by James Howe
My stomach rumbled.
And then I heard the voices again.
“Don’t do it for us, do it for Hamlet.”
I strained to listen, but all I heard was the click and shuffle of a door opening and the soft rustle of something moving.
“Chester,” I whispered.
“Shh.”
Chester, apparently, was already awake and listening.
I inched forward to see what I could see. The moonlight was sufficient to make out three shadowy figures scurrying across the compound. I knew in a flash who they were. Chester knew too.
“Just as I suspected,” he said. “The Weasel is nothing but a weasel. And those two cats aren’t worthy of the name Felis catus.”
What a night. First steak tartare and now this.
“‘Domestic cat,’” Chester explained, anticipating my befuddlement. “I’ve got to go after them.”
“But why? Maybe they’re just sneaking inside to watch a little late-night television.”
Chester snorted. “‘Don’t do it for us, do it for Hamlet.’ That’s what they said, Harold. It’s a conspiracy, don’t you see that? What if Hamlet is the ringleader? Greenbriar himself could be involved. Our nation’s freedom may be at stake!”
I had the feeling Chester the reader was through with horror novels and had moved on to spy thrillers.
Gingerly, I inquired, “Chester, would you consider the possibility that you might be blowing this thing out of proportion?”
“Not a chance.”
“Well, no harm in asking.”
In the distance, we heard a soft beep! followed by a slightly louder creaking.
“If that’s what I think it is . . .” Chester said.
I looked toward the office. The door was wide open.
Suddenly, Ditto squawked, “Quiet! Do you want to wake everybody up!”
Chester was out of his bungalow like a hot dog out of a bun with too much mustard.
Howie and I weren’t the only ones fast on Chester’s heels. In a matter of seconds, Bob and Linda and Georgette had joined us at the office door.
“Stupid bird,” we heard someone mutter just inside.
“You may as well give up!” Chester cried. “We’ve got the place surrounded.”
Felony’s face appeared at the door. “I shoulda known you’d turn copper,” she said to Chester.
In the background, we heard The Weasel crooning, “I’m a poor little weasel who has lost his way.”
Chester shook his head.
“It’s not what you think,” a husky voice said from within. Miss Demeanor sashayed into view. “Come on, Felony, let ‘em in. Cute Whiskers thinks he’s on to us, huh? Well, what does he know?”
“I know this,” said Chester as we filed into the office. I glanced nervously at the long table in the middle of the room. Even without a veterinarian in sight, the thought of that cold steel top was enough to get my hair follicles ready for action. “I know that you three are not on the up-and-up.”
“Hah!” Felony retorted. What she lacked in wit she made up in directness. “We told you right out we were cat burglars, didn’t we, Miss D.?”
Miss Demeanor nodded.
“Well, we’re burglarizing, so there.”
“What about him?” Chester said, nodding toward The Weasel, whose eyes were lifted heavenward as his voice segued into another tune, something about “I am Weasel, hear me roar.”
“The Weasel?” Felony snorted with contempt.
Hearing his name, The Weasel stopped singing and turned to face us. “I’m innocent,” he proclaimed. “They made me do it, honest. They said I’d be helping Hamlet. That’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t care about the food.”
“The food?” Chester’s eyebrows arched.
“Okay, okay,” said Miss Demeanor. “We may as well come clean. We been trying to break into the food closet to get somethin’ decent to eat. You see somethin’ wrong with that?”
I looked around. Everyone was nodding approval.
“Is that all?” said Chester.
“They weren’t going to share!” The Weasel shouted.
Felony turned on him. “Snitch!” she said.
“Well, I can’t help it,” he went on. “You were going to frame me anyway. That’s why I was trying to dig my way out of here. I knew all along what they were up to and I knew they were going to try to get me to take the rap. Just because I’m a weasel.”
“Why, you poor thing,” said Georgette. “I understand what it’s like to be saddled with a reputation you don’t deserve. Just because I’m pretty and sweet and fairly ooze with charm, everyone thinks I’m stuck-up.”
