"Enough," I said, very rudely. I didn't want to hear any more. All I needed was the starting point.
I hit a weird arpeggio in the base, and it went on from there. Almost by itself, it went on from there. My fingers did it, not my mind. The melody was working up into the treble now, with a soft dissonant thump-thump in the accompaniment that was like a cat walking across the skin of a bass drum and— The doorbell rang.
It startled me and I hit about the worst discord of my career. I'd been out of the world for maybe half a minute, and the sudden ring of that bell was as much of a jolt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on me.
I saw Ruth's face; it, too, was startled looking. And the cat lying in her lap had raised its head. But its yellow-green eyes, slitted against the light, were inscrutable.
The bell rang again, and I shoved back the piano bench and stood up. Maybe, by playing, I'd hypnotized myself into a state of fright, but I was afraid to go to that door. Twice before, today, that doorbell had rung. Who, or what, would I find there this time?
I couldn't have told what I was afraid of. Or maybe I could, at that. Down deep inside, we're all afraid of the supernatural. The last time that doorbell had rung, maybe a dead cat had come back. And now—maybe its owner .. .
I tried to be casual as I went to the door, but I could tell from Ruth's face that she was feeling as I did about it. That damn music! I'd picked the wrong time to get my-self into a mood. If I went to the door and nobody was there, I'd probably be in a state of jitters the rest of the night.
But there was someone there. I could see, the moment I stepped from the living room into the hallway, that there was a man standing there. It was too dark for me to make out his features, but, at any rate, he didn't have a gray beard.
I opened the door.
The man outside said, "Mr. Murray?"
He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a very round face. Right now it was split by an ingratiating smile. He looked familiar and I knew I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him. I did know that I didn't like him; maybe I was being psychic or maybe I was being silly, but I felt fear and loathing at the sight of him.
I said, "Yes, my name is Murray."
"Mine's Haskins. Milo Haskins. I'm your neighbor across the street, Mr. Murray."
Of course, that was where I'd seen him. He'd been mow-ing the lawn over there this afternoon, when the cat came.
He said, "I'm in the insurance game, Mr. Murray. Some-time I'd like to talk insurance with you, but that isn't what I came to see you about tonight. It's about a cat, a black cat."
"Yes?"
"It's mine," he said. "I saw it go in your door today, just before I went in the house. I came over just as soon as I could to get it."
"Sorry, Mr. Haskins," I told him. "I fed it and then let it out the back door. Don't know where it went from here."
"Oh," he said. He looked as though he didn't know whether or not to believe me. "Are you sure it didn't come back in a window or something? Would you mind if I helped you look around?"
I said, "I'm afraid I would mind, Mr. Haskins. Good night."
I stepped back to close the door, and then something soft rubbed against my leg. At the same instant, I saw Haskins's eyes look down and then harden as they came up and met mine again.
He said, "So?" He bent and held out a hand to the cat. "Here, kitty. Come here, kitty."
Then it was my turn to grin, because the cat clawed his fingers.
"Your cat, eh?" I said. "I thought you were lying, too, Haskins. That's why I wouldn't give you the cat. I'll change my mind now; you can have him if he goes with you will-ingly. But lay a hand on him, and I'll knock your block off."
He said, "Damn you, I'll—"
"You'll do nothing but leave. I'll stand here, with the door open, till you're across the street. The cat's free to follow you, if he's yours."
"It's my cat! And damn it, I'll—"
"You can get a writ of replevin, tomorrow," I said. "That is, if you can prove ownership."
He glared a minute longer, opened his mouth to say something, then reconsidered and strode off down the walk. I closed the door, and the cat was still inside, in the hallway.
I turned, and Ruth Carson was in the hallway too, be-hind me. She said, "I heard him say who he was and what he wanted, and when the cat jumped down and went to-ward the door, I—"
"Did he see you?" I asked.
"Why, yes. Shouldn't I have let him?"
