James, Fabulous Feline

by Harriet Hahn

  “I’ll be there next time, wherever it is,” said Roger.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” said Shep. “He’ll be involved in some investment that requires all his time and won’t leave his office in the city.”

  James, now fully alert, jumped off the coffee table onto Shep’s lap with claws extended.

  “Ouch,” Shep howled, “that hurt.” James gave him a sharp look and hopped back to the table for another little taste.

  Jane now abruptly changed the subject. Turning to Shep she said, “I’m delighted to meet you. I came especially because Roger said you’d be here. I have a proposition for you.”

  “I love being propositioned,” said Shep.

  James yowled.

  “I am a public relations expert,” said Jane in a matter-of-fact voice. “I have an office on Fleet Street and quite a thriving business. You directed and produced Puss-in-Boots last year. It was very effective. I need someone to produce a cat feature for me so I came to you.”

  “I did Puss-in-Boots,” said Shep, “but it was James who really made it such a success.”

  James stood up on Shep’s lap, teetered on his hind leg, waved his paw and collapsed.

  “I want to do a documentary on cats in London. The Humane Society will use it for a care-for-your-cat drive. They want a fifteen-minute film. Another group wants a number of different stills. The pay is excellent. Do you know of anyone who would do such a job?”

  Shep looked at James. James looked at Shep.

  “Want to appear on TV again?” Shep asked.

  James nodded, hopped off Shep’s lap for the coffee table, where he took another sip of Lagavulin and hopped back. He was just the least bit unsteady.

  “I’d like to do it, myself,” said Shep.

  “Excellent,” said Jane. She took a diary out of her purse. “When?”

  “As soon as possible,” Shep answered. “My next project is waiting for a team of writers to agree and that will take some time. Meantime I’ll get a sound man and a cameraman who can do both stills and film. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll take James along for luck. Well, really more than luck. If we can’t find any city cats, he’s a very versatile performer.”

  James nodded, turned on his back and applauded himself by patting his paws together while Shep scratched his tummy.

  “Fine,” said Jane. She picked up her large briefcase, put it on the table and opened it, revealing a personal computer complete with roll of paper. I showed her where to plug it in and she rapidly typed out a contract, which she handed to Shep. While he was reading his, she typed another for James.

  “Is James your cat?” she asked me.

  I explained that James belonged to Mrs. March who lived on the next floor up, and before I could add any details Jane had dashed off, her high-heeled patent leather pumps flashing as she ran up the stairs. Jane is a very well put-together girl from her sleek black hair through the always crisp tailored dresses she wears to her patent leather pumps.

  She returned shortly with a signed contract for the use of James in a documentary and for still shots. While she was gone, Shep had called his favorite cameraman and found him available.

  Business completed, Jane smiled at us all, folded up her computer, said good-bye and ran down the stairs.

  “I’ll call with dates,” she said over her shoulder as she circled the elevator shaft. Jane never uses the lift.

  I looked at James and decided it was time for dinner. Poppy and Roger were going to try a new vegetarian restaurant. James quietly shook his head when they asked us if we wanted to join them. Shep went off to have dinner with his cameraman, and James and I went to Frank’s nearby and had a bowl of soup. James had a cassata and we came home to watch the news on TV. James patted the bottle of Lagavulin in passing.

  “Good stuff?” I asked.

  He nodded, closed his eyes and “watched” the news that way. It is easier for him to concentrate. When Mrs. March knocked, you might almost say he woke with a start, looked around and then left to walk upstairs with great dignity. He wobbled a little though.

  The next morning I found James sitting on his table. I had the carry-bag in my hand.

  “Want to go to the Huntingdown and pick up the models?” I asked.

  James grinned, hopped off the table and into the bag, which I held for him. Then we were off in a cab. After all, my client was paying for it.

  The guard recognized me and let me in. He did not examine the carry-bag, but James stayed in it till we reached Costain Cumming’s office.

  “Enter,” called Costain.

  I went in. James did not follow so I left the door open.

  Costain was sitting at his desk, an abstracted expression on his face. There were no statues to be seen.

  “This is very strange indeed,” said Costain. “I spoke to Photography only last night, and they assured me the statues would be here this morning. It is possible their definition of ‘first thing’ does not coincide with mine, but I am deeply concerned.”

  “I am even more so,” I said gloomily.

  James appeared at the door, yowled and beckoned to us to follow him. Costain was not impressed but I was, so I moved as fast as I could to follow James down a corridor into a large workroom where there was a battered desk that held one of my statues. On the floor beside the desk was a large wooden crate filled with packing material. James ran straight to the desk, took one look at the statue and knocked it to the floor.

  “James,” I gasped, “have you lost your mind?”

  It was only then that I noticed a bald, fat man in a laboratory coat, standing to one side of the desk, glaring at James, who was now trying to uncover something in the crate.

  “Scat!” cried the man.

  James paid no attention. By this time Costain had arrived.

  “Sam,” he said, “what is all the commotion for?”

  “This cat came charging in here and knocked your statue off the desk. He seems to have broken the top in the process.”

