by Harriet Hahn
“Fifteen thousand pounds?” James nodded.
That sounded about right. There was no market in these terracotta pieces. No one knew they existed except for my small circle and Costain Cummings. They might one day be worth a million, but there was no place to fence them for anything like that at the moment. However they were sold, it would have to be to a collector who did not shout about his collection or the fraud would be uncovered. If Wentworth got £15,000, he was doing very well indeed.
So the questioning went on. Sir Grant was growing more excited by the minute.
“With this evidence there is no question of a simple mistake,” he said as he put his pencil down. “Hud”—he was addressing Mr. Graves—“get someone to find out who picked up Wentworth’s shipments. If we can trace one, we might get to Barry. If we can get to Barry, we will have him nailed.”
Sir Grant got up and held out his hand. He took James’s paw. “I can’t tell you how I have enjoyed myself. You are an excellent observer and a prince of a fellow. I look forward to seeing you in court. Mr. Graves will arrange the details, but remember one thing. The defense will try to discredit you. Whatever they say, however they provoke you, do not let yourself get angry.”
James nodded and bowed in a dignified way and then hopped off the desk after flipping the wings on the brassy lady one more time. We strode out together with Mr. Graves following. In the yard, surrounded by old, old buildings and rose gardens, Mr. Graves gave us our instructions for reporting to the Old Bailey and said he would be in touch.
We returned to Baron’s.
“Are you worried about being a witness?” I asked as we sipped Laphroaig.
James gave me his piece-of-cake look.
The bell rang and Shep announced that he and Jane were below and would love to come up. We welcomed them. Jane was carrying a portfolio from which she extracted a number of photographs, all of James. They were prints of Tor’s pictures. We stood the pictures up on the windowsill. There was James asleep on the sofa. There was James looking aristocratic. There was James arching his back, and there was James flying through the air, his paws extended, his eyes alight. It was a splendid picture. James knocked it off the windowsill. It fell on the floor and James fell on it and licked it.
“I’ll tell Tor you liked it,’ said Shep.
“Well,” said Jane, “my client is thrilled with these pictures and so am I. I’ll just run upstairs and get Mrs. March’s signature on a release and pay for James’s services, and this job will be complete.” Jane was out the door and up the stairs, her black patent leather heels flashing as she ran.
James and Shep played roughhouse for a while and then James went back to admiring himself. When Jane came back he looked at her wistfully, waved a paw at the pictures and then pointed to himself.
“You want a set?” Jane asked, pleased.
James nodded.
“You may have these,” she said, and James and I set the pictures back up on the windowsill temporarily.
“I’ll get frames tomorrow,” I said.
We all went off for a vegetarian dinner at the restaurant Poppy and Roger had recommended. James was not pleased, but when the proprietor let him stay, he settled for melted cheese on toast and a saucer of Soave. After all, wine comes from fruit.
We watched the evening news together. Or rather, I watched the news as James looked at his pictures and listened to the news.
There was a knock at the door. I straightened a picture on the way to answer.
“I wonder what is going to be done with them?”
James seemed totally uninterested. He took a last look at himself and headed out the door to Mrs. March.
“He’s not bothering you?” she asked. “You know I got quite a lot of money for those pictures,” she added confidentially.
James was practicing being dignified and unruffled and walked up to bed with his head up, placing his feet carefully from one stair to the next.
James and I were lolling about one late afternoon when the bell rang and Jane and Shep appeared. As I went to admit them I picked up an envelope that had been shoved under the door.
Jane had on a tailored white linen dress and white patent leather pumps. Shep was in his usual blue jeans and black T-shirt with the odd message WAKE YOUR CAT UP TO PURR-PORRIDGE on the front. They were bubbling with excitement.
“We’ve come to watch television with you,” they said. “We have five minutes before the program starts.”
There was a flurry of activity as the furniture was rearranged and refreshment served, and then we were ready to watch ITV, one of Britain’s commercial stations.