"I—I don't know," I said. I did know that I wished he hadn't seen her. Somehow, somewhere, I sensed danger in this. There was danger in the very air. But to whom, and why?
We went back into the living room, but I didn't sit on the piano bench this time; I took a chair instead. Music was out for tonight. That ringing doorbell and the episode that had followed had ended my inclination to improvise as effectively as though someone had chopped up the piano with an ax. Ruth must have sensed it; she didn't suggest that I play again.
I said, "What do you know about our pleasant neighbor, Milo Haskins?"
"Very little," she said. "Except that he's lived there since before we moved into the neighborhood last year. He has a wife—a rather unpleasant woman—but no children. He does sell insurance. Mostly fire insurance, I believe."
"Does he own a cat, that you know of?"
She shook her head. "I've never seen one. I've never seen any black cat in this neighborhood except Mr. Lasky's, and—" She turned to look at Satan One-and-a-Half, who was lying on his back on the rug, batting a fore-paw, at nothing apparently.
I said, "Cat, if you could only talk. I wish I knew whether—" I stood up abruptly. "To what side of that maple tree and how far from it did Mr. Lasky bury that cat?"
"Are you going to ... ?"
"Yes. There's a trowel and a flashlight in the kitchen, and I'm going to make sure of something, right now."
"I'll show you, then."
"No," I said. "Just tell me. It might not be pleasant. You wait here."
She sat down again. "All right. On the west side of the tree, about four feet from the trunk."
I found the trowel and the flashlight and went out into the yard.
Five minutes later I came in to report.
"It's there," I told her, without going into unpleasant details. "As soon as I wash up, I'd like to use your phone. May I?"
"Of course. Are you going to call the police?" "No. Maybe I should—but what could I tell them?" I tried to laugh; it didn't quite go over. This wasn't funny. Whatever else it was, it wasn't funny. I said, "What time do you expect your aunt and uncle home?"
"No later than eleven."
I said, "For some reason, this Haskins is interested in that cat. Too interested. If he sees us leave here, he might come in and get it, or kill it, or do whatever he wants to do with it. I can't even guess. We'll sneak out the back way and get to your place without his seeing us, and we'll leave the lights on here so he won't know we've left." "Do you really think something is—is going to happen?"
"I don't know. It's just a feeling. Maybe it's just because the things that have happened don't make sense that I have an idea it isn't over yet. And I want you out of it."
I washed my hands in the kitchen, and then we went outside. It was quite dark out there, and I was sure we couldn't be seen from the front as we cut across the lawn between the houses.
We'd left the light burning in her kitchen. I said, "I noticed before where your phone is. I'll use it without turning on the light. I just want to see if I can get any information that will clear this up."
I phoned the News and asked for Monty Billings who is on the city desk, evenings. I said, "This is Murray. Got time to look up something for me?"
"Sure. What?"
"Guy named Lasky. Committed suicide at 4923 Deverton Street, three or four weeks ago. Everything you can find out. Call me back at—" I used my flashlight to take the number off the base of the phone— "at Saunders 4848."
He promised to call back with
in half an hour and I went out into the kitchen again. Ruth was making coffee for us.
"I'm going back home after that phone call comes," I told her. "And you'd better stay here. Your uncle has a key, of course?"
She nodded.
"Then lock all the doors and windows when I leave. If you hear anyone prowling around or anything, phone for the police, or yell loud enough so I can hear you."
"But why would anyone—?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, except that Haskins knows you were at my place. He might think the cat is here, or something. I haven't anything to work on except a hunch that something's coming. I don't want you in on it."
"But if you really think it's dangerous, you shouldn't..."
We'd argued our way through two cups of coffee apiece by the time the phone rang.
It was Monty. He said, "It was three weeks ago last Thursday, on the fourteenth at around midnight. Police got a frantic call from a man who said he'd taken morphine and changed his mind and would they rush an ambulance or a doctor or something. Gave his name as Colin Lasky, and the address you mentioned. They got there within eight minutes, but it was too late."