Chester gave Georgette a long look, then turned back to The Weasel, who had resumed speaking.
“They made me squeeze in through a grate that leads to the basement. I’m good at squeezing through small places, you see. And then I punched in the code to the security system and let them in the back door.”
“Code to the security system?” Chester said slowly, looking—I say with some pleasure—confused.
“Six-one-one-one-five-two!” Ditto screaked.
Chester’s head dropped.
The Weasel continued his story, apparently relieved to be clearing his conscience of a terrible burden. “Once they found some good food,” he said, “they were going to sell it to everyone else.”
Chester lifted his eyes to glare at Felony and Miss Demeanor. “Why, you’re nothing but a couple of low-life—”
Miss Demeanor batted her eyelashes. “Oh, Cute Whiskers,” she said, “you really know how to sweet-talk a girl.”
“But what about the secret?” Bob asked.
“Or the hoax,” said Georgette softly.
“What’s Greenbriar’s story?” Chester wanted to know.
“What’s become of Hamlet?” Linda asked.
“How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck would chuck wood?” Howie chimed in.
“Quiet, everyone!” Bob said sharply. “What’s that?”
We all listened. Somewhere someone was whimpering. We looked to the door at the end of a long, dark hall.
“It’s coming from behind that door,” Howie said, his eyes growing wide, “the one Rosebud talked about. The one that salted her feet.”
“I believe that was ‘sealed her fate,’” I said.
“Yeah, that one,” said Howie.
“The secret of Chateau Bow-Wow lies behind that door,” Chester said.
One after the other, we crept down the dark hallway. The whimpering grew louder. Someone was scratching at the door.
But when we threw the door open . . . there was no one there!
I looked around the darkened room and tried to figure out what it was supposed to be. There were chairs and a desk and shelves full of books, but there was also a bed. Howie ran to it and jumped up on his little hind legs. Sniffing at the quilt, he said, “Hamlet has been here.”
“And still is,” said a disembodied voice.
I don’t know about anybody else, but I jumped so high I had a chance to check the wattage in the chandelier.
The door creaked. It began to move. It was closing, inch by inch, millimeter by merciless millimeter, as it shut us in, trapping us, sealing our fate. My life passed before my eyes. Well, not entirely. I got as far as the time I was a puppy and chewed up Pete’s favorite ball, when the door clicked shut.
There in the shadowy corner of the room sat Hamlet, looking scared out of his wits—which, given the state the rest of us were in, should have made him feel right at home.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just had to make sure you weren’t the warden.”
The very mention of the word sent Felony and Miss Demeanor into a frenzy. “Euphemistically speaking,” he added.
Once Felony and Miss Demeanor had gotten their heart rates back to normal, we all gathered around Hamlet and listened to his version of what had been going on at Chateau Bow-Wow.
&n
bsp; He began by giving his head a gentlemanly nod to Georgette. “I’m sorry you had to be involved in this,” he told her. “You were always such a lady.”
“Oh, Hamlet,” Georgette sighed. “What happened? When I heard you were gone, I assumed Archie had come for you at last.”
Hamlet rolled his eyes and in so doing revealed two Great Dane—size tears balanced perilously on their rims. One spilled over and landed with a considerable splash on the floor.
“I’ve known for some time,” Hamlet began, “that Archie was never coming for me. I don’t know what’s become of him. But I did find out that I was being boarded here out of kindness to Archie’s cousin Flo—she and Dr. Greenbriar are friends, it seems—but only until there was no longer a place for me.
“When Harold and Howie and Chester arrived, all the bungalows were filled. I knew I had only a short time in which to escape. However, given the tight security and the fact that my arthritis prevented my digging my own way out, I had no choice but to—well, I hope you’ll forgive my saying so—to con others into doing the digging for me.”
“Rosebud,” said Chester.
