by Nic Saint
“So you think there’s more to this story than meets the eye?” asked Chris.
“Oh, I’m pretty sure there is,” said Tank in that gruff voice of his.
For a detective’s pet sidekick Tank was a little on the belligerent side, but Chris didn’t mind. As long as they got the job done, that’s what counted.
“So let’s poke around some more,” he said. “Have you talked to Pussy?”
“Nah. Haven’t been able to track her down.”
“Talk to her. If anyone knows what’s going on it’s her. Spread some of that charm of yours. Put your winning personality on display.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tank grumbled.
“Just… be nice, okay?”
“I’m always nice!”
“You weren’t very nice to Max.”
“Max is a fat dumbbell,” said Tank, narrowing his eyes at the recollection.
“He’s also the main competition. And if we’re going to wipe out the competition, we’ll have to be smart about it.”
And then once Odelia Poole and Max were out of the picture, the world was their oyster. There was no limit to the heights they could rise as the only man-and-cat detective combo in the business, and soon the money would start rolling in like nobody’s business. In fact he couldn’t understand how Odelia Poole hadn’t tapped the mother lode yet. Probably too dumb to understand that a private sleuth who could talk to animals was the cat’s meow. Soon they’d be making Uncle Scrooge money, and the Bethany Kernicks of this world would weep bitter tears for turning him down for an Ernesto Hair.
Vengeance was his—and would be even sweeter than he’d imagined.
But first they needed to get rid of Odelia Poole and her dumb chums.
Chapter 16
The meeting was about to commence, and Dooley and I were ready to attend and take copious notes so our friend behind the curtain would know what had been discussed in regards to her future fate.
People had been arriving in droves, chauffeured in by fancy cars, as we had been able to witness from our vantage point behind the second-floor window, and judging from the buzz downstairs things were hotting up quickly.
Pussy had already shown us the setup so we could follow the meeting as if seated on the first row. It was a room only Pussy appeared to have access to. Off Flake’s bedroom, she simply put her paw against a hidden security pad, a section of the wall slid open, and we found ourselves in a secret room!
“Wow—real James Bond type of stuff,” said Dooley.
Inside, a wall-to-wall row of screens showed us every part of the house. Apparently Flake had installed it a long time ago, as a parallel system to the official security setup. It was a fairly small space, and probably had to be, or else people would notice this architectural funny business. The state-of-the-art surveillance equipment could take a peek inside every corner of the chateau. Flake had cameras in every room, even the bathrooms, and according to Pussy the designer had spent hours in there, spying on guests and associates.
He liked to organize weekend getaways for the company’s upper crust, and spy on them while they held secret meetings in their rooms, gossiping about Flake, or plotting against him. Many an executive had been given the boot after such a weekend, for scheming against the boss. It had been a way for the designer to keep his fingers in every possible pie, and hold the company reins firmly in hand. According to Pussy all of his other houses were equipped with the same setup, and even the company headquarters in Paris.
With another flick of the paw, Pussy booted up the system, and all the screens flickered to life—in black and white, of course. She handled the joystick with remarkable ease, and brought up one screen in particular: the main meeting room in the basement, where the conference was about to begin.
She flicked a button and now we had sound, too. She hopped down from the console and moved swiftly to the door. “Watch and learn, you guys.”
“Maybe you should stay,” I suggested.
“I told you, Max—I can’t,” she said, with the same pained look she’d displayed before. The loss of her human had hit her hard, that much was obvious, but the uncertainty about her future was even harder to bear.
“We’ll tell you everything you need to know,” Dooley promised.
She smiled. “You’re good cats, both of you. Never change, will you?” And with these words she left the room, and allowed the hidden panel to swing back into place. Now we were effectively cut off from the rest of the house.
“Never change?” said Dooley. “What does she mean, Max?”
“I have no idea,” I said, jumping up onto Flake’s chair—the one where he spent all those hours spying on his own people—hunting down the plotters.
“Because we do change, don’t we? I noticed this morning that a black hair is growing out of my left ear. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t there yesterday.”
“A lot of hair grows out of your ears, Dooley. It’s because you’re a cat.”
“Yeah, but like I said, this particular hair wasn’t there before. And I know this because it’s black, and I don’t have black hairs growing out of my ears.”
I wasn’t going to discuss the color of the hairs in Dooley’s ears, for judging from the buzz sounding from the speakers, the meeting was about to start. And since I didn’t want to miss a thing—for Pussy’s sake—focus was key.
“I could always pull out the hair, of course,” Dooley went on. “But I’m not sure if that’s the way to go. They do say that when you pull out a hair it only grows back thicker and more horrible than before. Or I could cut it. Maybe cutting a hair doesn’t alter its shape and thickness? What do you think, Max?”
“I think I don’t really care about a single hair in those hairy ears of yours, Dooley,” I said as I watched the screen intently.
“Ouch. That’s a mean thing to say, Max.”
“It’s one hair! Who cares?!”