"Left a suicide note, I understand. What was in it?" "Just said he was tired of living and he'd lost his last friend the week before. The police figured out he meant his cat. It had been killed about that time, and nobody knew of him having any friend but that. He'd lived there over ten years and hadn't made any friends. Hermit type, maybe a little wacky. Oh, yeah—and the note said he pre-ferred cremation and that there was enough money in a box in his bureau to cover it."
"Was there?"
"Yes. There was more than enough; five hundred and ten dollars, to be exact. There wasn't any will, and there wasn't any estate, except the money left over after the cremation, and some furniture. The
landlord, the guy who owned the house and had rented it to Lasky, made the court an offer for the furniture and they accepted it. Said he was going to leave it in the house, and rent the place furnished."
I asked, "What happens to the money?"
"I dunno. Guess if no heir appears and no claims are made against the estate, the state keeps it. It wouldn't amount to very much."
"Did he have any source of income?"
"None that could be found. The police guess was that he'd been living on cash capital, and the fact that it had dwindled down to a few hundred bucks was part of why he gave himself that shot of morphine. Or maybe he was just crazy."
"Shot?" I asked. "Did he take it intravenously?"
"Yes. Say, the gang's been asking about you. Where are you hiding out?"
I almost told him, and then I remembered how close I had come this evening to getting a composition started. And I remembered that I wasn't lonesome any more, either.
I said, "Thanks, Monty. I'll be looking you up again some of these days. If anyone asks, tell 'em I'm rooming with an Eskimo in Labrador. So long."
I went back to Ruth and told her. "Everything's on the up and up. Lasky's dead, and the cat is dead. Only the cat is over in my living room."
I went across the back way, as I had come, and let my-self in at the kitchen door. The cat was still there, asleep again in the Morris chair. He looked up as I came in, and damn if he didn't say "Miaourr?" again, with an interroga-tive accent.
I grinned at him. "I don't know," I admitted. "I only wish you could talk, so you could tell me."
Then I turned out the lights, so I could see out better than anyone outside could see in. I pulled a chair up to the window and watched Ruth's house.
Soon the downstairs light went out, and an upstairs one flashed on. Shortly after that I saw a man and woman who were undoubtedly Ruth's uncle and aunt let themselves in the front door with a key. Then, knowing she was no longer alone over there, I made the rounds of my own place.
Both front and back doors were locked, with the key on the inside of the front door, and a strong bolt in ad-dition to the lock was on the back door. I locked all the windows that would lock; two of them wouldn't.
On the top ledge of the lower pane of each of those two windows, I set a milk bottle, balanced so it would fall off if anyone tried to raise the sash from the outside. Then I turned out the lights.
Yellow eyes shone at me from the seat of the Morris chair. I answered their plain, if unspoken, question. "Cat, I don't know why I'm doing this. Maybe I'm crazy. But I think you're bait, for someone, or something. I aim to find out."
I groped my way across the room and sat down on the arm of his chair. I rubbed my hand along his sleek fur until he purred, and then, while he was feeling communi-cative, I asked him, "Cat, how did you ring that doorbell?" Somehow there in the quiet dark I would not have been too surprised if he had answered me.
I sat there until my eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and I could see the furniture, the dark plateau of the grand piano, the outlines of the doorways. Then I walked over to one of the windows and looked out. The moon was on the other side of the house; I could see into the yard, but no one outside would be able to see me standing there.
Over there, diagonally toward the alley, in the shadow of the group of three small linden trees-Was that a darker shadow? A shadow that moved slightly as though a man were standing there watching the house?
I couldn't be sure; maybe my eyes and my imagination were playing tricks on me. But it was just where a man would stand, if he wanted to keep an eye on both the front and back approaches of the cottage.
I stood there for what seemed to be a long time, but at last I decided that I'd been mistaken. I went back to the Morris chair. This time I put Satan One-and-a-Half down on the floor and used the chair myself. But I'd scarcely settled myself before he had jumped up in my lap. In the stillness of the
room, his purring sounded like an outboard motor. Then it stopped and he slept.