“Yes. I found Rosebud’s collar and some bones one of the previous guests had left behind and I devised my plan. I would terrify everyone into believing their lives were in danger and that they must work together to escape. Time was crucial, you understand. I only had until the next guest arrived.”
Georgette delicately sucked in a tear that had rolled from her eye to the corner of her mouth.
“Oh, it’s not your fault,” Hamlet told her. “I knew I was on borrowed time. I was just hoping to get an extension on the loan.”
“And the secret of Chateau Bow-Wow?” Georgette gently asked.
Hamlet just shook his head. “There is no secret, of course.”
Howie looked at Hamlet, confused. “What was going to happen to you once there wasn’t a place for you to stay?” he asked.
Hamlet closed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. “I’m afraid I was destined for . . . the Big Sleep,” he said.
A hush fell over the room. We all knew he wasn’t talking about a long nap.
He opened his eyes and continued. “I think Dr. Greenbriar likes me,” he said. “He’s been keeping me here in his study instead of in one of the kennels down in the basement. But I know it’s only a matter of time now.”
“Unless,” said Chester.
All eyes turned to him.
“Unless we can find Archie.”
“But how?” Hamlet asked.
“I’m going to check out your file,” Chester answered. “I know my way around the office. I’ve been inside before. Your file should tell us where Archie is.”
“But if he’s in Europe—,” Hamlet said.
“I doubt that. No, my guess is that he’s much closer to home.”
And with that Chester exited.
Hamlet regarded us all with sad eyes. “I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he said.
“My goodness,” said Georgette, “it seems to me you put yourself through a lot more trouble making up stories about secrets and talking bones than any kind of trouble you could put us through.”
“That’s what I don’t get,” said Bob. “Why didn’t you just ask us to help you?”
Hamlet sighed. “I’m a useless old mutt,” he said. “Nobody wants me anymore. Not Archie. Not his cousin. I couldn’t ask, don’t you see? What if you had all said no?”
No one had an answer to that. All I could think about was how lucky I was to have the Monroes—and how I couldn’t wait to get back home and roll around the living room floor with Toby.
I heard sniffling. Bob said, “There, there, dear, it’s all right.”
I turned. Linda shook her head sadly as she looked at us looking at her. “It’s the kids,” she explained. “We haven’t heard from them in over a week. It’s so unlike them. They said they would write every day. Bob was trying to break out of here in order to find them. What if . . . what if something’s happened to them? What if . . . they’ve left us here and they’re never coming back?”
She began to cry. Georgette ran over to her and licked away her tears.
Felony turned to Miss Demeanor. “It’s a regular weeporama around here,” she said. The fat cat nodded.
“If you don’t mind my interruptin’ group therapy,” Felony said to the rest of us, “I got a question for Hamlet. It’s about Rosebud. We all heard her speak. So’s what I wanna know is—”
“Oh, that,” said Hamlet. If dogs could blush, he would have been blushing. He opened his mouth to explain, but didn’t get a word out because Chester suddenly burst into the room.
“I’ve found Archie!” he cried. “There’s only one problem—he’s got two addresses. One is here in town. The other’s in London.”
“London!” Hamlet exclaimed. “I knew it, I knew it! He’s playing the palace, sipping tea with the queen, watching the changing of the guard—”
“Excuse me,” Chester said. “London is the name of the next town. It’s only a couple of miles from Centerville.”
“Really?” said Hamlet. He seemed relieved but disappointed at the same time. “Archie always wanted to sip tea with the queen. Ah, well, another time perhaps.”
“What’re we waiting for?” asked The Weasel. “I’ve already used the code to disarm the security system here. I’ll bet the same code’ll work on the gate.”
“Now yer talkin’ like a weasel!” Felony exclaimed, and I couldn’t help noticing The Weasel puff up with pride.
“It’ll be daylight soon,” Chester remarked as he moved us through the office and out the back door. “Let’s get a head start before Dr. Greenbriar and his assistants show up for work and find us missing.”
