by Harriet Hahn
I lifted my program to indicate I would accept the bid.
“I have fifty pounds. Do I hear sixty?” said the auctioneer.
There was a movement somewhere else.
“I have sixty pounds. Do I hear seventy?”
I felt a sharp scratch on my ankle, and dutifully raised my program.
“I have seventy pounds. Do I hear eighty?”
He heard eighty.
“I have eighty pounds. Do I hear ninety?”
James scratched and I raised my program, but it appeared that someone else was interested in this worthless porcelain cat, and on looking around, I saw that it was Lawrence Dobbs. He looked nervous.
The bidding continued.
“I have one hundred fifty pounds. Do I hear one hundred sixty?”
It was up to me, and I had gone to my limit. James scratched fiercely, but I ignored him. Once he knew he’d lost, he disappeared.
“Going once.” The auctioneer looked hopefully at me. “Going twice, and all gone.” The cat was sold, and at a much better price than anyone would have imagined. The auctioneer’s assistant held the cat aloft for a moment, and then started to put it aside.
There was a ghastly shriek, and a gray streak hurtled through the air, flying at the porcelain cat. The gray streak hit the porcelain cat squarely; it fell from the startled hands of the auctioneer’s assistant and smashed to pieces on the floor. James fell sobbing onto the remains of his beloved. Pandemonium broke out. Lawrence ran to rescue what was left of the porcelain, and a guard came running to collar the cat.
However, it appeared that something was happening that was more significant than confusion over a rather unimportant piece of broken china. In fact, diamonds and rubies were strewn about the floor amid the shards of porcelain.
The auction was suspended for half an hour, and Lawrence Dobbs and I were asked to step into the director’s office to wait for the police and the insurance executives to solve the reappearance of the jewels.
It was late in the afternoon when I returned to Baron’s Chambers. James was lying in front of my door.
“Come in,” I said. “You’re a hero.”
James heaved a deep sigh and dragged himself into the room.
I asked him if he wanted a drink, and he shook his head. He had destroyed the very thing he loved. There was no point in living.
I dropped the catalog for the second of the Haverstock sales on the floor, open to a page on which Lord Henry’s fine Staffordshire cat was illustrated in full color.
“To bring you up to date,” I said, “Lawrence Dobbs had had enough of being Lord Henry’s secretary, and faked the robbery after putting the diamonds and rubies in cotton wool inside the hollow junk cat. Lawrence planned to buy it for next to nothing at the auction and then scarper to Brazil with the loot. If you had not broken the cat, no one would have been the wiser.”
James turned to look at me, the look of a cat in agony, and then his eyes fell on the open pages on the floor. He jumped down and examined the color photograph that filled the page.
“Thwaite’s thinks you’re wonderful—though violent—and wants to give you something,” I went on.
James was absorbed in the photograph of the Staffordshire cat. This cat was white with one black paw, and had gray eyes. James was alert again, and was patting the photograph softly.
“Lord Henry is so pleased with you that he wants to give you a home for life,” I said. “But I told him you already had a home.”
James flicked his tail. He was a changed cat. A keen intelligence gleamed in his eyes. He shook his head.
“Is there something you want?” I asked, even though I was beginning to guess.
James patted the picture.
“Your taste is improving,” I said. “That is a classy cat.”
James gave me an I-have-the-best-taste-in-the-world look.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
Now, when I offered James a small drink, he accepted, and sat all evening looking at this new love. He occasionally licked the page.
At 10:00 P.M., Mrs. March came knocking.
“I’ve come for poor James,” she said.
I looked over her shoulder to see James, alert and vigorous, sitting on the step.
“He looks fine,” I commented.
“Oh, James, you are a one!” said Mrs. March as she scurried after him.
Lord Henry was delighted to give me the Staffordshire cat.
“Thanks to your cat, I have my gems back,” he said warmly.