We were right on time. The music from Cats International was played and the title “Cats of London” appeared. Our documentary was about to begin. It was sponsored by the Combined Humane Societies of England.
As we expected, the program started with the dancers from Cats International. There was James teaching Ursula to stretch and Anne to curl, and there was Poppy making Ursula into a cat. James was riveted to the screen. When the segment faded out we all applauded, including James.
This section was followed by a short speech by one of the representatives of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, during which James played with the envelope I had put on the table.
The speaker disappeared and we were transported to Green Park. James stopped playing and settled down to watch. However, since he appeared only fleetingly he was not really engrossed.
The Green Park segment was interrupted by another speaker, this time a pretty girl who discussed the plight of stray and feral cats. She was followed by the footage we had taken in the market. The cat played with the mouse and the mother cat defended her kittens. All of us except James applauded. He watched, however.
A representative of the Animal Welfare League harangued us while Shep, who was thirsty, got another Guinness, and Jane and I replenished the lemonade. James was drinking milk.
The Animal Welfare man was followed by the sequence at the warehouse. The cats fighting for the flounder in the glare of our lights was wonderfully effective. James sat in my lap shivering.
The program closed with a Royal, shown with what we were supposed to assume was a royal cat, who spoke in favor of the World Wildlife Fund and animals everywhere.
We all applauded as the credits were run. They included Shep and Tor and Moises and, to my great surprise, a consultant listed as “James of St. James’s.” I pointed this out to James, who gravely thanked Jane.
I moved to turn off the set.
“No, wait,” said Jane.
A cheerful face appeared. “Wake your cat up each morning with delicious Purr-Porridge,” said a cheerful voice. There was a brief glimpse of a table overflowing with good things to eat—fruit, vegetables, a goose, a veritable seventeenth-century still life—while the voiceover talked about vitamins and minerals and protein and roughage. Then a grey substance was presented in a cut-glass bowl with BELOVED CAT incised on the side, and a cat ate it with apparent enthusiasm.
Then the smiling face appeared again and held up a can with a dark blue label. On the label, his eyes glowing, his paws stretched in delight, was James exactly as he appeared in Tor’s splendid photograph, which James himself had been licking only recently and which now hung, properly framed, in the office on the fifth floor. Across the top of the label were the words PURR-PORRIDGE in white.
“Just introduced,” said the announcer. “Be the first to treat your cat to this delicious new product. You’ll find it at your local pet store or supermarket.”
James was off my lap and streaking for the set. He hurled himself against the front of it and managed to turn it off. He was in a flaming rage. He yowled, hissed and tried to claw Shep, whose fault he thought it was.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jane. She was confused.
“James is furious at appearing in a commercial for cat food,” I said as I picked up the envelope from the floor where it had fallen.
J
ames stopped pacing long enough to nod grimly.
“That’s stupid!” she said. “He looks splendid, and Mrs. March has made a nice fee out of it.”
James hissed.
“Come on,” said Shep, “we have things to do. Sorry you didn’t like the commercial, old boy.”
James snarled.
“You’re just mad because you didn’t get anything for yourself,” said Jane as she left.
Exhausted, James lay on the table and sulked.
I opened the envelope. “This should interest you,” I said.
James looked up. His eyes were dull.
“We are invited to a benefit performance of Hunt the White Hunter, to be followed by a gala ball.”
James looked puzzled. At least I had his attention.
“A benefit is a performance where the audience pays a great deal more than the normal ticket price. The money all goes to whatever charity is sponsoring the benefit. At least, that is how it is supposed to work. In this case, the benefit is to aid some African famine victims. The tickets cost £100 each. Want to go?”
James still looked puzzled.
“You want to know about famine?” I asked.
James nodded.
“In parts of Africa, due in part to war and in part to drought, there are areas where the population has nothing to eat. The money this benefit raises, along with other funds, will be used to buy food on the world market and ship it to the starving people.”
