The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  I know; I'd had solitude for almost a week, and it was giving me the screaming meamies. I'd written hardly a note of the piano concerto I intended composing. I had the opening few bars, but they sounded suspiciously like Gershwin.

  Here I was in a cottage out at the edge of town, and that cottage had seemed like what the doctor ordered when I rented it. I'd given my address to none of my pals, and so there were no parties, no jam sessions, no distractions.

  That is, no distractions except loneliness. I was finding that loneliness is worse than all other distractions combined.

  All I did was sit there at the piano with a pencil stuck behind my ear, wishing the doorbell would ring. Anybody.

  Anything. I wished I'd had a telephone put in and had given my friends the number. I wished the cottage would turn out to be haunted. Even that would be better.

  The doorbell rang.

  I jumped up from the piano and practically ran to answer it.

  And there wasn't anybody there. I could see that without opening the door, because the door is mostly glass. Unless someone had rung the bell and then run like hell to get out of sight.

  I opened the door and saw the cat. I didn't pay any particular attention to it though. Instead, I stuck my head out and looked both ways. There wasn't anybody in sight except the man across the street mowing his lawn.

  I turned to go back to the piano, and the doorbell rang again.

  This time I wasn't more than a yard from the door. I swung around, opened it wide, and stepped outside.

  There wasn't anybody there, and the nearest hiding place— around the corner of the house — was too far away for anybody to have got there without my seeing him. Unless the cat.

  I looked down for the cat and at first I thought it, too, had disappeared. But then I saw it again, walking with graceful dignity along the hallway, inside the house, toward the living room. It was paying no more attention to me than I had paid to it the first time I'd looked out the door.

  I turned around again and looked up and down the street, and at the trees on my lawn, at the house next door on the north, and at the house next door on the south. Each of those houses was a good fifty yards from mine and no one could conceivably have rung my bell and run to either of them.

  Even leaving out the question of why anyone should have done such a childish stunt, nobody could have.

  I went back in the house, and there was the cat curled up sound asleep in the Morris chair in the living room. He was a big, black cat, a cat with character. Somehow, even asleep, he seemed to have a rakish look about him.

  I said, “Hey,” and he opened big yellowish-green eyes and looked at me. There wasn't any surprise or fear in those handsome eyes; only a touch of injured dignity. I said, “Who rang that doorbell?” Naturally, he didn't answer.

  So I said, “Want something to eat, maybe?” And don't ask me why he answered that one when he wouldn't answer the others. My tone of voice, perhaps. He said, “Miaourr ...” and stood up in the chair.

  I said, “All right, come on,” and went out into the kitchen to explore the refrigerator. There was most of a bottle of milk, but somehow my guest didn't look like a cat who drank much milk. But luckily there was plenty of ground meat, because hamburgers are my favorite food when I do my own cooking.

  I put some hamburger in a bowl and some water in another bowl and put them both on the floor under the sink.

  He was busily working on the hamburger when I went back into the front hallway to look at the doorbell.

  The bell was right over the front door, and it was the only bell in the house. I couldn't have mistaken a telephone bell because I didn't have a phone, and there was a knocker instead of a bell on the back door. I didn't know where the battery or the transformer that ran the bell was located, and there wasn't any way of tracing the wiring without tearing down the walls.

  The push button outside the door was four feet up from the step. A cat, even one smart enough to stand on its hind legs, couldn't have reached it. Of course, a cat could have jumped for the button, but that would have caused a sharp, short ring. Both times, the doorbell had rung longer than that.

  Nobody could have rung it from the outside and got away without my seeing him. And, granting that the bell could be short-circuited from somewhere inside the house, that didn't get me an answer. The cottage was so small and so quiet that it would have been impossible for a window or a door to have opened without my hearing it.

  I went outside again and looked around, and this time I got an idea. This was an ideal opportunity for me to get acquainted with the girl next door — an opportunity I'd been waiting for since I'd first seen her a few days ago.

  I cut across the lawn and knocked on the door.

  Seeing her from a distance, I'd thought she was a knockout. Now, as she opened the door and I got a close look, I knew she was.

  I said, “My name is Brian Murray. I live next door and I-”

  “And you play with Russ Whitlow's orchestra.” She smiled, and I saw I'd underestimated how pretty she was.

  Strictly tops. “I was hoping we'd get acquainted while you were here. Won't you come in?”

  I didn't argue about that. I went in, and almost the first thing I noticed inside was a beautiful walnut grand piano. I asked, “Do you play, Miss—?”

  “Carson. Ruth Carson. I give piano lessons to brats with sticky fingers who'd rather be outside playing ball or skipping rope. When I heard Whitlow on the radio a few nights ago, the piano sounded different. Aren't you still—?”

  “I'm on leave,” I explained. “I had rather good luck with a couple of compositions a year ago, and Russ gave me a month off to try my hand at some more.”

  “Have you written any?”

  I said ruefully, “To date all I've set down is a pair of clef signs. Maybe now ...” I was going to say that maybe now that I'd met her, things would be different. But that was working too fast, I decided.

  She said, “Sit down, Mr. Murray. My uncle and aunt will be home soon, and I'd like you to meet them. Meanwhile, would you care for some tea?”

  I said that I would, and it was only after she'd gone out into the kitchen that I realized I hadn't asked the question I'd come to ask. When she came back, I said:

  “Miss Carson, I came to ask you about a black cat. It walked into my house a few minutes ago. Do you know if it belongs to anybody here in the neighborhood?”