I didn’t think it wise to tell him James was not my cat. Instead I thanked him effusively for the Staffordshire charmer, and carefully carried it back to Baron’s Chambers.
James met me at the door.
He was frantic. He leaped into the elevator, clawing at the carpet. He streaked into the living room and, tail twitching, golden eyes glowing, he sat on the coffee table while I unwrapped the parcel and placed the white cat with the black paw on the table in front of him.
He collapsed in ecstasy. He patted, pawed, licked, and stroked the china cat.
“Have a drink?” I asked.
James hopped on the bar. His coat was fluffed up, his eyes alert. He whirled around to look at the table. The cat was still there. James drank his drink. He went into the bedroom. He came back immediately. The cat was still there. James beamed.
There was a knock on the door.
I answered it to find Mrs. March.
“Is James there?” she asked.
James jumped on the table, patted the cat, and then streaked past me out the door and frolicked up the stairs as Mrs. March trotted along behind him.
CHAPTER 2
A routine was evolving at Baron’s Chambers. During the day, James supervised the maids and sorted the acceptable prospective tenants from those who did not meet his standards, and I worked at research. At about five o’clock in the afternoon I came back to Baron’s to find James sitting on the tiny message table.
“Stop in for a visit?” I would ask.
After briefly considering whether there were any better offers, he would leap into the elevator, and when I unlocked the door to the flat, he would sweep into the apartment, inspect the premises, salute the china cat Lord Henry had given him, and recline on the couch, waiting for an exchange of gossip and a comforting drink after a hard day’s work.
Sometimes I went out for dinner. Just before I was ready to go, at the most inconvenient moment James would tap haughtily at the door to indicate that he had an evening crammed with activities and that he had already given me more than enough of his time. I would drop whatever I was doing and say good-bye to James, who would nod graciously and sweep out into the hall.
On rare occasions I would invite James for supper. For these occasions I kept a supply of canned cat food.
James, who loves Laphroaig single-malt whiskey and would turn up his nose at any ordinary whiskey—let alone vodka or gin—had, so far as I could tell, no taste in food. He was perfectly content with a can of cat food.
One evening we were sitting together, comfortably watching the news on TV. That is, I was watching the news and James was absorbing vital information with closed eyes, because, as I’ve previously mentioned, James, ever alert to the finer nuances of world affairs, finds it easier to concentrate if he closes his eyes. If I turn off the TV he will open his eyes with a start, look irritably at me, and wave his tail imperiously at the tube. So we were both absorbing world events when the bell rang announcing a visitor. We headed to the hall, where I responded to the security phone.
“Haverstock here,” said a cheerful voice.
I buzzed Lord Henry in while James stretched and prepared to be his most aristocratic self.
Lord Henry, Earl of Haverstock, had become one of James’s greatest admirers, and came to see him from time to time. Lord Henry is a short, muscular man with a gray mustache, ruddy complexion, and twinkling eye. At fifty he is the master of a considerable fortune and an impressive e
state; he has been a widower for almost five years. He is shy, diffident, and sure he is inept. He is also intelligent, generous, and incorruptible. So far he has never found a woman to replace the first Lady Haverstock. He arrived this evening with a Fortnum & Mason shopping bag.
“What a splendid surprise!” I cried as we let him in. “What brings you around this evening?”
“Here,” he said, handing me the bag. “I brought you something new to taste.”
We set the shopping bag on the floor and unpacked a bottle of a new single malt, and two cans and a package. The package was from Paxton’s and contained a wedge of cheese and some crackers. One of the cans contained Strasbourg goose-liver paté. I opened it and arranged the paté on some of the crackers while Lord Henry poured whiskey into two glasses and one saucer. To the glasses he added a dollop of water.
The crackers and paté on a plate, and the cheese on a board with a knife, were all on the coffee table, and we were ready for a delightful visit.
I reached out to pick up a cracker, but a gray paw intervened and a gray whisker brushed my hand. The dollop of paté on the cracker had disappeared. I looked at the bare cracker; James licked his cheeks and grinned.
