The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

I must tell you the latest! Today I called on Wally Sloan’s widow. I told her a fib—said I knew Wally at the tavern. I took her a homemade fruitcake and a large jar of my strawberry jam, and she almost fainted. I guess city folks don’t expect things like that. It’s not like Northport.

I thought it might comfort her to know that someone stood by on the night of the accident. When I told her, she squeezed my hand and then ran crying into the bedroom.

They have a nice house. Her mother was there, and I said: “Do you think your daughter will be able to manage?” I was thinking of the four little ones, you know.

“She’ll manage all right,” the mother said, kind of stern and angry, “but no thanks to him! He left nothing but debts.”

“What a pity,” I said. “Wally worked so hard.”

She snorted. “Running a bar? What kind of work is that? He could’ve had a nice job downtown, but he’d rather mix with riffraff and spend his afternoons at the racetrack.”

Aha, Dr. Watson! A new development! Now, we know Wally was a gambler! When I got home I tried to figure out a plan. The cat was hanging around, getting his nose into everything I tried to do, and I said to him: “Shadow, what would Miss Marple do in a case like this? What would Hildegarde Withers do?” Shadow always stares at me as if he knows what I’m saying—or he’s trying to tell me something.

Well, after dinner, Jim went to his lodge meeting, and I started ringing doorbells in our building. At 408 an elderly man came to the door, and I said: “Excuse me, I’m your neighbor in 410. I picked up a stray cat on New Year’s Eve and somebody said it might be yours. It’s black.”

“Our cat’s ginger,” he said, “and she’s right there behind the radiator.”

I rang about twenty doorbells. Some people said no and slammed the door, but most of the tenants were nice. We’d have a few pleasant words about the cat, and then I’d mention the accident. Quite a few knew Wally from going to the tavern.

At 503 a middle-aged woman came to the door, looking like a real floozy. She invited me in for a drink. Jim would have a fit if he knew I accepted, but all I drank was a tiny beer.

She said: “The blankety-blank tavern’s closed now, and you gotta drink at home. It ain’t no fun.” Her eyes were sort of glassy, and her hair was a mess. “Too bad,” she said. “Wally was a nice kid—and a big spender. I like big spenders.”

“His bar business must have been very successful,” I said.

She grinned at me. (Terrible teeth!) “You kidding? Wally had something going on the side. Don’t we all?”

I said I understood he played the horses.

“Play ‘em? Hell, he was a bookie! He’d lose his liquor license if they found out, so he kept it pretty quiet. Gus was his pickup man.”

“Gus?”

“You know Gus—the mechanic at the gas station. He picked up bets for Wally. There was a big hassle at the bar New Year’s Eve. Gus was slow with a payoff, and the guy tried to take it out of his hide.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Gus got a shiner, that’s all. Wally threw ’em both outa the bar. Can’t blame Larry. He bet five hundred and the horse payed twenty-to-one.”

“Larry?”

“You know Larry—on the third floor. Big guy. Male nurse at the hospital. Could’ve broke Gus in two.”

Of course, I went right down to the lobby and looked at mailboxes. There was an L. Marcus in 311. I went up and rang his doorbell, but he wasn’t home.

I wonder why Gus was slow in paying off. Twenty-to-one! Why, that’s ten thousand, isn’t it? Do you think Wally’s accident had anything to do with that bet?

If I hear more, I’ll write.

Love from Mother

P.S.

Now it’s Friday. Didn’t get a chance to mail this yesterday. This morning I was stroking Shadow and thinking about the accident, and I could recall the scene plain as day—everything black and white like an old movie. Black blood on the white snow—black warehouse—parked cars covered with white snow—black tire tracks where Wally’s car went over the sidewalk—two black utility poles knocked over—even a black cat.

Then I remembered something about Wally’s car. It was all black! Wouldn’t it have some snow on the top or the hood if it had been parked in the open lot? Even the collision wouldn’t knock it all off. It was freezing and snowing off and on all evening.

Tom, do you remember Uncle Roy’s accident three years ago? Do you remember what caused it? Well, that gave me an idea, and I went to the gas station to talk to Gus. Jim rode to work with his partner this morning, so I took our car to the garage and told Gus the fan belt was making a funny noise. (Another fib.) Then I mentioned the accident. I said: “We all know Wally didn’t drink. Maybe something went wrong with his car.”

Gus said: “Yeah, he told me the steering was on the blink. I told him to leave it in the lot and gimme the keys and I’d fix it Monday. But I guess he tried to drive it home—crazy fool! We could’ve given him a loaner.”

Then I told him about finding the mysterious black cat right after the accident.