The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“Let me sit down and rest a minute. I’m getting old,” Mr. Tibbitt said, looking for a chair that was not peach satin or velvet. We found a black horsehair bench in the onyx bathroom, and he went on: “The detectives started noticing Marmalade’s behavior, and they got suspicious about the organ. They remembered the unsolved case of the stolen jewels.”

“But Marmalade was interested in mice, not music.”

“Anyway, they brought in an expert on reed organs, and they told him about the screwdriver. The police found a screwdriver near the organ, near the family portraits. Do you remember?”

I remembered.

“Well, that was the clue! This organ expert took the screws out of the wind-chest, raised it a bit, and there they were—diamonds and emeralds worth a fortune!”

I turned off the tape recorder and said goodbye to Mr. Tibbitt. As I walked down the twenty-two stairs he called after me: “Don’t say anything about this in your book!”

The Dark One

“The Dark One” was first published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1966.

Only Dakh Won knows the true reason for his action that night on the moonlit path. It is not a cat’s nature to be vengeful—or heroic. He merely does what is necessary to secure food, warmth, comfort, peace, and an occasional scratch behind the ears. But Dakh Won is a Siamese, a breed known for its intelligence and loyalty.

He has always been called “the dark one,” because his fur is an unusually deep shade of fawn. Between his seal brown ears and his seal brown tail, the silky back shades hardly at all. Only his soft underside is pale. He is a husky cat whose strength ripples under his sleek coat, and his slanted eyes are full of sapphire secrets.

During his early life at the cattery Dakh Won enjoyed food, warmth, comfort, attention, and—most of all—peace. Then one day after he was full-grown, he was handed over to strange arms and exposed for the first time to hostility and conflict.

Before he was placed in a basket and carried away, a gentle and familiar voice said: “Dakh Won is very special. I wouldn’t sell him to anyone but you, Hilda.”

“You know I’ll give him a good home, Elizabeth.”

“How about your husband? Does he like animals?”

“He prefers dogs, but I’m the one who needs a pet. Jack’s away from home most of the time. All his construction jobs seem to be halfway across the state.”

“Honestly, Hilda, I don’t know how you stand it in the country. You were so active when you were a city gal.”

“It’s lonely, but I have my piano. I’d love to give lessons to the farm children in my community.”

“Why don’t you? It would be good for you.”

“Jack doesn’t like the idea.”

“Why on earth should he object?”

Hilda looked uncomfortable. “Oh, he’s funny about some things . . . . I hope Dakh Won likes music. Do cats like music?”

Elizabeth studied the face of her old friend. “Hilda, is everything all right with you and Jack? I’m worried about you.”

“Of course everything’s all right . . . . Now, I’d better leave if I’m going to catch that bus. I hope the cat won’t mind the ride.” Dakh Won was sniffing the strange pair of shoes and nibbling the tantalizing shoelaces; he had never seen laces with little tassels. Hilda said: “Isn’t that adorable, Elizabeth? He’s untying my shoelaces.”

“Let me tie them for you.”

“Thank you.” There was a sigh. “Aren’t these shoes horrible? The doctor says I’ll never wear pretty shoes again.”

“That was a terrible accident, Hilda—in more ways than one. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“It wasn’t really Jack’s fault, you know.”

“Yes, you’ve told me that before. Do you still have pain?”

“Not too much, but I’ll always have this ugly limp. That’s one reason I don’t mind hiding away in the country.”

Then Dakh Won was handed over, making a small verbal protest and spreading his toes in apprehension, but when he found himself in a covered basket, he settled down and was quiet throughout the long journey. Occasionally he felt reassured by strong fingers that reached into the basket, and he amiably allowed his ears to be flattened and his fur gently ruffled.

Dakh Won’s adopted home was a small house in the country, overlooking a ravine—a fascinating new world of fringed rugs, cozy heat registers, wide windowsills, soft chairs, and a grand piano.

He soon discovered the joys of sitting in this elevated box with half-opened lid, but it proved to be off-limits to cats. After lights were turned out for the night he was welcome, however, to share a soft bed with a warm armpit and reassuring heartbeat. That was where he slept—except on weekends.

“Hilda, I’m telling you for the last time: Get that animal out of this bed!”

“He isn’t bothering you, Jack. He’s over on my side.”

“I don’t want him in this bedroom! Lock him up in the basement.”

“It’s damp down there. He’ll howl all night.”

“Okay, if that cat’s more important than me, I’ll go down and bunk on the sofa.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll sleep on the sofa myself.”

“Thanks.”

“I knew you’d like the idea.”

“Don’t slam the door.”