“You like this stuff, old man?” asked Lord Henry. He offered James a cracker spread with paté. James nodded, his golden eyes glowing.
For a moment Lord Henry and I concentrated on an auction catalog of material in an upcoming sale. We were startled by an unexpected rustle. James was shoving the last of the paté in his mouth. Lord Henry had eaten one cracker with paté on it. I had tried but failed. James had eaten the rest, and looked blissful.
“James thanks you for the marvelous paté,” I said with some irony.
James wobbled over to Lord Henry and offered his head to be patted. Lord Henry understood that this was a rare gesture of appreciation and patted the gray head vigorously.
Since there was nothing more to eat (James does not consider cheese food), he began to entertain himself by jumping in and out of the shopping bag. At first he played at pounce, but before long the game appeared to have a purpose.
As Lord Henry prepared to leave, James jumped into the bag. Lord Henry picked it up and, talking all the time, we walked to the door. I opened it and said good-bye. Lord Henry put down the bag to shake hands. Then I turned to return to the flat. Grinning from ear to ear, James leaped out of Lord Henry’s bag and scooted in the door. I heard him rustling in the bedroom, and before long he came struggling into the sitting room, pulling a Harrod’s bag I had discarded. He gave me a purposeful look, marched to the pantry, and knocked the cat food off the shelf. Then he jumped into the bag and peered at me over the edge. An idea began to dawn on me.
“You like paté?”
A vigorous nod.
“You want to go shopping?”
James beamed; the idiot adult had finally perceived the obvious.
“Get in,” I invited him. He did so. I went into the bedroom and got a scarf, which I tucked over him. He was hidden nearly completely.
“First thing tomorrow, we’ll go shopping,” I promised.
James sprang out of the bag and did little pounces of pleasure, but reverted to aloof boredom as soon as I opened the door and let him out. He met Mrs. Marsh on the stairs and ignored her completely. As she followed him, I could hear her admonishing him not to bother the tenants.
Next morning I was a bit nervous when I entered Fortnum & Mason carrying a Harrods shopping bag that weighed about ten pounds and was covered by a plaid scarf. Occasionally the scarf moved and a pair of golden eyes appeared, but no one seemed to pay any attention.
I stopped to look at what was available at the tea counter. The bag began to swing, hitting me in the leg. Being hit in the leg by a ten-pound weight will get your attention, and I moved on to the prepared-food showcase, which was filled with all kinds of wonderful foods: fish, smoked or made into mousse; game and liver patés of all kinds; and sausages, hunter’s pies, deviled eggs, gelatins, custards, and so on.
I reeled off the list of what was available in a soft voice, trying to look as if I were unable to decide among all the offerings. The bag swung back and forth enthusiastically; clearly, James wanted it all.
I settled on a tasty and very expensive selection, and now, carrying not one but two shopping bags, made my way to Baron’s.
I put the selection away in the larder and refrigerator, escorted a reluctant James to the door, and sent him about his business of the day as I went about mine.
That evening James insisted we open everything. He tasted it all, ate till his eyes blurred, and at last fell on the floor exhausted.
There was a familiar knock on the door.
“Is James about?” asked Mrs. March, peering into the apartment.
“Do let him spend the night,” I begged. “I’m feeling lonely, and he is such good company.”
“All right,” said Mrs. March reluctantly. “But shoo him out in the morning.”
James was not such good company. He had passed out from a surfeit of food.
In the middle of the night I was awakened by a firm pat on the shoulder. I opened the door for James, and watched him stalk purposefully out onto the moonlit landing, his tail twitching behind him.
When I opened the door the next morning to get my newspaper, there was James, sitting on a shopping bag. He dragged it in and with some effort got it upright, climbed into it, and waited, golden eyes aglow, for my response.
