The Collection (127 page)

I smiled at her and said, “Good morning, Miss Weyburn.”

She had one of our business cards in her hand and said,
“Good morning, Mr.---”

She sort of glanced at the card, so I put in quickly: “Don't
let the name on the card fool you; I'm not Bon Ton. The name is Phil Evans.
Very much at your service. And I hope that---”

“I came to get my cat, please.”

I nodded, and stalled. “I remember; you left a cat to be
boarded while you were out of town, didn't you? I'm very fond of cats, myself.
So many people prefer dogs, but there's something about a cat---a
kind
of quiet dignity and self-respect. Dogs seem to lack it. They're boisterous and
haven't any subtlety. They---”

“I would like,” she said firmly, “to have my cat. Now. To
take out.”

“Yes, ma'am; with or without mustar--- Now, don't get mad!
Please. I'll get it. Let's see; it was a small gray cat, I recall. I presume
you want the same one. What is its name?”

And then the way she was looking at me made me decide that
I'd better get it for her right away and try to resume the conversation
afterward. So I went to the back room where we keep most of the pets, and went
to the cage where Miss Weyburn's cat had been.

The cage was empty. The door was closed and latched, so it
couldn't have got out by itself. But it wasn't there.

Incredulously, I opened the door of the cage to look in;
which was silly, because I could see through the netting perfectly well that
the cage was empty.

And so were the cages on either side. In fact, Miaow
Alley---the row of cat cages---was a deserted street. There weren't any cats.
Neither Miss Weyburn's nor the four other cats, our own cats, which had been
there yesterday.

I looked around the room quickly, but everything else was
O.K. I mean, all the dogs were there, and the canaries chirping as usual, and
the big parrot that we have to keep out of sight in the back room until he's
forgotten a few of the words somebody taught him.

But there weren't any cats.

I was too surprised, just then, to be worried. I went to the
staircase between the back room and the store, and yelled up, “Hey, ma!” and
she came to the head of the stairs.

The girl up front said, “Is something wrong with Cinder,
Mr. . . . uh . . . Evans?”

I smiled at her reassuringly, or tried to. I said, “Not at
all. I . . . I just don't know which cage my mother put him in.”

Ma was coming down the stairs and I said to her, “Listen,
ma, when you fed the cats this morning, did you---”

“Cats? Why, Phil, there aren't any cats. I told you at
breakfast, while you were reading that paper, that you'd have to arrange to get
some. Weren't you even listening?”

“But, ma! That little gray cat! It wasn't ours; surely you
didn't---”

“Not ours? Why, I thought you told me---”

By that time she was in the store, and she caught the
stricken look on Miss Weyburn's face, and got the idea. Meanwhile, I was
deciding that I'd never again read at the table while ma was talking to me and
sometimes answer “Uh-huh” without being sure what she was saying. But that good
resolution wasn't doing any good right at the moment.

Our customer was getting white around the gills and red
around the eyes, and her voice sounded like she was trying to keep from crying
and wouldn't succeed much longer. She said, “But how
could
you have---”
And she was looking at me, and I had to stand there and look back because there
wasn't any mouse hole around for me to crawl into.

I gulped. “Miss Weyburn, it looks like we've . . .
I've pulled an awful boner. But we'll find that cat and get it back for you.
Somehow. Ma, do you know who you sold it to? Was there a sales slip or
anything?”

Ma shook her head slowly. “No, the man paid cash. For all of
them. And he was such an odd-looking---”

“All of them?” I echoed. “You mean one guy bought all our
cats?”

“Yes, Phil. I told you, at breakfast. It was late yesterday
afternoon, after you left at four o'clock. You got home so late last night
that I didn't have a chance to tell you until---”

“But, ma, what would one guy want with five cats? We had
four besides Miss Weyburn's. Did he say what he wanted them for?”

Ma leaned her elbows on the counter. “He wanted a dozen,”
she said. “Like I told you. And he said he had a big farm and it was overrun
with field mice, and that he liked cats and decided to get several of them
while he was at it.”

I looked at her aghast. “The Siamese? Don't tell me he paid
twenty-five bucks for that Siamese to hunt mice on a farm?”

