by Harriet Hahn
Dear Miss Ellsworth,
It is with a full heart that I send you this package of four pictures. The times we have spent painting on the heath have helped me see what I want to do with my art, and I am deeply grateful for your interest and example. I do think your own painting is far superior to these, but perhaps they may bring you some pleasure.
With warmest regards, I remain yours truly,
John Constable
“So there you are,” Lord Henry said, “four paintings by John Constable and one by Linda Ellsworth. You will notice that the letter sheet has three holes in it. That is because the folded letter was tacked to the frame of Linda’s painting, where it remained until just the day before all of them were picked up. In a moment of sentiment, Miss de la Rue took it off and saved it.”
“She is happy to include the letter,” added Helena, “particularly when she heard it might be necessary to identify the picture. We did have a wonderful afternoon, and James and I are going to call again in a week if we can get away. I want to take her a pulling from the series of snow-flake etchings I did over Christmas, to replace the Constables. The vacant spaces on the dining room wall are sad.”
The spectacles fell off James’s nose, and Helena replaced them. “I think James wants to go, because there is a doll’s chest full of clothes he has not as yet explored.”
Peter began to smile.
“I think I’ve found the way out,” he said. “I shall approach the director and hand him the letter. We will then find a frame with three tack holes, and in the process get Burke or Wilson to check all the pictures and see where we go from there. James need never to come into it.”
James glowered.
“Really, old dear, we cannot have the world think that Thwaite’s depends on a cat for its art expertise.”
James was affronted. He rose to his full height, and with his head in the air he stalked to the door just as there was a knock. There was Mrs. March. James stalked past her without a backward glance and took his damaged pride out the door.
“Well, what happened to him?” asked Mrs. March as she followed him upstairs.
The next day, however, James had recovered his good humor, and he arrived in the morning to see what was up for the day. Since it was not his day at Thwaite’s, he rode the elevator and looked at tenants while Peter took William Young, the director, to lunch.
“I have something difficult to tell you,” Peter began. “There may be a question about one of the Constables in your upcoming sale.”
“What can be wrong?” Young asked, and took a swig of claret.
“One of them is not a Constable at all.”
“Oh, come now, both Burke and Watson agreed they were Constables, and there are no better eyes in the business.” He took another swig.
“Read this!” Peter handed him the letter.
Young read the letter and looked at the address on the back. He handed it carefully back to Peter.
“Delighted the stamp department has such a nice piece. Should fetch a good price, with the Constable name in the news.”
“But, don’t you see, it means there were only four in the set,” said Peter, somewhat perturbed.
“Silly boy,” Young laughed. “How do you know he didn’t give this Miss Ellsworth another, either before or after?”
“Because the picture is not by Constable.”
“I suppose that cat told you!”
“In fact, he did.”
“Oh, Peter!” Young was laughing heartily. “Have another claret.” He poured Peter a glass and ordered another bottle.
Two men came into the restaurant, saw William Young, and came to the table. Introductions were made and pleasantries exchanged. The men moved off to their table with warm expressions of affection.
“See you at the sale next week!” said Young. “I know you’ll have to have at least one of the Constables.”
“I will indeed,” said one of the men.
“Now then, Peter,” Young said, after the men had left, “I appreciate your concern, but I cannot get excited about it. Just because you are getting old and have fallen in love with a cat, you need not think I have lost my head.”
From Peter’s point of view, the luncheon was a total failure, and with great misgivings he went back to his office, while William Young stopped at various tables at Silks to talk to collectors. Disaster was looming just ahead, in fact tomorrow.
We assembled to hold a council of war that afternoon.
“William Young paid not the slightest attention,” Peter reported sorrowfully. “Told me I was old and had fallen in love with a cat. Which is true.” He nodded at James.
“Come on,” I said, Pollyanna to the last. “Let’s go to dinner and hope for the best.”
We all left the apartment, rode down in the elevator, and opened the door to the street. The cold air of late February hit us and we concentrated our efforts on getting to Franks nearby as soon as possible. We go often to Franks because it is nearby, very good, and James is joyously welcomed.
“Hello, hello,” called our favorite waitress. “Where’s James?”
James was nowhere to be seen. He did not appear during dinner. He was not waiting for us outside.
I said good night to Peter, Lord Henry, and Helena, and returned to my flat. No sign of James.
At eleven-thirty, Mrs. March knocked on my door.
“James here?” she asked, expecting to see him stride out.
“No, isn’t he with you?”
“No,” said Mrs. March. She was clearly worried, and so was I, but there was nothing to be done for the moment.
Next morning there was no James at my door with the paper. I talked to Mrs. March, and we decided that if there was no sign of James by afternoon, we would alert the police.
After breakfast I headed for the sale room at Thwaite’s, for the sale of the Constable lots would come up very early. As I entered the building, I was conscious of an unusual amount of hubbub. Not only were a great many people coming to the sale, but there was an unusual amount of activity in the back of the sale room and in the halls.
