by Harriet Hahn
The bell rang.
I spoke into the intercom. Weatherby announced himself. He would wait below for Helena and Fiona.
“Good-bye, James darling,” said Helena, patting her devoted friend. James gave her a devastatingly sad look. “My dear, it is not terrible. Look, it has made friends of Fiona and me,” said Helena.
James groaned.
We said farewells and Helena and Fiona left. Roger and Ellen remained.
Roger, though his business is money management, is interested in the arts and is very knowledgeable. We happily talked for some time and Ellen looked decorative and seemed interested. Her softly curling hair swung back and forth across her charming face as she twinkled at Roger.
James was watching the performance. He seemed more alert, less absorbed in his sinfulness. He hopped off the sofa and moved closer to Ellen, who now sat on the floor next to the easy chair where Roger was sitting. At last James came close enough to flick Ellen on the leg with his tail.
She jumped up, her eyes wide, her lip curled in anger. Then she walked to the window, her back to us.
It was getting late. “Let’s go to Colombino’s for dinner,” I suggested.
“Splendid idea!” said Roger. “I’ll take you all.”
“No, indeed,” I said, meaning it.
“I want to,” said Roger, who was, I would discover, a generously impulsive man when he wasn’t being a calculating machine.
Ellen gave him a melting smile. “Wonderful idea,” she said. “By the way, what happens to what’s-his-name here?”
“Want to come too?” I asked James. “You know they love to see you at Colombino’s.”
James was about to shake his head.
“You mean you’d take him with us?” asked Ellen in angry surprise.
James stood up and nodded his head.
The four of us walked the two and a half blocks to the restaurant and we had a pleasant dinner, though Ellen kept looking at James uneasily as he lapped up marinara sauce from a small bowl and drank part of my red wine. After dinner we put Ellen into a taxi and Roger disappeared into the underground, while James and I walked back to Baron’s.
Mrs. March was waiting for us outside my door. James was stomping along.
“You don’t like Ellen much, do you?” I said at the door.
James shook his head and plodded upstairs, carrying the weight of the world’s troubles on his shoulders.
The next morning James was back at his table screening arrivals. He seemed a little less gloomy but he was still very serious indeed. He barely gave me a nod as I left for the British Museum reading room.
However, he did come scratching at my door about four o’clock in the afternoon, and he had barely arrived when the intercom rang and I heard a voice say, “Shep has arrived.”
“Come right up,” I said, delighted. “Shep Wolf is here,” I called to James.
Shep Wolf, whose real name is Marion Shepard Wolf, is a television producer. He is a particular friend of James’s, because last year he produced a version of “Puss-in-Boots” that starred James himself. The program received excellent reviews and for a very brief time James was a celebrity. Shep is a tall, heavy man with black curly hair and a booming voice. He and James love to roughhouse together, and I was particularly delighted because he might be able to lighten James’s mood where none of the rest of us had been able to.
We went together to open the door. There was Shep filling the hall, dressed as usual in jeans and a sheepskin jacket. In addition he had brought with him Poppy Balsom, a scene and costume designer. Auburn-headed Poppy is Helena’s best friend. She is very good at what she does, but she has some eccentric ideas about the world, refuses to take jobs when she disapproves of the management, even though she desperately needs the money, and is prone to join protest marches just for the sake of marching. She is also, like Helena, a warm, sensitive and delightful woman. To us all she is a beloved friend despite her occasional odd behavior.
Shep bounded in, picked up James and threw him in the air, catching him easily. James was taken aback, but before I knew it he began to purr for the first time in days, and then he and Shep yowled together until I cried, “Stop, both of you!”
We had barely settled, Shep in the big chair, his long legs stretched out and James on his lap, when the bell rang again and Roger announced himself.
“Good,” said Shep when I reported who was on the way up. “I asked him here especially.”
I opened the door to Roger.
“You’re Ham,” said Shep, leaping to his feet and dumping James on the floor.