We were all so excited that no one noticed Ditto watch us file past. No one thought to cover her cage or to tell her not to repeat anything she’d heard.
We were just out the door when Howie said, “Gee, Uncle Harold, this is a real adventure. Hamlet and Archie, together again!”
No one paid attention to the voice that echoed behind us: “Together again . . . Together again! Hamlet and Archie, together again!”
[ NINE ]
Where Is Archie?
IF there was a chill in the early morning air, we didn’t notice or mind. All that mattered as we moved single file along the edge of Highway 101 was the importance of our mission. It isn’t every day, after all, that six dogs, three cats, and a weasel have the opportunity not only to save one of their own from the Big Sleep, but to bring loved ones together again.
Not that there weren’t distractions, mind you.
Dippy Donuts. Bugsy Burgers. Ye Olde Clam-on-a-Roll. Tex-Mex Multiplex. Little Pizza Paradise. It wasn’t easy passing one fine dining establishment after another without stopping for breakfast. It’s true the restaurants were all closed, but the dumpsters were open. Chester, however, insisted that we keep going, pointing out that we had only a short time before the sun came up. When that happened, we would have to be much more careful about being seen. And being caught.
I knew he was right. But leaving the House of Pies dumpster untouched just about did me in.
“I’ll make it up to you, Harold,” Hamlet said sympathetically as he limped along beside me. “If we can just find Archie, I’ll see to it that he sends you a pie every week for a year. He’s rich, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” I said. Not that I was planning on holding Hamlet to his promise, but I will admit just the thought of it helped me get through the next couple of miles.
Luckily for us, Felony and Miss Demeanor knew Centerville like the pads of their filching little paws. As we marched along to the accompaniment of The Weasel’s hymn humming, the two cat burglars proudly pointed out their favorite scenes of the crime. They were practically overcome with nostalgia when they realized that the address we were seeking was on the same street as the location of their very first criminal act.
“It was a pastrami sandwich,” Felony
recalled, her eyes misting over. “Belonged to a guy paintin’ a house. Remember, Miss D.?”
“How could I forget?” said the fat, fuzzy one. The way she gazed off into the distance, I expected violins to start playing. “We was practically kittens. A coupla amateurs. But even then we knew we was destined for great things.”
“The way we work is Miss D.’s the good cat, I’m the bad cat,” Felony informed us. “She goes in, see, wraps herself around the unsuspecting victim’s legs, and purrs up a storm. It don’t take long. They pick her up, she nuzzles ‘em, and I go in fer the kill.”
Miss Demeanor picked up the story. “That’s what we did with that painter. He never even knew his pastrami was missin’till he put me down and laid his mitts on a coupla pieces o’rye with mustard and no meat.”
They chuckled. “Someday we oughta write a book, Miss D.,” said Felony. “What a life we’ve had.”
“You could call it A Tale of Two Kitties,” Howie suggested.
“That’s not bad,” said Miss Demeanor. “Let’s see, it could start like this: The best of crimes, the worst of crimes . . .’”
Howie yipped enthusiastically while the rest of us shook our heads and Bob and Linda sighed.
Suddenly, Felony cried out, “Hey, that’s the street!”
Chester, who had committed both addresses to memory, said, “Treetop Lane. That’s it, all right.”
It wasn’t quite dawn yet, but as we moved slowly down Treetop Lane, the streetlight was enough to make Hamlet realize he’d been there before. He stopped short when we came to the small brick house at the end. There was a name—Cantelloni—on the mailbox.
“Archie isn’t here,” he said, shaking his head.
“How do you know?” Chester asked.
“Because this is Cousin Flo’s. This is where I was staying until . . . that man came along.”
We looked at the darkened house as Hamlet continued. “Life was pretty good here for a while. Flo Fenster was a nice lady who never stinted on the dog food. She didn’t even get angry when I chewed up one of her favorite slippers. She just said, ‘Dogs will be dogs,’ and bought herself another pair.