The time for the sale came and went.
Finally, at about twenty minutes after the scheduled time for the sale to start, William Young took the auctioneer’s gavel and pounded for attention.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have an announcement to make. There has been an accident that has not only delayed us but has made it necessary to withdraw lot number ten, one of the Constable paintings to be auctioned today. We are sure it will be presented at another sale. Meanwhile, we will now begin the auction. I apologize for the inconvenience, and beg your indulgence.”
He turned the gavel over to the auctioneer and left the room.
I spotted Peter by the door, and hurried to join him.
“The spurious Constable has vanished!” said Peter.
“Vanished?”
“Yes, the four were where they had been stacked last night, a little askew but safe and sound, and the Ellsworth was gone.”
“So is James,” I said.
We were both silent for a moment.
“Was there a break-in?” I asked.
“No, security is absolutely sure there was no way anyone larger than a cat could have entered and the door was opened only once after six for Tom Burke, who is back from taking care of his mother. There is no sign whatever of any attempt at entrance, and the guards were particularly alert because the paintings were in the hall.”
In the background the auction was proceeding. Constables were bringing a lot of money today.
“What’s everyone doing?” I asked.
“We’ve searched the auction room and adjoining offices to no avail. The police and our people are now combing the building. They started at the top and are searching relentlessly on the assumption that some inside thief hid the painting before he left for the night. But why that one?”
“Have you been to the stamp department yet?” I asked, as a tiny ray of l
ight began to penetrate.
“No,” said Peter. “With all of this, I certainly have not!”
“Let’s go,” I said, and hurried down the hall, which, in February, is dark even in the daytime. We passed executive offices and turned a corner. Just before the entrance to the stamp department was a utility room where a small refrigerator was used to hold milk and juice, a small metal table offered a place to prepare trays, and an electric kettle provided hot water. In a far corner was a sink with running water. I pulled the chain that activated the light fixture in the ceiling. The utility room was never locked. At first I noticed nothing but a roll of paper towels on the floor, but a tiny sound attracted me, and I looked under the table. There, fur ruffled as far as possible, eyes glaring, and teeth bared, was a large gray cat, sitting on a messy mound of paper towels. The cat hissed at me and suddenly stopped.
I backed out and shut the door.
“James is in the utility room, sitting on the paintings on the floor under the table,” I whispered to Peter. “What do we do now? The search party will be here soon, not to mention the employees of the stamp department.”
“Give me a minute,” said Peter, and left hurriedly.
I stood guard. Marilyn and Fred appeared, herded by security guards. “We all have to stay here till the police have searched,” Marilyn announced. I stood with them in plain sight, and no one paid further attention to us.
William Young came down the hall, which was getting very crowded. “Try that door,” he said, pointing to the utility room, and before I could stop him, he had opened the door and pulled the light chain, and was facing a furious cat sitting on the floor, teeth bared and claws at the ready. Young lunged at James. James struck back, and Young retreated.
“Here!” he ordered a guard. “Get that cat!”
The guard tried to intervene, but the space was small and James fierce. I tried to intervene unobtrusively as best I could.
At last, Peter and Tom Burke arrived at the back of the crowd and made their way to the door.
“Thank you, James, it’s all right now,” Peter said softly, and James jumped lightly into my arms. Peter picked up the painting from under its covering of towels, and gave it to Tom Burke.
Marilyn, who had been watching, let out a little shriek. “James has saved the painting from a thief, and he’s guarding it!” she cried.
I looked sidelong at James. He was smirking.
We were ushered past the auction room to the office of William Young, where we all gathered around to look at Tom Burke, who was looking at the painting.
Marilyn stroked James. “My hero,” she cooed. “Imagine, he must have chased the thief away, and then he sat on the picture till we came. What a brave cat!”
I looked at James. James winked and then looked heroic.
Meanwhile, Tom Burke was examining the painting carefully.
“Where’s Bill Watson?” he asked. “I want him to see this.”
Watson was next door and, being summoned, he now appeared.
“Have you ever seen this before?” Burke asked Watson.
Bill Watson looked at the picture.
“No,” he said, “I never saw this.”
A few well-directed questions by Peter elicited the truth. The two men looked at each other, aghast.
“This painting is not a Constable!” said Tom Burke, after examining the painting further.
Peter nodded.
William Young groaned.
James purred, his golden eyes slitted.
Peter handed Tom Burke the Ellsworth letter.
“Of course,” said Tom. “Now I see a tiny ‘L.E.’ in the lower right corner, almost hidden by the frame.”
“I’ve heard about this Ellsworth,” added Watson. “I was wondering why there were five Constables.”
“We must look at the other one we missed,” said Tom.
“I’m sure you must,” said Peter. “But James said it was a Constable, so I for one am sure it is.”