Poppy, who was curled up in a corner of the sofa, gave Roger her lively smile.
The two men were an interesting contrast. Shep seemed to fill any room he was in. Roger is not short, but he is slight and might have been overwhelmed. He has authority, however, and the two met as equals.
I presented Poppy. Shep returned to his chair. James returned to Shep’s lap. I went to the kitchen and returned with drinks. I looked at James inquiringly.
“Want a Laphroaig?” I asked.
James thought for a minute, sighed and nodded and at last grinned.
Now we were all settled, James on the coffee table with a saucer of whiskey. Next to him was a plate of smoked oysters and some raw vegetables. He ignored the vegetables.
“Now shut up, everyone,” said Shep. “I have collected this group for a purpose. I propose to produce a sequel to that wildly successful musical called Cats. This one is to be called Cats International and I propose to put it on in the Cottesloe Theater at the National Theater complex. I want James to help direct and I was hoping Roger might invest some of his money.”
James opened his eyes wide, let out a yowl and began jumping up and down in Shep’s lap.
“Careful there,” said Shep, holding James at arm’s length. “I take it you agree to help direct.”
James nodded, grinning as widely as he could.
“This request does not come as a surprise,” said Roger. “I guess Poppy here told Helena.” Poppy nodded. “Helena told me during the tournament. I made some phone calls and did a little investigation, and since I have been wanting to speculate in the theater anyway, this seems a splendid way to start.”
“Helena must have said some nice things about me,” said Shep.
“She said you were a very vigorous fellow who bounded about a bit but that you were a very talented director and a shrewd producer.”
Shep grinned. “She did, eh?”
He might have said more, but the bell rang again. I spoke into the intercom.
“It’s Ellen here,” I heard.
“Well, come up,” I said, not entirely graciously.
I let her in. “Hello, Roger,” she said, giving him her devastating smile.
I introduced Poppy and Shep. Ellen slipped to the floor next to Roger with a graceful movement. James hissed softly. Ellen ignored him.
“Roger,” she said, “how wonderful to see you again. I was up the street at Fortnum’s and just thought I’d stop in and say hello. I’d no idea there would be all these people here.”
We gave her a drink, told her all about the new production with James as consultant, Poppy as designer, Shep as director-producer and Roger as angel. Finally, we all went off to Frank’s for dinner where James ate fettuccine Alfredo, and Roger was maneuvered into picking up Ellen’s check while the rest of us paid our own. Roger had as usual offered to take us all, but Poppy is adamant about paying her own way and would not hear of it. She offered to pay Ellen’s check when Ellen found herself unexpectedly out of money, but Roger intervened.
James is a very fastidious cat and his table manners are impeccable, but I did notice that somehow he managed to flick cream and butter on Ellen’s sleeve. I made no comment, however.
By the end of the evening we had made some practical arrangements. Roger and Shep had settled the money questions, and I had agreed to bring James to the rehearsal hall at the theater in two weeks.
>
James was much more himself, but I noticed an underlying sadness in him as he walked upstairs that night. His tail was dragging. I ached for him.
The next afternoon brought news from another quarter. James had been spending the afternoon with Peter Hightower and the two of them stopped in about five for refreshment. I poured La Iña sherry for Peter and a little Laphroaig for James and me and produced with no great effort some fine, ripe Stilton cheese and crackers for us all. James loves the cheese and ignores the crackers but finds them a useful substitute for a plate as he can sit on the windowsill and eat cheese off crackers with ease.
They were both full of excitement.
“I was going over the Dresden correspondence,” said Peter. “It is, as was most of the correspondence of the time, a collection of business letters. Often the letter was simply a report of current prices, or a report of prices received for goods shipped or sometimes a report of the state of an account. This correspondence is no different. The contents of the letters is of interest to a historian who is interested in what things cost at a particular moment in history, or a record of the flow of goods in a given area. Since there were no envelopes at the time, the outside of the letter carries the address and any markings applied. I was reading the letter and sorting those with interesting route markings while James was sorting for forgeries on the big table. I had laid a letter down beside me, address side up, and suddenly James was patting my arm.”
