitter chitter bang-bang" on his chest, he is saying his name. So I listen harder during the next outburst and come to only one conclusion. Am I a seasoned investigator, or what?

“Or what?" may describe my role as translator for a juiced-up monkey.

“Chatter?" I say, not believing my own words. "That is your name? Chatter?"

“Chitter chitter." Head nod.

By George, I think he has got it. "All right, ah, Chatter.”

Grin grin, nod nod. Show teeth. Ugh! So square and dull and regular, no interesting predator peaks and valleys. No wonder humans seek out orthodontists. I would too if I had that in my family tree. Fortunately I go back to Ole Sabertooth Tiger, and there was nothing filed down about that Jurassic dude.

“Okay, Chatter. G0000d monkey-wonkey. Ah ... can you explain why you are locked up in here?”

Chitter chitter, blink blink. What is this guy, a hairy semaphore? I see that there is nothing to do but for me to forsake the sophisticated signaling system of my breed and descend to sign language as well. These crude charades offend my feline soul, but the dedicated investigator must sacrifice even dignity in the pursuit of an honest answer.

So I walk to the door. I walk back to the cage. I leanmy forelimbs up to the padlock, and pantomime a twisting motion. Then I sit down, do my best to impersonate an owl and force my purr into a trilling "Whoo-whoo-whoo.”

The big monkey tilts his ugly head and eyes me inquisitively. I am not about to repeat the performance, but I do repeat the question: "Whoo-whoo-whoo.”

Suddenly light dawns in those ancient brown eyes. The creature leaps up, assumes a bow-legged stance, and begins playing the air guitar as if he were auditioning for Saturday Night Live.

Naturally, I am startled by this unsuspected talent and leap back, in case this is St. Vitus dance and it is catching. Of course the conclusion is obvious. An Elvis imitator has incarcerated this poor benighted being behind these cruel chicken-wire walls.

Verrry interesting.

But why was Miss Quincey Conrad paying surreptitious visits to the imbecile and calling him Baby? Is she perhaps acquainted with the hairy little fiend? Might there be some plot involved.

Ah-hah! I remember my detective antecedents, bom in the USA, even if they were first practiced on French soil.

I refer, of course, to what mystery readers of all ilk must inevitably be reminded of when confronted with a crime, a primate, and a mysterious motive.

Cherchez le chimp, bebe.

It is very possible that the individual who attacked the costume so senselessly, scattering nail lacquer and paper towels about, was this very creature I share confinement with. A chimpanzee is quite strong, and even more unpredictable. Elvis kept one, as a matter of fact, by the name of Scatter, and it drank beer and looked up girls' skirts, much to the amusement of Elvis and the refined gentlemen of his entourage. Then the novelty wore off, and the animal, after being the life of the orgy for some time, was consigned to a solitary cage, where it died alone and unmourned. I cannot condone treating even a silly antecedent of humanity so callously.

Seems to me some son of Scatter would be very interested in laying some version of Elvis low.

Chapter 22

Help Me Make It Through the Night

(Recorded by Elvis in 1971)

"Elvis alert!”

The phrase, bellowed out, made Matt start and look behind him.