Somehow I restrained myself from hissing at him. Roland Morlock, who never missed a chance to wave the flag either figuratively or literally, would happily have cooperated with the Agency on anything they asked of him, so why all this hugger-mugger? In any case, given Maury’s precarious situation, Magnus Ritchard would have to find another way to spy on the Morlock enterprises.
“You’d better start piping up,” Mr. Ritchard said, “or it won’t go well for you.” He glanced toward the glass-covered door that led to the balcony. “I don’t think even a cat could survive a twelve-story drop. Especially if I wring your furry little neck first.”
I sat up. “Very well, Mr. Ritchard,” I said, “but I fear you’re too late. Young Maury’s marital prospects aren’t looking especially good at the moment.”
“Holy Christ,” he said. “You sound just like Jeremy Irons.”
“Not quite. I’m afraid I picked up a fair number of mid-Atlantic locutions from Mr. Carabas.”
“What did you mean, Maury’s marital prospects aren’t looking good? Is that Morlock girl getting tired of him already?”
“All indications are that Ms. Morlock is still besotted with him,” I replied, “but that may not matter in the end. Her father’s probably already poking around doing background checks on Maury, and when he finds out how impoverished he is, he’s not likely to consider him a fit mate for his daughter.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being broke.”
“There is if you’ve led someone to believe otherwise.”
Mr. Ritchard shook his head. “He can’t be that broke if he’s living here.”
“He’s living here well over his head, I assure you. Mr. Morlock is well aware that Maury’s riches don’t come anywhere close to equaling his own—that’s not the problem. The problem is that he believes Maury to be far more prosperous than he is. When he finds out—”
“I can guess,” Mr. Ritchard interrupted. “He’s going to think Maury’s a gold digger. He’ll make sure they don’t get married after all.”
“Exactly.” I kept myself still and restrained myself from flicking my tail, but my mind was racing. Magnus Ritchard could not be here on the Agency’s behalf; he had something else in mind. I didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, or who was behind him, but he wouldn’t be the first mole or double agent who had infiltrated our intelligence agencies, or the first who had decided a foreign power could reward him more lavishly than his own country.
“That’s too bad,” he muttered ominously, and I smelled danger. He had threatened me; now that I was useless to him, he might already be plotting how to get rid of me.
“About the most we can hope for,” I said, “is that when Mr. Morlock learns the truth, he offers Maury a nice chunk of change to get out of Desirée’s life.”
“That wouldn’t exactly serve my purposes.”
“What I meant is that Maury, being the kind of fellow he is, would almost certainly turn the money down. And at that point, perhaps Mr. Morlock would be moved enough by his sincerity to relent.”
Mr. Ritchard scowled. “I don’t know if Morlock is that sentimental.”
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings,” I said, “but whatever plans the Agency might have for Maury may have to be abandoned.” Despite my words, I was now sure that Magnus Ritchard was not here on the Agency’s business, and kept my eyes on him, watching for any sudden and threatening moves on his part. “It’s a pity we can’t just magically make large sums appear in his accounts.”
Mr. Ritchard was silent for a while. “Is that what it would take?” he asked. “Just making it look like he has a fat wad tucked away?”
I sensed then that I was on to something; maybe I could use this man for my own ends. “Well, yes,” I said. “If only Mr. Morlock’s background checks could turn up a few million in accounts and investments in Maury’s name, we’d be home free. But it’s useless to hope. I feel badly about that, Mr. Ritchard, you know that I’d do anything I could for you and the Agency, but…”
“I might be able to handle this.” He rubbed his chin. “I can get the money wired to me, since it would only be a loan. Maury won’t need it once he gets past Morlock’s background checks.”
“True enough.”
“It’d be well worth it to me. I just about promised that I could pull this off, get somebody into Morlock’s group. I just didn’t tell anybody how I was going to do it. I’ll get the money, Angleton, and open the accounts myself, and back-date the records so it looks like Maury’s had it for a while.”