James turned a big grin to me and nodded. He was too excited to sit still so he began pacing across the back of the sofa.
“He called my attention to a mark on the paper. I looked at it carefully and it appeared it might be made up of the initials L-F. R.”
It was my turn to be excited. “Did you find such a mark on Colonel Hargrave?” I asked.
James stopped pacing and nodded happily.
“There is more,” Peter continued. He and James were exchanging conspiratorial looks. James was waving his tail back and forth.
“A little later on I came across a real letter, not just a list of prices. At the bottom of an accounting, the accountant writes, ‘My nephew has come to stay with me and study sculpture. He seems a proper young man.’ I’m giving you a translation from the German, of course.”
“This certainly looks promising,” I said. “On the other hand we may be misreading this small, casual remark, and any number of uncles have nephews come to visit.”
James, who was extremely irritated that I was not instantly convinced, refused to join us when Peter and I went out to dinner. He stomped upstairs, flicking his tail at me as he went.
“Dear old James, he still is touchy these days, isn’t he?” Peter mused.
The day of the sale of Victorian jewelry at Thwaites dawned without rain. To my surprise, James was at my door early. He came in as I opened it to get the morning paper. He was looking businesslike and he hurried me along. I had not planned to go to the sale as there was nothing in it I was interested in, but James was insistent and I had the time so off we went, James leading the way. When we got to the auction room I waited at the door to see what James would do. He picked a seat in a corner in the back and I joined him. I noted two people I knew in the hall. Down near the front was Ellen Bruce. Halfway back was Roger Ham. Neither noticed me.
The auction started. Items were offered and sold, generally for pretty good prices. I was getting bored, but James would not let me go. He sat on my lap. A Victorian brooch in the shape of a thistle with an amethyst blossom and tiny diamonds at the end of each of the thistle’s thorny leaves was displayed. It was sold without incident to paddle nineteen, held by Ellen Bruce, for £200.00.
James, his eyes on Ellen, urged me to get up and leave, and, interpreting correctly that we were to follow Ellen inconspicuously, I did just that.
Since no items can be picked up until all the items consigned to the session have been auctioned, Ellen had some time to wait before she could claim her brooch. James had disappeared, but I realized I was to watch and wait and remain unseen.
Ellen slowly made her way down the stairs from the hall. As she did so, an elderly dealer I recognized was frantically hurrying up to one of the Thwaites men stationed at the door. There was a brief discussion and the Thwaites man pointed to Ellen, who was about to leave the building. The harried dealer went hurrying after her, and I moved into a position where I could see what was going on in the street.
Not only was it not raining, it was actually sunny, and Ellen was standing on the sidewalk enjoying the sun. The dealer had found her, introduced himself, and was involved in a deep discussion which I could not overhear. Practically at their feet, though unnoticed, was a grey cat asleep in the sun.
While I could not hear the conversation, it seemed a fair guess that the dealer wanted the thistle brooch and had been too late to bid on it. Perhaps he was now trying to buy it from Ellen.
At first Ellen looked irritated, but she had time to kill so she listened and very shortly she looked not irritated at all. At last she smiled a dazzling smile, they shook hands, the dealer flagged a cab and Ellen returned to the back of the hall to wait for the sale to end. She looked very happy indeed. The sale ended shortly. I looked around for James, but he had disappeared.
As soon as she could, Ellen went to the cashier’s desk to pay in cash for her purchase. The brooch was placed in a velvet Thwaites box. Ellen wrapped a rubber band around it and started to put the box in her handbag. As she did so, something tripped her. She dropped the handbag and the contents spilled out on the floor. Ellen nearly fell, and she struggled to regain her balance. The area was full of people coming and going, paying for purchases and leaving Thwaites. Roger came by and bent to help Ellen pick up the contents of her purse. There was noise and confusion.