  Sure enough, Handel was headless. The head had rolled under the desk.

  James was systematically uncovering another terra-cotta model in the crate.

  He stopped long enough to leap out of the crate and point to the statue of Handel lying headless on the floor. He patted the base and shook his head. I picked up the headless statue and looked carefully at the base. There was no monogram. In fact, as I looked very carefully at the piece, I realized that it was a reproduction. An excellent one, but certainly a reproduction.

  “Where are the originals?” I demanded.

  James jumped back in the crate. I nodded to him and he moved away so I could pull out the one he had exposed.

  There in my hands was George Friedrich himself complete with monogram on the base.

  “And the other one?” I asked.

  James pointed to the crate. The bald man stood apparently stunned. Costain was, for the moment, speechless.

  I uncovered a second statue in the crate and placed it with the first one. James and I checked it over. We did indeed have the originals. I looked around and on a shelf behind the desk I found the other copy.

  “Please, return to my office and I will join you in just a moment,” said Costain in a strange voice.

  I carried the statues, one in each hand, and James preceded me to the curator’s office, where I sank into a chair.

  James sat on the desk and looked very worried. His ears twitched. We waited for about ten minutes. Costain returned.

  “I am so sorry. It is all a terrible misunderstanding,” he said.

  James shook his head.

  “Photography got mixed up and sent the statues to the workrooms with a slip asking that they be reproduced for the store. Sam was about to send them back to Photography when we happened along.”

  James shook his head.

  “In a wooden crate?” I asked.

  “No, no, the one we found on the desk was to go back to Photography. Sam had just made a terrible mistake. He is be
side himself with mortification. He just made a mistake.”

  James shook his head.

  “What is it, James?” I asked.

  “Did he make a mistake?”

  James shook his head.

  “Do you know for sure?”

  A nod. “How?” James looked around for a minute, then patted the telephone on Costain’s desk. “You heard him talking on the phone to someone?” James nodded and smiled. “He was arranging to send the originals to someone?” I made a wild guess. James nodded. “Who?” James shook his head. He didn’t know. “Did he see you?” James seemed unsure. I interpreted “maybe.”

  Costain Cummings was looking at two pieces of paper on his desk which he had brought with him. He passed one to me. It was a museum form authorizing the transfer of a piece of work from one department to another. There was a space for a description of the object and a space for date and time and, at the bottom, a signature. This form had “Photography” filled in at the top. “Reproduction” was indicated as the destination and the words “two terra-cotta statues” were written in the space for description. The paper was dated a week ago at 5:00 P.M. and signed with an undecipherable scrawl.

  “Does the name mean anything to you?” I asked.

  “It could be anybody,” Costain said. He looked very unhappy.

  He picked up his phone and asked the store to send packing materials. When a young girl arrived with a carton box and tissue paper, we packed the terra-cottas safely for transport to Thwaites.

  Costain patted James. “A profound obeisance I make to you, sir,” he said to James, who looked confused. “Without your perspicacity we would have lost all. This is not the end of this business. Wentworth’s obfuscations will not stand.”

  I thanked him and hurried out with James, back in the carry-bag with a puzzled expression on his face, and the carton box in my arms. We got a cab immediately and went directly to Thwaites, where I turned the precious pieces over to the shipping department with a deep sigh.

  At last I turned to James. “He meant he made you a big bow and that without your clever brains we would all have been in deep soup and that the bald man is going to be in for trouble.”

  James grinned and capered around the shipping room tossing little pieces of wiggly Styrofoam packing material in the air. Then he went off to see where he was needed on the third floor, and I went back to Baron’s to call G. L. and report that, at last, the statues were on their way.

  By six that evening James and I had calmed down somewhat and were ready to take on a new adventure. I wondered a bit about what Costain Cummings would do about Mr. Wentworth, but I was mistakenly certain that it was not my problem.

  James was in the sitting room when the bell rang and Shep announced that he, Jane and a van were waiting below. Inside the van we found Jane in blue jeans and a shirt. She carried a clipboard with a pencil attached and made notes as we went along. A cameraman, a sound man and all their equipment were also installed. There was barely room for me, and James sat on my lap.

  Though it was six-thirty, the sun was still shining brightly and the grass, trees and flowers all had a lovely golden sheen. Green Park was our first stop. We parked the van on the street near the Stafford Hotel and walked into the park through a passage between two apartment houses. For a while we sat on the grass and waited for a cat to appear. However, park cats are not curious about people and James began to get bored. He left us and began to explore the gardens and hedges on the edge of the park. He flushed a cat and chased it. The cat made for a big tree and started up. Tor, our cameraman, who had consented to do both film and stills, was up and running. He is a lean young Finn whose hobby, when he isn’t taking pictures, is marathon running. Our sound man, Moises, originally from Spain, sat where he was. Sound could be dubbed in on these pictures, if we got any.

  Tor and James began to work together. Tor said in his normal voice, “James, can you move the cat to the other side of the tree? The light is much better.”

  James chased the cat around the tree to a better position.

  “Good,” said Tor. “Now back off and pretend you are not interested and perhaps the cat will come down.”