At first it looked like any ordinary shopping bag, a little the worse for wear. But from one side near the bottom a paw suddenly protruded. In two ratty holes near the top, on the opposite side from the paw, appeared two golden, gleaming eyes.
James hopped out, then hopped in, hopped out, danced down to the door, danced back, and nodded in the direction of the door. He was ready to go shopping again.
I got my coat and started out, carrying the bag with James inside, covered by my scarf. The bag banged against my leg.
“Stop it!” I said irritably.
The bag banged harder.
Really out of sorts, I put the bag down and addressed it.
“If you don’t stop banging at me, I’ll take you home,” I said to the bag.
A paw came through the hole in the side at the bottom and beckoned.
I began to laugh. I had picked James up with his eye holes against my coat and his paw hole facing the world. Now I picked him up so that the eye holes faced the world and the paw hole faced me. I felt a reassuring tap on my ankle, and the bag remained stable. We started off again, found ourselves at the delicatessen showcase in Fortnum’s, and I began to recite the selection. From time to time I would feel a poke and make a purchase.
The clerk grew restless.
“Sorry I’m so slow,” I said. “I’m planning a small party and trying to guess what the guests would like.”
“Thank you very much!” said the clerk icily.
“I guess that will do,” I said with a sigh.
There was sharp poke.
“Something else?” Poke again.
“We now have salmon, game pie, a squab in aspic. Do you want liver paté?” No response. “Plaice mousse?” No response. “Deviled eggs?” No response. “Custard?” A fierce poke.
“Oh, yes,” I said weakly to the clerk. “I’ll take one of those custards. Please see that the cap is tight on the paper container.”
“Yes, indeed!” said the clerk through his teeth.
Again I had two shopping bags. Everything was safely tucked away except the custard in one bag. I nestled the custard next to James’s gray haunch in his bag, readjusted the scarf, and we started off.
The doorman saw us out. We started down the street, but something was wrong. The bag with James in it did not feel right. There was a tearing sound, and James and a plastic cup of custard fell out of the bottom of the bag. Coming up the street waving at us was Lord Henry.
James had been dumped on his tail, and the custard, whose lid had not been firm
ly put in place, had spilled all over his back and haunches.
One of England’s most aristocratic cats meeting his treasured friend and peer on the streets of London was not pleased with his predicament. Attempting some semblance of dignity, he stretched his back and raised his head. The custard ran down his legs, a sticky, creamy mess.
“I say, what an accident!” cried Lord Henry, stooping to pick up the custard and salvage what was possible. He, too, is an aristocrat, and knows instinctively that one does not laugh at a peer in trouble, whatever the provocation.
James saluted his friend with a gesture that seemed to say, “Everyone is soaked with vanilla custard every day.”
And so, with Lord Henry carrying a sticky, half-filled cup of custard, James stalking ahead with creamy custard running down his hind leg, and me bringing up the rear, carrying two bags, one full of food and the other with the bottom out of it, dragging a plaid scarf behind, we proceeded to Baron’s.
Once safely in the apartment, Lord Henry stowed the provisions in the larder and refrigerator. James permitted himself to be wiped off and was forced to clean himself while trying to pretend the whole disgraceful episode had never happened.
While I was wiping the custard off James, Lord Henry was on the telephone.
“Got a tape measure?” he asked, holding his hand over the mouthpiece.
I had one, and produced it.
“James, old man, step over here for a moment,” said Lord Henry.
James stepped.
Lord Henry began to measure him and report the measurements over the phone.
“Sit, James,” said Lord Henry.
James sat. More measurements were made.
“Thank you, James,” said Lord Henry. James acknowledged the thanks and went off to look at the larder.
“Now, when will it be ready?” a pause. “Within a week? Fine! I’ll come in and get it.” Lord Henry beamed. “I think they can fix you up splendidly.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but decided to wait and see.
It was time for all of us to go about our business, so James, now only slightly sticky, and Lord Henry and I left the flat. James returned to supervising, and Lord Henry and I left to inspect pictures.
