The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

by Lilian Jackson Braun

  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.

  It was a young man about your age, Tom, and I thought my heart would break. His head was covered with blood, and the snow was stained, and I knew he was dead. I couldn’t leave him there alone, so I stayed and prayed a little until the flashing blue lights turned into the street.

  There I was—standing in the snow in my slippers and robe and a hunting jacket, so I ran back to the building and watched from the shadow of the doorway.

  An officer jumped out of the patrol car and yelled to his partner: “Radio for a wagon. This one’s had it!”

  And that’s when I saw something moving in the darkness. At first I thought it was a horrid rat, like they’ve got in this neighborhood. Then this black cat darted out of the shadows and came right up to me, holding up one paw. It wanted to get in out of the snow. I picked it up—you know how much I like cats—and its feet were like ice. I was shivering, too, so we both came upstairs to get warm.

  I watched from the window till they took the body away, and I couldn’t help thinking of his poor mother—and how the police would knock on the door and take her downtown to the morgue. I wonder who he was. Maybe it will be in the newspaper.

  I wish Jim would get home. The cat sits on my desk staring at me and throwing a shadow across the paper so I can’t see what I’m writing. He’s very sleek and black—with yellow eyes. He must belong to someone in this building, but he’s quite contented to stay here.

  My mind keeps going back to that young man—drinking too much at some New Year’s Eve party. Maybe he lived in this building and was coming home. I haven’t met any of the neighbors. Jim says they’re all kooks, and it’s best if we stay to ourselves. The neighborhood is run-down, but the apartment is comfortable, and we’re close to the precinct station.

  When Jim retires next year we’ll get a small house in Northport. I never thought I’d be married again—and to a detective! Remember how you and I used to read about Hercule Poirot and Inspector Maigret when we lived in Northport?

  I hear Jim coming. Will finish this later.

  New Year’s afternoon

  Here I am again. Jim’s taking a nap. I told him about the accident, and he said: “Another drunk! He was asking for it.”

  He doesn’t know I went downstairs in my robe and slippers, and it was hard to explain where the cat came from. It’s still here—follows me around like a shadow.

  There! I just heard it on the radio! First traffic fatality of the year—Wallace Sloan, 25, of 18309 Hamilton—car rammed into a brick building after hitting two utility poles.

  They towed the wreck away, and now they’re fixing the poles. I asked the superintendent if any tenant lost a black kitty, but he didn’t know.

  Dear son, take care. We pray you’ll be home soon.

  Love from Mother

  January 4

  Dear Tom,

  Glad the fruitcake arrived in one piece. Are you getting decent food? Did you get my letter about the accident? Here’s more news: When Jim heard the victim’s name, he said: “That’s the young guy that owns Wally’s Tavern. It’s a real dive.”

  Then I got the Monday paper and read the obituary. Wallace Sloan left a wife and four children! So young! My heart went out to the family. I know what it’s like to be a widow with a young son. Imagine being left with four! That poor woman!

  Tom, you may think this is strange, but—I went to the funeral. Jim thought I was going downtown to shop the January sales. It was terribly depressing—hardly any mourners—and the widow looked like a mere child! Outside the funeral home I got talking to a neighbor of the Sloans, and she said: “People think Wally was a drunk, but I’m telling you—he never touched liquor. He worked hard, day and night. Had to, I guess, with four kids to support—and another one on the way. Must have been dead tired and fell asleep at the wheel.”

  Very peculiar! You see, Tom, he was traveling east, evidently coming from the big lot behind the gas station, where the bar customers park. If he was cold sober, would he fall asleep after driving half a block? Not on that street! It’s so full of frozen ruts, it shakes your teeth out!

  Don’t know why I’m so concerned. Probably because I read too many mystery stories. Do you have a chance to read, Tom? Shall I send you some paperbacks?

  Well, anyway, I asked some questions at the grocery store, and I found out two things for sure. Wally Sloan always parked in the lot behind the gas station, AND he never took a drink.

  The cat is still here, following me around. He must be lonely. I call him Shadow. I bought some catfood and fixed a toidy box for him. He doesn’t want to go out—just stays close to me. Really a nice cat.

  Now I must set the table for dinner. Jim has switched to the day shift. We’re having your favorite meat loaf tonight. Will write again soon.

  Love from Mother

  January 5

  Dear Tom,

  I’ve been listening to the news bulletins and thanking God you’re in
the ground crew. Are you all right? Is there anything I can send you?

  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.

  He said: “Wally’s kids—they got a black cat. Wally brought it to the bar sometimes when the rats got bad.”

  “Was the cat in the bar New Year’s Eve?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”

  And yet there was a big yellow ring around his eye! “Oh, dear!” I said. “You got a bad poke in the eye, looks like.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Been playin’ ice hockey.”

  That’s all so far, Tom. Write when you can. I read your letters over and over.

  Mother

  January 9

  Dear Tom,

  A quick note to let you know my suspicions were correct! After dinner Friday night I said to Jim: “Do you believe in Providence, dear? When Wally Slaon was killed, Providence arranged to have a detective’s wife looking out the window—an old busybody who reads mystery stories.” I said: “I think Wally Sloan was murdered. I think the garage mechanic loosened a steering knuckle on his car so Wally would lose control when it hit the first bump. You know Gus at the gas station? The police ought to pick him up for questioning. The woman in 503 might know something, too. Also a male nurse in 311.”

  Tom, I wish you could have seen the flabbergasted look on Jim’s face.

  That was Friday. Today the Homicide men got the whole story. Gus lost Larry’s five hundred in a crap game—never placed the bet at all! Then Gus tried to wiggle out of the mess by blaming it on Wally. To cover up, he rigged Wally’s car for the fatal accident.

  There was no snow on that car, so I was sure it had been inside the garage, and on a crazy hunch I suspected Gus of tampering with it. Jim is very proud of me, and I hope you are, too, Tom dear.

  Love from Mother

  P.S.

  Forgot to tell you. Shadow disappeared mysteriously Friday night. He got out somehow, and we haven’t seen him since. It’s almost as if he wanted to tell me something, and after the truth came out, he just vanished! Too bad. He was a nice cat. I liked him.

  Contents

  Phut Phat Concentrates

  Weekend of the Big Puddle

  The Fluppie Phenomenon

  The Hero of Drummond Street

  The Mad Museum Mouser

  The Dark One

  East Side Story

  Tipsy and the Board of Health

  A Cat Named Conscience

  SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost

  Stanley and Spook

  A Cat Too Small for His Whiskers

  The Sin of Madame Phloi

  Tragedy on New Year’s Eve

 

 

 
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