The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

“He’s just a little eccentric.”

“If he has a million dollars’ worth of antiques, which I doubt, why is he living in this run-down building? And why doesn’t he buy a wheelchair that’s easier to operate?”

“Because he’s a Dutchman, I suppose,” was Gertrude’s explanation.

“And how about all those ridiculous things he says about cats?”

“I’m beginning to think they’re true.”

“And who is the fellow who lives with him? Is he a servant, or a nurse, or a keeper, or what? I see him coming and going on the elevator, but he never speaks—not one word. He doesn’t even seem to have a name, and Mr. Van treats him like a slave. I’m not sure we should go tomorrow night. The whole situation is too strange.”

Nevertheless, we went. The Hollander’s apartment was jammed with furniture and bric-a-brac, and he shouted at his companion: “Move that rommel so the ladies can sit down.”

Sullenly the fellow removed some paintings and tapestries from the seat of a carved sofa.

“Now get out of here!” Mr. Van shouted at him. “Get yourself a beer,” and he threw the man some money with less grace than one would throw a dog a bone.

While SuSu explored the premises we drank our coffee, and then Mr. Van showed us his treasures, propelling his wheelchair through a maze of furniture. He pointed out Chippendale-this and Affleck-that and Newport-something-else. They were treasures to him, but to me they were musty relics of a dead past.

“I am in the antique business,” Mr. Van explained. “Before I was-s-s chained to this wheelchair, I had a shop and exhibited at the major shows. Then . . . I was-s-s in a bad auto accident, and now I sell from the apartment. By appointment only.”

“Can you do that successfully?” Gertrude asked.

“And why not? The museum people know me, and collectors come here from all over the country. I buy. I sell. And my man Frank does the legwork. He is-s-s the perfect assistant for an antique dealer—strong in the back, weak in the head.”

“Where did you find him?”

“On a junk heap. I have taught him enough to be useful to me, but not enough to be useful to himself. A smart arrangement, eh?” Mr. Van winked. “He is-s-s a smeerlap, but I am helpless without him . . . . Hoo! Look at my little sweetheart. She has-s-s found a prize!”

SuSu was sniffing at a silver bowl with two handles.

Mr. Van nodded approvingly. “It is a caudle cup made by Jeremiah Dummer of Boston in the late seventeenth century—for a certain lady in Salem. They said she was-s-s a witch. Look at my little sweetheart. She knows!”

I coughed and said: “Yes, indeed. You’re lucky to have Frank.”

“You think I do not know it?” Mr. Van said in a snappish tone. “That is-s-s why I keep him poor. If I gave him wages, he would get ideas. A smeerlap with ideas—there is-s-s nothing worse.”

“How long ago was your accident?”

“Five years, and it was-s-s that idiot’s fault. He did it! He did this to me!” The man’s voice rose to a shout, and his face turned red as he pounded the arms of his wheelchair with his fist. Then SuSu rubbed against his ankles, and he stroked her and began to calm down. “Yes, five years in this miserable chair. We were driving to an antique show in the station wagon. Sixty miles an hour—and he went through a red light and hit a truck. A gravel truck!”

Gertrude put both hands to her face. “How terrible, Mr. Van!”

“I remember packing the wagon for that trip. I was-s-s complaining all the time about sore arches. Hah! What I would give for some sore arches today yet!”

“Wasn’t Frank hurt?”

Mr. Van made an impatient gesture. “His-s-s head only. They picked Waterford crystal out of that blockhead for six hours. He has-s-s been gek ever since.” He tapped his temple.

“Where did you find this unusual wheelchair?” I asked.

“My dear Mevrouw, never ask a dealer where he found something. It was-s-s made for a railroad millionaire in 1872. It has-s-s the original plush. If you must spend your life in a wheelchair, have one that gives some pleasure. And now we come to the purpose of tonight’s visit. Ladies, I want you to do something for me.”

He wheeled himself to a desk, and Gertrude and I exchanged anxious glances.

“Here in this desk is-s-s a new will I have written, and I need witnesses. I am leaving a few choice items to museums. Everything else is-s-s to be sold and the proceeds used to establish a foundation.”

“What about Frank?” asked Gertrude, who is always genuinely concerned about others.

“Bah! Nothing for that smeerlap! . . . But before you ladies sign the papers, there is-s-s one thing I must write down. What is-s-s the full name of my little sweetheart?”

We both hesitated, and finally I said: “Her registered name is Superior Suda of Siam.”

“Good! I will make it the Superior Suda Foundation. That gives me pleasure. Making a will is-s-s a dismal business, like a wheelchair, so give yourself some pleasure.”

“What—ah—will be the purpose of the foundation?” I asked.