For a while there were thoughts running through my mind. Then there were only sounds—notes. My fingers itched for the piano keys, and I wished that I hadn't started this damnfool vigil. I had something, and I wanted to turn on the lights and write it down. But I couldn't do that, so I tried memorizing it.
Then I let my thoughts drift free again, because I knew I had what I'd been trying to get. But my thoughts weren't free, exactly. They seemed to belong to the girl, Ruth Carson...
I must have been asleep, because she was sitting there in the room with me, but she wasn't paying any attention to me. We were both listening respectfully to the enormous black cat which was sitting on the piano while it told us how to ring doorbells by telekinesis.
Then the cat suggested that Ruth come over and sit on my lap. She did. A very intelligent cat. It stepped down from the top of the piano onto the keyboard and began to play, by jumping back and forth among the keys. The cat led off with "La Donna e Mobile" and then—of all tunes to hear when the most beautiful girl in the world is sitting on your lap—he started to play "The Star-Spangled Banner."
Of course Ruth stood up. I tried to stand, too, but I couldn't move. I struggled, and the struggle woke me.
My lap was empty. Satan One-and-a-Half had just jumped off. It was so quiet that I could hear the soft pad of his feet as he ran for the window. And there was a sound at the window.
There was a face looking through the glass—the face of a man with a white beard!
My hunch had been right. Someone had come for the cat. Lasky, who was dead of morphine, had come back for his black cat which had been run over by an auto and was buried in the back yard. It didn't make sense, but there it was. I wasn't dreaming now.
For an instant I had an eerie feeling of unreality, and then I fought through it and jumped to my feet. The cat, at least, was real.
The window was sliding upward. The cat was on its hind feet, forepaws on the window sill. I could see its alert head with pointed black ears silhouetted against the gray face on the other side of the window.
Then the precariously balanced milk bottle fell from the upper ledge of the window. Not o
nto the cat, for it was in the center, and I'd made the bottle less conspicuous by putting it to one side. While the window was still open only a few inches, the milk bottle struck the floor inside. It shattered with a noise that sounded, there in the quiet room, like the explosion of a gigantic bomb.
I was running toward the window by now, and jerking the flashlight out of my pocket as I ran. By the time I got there, the man and the cat were both gone. His lace had vanished at the sound of the crash, and the cat had wriggled itself through the partly open window and vanished after him.
I threw the window wide, hesitating for an instant whether or not to vault across the sill into the yard. The man was running diagonally toward the alley, and the cat was running with him. Their course would take them past the linden trees where I'd thought, earlier, I'd seen the darker shadow of a watcher.
Half in and half out of the window, still undecided whether this was my business or not, I flipped the switch of my flashlight and threw its beam after the fleeing figure.
Maybe it was my use of that flashlight that caused the death of a man. Maybe it wouldn't have happened other-wise. Maybe the man with the beard would have run past the watcher in the trees without seeing him. And certainly, as we learned afterward, the watcher had no good reason to have made his presence known.
But there he was, in the beam of my flashlight—the second man, the one who'd been hiding among the lindens. It was Milo Haskins.
The bearded man had been running away from the house; now at the sight of Haskins standing there between him and the alley, directly in his path, he pulled up short. His hand went into a pocket for a gun.
So did Haskins's hand, and Haskins fired first. The bearded man fell.
There was a black streak in the air, and the cat had launched itself full at the pasty moonface of
Milo Haskins. He fired at the cat as it flew through the air at his face, but he shot high; the bullet shattered glass over my head. The bearded man's gun was still in his hand, and he was down, but not unconscious. He raised himself up and care-fully shot twice at Haskins.
I must have got out of the window and run toward them, for I was there by that time. Haskins was falling. I made a flying grab at the bearded man's automatic, but the man with the beard was dead. He'd fired those last two shots, somehow, on borrowed time.
The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders Page 11