“Phil, you know that cat was only three-quarters Siamese,”
said ma, “and that you told me to take fifteen, or even less, if we could get
it. And the others were all ordinary cats, and he offered twenty-five for the
five of them and I took it.”

“But haven't you any idea who he was, or where his farm is,
or anything about him?”

“Hm-m-m,” said ma thoughtfully. “He said his name was---yes,
that was it, Smith. Didn't mention his first name. Nor where he lived. Let's
see---he was short and stocky, about the size and build of Mr. Workus, say. But
he was bald; he didn't wear a hat. And he had a reddish mustache and wore dark
glasses.”

“That sounds like a disguise,” said Miss Weyburn.

Ma blinked. “Why should anyone disguise himself to buy
cats?”

“But, ma,” I protested, “there must have been something
screwy about the guy. Dark glasses and a name like ‘Smith’ and--- Heck, if he
wanted cats for mousing, he could have got 'em for nothing. Why pay a fancy
price?”

I turned to our customer. “Listen, Miss Weyburn,” I said,
“I'll check into this, and I'll find your cat, if it's possible. But if I
can't---well, were you awfully attached to it? Or if I got you a beautiful
thoroughbred Angora or Siamese kitten, would you be---”

Tears were running down her cheeks, and I said hastily,
“Please don't cry! If it's that important, I'll find your cat if I have to
. . . to go to China for it. And if I don't, you can have our whole
store, and---” And me with it, I wanted to say, but it didn't seem the proper
time and place to say it.

“I don't want your d-darned store. I want---”

“Listen, ma,” I said, “you'll watch the store for the rest
of the day, won't you? I'm going out to hunt---”

“Sure, Phil.” Ma gave me a knowing look. “But first you go
back and finish currying that pony, and let me talk to Miss Weyburn.”

I got the idea, because we didn't have a pony to curry. So I
made myself scarce out the back door for about ten minutes, and gave ma a
chance to stop the girl crying. Ma can talk; she can convince almost anybody of
almost anything, and when I came in again the girl wasn't crying, and she
looked less mad and more cheerful.

“Well,” I said, “if you'll tell me where I can get in touch
with you, miss, I'll let you know the minute I find---”

“I'm going with you,” she interrupted. And I didn't object
to that, at all. I said, “That's swell. I'll get the car out of the garage and
bring it around front.”

And five minutes later, we were driving downtown. First, we
stopped at the offices of the two local newspapers and arranged to put in ads
addressed to a Mr. Smith who had purchased five cats the day before.

And then I turned the car down Barclay Street.

“Where are we going now?” Miss Weyburn wanted to know.

“Police station,” I told her. “Those personal ads were just
in case this Smith guy is what he said he was. But there seems to be a faint
smell of fish about a guy wanting a dozen cats, and it's just possible that the
police may know of him as a nut, or something.”

“But---”

“It won't cost anything to try, will it?” I pointed out.
“And Lieutenant Granville is a good friend of mine. If he's in---”

And he was. We walked into his office and I said, “Hi, Hank.
This is Miss Weyburn. We wanted to talk about a cat. Her cat. A small gray---”

“Stolen?”

“Well, not exactly. I mean if it was, I'm the one who stole
it. I was boarding it for her and it was sold by mistake.”

Hank glowered at me. “I got
real
trouble. I'm working
on a murder case that happened night before last and there aren't any leads and
we're against a blank wall, and you come in and want me to hunt a cat.”

“If you're up against a blank wall,” I pointed out, quite
reasonably, “then there's nothing you can do for the moment, and you might as
well be human and listen to us.”

“Shut up,” said Hank. “Miss Weyburn, if Phil sold a cat that
belongs to you, he's responsible. Do you want to bring charges against him?”

“N-no.”

Hank looked at me again. “Well, then what
do
you want
me to do?”

“You yahoo,” I said, “I want you to listen. And then, if
possible, be helpful.” And before he could interrupt again, I managed to tell
him the story.

He looked thoughtful. “Checked the pound yet?”

“Why, no---but why would anyone buy a cat, or cats, and then
take them to the pound?”