“That would be most advisable.” I stretched myself, then settled down on the floor once more. “And I’ll have to verify that those accounts actually exist.”
“I’ll bring you all of the passwords.” He glanced at the computer. “You can go online and check out the accounts for yourself. When you let me know Maury’s passed muster with Morlock, I’ll close them out. And then you and I will stay in touch on a regular basis, and you’ll follow my instructions, or—” He let the word hang in the air.
“I assume,” I said, “that I should tell Maury nothing about this arrangement.”
“You are a smart little kitty.” He stood up. “Just make sure you don’t let me down.”
“I have no intention of doing so. Maury will be back in Washington by next weekend. When do you plan to return here with verification that the accounts have been opened in his name?”
Mr. Ritchard thrust his hands inside the pockets of his coat. “I think I can get it settled by Friday.”
“Then come back here after dark. I assume that you can find your way in here again.”
“See you then, Angleton. Just don’t try to cross me. You wouldn’t care for the consequences to you and Maury if you do.”
* * * *
I slept restlessly the next day, my thoughts roiling as I tossed and turned on my favorite cushion. Magnus Ritchard had to be in the employ of a foreign intelligence service. That was the only way he could have arranged for Maury to be worth a few million on a temporary basis so quickly; the red tape required by the Agency would never have allowed for such a rapid transfer of funds. Someone wanted to plant an operative at the heart of Roland Morlock’s media empire. For what purpose, I did not know, but could safely assume that the purpose was not to improve television news coverage, produce finer motion pictures, or publish only the best of the world’s literature.
What could I do to foil Ritchard’s plans? I could not reveal my secret to Desirée’s bodyguard Jeffrey and enlist him as my protector. Maury, however devoted to me, would also be of little use in solving my dilemma. No one at the Agency was likely to take the word of a talking cat over one of their most trusted operatives, and Ritchard would probably see that I ended up in a government laboratory for my pains. I could pretend to fall in with Ritchard’s plans, and string him along for a while, but there would be hell to pay when he discovered my deception; I took his threats quite seriously.
I could rely only on myself. Realizing that plunged me into a deep well of despair and helplessness. I was unable to eat, even when Jeffrey set down my favorite foods, unable to emit even the faintest of purrs while he combed my fur. Magnus Ritchard had as much as said that no one else knew about me, either at the Agency or among his foreign contacts; admitting that he would be working through a talking cat would have done little to establish his credibility.
The conclusion was inescapable: I could thwart Ritchard’s plans only by getting rid of him entirely. But if I succeeded in that, I would erase any tracks that might lead his co-conspirators to me and to Maury.
The cloud of despair lifted a little at that thought. I forced myself up and padded through the apartment, working myself up to a run, flexing my muscles. My task was a dangerous one, but surely no riskier than my foray into the Middle East would have been.
After all, I was a cat, and therefore a
superior creature, wasn’t I?
* * * *
Magnus Ritchard returned at the appointed time on Friday. He had memorized the passwords for Maury’s temporary accounts, had me recite them, then allowed me to sit on his lap while he accessed the accounts on the computer. The figures scrolling up on the monitor revealed that Maury now had a net worth of some nine million dollars.
“That should be enough to satisfy Mr. Morlock,” I said as the Windows desktop reappeared on the screen. “If he completes his background checks before Christmas, and if Maury and Ms. Morlock are officially engaged by New Year’s, you can close out the accounts early in January.”
“It might be safer to make sure they’re married first.”
“They’re likely to proceed to the wedding quite rapidly,” I said. “Ms. Morlock is quite impetuous, and her father is increasingly anxious to see her settled.” I hopped down from his lap. “If you’d care to toast our new arrangement, there’s some Scotch in the cabinet over the kitchen sink. And you might set out a can of salmon for me.”
“I think I’d better be on my way.”
“Then perhaps you can do me a favor,” I said. “I’ve been cooped up in here all week, and wouldn’t mind getting a little air. Could you open the door to the balcony for me?”
“It’s December, Angleton.”