Tom rushed out to the auction room and returned with all the Constables. Some fifteen minutes of careful examination by both Wilson and Burke followed.
“All Constables as described,” said Burke.
“I agree,” said Watson.
The paintings were returned to the auction room. They had brought record prices. The Ellsworth was withdrawn without explanation.
The possibility of a robbery had alerted the BBC and ITV, and cameramen and reporters now crowded around to take pictures of the valiant cat.
The police continued to look for evidence of a break-in, but with the only object that had been disturbed now safely returned to its rightful owners, there was little else to do. At last, about noon, things settled down. The auction was recessed, William Young went off for lunch at Silks, and James, shepherded by Marilyn, ended up in the stamp department, where he and Peter had champagne and crab salad and a long nap.
As soon as I could, I called Mrs. March to report that we had found James, and he was safe. At five-thirty I picked him up, and we went back to Baron’s. I poured him a drink, and one for myself. “All right,” I said, “how did you do it?” James shook his head as if to say, “You are stupid.” Then he pantomimed a cat tugging at the frame of a picture until he had dislodged it from the stack. Then he pantomimed a cat pulling and pushing and resting and pulling and pushing the picture down the hall, and pushing the utility-room door open. Then James jumped on a shelf and showed me how he had knocked off the roll of paper towels and wadded up paper on top of the painting to protect it. Then he sat on the pantomimed painting and looked smug.
“You wonderful old rascal,” I said as I picked him up and sat him on my lap. We watched his performance on the evening news with our eyes open, and the rest of the news with our eyes closed.
When Mrs. March came to get him, he offered no explanation and walked out as though nothing had happened.
CHAPTER 7
The end of February was gray and cold, and there were frequent slush storms, wet snow that turned to rain or melted shortly after it fell, leaving the streets full of water. From time to time the wind rose and blew bitterly around the corners of the buildings, catching the unwary pedestrian in the grip of a frigid blast.
Lord Henry took Helena off to Gibraltar for a glimpse of sun. He had a strange patriotic streak that would not permit him to leave his beloved England in the lurch in bad weather, but after all, Gibraltar was a piece of England, so off they went.
When asked whether she would accept Gibraltar instead of Malta or Cyprus or Costa Brava or even Madeira, Helena had laughed happily and said, “Where thou goest, I go.”
“Why don’t you marry me, then?” Lord Henry had asked, not for the first time.
“I love you, but I can’t marry you yet,” was all she would say, Lord Henry reported to me before they left.
Things had settled down at Thwaite’s. The Constable sale was a hugh success. The story of the Ellsworth painting had been retold a number of times in the newspapers and on TV, with appropriate pictures of James, looking competent or fierce as required.
No one had tried to change the general perception that the cat had frightened off some unknown felon. No mention, of course, had been made of his special abilities, or of his work with the stamp department.
Peter flew off to South Africa to examine the stamps of a South African who wanted to convert his holdings into money at auction, and would be gone for some weeks, so there was no one for James to play with at Thwaite’s.
He dropped in as usual twice a week to see if Marilyn had anything for him to look at, but the cozy lunches were in abeyance.
So in the afternoon, in the drizzle, James and I sat alone in my sitting room, where we drank modest amounts of good whiskey, ate occasional dollops of paté, and read stories of cats in the news—which were infrequent, and so I took to reading him stories such as “Dick Whittington’s Cat” and “Puss in Boots.”
During the day, James returned more and more to his orig
inal job of inspecting the new arrivals at Baron’s Chambers, an activity he had temporarily suspended during the great painting controversy.
Baron’s Chambers was an old building, young by the standards of British history, but oldish in that it was built around 1750 and had been remodeled any number of times since. The walls were thick enough that it was hard to hear what was going on in other flats; normal TV and radio noise did not penetrate from flat to flat. The tenants, by and large, nodded pleasantly if you met them in the halls, and spoke gently, if at all, in the elevator. In fact, all of us, being well bred, tried to obliterate ourselves in the public areas of the building, thus the atmosphere was as close to silent as a well-disciplined group could make it. Of course, what went on inside each flat was none of our common business, as long as it did not intrude.
James, the careful observer, had an uncanny feel for the tenant who would be unsuitable and he had a number of techniques for putting an undesirable tenant off. If it was apparent that a new tenant with a reservation was a cat-hater, James would overwhelm him with affection, curl himself around the legs of the aghast prospective tenant, mew piteously, and scratch his luggage. Not enough to cause damage, but enough to cause anxiety. Often this alone drove the prospect to say he had changed his mind, and did Mrs. March know of a residence that did not have a cat?
Mrs. March generally did, and a telephone call arranged an alternative flat.
For really offensively picky clients, he had a special treatment. For those who wished to see a flat, he would slink along with the maid, slither into the bathroom as the client was inspecting the sitting room, and drag the towels to the floor, splash water from the toilet all over the bathroom, and leave dirty footmarks from the windowsill outside into the bathtub.