James nodded.
“Want to go?” I asked. “Lord Henry is on the organizing committee. His name is on the invitation. It’s next week. This invitation was held up for some reason.”
James managed a weak smile and nodded.
“Want to go out for dinner?” I asked.
James shook his head. He glared at the dark TV and stalked to the door. I let him out and watched as he sulked his way upstairs. He was deeply hurt.
James continued to fume. He refused to watch ITV at all for fear that the Purr-Porridge ad would appear, as it did frequently. If I inadvertently mentioned Jane’s name, he snarled. One day he rejected two perfectly suitable tenants because one of them was carrying a magazine with a Purr-Porridge advertisement on the back page. I was secretly glad he had given up psychiatry for the moment. He would have had no patients at all.
Tickets arrived for the benefit along with a note from Lord Henry telling us he had arranged seats for all of us together at the performance and at the gala afterward. He and Helena, Poppy and Roger, James and me. There would be a seat for James and he would be admitted without trouble. The carry-bag would not be needed.
Mr. Graves called to say the case was moving along and we should be ready to appear at the Old Bailey in about two weeks. I passed all this information on to James. He only nodded.
The day before the benefit four cardboard cases of the sort canned goods are packed in were delivered to my flat. I stacked them up in the hall. Accompanying the cases was a note that read “With grateful thanks to the star of the label.” It was signed Watt Wilder, vice-president of marketing, Purr-Porridge division of Universal Foods Ltd.
I would have hidden the cases and card from James. However, he was in the apartment when they arrived. He sat on top of the pile and pretended to throw up.
“I’ll just throw them out,” I said.
He shook his head, used the stack as a scratching post and gave me a grin.
Then Helena called. James cheered up immediately and purred for her over the phone.
“I called to tell you this benefit is very dressy,” she said. “There will be lots of flash. Wear your earrings, Sir James, dear.”
James smiled a real smile and as soon as Helena had rung off he ran to my closet. I followed and opened the small safe. Out came the topaz earrings. James tried them on and scampered around the sitting room, tossing his head and at last stood on the back of the easy chair and admired himself in the mirror. The earrings stayed on nicely but they were heavy.
The gala night arrived. Dressed in our best, we took a cab to the National Theater, presented our tickets and were seated. Lord Henry and Helena were already there. Lord Henry looked particularly handsome in his tailcoat and white vest, and Helena had a pearl tiara in her golden hair. She wore a blue-green chiffon float and the Haverstock pink pearl necklace and earrings. She looked radiant. Poppy and Roger came in shortly and, to my surprise, because Poppy usually doesn’t pay any attention to clothes, she wore a beautifully cut topaz satin dress. She had piled her auburn hair on top of her head. She wore no jewelry but was stunning without it. Roger wore his dress clothes with assurance. James tossed his head from side to side and flashed his topaz earrings.
The Lyttelton Theater was full. The house lights dimmed. A single spot hit the center of the stage and Harry Kinyata appeared. He was dressed in a tawny leotard and carried a lion mask under his arm. He was greeted with enthusiastic applause.
He made a very impressive figure, and when he spoke his voice filled the theater with a wonderfully varied and controlled sound. He spoke of the needs of both men and animals in Africa and thanked us all for our generosity. There was an authenticity about his short speech that moved the audience. He did not give them a chance to applaud, however.
“Let’s ‘Hunt the White Hunter,’” he said in conclusion. The lights went out, leaving the theater in total darkness. James hopped onto my lap. I patted him.
A light appeared at the corner of the stage as the orchestra began to play. There was Ellen dressed in a crinoline, seated at a desk, writing. She said aloud, “Richard, dearest, do take care.…” The light faded and the stage was dark.
When the lights went up we saw Richard Burton searching for the source of the Nile.