“Just for a minute or two. Cold weather doesn’t bother me, what with all this fur, and I do need to stretch my legs.”
“Fine.” Ritchard shrugged back into his coat and walked toward the balcony, with me at his heels. He opened the door; I took a breath as we stepped outside. The weather was colder than I had expected, the balcony dusted with a light covering of snow.
I bounded across the balcony and hopped up onto the ledge. “God,” Ritchard said as he came up behind me, “it’s cold as hell out here.” He was close enough to me now; his hands rested on the ledge next to me, and he had leaned forward slightly. I reared up on my back legs, extended my claws, and leaped at his face, aiming for his eyes.
He was too fast for me. His arm came up, swatting me, and then I was suddenly falling from the balcony. A gust of wind caught me from below; I spread my limbs as something hard rushed up to meet me. For a moment, I hung from the bare bough of a tree, until my claws lost their grip. I continued to fall, was briefly captured by another branch, and finally came to rest on a thick wooden limb.
I lay there for a long time, afraid to move, then tentatively stretched my front legs. Apparently I was unhurt; the tree had broken my fall. Relief swept through me, raising my fur; I backed halfway down the tree, then leaped to the ground.
Above me, lights shone from the concave grill of Watergate South. If I circled the building and made my way to the front entrance, either the doorman or a resident returning home was likely to see me, and my tag would tell them where I belonged. I padded over the thin layer of snow, felt the cold against my paws, then thought of Magnus Ritchard.
I had failed Maury, and wondered what would happen now. Perhaps Ritchard assumed that I had met my demise, and had already vacated our quarters. Perhaps he took nothing for granted, and was already looking for me.
In the distance, I heard the sound of many human voices. A group of people bearing objects of light in their hands came around the side of the building. They were singing, and I paused for a moment to listen to their words. “Silent night,” they sang, “holy night, all is calm, all is bright.”
Then a beam of light shot toward me; I froze, blinded by the light. A second later, a piercing voice called out, “It’s a lost cat!”
I narrowed my eyes. “The poor thing,” another person called out. The group of singers was coming toward me, and then I saw the shadowy form of another human being rush up from behind them.
“I think that’s my cat,” the newcomer said, and I recognized the voice of Magnus Ritchard.
I turned and ran, heedless of where I was headed, until I glimpsed a parkway and, just beyond it, the wrinkled dark surface of the Potomac. The sound of the traffic was a muffled roar. I crept down to the parkway, flattening my ears as the roaring grew louder, then looked back.
The singers were small black shapes and patches of light against the serpentine curve of Watergate South. Magnus Ritchard was a large shadow with flapping arms bearing down on me; I hadn’t realized he was so close.
“Angleton,” he shouted, “you won’t get away from me.”
Terrified, I fled onto the parkway. Bright circles of light swelled as they rushed toward me; the shrieks and roars of motor vehicles nearly deafened me. Somehow I reached the other side of the thoroughfare unscathed.
Ahead of me lay the river. I looked around frantically for another escape route. An odd screaming sound came to me, and then the sound of a loud moist slap.
I crept toward the parkway. The roaring sound was fading; vehicles slowed, then came to a stop, their eyes of light still aglow. The dark shape of Magnus Ritchard lay in the road, unmoving, looking as though a giant arm had scooped him up and thrown him there.
* * * *
I was able to make my way back across the parkway and around to the front of our building. By then, I was shivering from both nerves and the cold, and was far too weak to call attention to myself. It was my good fortune that a neighbor of Maury’s found me lying there and brought me to the attention of the night doorman, who wrapped me in a blanket and got a few drops of warm soup down my throat before I fell into a deep sleep.
Maury returned home the next day. By then, I had been brought to our apartment, and Jeffrey, summoned there by our building’s manager, was nursing me back to health.
“Well, little buddy,” Maury said to me after Jeffrey had left us, “I heard all about your adventure. Maybe you can tell me just how you managed to get outside.”