  “A black cat? That's odd. Mr. Lasky owned one, but outside of that one, I don't know of any around here.”

  “Who is Mr. Lasky?”

  She looked surprised. “Why, didn't you know? He was the man who lived in that cottage before you did. He died only a few weeks ago. He — he committed suicide.”

  The faintest little shiver ran down my spine. Funny, in a city, how little one knows about the places one lives in. You rent a house or an apartment and never think to wonder who has lived there before you or what tragedies have been enacted there.

  I said, “That might explain it. I mean, if it's his cat. Cats become attached to people. It would explain why the cat—”

  “I'm afraid it doesn't,” she said. “The cat is dead, too. I happened to see him bury it in your back yard, under the maple tree. It was run over by a car, I believe.”

  The phone rang, and she went to answer it. I started thinking about the cat again. The way it had walked in, as though it lived there — it was a bit eerie, somehow. If it were my predecessor's cat, that would explain its apparent familiarity with the place. But it couldn't be my predecessor's cat. Unless he'd had more than one ...

  Ruth Carson came back from the hallway. She said,

  “That was my aunt. They won't be home until late tonight, so probably you won't get to meet them until tomorrow. That means I'll have to get my own dinner, and I hate to eat alone.

  Will you share it with me, Mr. Murray?”

  That was the easiest question I'd ever had to answer in my life.

  We had an excellent meal in the break
fast nook in the kitchen. We talked about music for a while, and then I told her about the cat and the doorbell.

  It puzzled her almost as much as it had puzzled me. She said, “Are you sure some child couldn't have rung it for a prank, and then ducked out of sight before you got there?”

  “I don't see how,” I said. “I was just inside the door the second time it rang. Tell me about this Mr. Lasky and about his cat.”

  She said, “I don't know how long he lived there. We moved here just a year ago, and he was there then. He was rather an eccentric chap, almost a hermit. He never had any guests, never spoke to anyone. He and the cat lived there alone. I think he was crazy about the cat.”

  “An old duck?” I asked.

  “Not really old. Probably in his fifties. He had a gray beard that made him look older.”

  “And the cat. Could he possibly have had two black cats?”

  “I'm almost positive he didn't. I never saw more than the big black torn he called Satan. And there was no cat around during the week after it was killed.”

  “You're positive it died?”

  “Yes. I happened to see him burying it, and it wasn't in a box or anything. And it was almost the only time I ever heard him speak; he was talking to himself, cursing about careless auto drivers. He took it hard. Maybe—”

  She stopped, and I tried to fill in the blank. “You mean that was why he committed suicide a week later?”

  “Oh, he must have had other reasons, but I imagine that was a factor. He left a suicide note, I understand. It was in the papers, at the time. There was one particularly unhappy circumstance about it. He wrote the note and then took poison. But before the poison had taken effect, he regretted it or changed his mind; he telephoned the police and they rushed an ambulance and a doctor — but he was dead when they got there.”

  For an instant I wondered how he could have phoned the police from a house in which there was no telephone. Then I remembered that there had been one, taken out before I moved in. The rental agency had told me so, and that the wiring was already there in case I wanted one installed. For privacy's sake I'd decided against having it done.

  We'd finished our meal, and I insisted on helping with the dishes. Then I said, “Would you like to meet the cat?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Are you going to let him stay?”

  I grinned. “The question seems to be whether he's going to let me stay. Come on; maybe you can give me a recommendation.”

  We were right by her kitchen door, so we cut across the back yards into my kitchen. All the hamburger I'd put under the sink was gone. The cat was back in the Morris chair, asleep again. He blinked at us as I turned on the light.

  Ruth stood there staring at him. “He's a dead ringer for Mr. Lasky's Satan. I'd almost swear it's the same. But it couldn't be!”

  I said, “A cat has nine lives, you know. Anyway, I'll call him Satan. And since the question arises whether he's Satan One or Satan Two, let's compromise. Satan One-and-a-Half.

  So, Satan One-and-a-Half, you've got the only comfortable chair in this room. Mind giving it up for a lady?”

  Whether he minded or not, I picked him up and moved him to a straight chair. Satan One-and-a-Half promptly jumped down to the floor from his straight chair, went back to the Morris, and jumped up on Ruth's lap.

  I said, “Shall I shut him in the kitchen?”

  “No, don't. Really, I like cats.” She was stroking his fur gently, and the cat promptly curled into a black ball of fur and went to sleep.

  “Anyway,” I said, “he's got good taste. But now you're stuck. You can't move without waking him, and that would be rude.”

  She smiled. “Will you play for me? Something of your own, I mean. Did you mean it literally when you said you'd composed nothing since you've been here, or were you being modest?”

  I looked down at the staff paper on the piano. There were a few bars there, an opening. But it wasn't any good. I said, “I wasn't being modest. I can compose, when I have an idea. But I haven't had an idea since I've been here.”

  She said, “Play the 'Black Cat Nocturne.' ”

  “Sorry, I don't know—”

  “Of course not. It hasn't been written yet.”

  Then I got what she was talking about, and it began to click.

  She said, “A doorbell rings, but nobody is there. The ghost of a dead black cat walks in and takes over your house.

  It—”

  “Enough,” I said, very rudely. I didn't want to hear anymore. 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 myself 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 mowing the lawn over there this afternoon, when the cat came.

  He said, “I'm in the insurance game, Mr. Murray.

  Sometime 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 fing
ers.

  “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 willingly. 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, behind me. She said, “I heard him say who he was and what he wanted, and when the cat jumped down and went toward 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?”