“Well, I care. If hairs are going to start growing indiscriminately without my permission, what’s next? I might turn into the hairiest cat alive if this keeps up.”
“Lady cats love hair on a male cat,” I said, in a bid to get him to shut up.
“They do? I didn’t know that,” he said, perking up.
“Oh, yeah. The hairier the merrier. Mark my words, the more hair you grow, the more attention you’ll start getting from the ladies.”
“Oh,” he said. “I never looked at it that way.”
He lapsed into silence, and I got ready to learn what I could about Pussy’s fate. Then, suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw that Dooley was performing a peculiar ritual. I turned to him, and saw he was biting himself!
“Dooley! What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to pull out more hair,” he said between two nips into his fur.
“But why?”
“You said it yourself, Max. The hairier the merrier. So I figure if I pull out all of my hair, it will only grow back thicker and shinier, and it will increase my appeal with a factor of at least twelve.”
“Dooley, that whole spiel about hair growing back thicker is only a myth. It grows back, but not thicker than before.”
“It doesn’t?” he said, a tuft of gray hair between his lips.
“It doesn’t. So please stop pulling out your hair and start watching the meeting with me, will you? We owe it to Pussy to do this right.”
“Okay,” he said, and spat out his hair, which fluttered to the concrete floor of Flake’s secret control room.
On the screen, about a dozen people had taken a seat around the table. At the head of the table an old woman sat, and when I say old I mean ancient. She looked about a hundred, was seated in a wheelchair, and was sucking from an oxygen mask. Behind her stood a sturdy female nurse, administering the oxygen from a bulky tank on wheels.
For the rest there were plenty of men and women in suits, and they all looked very serious and businesslike.
“First off, I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re
all deeply shocked and saddened by the tragic death of our friend and founder, Leonidas Flake,” suddenly spoke a man with a natty little mustache and thick-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, and his hair was combed neatly back from a high forehead. He now raised a glass of what looked like champagne. “A toast. To the man. The myth. The legend. Monsieur Leonidas Flake.”
Echoes of his words rang out around the table, all those present standing for a moment—except the lady in the wheelchair—and raising their glasses in a salute to Leo Flake.
“I call this meeting to order,” said the chairman. “And I think I speak for all of us when I say that the tragic events have shaken us to the core. Leo’s death came as a shock to me personally, but I think it’s imperative that we carry on. Leo would have wanted the company that he built from scratch to continue and to flourish, even without him.”
“Is it true, Xavier, that Gabe is the culprit?” asked a woman with wavy blond hair.
“It would appear so,” said Xavier, adjusting his glasses. “At least that’s what the police have told me. Gabe has been arrested, and he has been charged.”
Sounds of shock reverberated through the room.
“But why?” asked a well-coiffed older lady. “Why did he do it?”
“A lovers’ tiff?” said Xavier, who seemed to be the one in charge. “A jealous rage? A momentary lapse of sanity? Who knows? I’m sure the police will keep us abreast of the exact circumstances of Leo’s death. The only thing we need to concern ourselves with right now is the appointment of a new president and CEO and figuring out how to take this company into the future. Leonidas was a strong leader. A hands-on leader. And until the very last he designed all of his own collections, with the assistance of a small cadre of minions like myself,” he added with a smile, “but always under his guiding genius. So the first question we need to ask ourselves is this: can we continue existing at the high level of excellence that we have, in the absence of the master couturier?”
For the next half hour or so, a discussion ensued on what, exactly, constituted the Leonidas Flake brand, and if it was possible for anyone to step into the shoes of the master, and provide continuity for a company now officially in crisis. Apparently in the recent past several talented designers had been hired to assist Flake, only to be kicked to the curb by the old master within the space of weeks or sometimes even days. It would appear he’d figured he’d live forever, and hadn’t condoned anyone to take the baton.
The only one who’d come close was this Xavier person—full name Xavier Yesmanicki—who confessed he was more a glorified administrator than a creative genius like Leo Flake. At the end of the discussion, Xavier had assumed the role of president and CEO, and now the conversation turned to the recruitment of fresh talent, either in-house or outside the company, to create the spring collection—the fall collection had been created by Flake.
“This is not very interesting,” said Dooley as the discussion flowed as easily as the champagne.
“No, it’s not,” I said. “And not a word about Pussy.”
“I think they completely forgot about her.”
“Yeah, just like Odelia has completely forgotten about us,” I said with a touch of bitterness. Humans weren’t as trustworthy as I’d always imagined. When push came to shove, they preferred to be surrounded by other humans, not the feline species they professed to love so much.
But then, suddenly, the old lady in the wheelchair piped up. She’d put down the oxygen mask and spoke with a croaky but clear voice.
“You’re all nuts!” she declared, and silence immediately descended upon the room. “Don’t you realize you’re wasting your time? My son decided to leave his entire fortune, and the company he built, to a cat!”
“I don’t think—” Xavier began with a little smile.
“A darn cat! Who cares who the new CEO or president is? From now on, Leo’s cat is in charge! She’s going to sign the paychecks. She’s your boss!”
