Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Yum Yum was sitting comfortably atop the television. Koko was in the side window, sitting tall on the sill, gazing through the screen toward Cabin Four.

At the same time a raucous voice drifted across from the neighbor:

“I don’t care who you are! I want to speak to the manager! . . . Hello! Are you the manager? Don’t ask me what’s wrong! You know very well what’s wrong! You moved a screaming hyena into the cabin next to me! I won’t stand for it! Get me out of here fast! Or I’ll call the sheriff! . . . No more apologies. Just find me an accommodation at a decent hotel. And a taxi to move my things! And don’t think I’m paying for the taxi! . . .”

Nick said, “I’d better get back to the office and help Lori. I’ll explain to your dinner guest.”

It was not long before the Nutcracker van drove to the back door of Cabin Four, and a porter loaded luggage and numerous cartons of Mrs. Truffle’s belongings.

That was Qwilleran’s cue to call the office. Lori answered.

“Where did you send her?” he asked.

“We were able to get her a suite at the Mackintosh Inn.”

“That’s good. Barry Morghan will know how to handle her. He’ll send flowers to her room. He’ll even take them up himself.”

“She’ll throw them at him! She’s allergic to flowers.”

“I’m sorry Koko created a problem, Lori.”

“Not at all! He came up with a solution! No one else could get rid of her.”

Qwilleran hung up the phone and went looking for Koko. The cat was in the middle of the living room, hunched over a man’s brown shoe—for the left foot. Both shoes had been stowed for safekeeping in the entertainment center, but one drawer had been opened—with a touch of a paw, thanks to the nylon rollers. Yet, only the left shoe had been removed.

Qwilleran tapped his moustache. There was a reason why Koko was interested in it. He had a reason for everything he did—often obscure and sometimes questionable. But the gears were always operative in that small cranium.

Removing the other shoe from the drawer, Qwilleran sat down to study the situation. Both shoelaces had been well chewed at one time or another; that had been Yum Yum’s contribution. The right and left shoes seemed to be perfectly mated, although . . . when hefted, one in each hand, the left seemed just . . . slightly . . . heavier. Could that be a fact? Could Koko have detected it? Or was it happenstance?

As Qwilleran stared at the cat in speculation, a long-forgotten memory came into focus. He was fresh out of J school on his first day—at his first job—facing his first assignment. He was to go to the Superior Shoe Company, get a good feature story and hand in his copy by the three o’clock deadline. There was no limit on length. “Write what it takes,” the editor said.

The longer the piece, the cub reporter felt, the more editorial attention it would command, provided he was not guilty of padding.

The address was in a commercial district—a building occupied by tailors, wholesale jewelers, theater costumers, custom shirtmakers and the Superior Shoe Company. For the first time he took a taxi on an expense account. For the first time he flashed his brand new press card, and the conversation went like this:

“I’m Jim Qwilleran, here to get a feature story. Did the editor notify you?”

“Yep. Have a chair.” He was a leathery man of middle age who obviously worked with his hands. He was surrounded by an assortment of small machines.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“Just call me Bill. Don’t need any publicity. Just glad to see a good story in the paper. . . . I’ve got a nephew workin’ for The New York Times.”

“Interesting shop. How long have you been making shoes?”

The man shrugged. “Twenty years, give or take.”

“Do you have a specialty?”

“Yep.” He brought a shoe from underneath the counter and casually peeled away the heel lining and other inner mysteries, revealing a cavity in the heel.

“What’s the purpose of this kind of construction?” The trick was to ask questions in a matter-of-fact way as if already knowing the answer.

“It’s handy for hiding diamonds, gold coins, spare change,” he said with a grin.

There had been more to the interview, and Qwilleran rushed back to the office in excitement. Although he sweated blood over the story, he handed it in with a cool swagger, and the editor received it with a cool nod. It was never printed, of course, being an initiation ritual for cub reporters. He never mentioned it to anyone, nor did any other victim, but he often wondered how many interviews Bill had given—and whether he really had a nephew at The New York Times.

Now he went to work on Hackett’s left shoe, peeling back the sole lining, removing the heel pad and a metal plate, revealing a heel cavity filled with gold nuggets!

Koko had sensed something abnormal about the shoe. Now, having made his point, the cat was in the kitchen lapping up a drink of water.