“Not that, Phil. But the guy might have tried to
get
cats
there. You said he originally wanted a dozen. Well, it sounds silly to buy cats
by the dozen, but it's not illegal. Anyway, he got only five from you. Maybe he
kept on trying, or maybe he'd been to the pound first. Maybe he left his
address there.”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. “That might be a lead. Hank, I
knew there must be some reason why they made you a detective. We'll go to the
pound, and we'll go to Workus' pet shop, too. And meanwhile, if you should
happen to hear anything---”

“Sure,” Hank agreed. “I'll let you know. And, Miss Weyburn,
anytime you want to have this guy here put in jail, just let me know and sign a
complaint, and I'll be glad to---”

But I got the girl out before Hank could give her any more
ideas, and when we got out of the station, I glanced at my watch and saw that
it was after noon.

So we stopped in the restaurant across the street, and when
we'd ordered, she asked, “Who is this Mr. Workus you mentioned?”

“He runs the other pet shop in town,” I explained. “If this
Smith wasn't satisfied with five cats, he probably went there next. Anyway,
we'll try.”

“And if he didn't leave an address at the pound or at the
other pet shop?”

Well, she had me there, but I ducked answering, and tried to
keep the conversation on more cheerful topics while we ate.

Hank strolled into the restaurant while we were having coffee,
and I motioned him over to a seat at our table. He grinned and said, “Well, any
more news on the cat-astrophe?”

“This isn't funny,” I told him. “Miss Weyburn is attached to
that cat. That beagle I sold you last fall, Hank---would you think it a joke if
something happened to it?”

He reddened a bit and said, “Sorry, Miss Weyburn. I didn't
mean to---”

“That's all right, lieutenant,” she said. “What's the
important case you're working on?”

“Guy named Blake. Somebody burglarized the Dean laboratories
night before last. Blake was the watchman, and they killed him.”

“Laboratories?” I asked. “What'd they steal?”

Hank shook his head. “We haven't made a check-up yet; not
thorough enough to tell if anything gone. But there isn't a single clue. Even
the F.B.I, men---” He broke off.

“Huh?” I said. “What would the F.B.I, be doing on a
burglary-and-murder case?”

Hank looked uncomfortable. He said. “They aren't here on
that. Something else. I didn't mean that the Dean burglary was an F.B.I, case.”

“In other words,” I suggested, “do I think it will rain
tomorrow?”

He grinned sheepishly. “That's the general idea.”

By that time the waitress was there to take Hank's order,
and Miss Weyburn and I left and headed first for the pound. We drew a blank.
They hadn't had any cats for several days. There'd been two inquiries about
cats the day before, but both by phone calls, and no record had been made. Nor
could the man who'd taken the calls remember any helpful details.

So I headed the car for the far side of town. Pete Workus was
alone in his shop when we went in. I knew him only slightly; he'd been in
business there only a year or so.

“Hello, Pete,” I said. “This is Miss Weyburn. We're trying
to trace a man who bought five cats at our place yesterday. He wanted more than
that, and I thought maybe he came here.”

Workus nodded. “He did. Or anyway, there was a guy here who
bought us out of cats, so I suppose it's the same one. I sold him three of
them.”

“Did he leave a name and address?”

Workus leaned an elbow on the counter and rubbed his chin.
“Uh, I guess he gave me his name, but I don't remember. It was a common name, I
think.”

“Smith?”

“Yeah, I guess that was it. But not his address. Anyway, he
doesn't want any more cats, Evans, so you can stop hunting for him. I offered
to get him some more, but he figured he had enough with what I sold him. Come
to think of it, he mentioned your place; he said he got five from you, and he'd
got one somewhere else, and with the three I had, he figured nine would be
enough.”

“I don't want to sell him any more cats,” I said. “What happened
is that we sold him one too many, by mistake. Miss Weyburn's cat. And I got to
get it back for her.”

“Hm-m-m, that's tough. Well, I hope you find him then; but I
don't know how to help you.”

“Maybe,” I suggested, “you can add to the description of him
that we have.”

Workus closed his eyes to think. “Well, he was maybe five
feet seven or eight inches, about a hundred and seventy pounds---”

I nodded. “That fits ma's description. And he wore dark
glasses while he was here?”

“Yes, yellowish sun glasses. He didn't wear a hat, and he
was bald, and he had a mustache. That's . . . that's all I can
remember about him. Say, Evans, while you're here will you take a look at a
puppy of mine? I hear you're something of a vet, and maybe you can tell me
whether it's got distemper or not.”