“Absolutely, Dooley,” said Odelia. She looked distracted, though.
Somehow I had a feeling it was going to be up to us to save Harriet from the clutches of her catnapper!
CHAPTER 24
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]
That night, we decided to enlist the assistance of the members of cat choir to organize a search and rescue operation the likes of which Hampton Cove has never seen. Of course when we told our friends what had happened they were all appalled, as they should have been, since this kind of thing can happen to anyone, Persian or no Persian.
“We have to save her from this madman,” said Kingman. “If they take Harriet today, they’ll come for the rest of us tomorrow, and then where will we be?”
“And as usual you can’t rely on the police,” said Buster, the hairdresser’s cat.
“I think it’s a sign of the dangerous times we live in,” said Tigger, the plumber’s cat.
“It’s all those violent video games,” was Misty’s opinion, the electrician’s cat.
“And those violent movies!” said Missy, the landscaper’s cat.
“I’m sure it’s hormones,” said Shadow. She belongs to Franklin Beaver, the man who runs the hardware store. “There are way too many hormones in human food.”
“And I think it’s typical that it’s a man,” said Shanille, cat choir’s conductor. “Only men take the trouble to kidnap a female for their own personal enjoyment.”
“I think he wants Harriet to feature in videos he’ll put up on his YouTube channel,” I said. “Painting and such. He says it’s very soothing.”
“Well, it may be soothing to him, but why should his personal enjoyment require a dear friend to be unlawfully imprisoned like this?” Shanille insisted.
“Oh, no,” I said. “You’re absolutely right.”
“And what I want to know,” Shanille continued, “is where Brutus was when all this happened. After all, he’s Harriet’s partner. He has a duty of care!”
“It all happened so fast that it was simply impossible to—”
“You should have been more alert, Max,” said Shanille, giving me a censorious look. “I blame it on your diet. It has made you lazy and slow. I mean, who has ever heard of a human that can outrun a cat! It’s a disgrace! No, the only reason you were hoodwinked like this is because you were asleep at the wheel.”
“Max wasn’t at the wheel,” Dooley commented, but Shanille ignored him.
“Personally I blame Odelia,” she now stated. “And Marge and Vesta. If they had warned Harriet never to talk to strangers, this would never have happened.”
“The thing is that the catnapper never actually talked to us,” I pointed out.
“It’s television,” said Missy. “The things they show on television these days. It’s all just blood and violence and gore. No wonder humans turn into animals.”
“Okay, so maybe we can start our search now?” I suggested, interrupting these academic discussions, interesting though they were, of course.
“Yes, for all we know, he could be murdering Harriet right now,” said Dooley.
That effectively shut everyone up, and so we finally set out for the house of Gallagher Davenport, in search of our dear friend.
We arrived at the spooky place, and the mere sight of that spiked fence did much to discourage the members of cat choir, but of course we’re all made of sterner stuff, and so we persisted, and soon were spreading out and covering the grounds, with a large contingent entering the house through the front door, which was still wide open, as the official police search hadn’t yet been concluded.
“I wonder where Brutus is,” said Dooley as we walked across a creaking wooden floor, sniffing here and there to pick up Harriet’s scent, still our best bet to find her.
“He’s around here somewhere,” I said, sniffing at a particularly old cupboard that must have been built by one of Davenport’s forebears.
“Max! Dooley!” suddenly Shanille shouted. “I think I found her!”
We all hurried to join our director, and found her standing in front of one of the stuffed Persians, which managed to look both sad and ominous.
“We’re too late,” Shanille said in a choked voice. “She’s already been stuffed!”
“This isn’t Harriet, though,” I told her.
“It isn’t?”
“No, this guy has plenty of Persians scattered about the place, all stuffed. But none of them are Harriet.”
“But if we wait too long, she might get stuffed soon!” Dooley added his two cents to the bargain.
It instilled in us a renewed sense of urgency, and so we spread out once more, poking around here and there.
Finally we found ourselves at the top of the stairs once more, the ones that led down into that wine cellar.
“We already searched down there,” Dooley reminded me.
“I know, but we searched every other place in this place, and came up empty-pawed.”
“Maybe we missed something?” Dooley suggested, and so we descended those rickety stairs for the second time in one evening, a testament to our persistence.
We found Buster down there, sniffing at a large stuffed Persian, which looked very angry indeed.
“Excellent job,” said Buster. “He must have sent her to the pet salon before he stuffed her. Not a single hair out of place. Very nice work.” You can take a hairdresser’s cat out of the hair salon, but you can’t take the hair salon out of a hairdresser’s cat, so to speak.
“Max!” Dooley suddenly cried. “Over here! I think I’ve got something!”
We found him at the back of the basement, near a wall that was covered in some species of green and black moldy residue. It had the consistency of French cheese, though it probably didn’t taste like it. But it wasn’t the mold that had attracted my friend’s attention. It was the wine rack directly in front of it. He was intently sniffing at those wine bottles, like a connoisseur about to open a bottle and take a sniff and a sip, then spit it out again. “Take a sniff,” hesaid, and so I did. And indeed I thought I detected a very familiar scent. The scent of a friend!
“It’s this wine rack,” said Buster. “I’ll bet it covers a door.”
“But how to move it?” I asked.
Just then, Brutus came up behind us, looking dusty and tired.
“What you got there, buddies?” he asked.
“We think we found a trace,” I told him, and saw him perk up right before our eyes.
“We have to give this wine rack a shove,” said Buster. “Can you put your back into it, Brutus?”
“Can I!” the big sturdy cat growled, and immediately put paid to his words by giving the rack of expensive wines such a hefty shove that the whole thing simply collapsed to the floor, dozens of bottles shattering to pieces, and the precious liquid splashing across the old stone floor.
And lo and behold: another staircase loomed before our eyes, a gaping black hole that led down into a deeper level, located underneath the basement.
We didn’t hesitate one moment, but immediately descended into the abyss, Brutus leading the way, eager as can be, with Buster picking up the rear.
When our paws hit terra firma once more, we discovered we’d arrived in a sort of dungeon, complete with vaulted ceiling, even darker, dingier and creepier than the rest of the place. What I disliked most was that ceiling: it was blackened with age, and somehow gave me the impression it might collapse on top of us!
But then, as we ventured deeper into the dungeon, I forgot all about the ceiling when I caught sight of Harriet. Our friend was humming… and painting!
CHAPTER 25
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]
By the light of a single bulb, our dear friend was slaving away at what looked like one of her famous paw paintings. Her otherwise pristinely white paws were now flecked with a multitude of different colors, and against the wall dozens of paintings hung, all painted according to her very unique paw-painting technique.
“Oh, hey, you guys,” she said when she finally noticed she was no longer alone. She waved a generous paw, encompassing her surroundings. “Took you long enough to find me! Welcome to my studio. This is where the magic happens! Take a load off your paws, make yourselves comfortable, and watch me create my art!”