I considered how much to tell him. With Magnus Ritchard out of the way, there was no need to reveal the whole story.
“It would be wise of you,” I began, “to advise the managers of this complex that their security procedures should be tightened. Somehow an intruder was able to get into this apartment. While searching the place for something to steal, he opened the door to our balcony and stepped outside. Perhaps he wanted some air, or to take in the view.”
“Maybe he wanted to listen to some Christmas carols,” Maury said. “The doorman said there was a bunch of carolers here from George Washington University last night. I mean, even burglars probably have some holiday spirit.”
“In any case, I slipped outside while the door was open, only to be trapped on the balcony when the door was closed again behind me. Knowing that I would surely suffer from exposure to the cold air if I remained out there for too long, I forced myself to leap from the railing, hoping that the trees below would break my fall. After that, I was luckily able to get to our building’s entrance.”
“You’re a tough little guy, Angleton.” He gave me a hug. “Got to admit it. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Anyway, it doesn’t look like anything was stolen, not that I have that much to steal.” He hugged me again. “You could have been killed. I heard there was an accident on the parkway last night. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
“Maury,” I said, “I urge you to plight your troth to Ms. Morlock as soon as possible. I think your courtship has lasted quite long enough.”
“I think so, too, and Desirée’d marry me in a second. But what happens when her old man finds out I’m broke?”
“You needn’t worry about that,” I murmured. “I predict that he’ll welcome you into his family with open arms after his background checks are completed. Let’s just say that your assets may be greater than you think.”
* * * *
Maury and Desirée were married that winter, in a hastily organized but lavish ceremony at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, followed by a reception at the Plaza. Not long after that, Maury began his meteoric ris
e through the executive ranks of Morlock Enterprises. Although Maury benefitted from my advice, and was soon a well-known public figure through his frequent appearances on radio and television talk shows, celebrity-filled social galas, charity events, and political fund-raisers, it soon became clear to Mr. Morlock that his son-in-law’s particular gifts were perhaps better suited to some other occupation than that of managing a media conglomerate.
Which is why now, four years after leaving Washington, Maury and Desirée and I are returning to that city. Much as I’ve enjoyed our time in Manhattan, with my own suite of rooms in our domicile, I am looking forward to taking up residence on my old territory. As I was Maury’s chief campaign advisor, I can claim some of the credit for his victory, although he might not so easily have won election to the Senate without the vast resources of the Morlock fortune to aid his quest.
To celebrate his victory, Maury bought me a handcrafted pair of red leather Italian boots, which may seem a rather odd, even kinky, accessory for a cat. But my back legs have never been quite the same since my terrified flight from Magnus Ritchard, and I find that a soft pair of boots eases my aches and pains considerably. I’ve grown more solicitous of my health lately, controlling my intake of treats, working out on my treadmill, chasing catnip mice thrown to me by Desirée. With the opportunities that now lie ahead for Maury, I plan to be around long enough to wear my boots in the White House as First Cat.
Afterword to “Puss in D.C.”
When John Helfers and Martin H. Greenberg asked me for a story for Little Red Riding Hood in the Big Bad City, an anthology of classic fairy tales retold for modern readers, my inspiration for the story had four sources. One was a recent trip to Washington, D.C. and the second was current events; misleading reports about nonexistent “weapons of mass destruction” were at the time leading up to what would become a disastrous war with Iraq. The third inspiration was our cat Spencer, a long-furred tuxedo cat with all of Angleton’s arrogance, who died in 2000 after a very long and largely happy life of some seventeen years. If Spencer had possessed the power of speech, he would have sounded a lot like Angleton, and I suspect that in his younger years he would have been more than willing to risk even such a dangerous challenge as assassinating a dictator; I had seen him confront dogs who were five times his size and even intimidate our human neighbors with his fierce green stare. And the classic fairy tale of Puss in Boots seemed the perfect way to unite all of these elements while retelling the story of the young man and the brilliant talking cat who secures their fortune.
Puss in D.C. and Other Stories Page 4