The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

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 in Ellery 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.