“But surely a cat can’t run a business,” said the well-coiffed woman.
“Yes, that is simply ludicrous!” said another.
“You’re right! Cats don’t run companies! So my son appointed a guardian for his cat, and so this guardian will effectively run things from now on.”
“Who’s the guardian?” asked one of the suits.
“And how do you know all this?” asked another.
“Because Leo’s lawyer is also my lawyer. And the guy called me the minute he learned about what happened. So the lawyer told me about Leo’s will—apparently he’d only had it drawn up last week—and the cat situation, and I was as shocked as you are. And as shocked as I’m sure the rest of the world will be when they find out about my son’s final folly. They’ll all be surprised to learn that Leo went a little cuckoo at the end. But the fact remains that Pussy now owns the company!”
“Can’t this will be contested on account of the fact that the person who made it was… well, not to put too fine a point on it… nuts?” asked another suit.
Xavier spread his arms. “Leo wasn’t nuts,” he said. “Just… a little eccentric.” He looked flustered. He probably hadn’t expected to have to report to a cat from now on.
“Well, the lawyer assured me that Leo was of sound mind and body when he drew up his new will,” said Leo’s mother after taking a gasp from her oxygen tank. “And that it will stand the tests of the courts and whatever else you want to throw at it. The only problem is that the guardian is now in jail for murder, and won’t be able to take up his role.”
“The guardian is Gabriel Crier?” asked Xavier, looking flabbergasted.
“Yes, it is. And since he killed my son, and will be sent to Rikers Island if there’s any justice in the world, the law clearly states that the next person in line for this guardianship is Leo’s next of kin.” She tapped her chest. “Moi.”
Chapter 17
The meeting turned into complete pandemonium. People were rocketing up out of their chairs, they were screaming, some were pulling at their hair, while others hammered the table with their fists, one even with his head.
“Silence!” suddenly a voice bellowed. It was hard to imagine, but it actually came from the old lady who looked a hundred, and who probably was a hundred, but who was as vivid and lively as any of her cronies.
“But this is an outrage!” Xavier was crying. “This will not stand!”
“Yes, how can a cat—a cat!—run this company!” someone else said, clearly speaking for all those present.
“I take offense, Max,” said Dooley. “A cat can just as easily run a company as any human, right?”
“I would think so,” I said. Though I had no personal experience running a company, I could well imagine that a cat, given the proper training, could run a company just as well as the next CEO. After all, a lot of Fortune 500 companies are run by jackals and hyenas, and some even by an ass.
“Pussy is quite capable of running this company,” said Leo’s mother, echoing our words exactly.
“I think I like this woman,” said Dooley.
“A woman after my own heart,” I agreed.
“At least she seems to appreciate that sometimes the smartest person in the room is a cat,” said Dooley.
“But you don’t even know what she thinks!” said Xavier, whose hair was now all mussed and whose glasses were bedewed with honest perspiration.
“I don’t claim to understand cats either,” said the old lady. “But fortunately I know someone who does. Come on in, Chris!” she yelled in that same hale and hearty voice of hers that resonated through the room—both the one in the basement and the one Dooley and I were currently holed up in.
Chris came in, and to my surprise it was the pet detective.
“Isn’t that…” said Dooley.
“Yeah, I think it is,” I said.
To remove the last vestige of doubt as to who he was, the Siamese cat that had been so rude to us walked right behind him, and immediately meowed, “What a b
unch of losers, boss!”
“Yeah, I know,” said his boss.
Lucky for him no one understood what they were saying, which seemed to add to their enjoyment, for they both smiled. Yes, cats do smile, even though there is some discussion about that. Some scientists claim they don’t, while other, equally learned scholars claim that they do. Well, let me clear up this misunderstanding: we do smile, but since we have a very refined sense of humor, we rarely indulge in the habit, so you probably missed it that time.
“Gentlemen and ladies,” said Leo’s mother, “let me introduce you to Christopher Cross and his trusty sidekick Tank. Chris is a latter-day Dr. Dolittle, in the sense that he can talk to any pet, great or small, and can actually understand what those pets are talking about. He’s the original pet whisperer, and I’m very grateful that he’s accepted my invitation to play a senior role in the newly structured Leonidas Flake Company.”
There was more shouting, this time directed at the newcomer, but the old lady once again managed to drown out the hubbub with her stentorian voice.
“This is how it’s going to be from now on! Pussy will take on the role of company president, and her dictates will be carefully noted by Chris and Tank, then turned into instructions and executive orders, which will trickle down through the company. I will be on hand to keep an eye on the proceedings, as I have formed a close bond with Pussy myself, and will play a vital role in the new structure that will be put in place.”
“But what role will you assume?” asked an exasperated chairman.
The lady puffed out her chest. “I’m the new CEO. And together with my president I will make this company great again!”
“This is an outrage!” someone yelled.
“Well, you don’t have to feel that way anymore,” said the woman, after taking a puff from her oxygen mask. “You’re fired, effective immediately.”
A collective gasp of shock reverberated through the room.