“Here,” he said, “I’ll help you,” and he scooped up lipstick, keys, wallet, handkerchief, and whatever else he could find and returned the bag to the confused girl.
“What a shame,” said Roger. “Let’s get out of here, and I’ll take you to Wilton’s around the corner for lunch.”
For a moment Ellen looked confused. Then she smiled her dazzler at him and walked out on his arm. She did not check the contents of her purse herself. She wanted to be on her way. After all, Wilton’s is one of the most elegant and expensive restaurants in London.
“I do love Wilton’s,” she said as they left Thwaites.
I looked around for James. He was nowhere to be seen. I went off with friends, and it was not until the next afternoon that I heard a scratch at my door and opened it to find James sitting on an envelope and, strangely enough, a Thwaites box with a rubber band wrapped around it.
“Come in, I’m delighted to see you,” I said. James swaggered in. He grinned, then he headed directly to the windowsill where he sat looking out. I put the box on the table and opened the envelope, which contained a note telling me that the Honorable Fiona Wettin had called to say she would be at my apartment at five-thirty and that I should expect Ellen Bruce at the same time.
I turned to James and pointed to the box. “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.
James hopped off the sill and onto the table. He nodded gleefully.
“I think Ellen is going to be surprised,” I said. I thought of the scene on the street. “How much did the dealer offer her?” I asked. I held up three fingers, James shook his head. “More?” James nodded. I held up four fingers. James shook his head. I held up my whole hand. James nodded.
“Wow,” I said. “He was willing to pay £500 for that ugly thing.”
The bell announced the arrival of Fiona, Ellen and Roger.
We greeted one another. Fiona rapidly looked around. She immediately saw the Thwaites box on the table and without a word more to anyone she picked it up, removed the rubber band and opened it. The brooch gleamed.
“Thank you, dear,” she said to Ellen without taking her eyes off the jewel. “It is just as handsome as I knew it would be and Etheria will be delighted.”
/>
Ellen had turned pale. She opened her mouth and then closed it. She looked at the box and then at James, who was sitting on the table purring softly.
“Ellen, you look sick,” said Roger. He seemed concerned.
“I’m all right,” said Ellen weakly.
“Well,” said Fiona, “I’m sorry I cannot stay but I have a train to catch. Thank you for doing this small service for me, Ellen.” And she was out the door and on her way before we knew it.
Ellen sank into a chair. She looked totally exhausted.
“You really don’t look well,” said Roger. “I think I should take you home.”
“Oh, Roger, would you? I really feel terrible,” Ellen whispered.
“Sorry, James,” said Roger. “I’ll see you both soon, but I’m afraid I really should take her home.”
We agreed and watched at the door as they descended in the tiny elevator, Ellen resting her head against Roger’s shoulder.
Once they had left the building James let out a great meow and bounded back into the sitting room. He rolled on the floor in glee.
I stood in the middle of the room looking at him. I began to see the light.
“James,” I said sternly, “you stole the brooch from her purse when it spilled. You carried it back here in your mouth. In fact, you tripped her to make it fall.”
James sat up and nodded and then rolled over again on his back and patted his paws together in applause.
“So, thanks to you, Fiona got her brooch and Ellen did not make £300 on the deal.”
James stopped congratulating himself long enough to nod.
“And,” I speculated aloud, “she won’t be £200 out of pocket—it can still be charged to Fiona’s account.”
James was now up on the table lapping at the Laphroaig I had poured for him before the guests arrived. He then ate three anchovies off a cracker and broke into a dance on the table.
“James,” I said very sternly, “you must realize that what you did was not in any way sporting. It is against the rules to steal. It is even against the law. If you are thinking about redemption, you cannot redeem the unsporting act of moving Fiona’s ball at the tournament by stealing a brooch from Ellen to give to Fiona, even if you stole it from a girl who was breaking the rules herself.”