  James wandered away, apparently bored, and the cat, after a few minutes, came slowly down the tree. It was a very scruffy small calico. Tor got an excellent close-up of the cat in the grass.

  “Come up very slowly,” said Tor. “I want to see if I can get him to defend himself.”

  James approached slowly. The calico cat arched its back, bared its teeth and snarled.

  So now we had a method. Once Moises saw what was happening, he placed himself where he could pick up the appropriate sounds of the animals. We flushed another cat in Green Park. Back at the van, where we had left Shep in charge of all our equipment, we reported on our success.

  “Great,” he said, ruffling James’s fur. “You flush ’em and herd ’em, we’ll take ’em.”

  We explored St. James’s churchyard. We found a cat on Trafalgar Square eating a pigeon. We found a number on the embankment. By nine we had a lot of good film.

  As I watched James work, I realized how little contact he had had with other cats in his life. He was a successful herder, but he was startled and frightened when a strange cat started spitting at him. He was larger than most of the cats we found and certainly in much better condition, but he was very tentative. If I didn’t know that James had courage along with every other virtue, I’d say he was afraid.

  Back at flat twelve with a saucer of Lagavulin, which he now preferred to Laphroaig, James was an expansive member, not to say star, of the film crew. After a quick drink and a certain amount of washing up, we all repaired to Frank’s for a late supper.

  Back at the flat, we sat together, James on my lap, to watch the late, late news.

  “Thanks for finding the statues,” I said softly.

  There was a knock at the door. James did not move. I got up, carrying him carefully, opened the door and handed him, still sound asleep, to Mrs. March.

  “He’s had a long, hard day,” I said.

  She snuggled him in her arms. “Doesn’t let you do this often, does he?” she said as she carried him off to bed.

  The next morning James spent sitting on his table inspecting tenants. About eleven he slipped into Thwaites and listened while Elsie talked to him. She no longer cried all the time, but now she was sometimes very cross with him. At noon she left to go to lunch with Marilyn and two other members of her staff. James peered into Peter’s office. There was Dr. George, just settling into the visitor’s chair. Peter waved at James.

  “Come in, come in,” he called, and patted his lap.

  James accepted the invitation and curled up on his old friend’s ample lap.

  “What do you think of my collection?” asked Dr. George. “Is it worth auctioning?”

  “I’ll let you see the lotting in about a week, but I think it will do very well in our nineteenth-century European sale in Zurich sometime in August.”

  “I’m delighted,” said Dr. George, “and by the way, thanks for making things easy for Elsie. She told me to tell you, so I’m not breaking any confidences. We are getting along very well. It’s almost as though someone had done all the preliminary work. She keeps talking about some magic cat. We’ll get to the bottom of that before long, I’m sure.” Then he bounced out of his chair and, with a wave of his hand and a cheery good-bye he was out the door and gone.

  Peter and James looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Peter made his chair go up and down, and then they went together to the East India Club, where they had lunch and a long nap in Peter’s room.

  It was about five-thirty when James scratched at my door just as the phone rang. I let him in and answered.

  “The models are safe and sound, and they are better than I expected. I will deposit your fee plus a substantial bonus in your account. You can wait till you get the deposit slip to find out the amount. Now find Florence Nightingale,” said old G. L.
in one breath, and without waiting for an answer he hung up.

  Florence Nightingale is another of Roubiliac’s sculptures in Westminster Abbey.

  “They’re safe in the hands of old G. L.,” I told James, and we frolicked around the living room until the bell rang announcing the filming crew. We hurried downstairs and climbed in the van.

  We parked in an area where we could find a number of street markets. There were plenty of scrawny cats around the food stalls, and while I became a customer, James flushed a number of them. There is almost no light under a stall and the cats are not out in the open on top of the merchandise, so after a few good shots taken with great effort we decided to leave the market streets. However, we were able to film one excellent sequence involving a grey tiger-striped cat playing with a dead mouse. The stall owner hated all the cats that were underfoot, and when he heard we were doing a documentary on London’s street cats, he let us in his stall with lights and even provided the dead mouse as a lure.

  James watched the whole performance with great apprehension.

  “That cat will eat that mouse before long,” I said to James as we watched. James shuddered.

  In an alley as we left the market, James found a mother cat with three new kittens. She was nested in the corner of an abandoned garage and we needed our lights. James was fascinated by the kittens and trotted over to look at them. The mother cat arched her back and snarled. James, startled, jumped back, looked around and came to sit next to me. Tor got some excellent pictures of the kittens and was bubbling.

  Jane was noting each shot on the clipboard, recording the subject, length of time filmed and any relevant details. She made no comment, but Shep was delighted. After he left us at the end of a session, he and Tor reviewed the film we had taken.

  “James,” he said at one point, “this is going to be a really splendid piece, thanks to you.”

  James only nodded. He wanted to get home and groom himself. James is not one for the rough life.

  Tor was not ready to go home, however. Instead, he had made a purchase at the fish market and now directed Shep to head for the warehouses around the customs house near the Tower. James gave me a grim look but we were off.