The first half of Hunt the White Hunter was made up of a series of episodes, each with a different African explorer or hunter, which included some history and lots of native dances and music. Animals as well as people were portrayed. The company was beautifully trained, and Harry Kinyata, in a variety of roles—sometimes a tribal chief, sometimes a farmer, once a jackal and on a number of occasions a lion—was superb. Each section opened with Ellen, at the side of the stage, writing to various individuals. I remember her particularly as Mrs. Theodore Roosevelt writing “No more rhinos please” and as Mrs. Ernest Hemingway, not writing but saying “Not now, Ernest.” The role was perfect for Ellen. She didn’t have to do anything, she could read her lines and she had many costume changes. She looked splendid.
During the interval James and I stayed in our seats while the rest went out for refreshment. James was still puzzled. I began to realize that, of course, he had never seen anyone without enough food. It was rather the other way—he had seen us all, including himself after a huge delicious meal at Colombino’s.
“Remember the cats who fought over the flounder,” I said at last. “They were hungry cats. They don’t get enough to eat. Imagine people like that.”
James nodded in an offhand way. He was thinking of something. He was also shaking his head and pushing at his ears with his paws.
The second half began, and we were all absorbed in modern Africa, where modern African dance and music were featured. The performance built to a finale. We now saw for the first time the mound of grass we had seen on our tour of the theater some time ago. James was completely caught up in the musical, and when Harry Kinyata came roaring out of the grass to call the rest of Africa’s animals, wearing his lion mask and giving a huge lion roar, James let out an answering howl that echoed through the theater. The lion on stage raised a paw in salute to the cat in the audience. Dancers dressed as animals gyrated on the stage, and at last the curtain fell to thunderous applause.
Harry, his mask in his hand, appeared in a spotlight again.
“Thank you for your generous reception,” he said amid huge applause. He held up his hand.
“Please,” he said when the audience was quiet, “we will have no curtain calls. We ask you to proceed to the restaurant for dinner. All the
cast will be there in costume so you can recognize us individually and tell us in person how much you enjoyed our performance. Thank you all again.” He disappeared.
The audience rose and began to leave the theater. The six of us decided to wait till the crowd was thinner.
James kept shaking his head as though something were bothering him. At last we got up to leave and found our way to the restaurant, where Lord Henry led us to our table. James found Poppy and patted her gently.
“What can I do for you, James?” she asked.
He brushed his ears. Poppy looked at him shrewdly. “These earrings are too heavy for you, aren’t they?” she said.
James nodded and pointed at her.
She smiled. “Very well,” she said. She took them off James’s ears. He looked relieved. He pointed at her.
“You want me to have them?” she asked.
James grinned. So did Roger. Poppy put them on. They looked marvelous.
“Will you keep them?” asked Roger. There was some pleading in his voice.
“How can I refuse a gift from a cat?” said Poppy, and she grinned at Roger and tossed her head.
We drank champagne and ate adequate banquet food. There was music. There was dancing. People circulated, as did the cast of Hunt the White Hunter. Harry Kinyata came over to our table with Ellen on his arm. He had changed into his native ceremonial robe as tribal chief, and Ellen was dressed in a gold lamé gown with a crown of gold and lion fur on her head. She wore a large green emerald on a leather thong around her neck. She smiled remotely at us all as though she moved in a different, more rarefied world, as indeed she did. James snarled at her.
Harry Kinyata and Lord Henry are old friends because they were at Oxford together. They talked for a few minutes. Ellen remained aloof.
“You will be happy to know that Ellen has consented to become my wife,” he said to us all as he was leaving to speak to the next table. We smiled our congratulations and Ellen bowed to her subjects.
When they had gone Lord Henry began to laugh. “Harry is closing Hunt the White Hunter after tonight’s performance,” he said. “The performers are all going back to their respective countries, and Harry is also returning to take up his much more important role as chief of his tribe. He is going to try to find a way to bridge the twentieth century and the old tribal culture. Ellen will be in for a great surprise. She will have all the gold and precious stones she ever wanted, and she will be one of at least four wives, and just the newest one.”