The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Wriggling free, he jumped down from ONE’s lap and walked toward the door with head depressed and hind legs stiff with disgust. He knew who it was. He knew! The man with the shiny stick. But it was useless to try to communicate. The human mind was so tightly closed that nothing important would ever penetrate. And ONE was so busy with her own chatter that her mind . . .

The jingle of keys caught Phut Phat’s attention. He turned and saw TWO swinging his key chain back and forth, back and forth, and saying nothing. TWO always did more thinking than talking. Perhaps Phut Phat had been trying to communicate with the wrong mind. Perhaps TWO was really Number One in the household and ONE was Number Two.

Phut Phat froze in his position of concentration, sitting tall and compact with tail stiff. The key chain swung back and forth, and Phut Phat fastened his blue eyes on three wrinkles just underneath TWO’s hairline. He concentrated. The key chain swung back and forth, back and forth. Phut Phat kept concentrating.

“Wait a minute,” said TWO, coming out of his puzzled silence. “I just thought of something. Helen, remember that party we gave a couple of weeks ago? There was one guest we couldn’t account for—a man with a silver cane.”

“Why, yes! He was curious about the coop on the fire escape. Why didn’t I think of him? Lieutenant, he was terribly interested in our silver collection.”

TWO said: “Does that suggest anything to you, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, it does.” The detective exchanged nods with his partner.

“This man,” ONE volunteered, “had a very cultivated voice and a charming manner. He walked with a limp.”

“We know him,” the detective said grimly. “The limp is phony. We know his method and what you tell us fits perfectly. But we didn’t know he was operating in this neighborhood again.”

ONE said: “What mystifies me is the blood on the windowsill.”

Phut Phat arched his body in a long, luxurious stretch and walked from the room, looking for a soft, dark, quiet place. Now he would sleep. He felt relaxed and satisfied. He had made vital contact with a human mind, and perhaps—after all—there was hope. Some day they might learn the system, learn to open their minds and receive. They had a long way to go before they realized their potential. But there was hope.

Weekend of the Big Puddle

Ghosts were no novelty to Percy. In England, his birthplace, they had them all the time. But British ghosts had always shown their good breeding; the uncouth pair that turned up at Percy’s summer residence in Michigan left him outraged and chagrined.

Percy was a comfortable middle-aged bachelor with quiet tastes and fastidious habits, who distributed his contempt equally among small children, yipping dogs, and noisy adults. His own manners were impeccable, his reputation blameless. In fact, Percy would have been considered somewhat stuffy, had he been a man. Being a cat, he was admired for his good behavior.

He was a portly silver tabby with a gray-and-black coat patterned as precisely as a butterfly’s wing. Something about his strong, fierce face gave an impression of integrity, rather like a benevolent man-eating tiger.

Percy spent summer weekends at a rustic chalet in the north woods—on the shore of the exclusive Big Pine Lake. Here he dozed away the hours in the company of Cornelius and Margaret or stared unblinking at the placid lake.

Cornelius was a comfortable middle-aged attorney with equally quiet tastes. He too was portly and had Percy’s look of integrity. On weekends Cornelius worked jigsaw puzzles, took untaxing strolls with his wife, or went through the motions of fishing. Margaret knitted sweaters or puttered lovingly in the push-button kitchen. When they entertained, their guests were calm, temperate, and middle-aged, with no great desire to exert themselves. Everything was quite civilized and dull—the way Percy liked it—until the weekend of the big puddle.

Bill Diddleton and his wife had been invited to spend Saturday and Sunday at the chalet. The bar was stocked with the expensive brands that Cornelius took pride in serving, and the refrigerator contained Margaret’s specialties: shrimp bisque, veal in aspic, and blueberry buckle. Her chief delight was the feeding of guests; for Cornelius the greatest pleasure came when he tied on a chef’s apron and broiled the steaks that he ordered from Texas.

“I wonder what Bill’s new wife will be like,” Margaret murmured over her knitting as they awaited the arrival of the Diddletons. “I hope she appreciates good food.”

“A piece of this puzzle is missing,” said Cornelius, frowning at a jigsaw version of the Mona Lisa.

“It’s under your left foot, dear. Do you think Percy will object to Bill? He’s rather a boisterous character.”

At the sound of his name Percy raised his head. He noticed the ball of yarn unwinding, but it failed to tempt him. He never disturbed Margaret’s knitting or Cornelius’s jigsaw puzzles.