After this upset in the household routine Phut Phat needed several days to catch up on his rest, so the coming week was a sleepy blur. But soon it was Sunday again, with creamed liver for breakfast, Sunday papers scattered over the floor, and everyone lounging around being pleasantly routine.
“Phuffy! Don’t roll on those newspapers,” said ONE. “John, the ink rubs off on his fur. Give him theWall Street Journal; it’s cleaner.”
“Maybe he’d like to go out into his coop and get some sun.”
“That reminds me, dear. Who was that charming man with the silver cane at our party? I didn’t catch his name.”
“I don’t know,” said TWO. “I thought he was someone you invited.”
“Well, he must have come with one of the other guests. At any rate, he was interested in getting a coop like ours. He has a longhaired torty. And did I tell you the Hendersons have two Burmese kittens? They want us to go over and see them next Sunday and have a drink.”
Another week passed, during which Phut Phat discovered a new perch. He found he could jump to the top of an antique armoire—a towering piece of furniture in the hall outside the library. Otherwise it was a routine week, followed by a routine weekend, and Phut Phat was content.
ONE and TWO were going out on Sunday evening to see the Burmese kittens, so Phut Phat was served an early dinner, after which he fell asleep on the library sofa.
When the telephone rang and waked him, it was dark and he was alone. He raised his head and chattered at the instrument until it stopped its noise. Then he went back to sleep, chin on paw.
The second time the telephone started ringing, Phut Phat stood up and scolded it, arching his body in a vertical stretch and making a question mark with his tail. To express his annoyance he hopped on the desk and sharpened his claws onWebster’s Unabridged. Then he spent quite some time chewing on a leather bookmark. After that he felt thirsty. He sauntered toward the powder room for a drink.
No lights were on, and no moonlight came through the windows, yet he moved through the dark rooms with assurance, sidestepping table legs and stopping to examine infinitesimal particles on the hall carpet. Nothing escaped his attention.
Phut Phat was lapping water, the tip of his tail was waving rapturously, when something caused him to raise his head and listen. His tail froze. Sparrows in the backyard? Rain on the fire escape? There was silence again. He lowered his head and resumed his drinking.
A second time he was alerted. Something was happening that was not routine. His tail bushed like a squirrel’s, and with his whiskers full of alarm he stepped noiselessly into the hall, peering toward the library.
Someone was on the fire escape. Something was gnawing at the library window.
Petrified, he watched—until the window opened and a dark figure slipped into the room. With one lightning glide Phut Phat sprang to the top of the tall armoire.
There on his high perch, able to look down on the scene, he felt safe. But was it enough to feel safe? His ancestors had been watch-cats in Oriental temples centuries before. They had hidden in the shadows and crouched on high walls, ready to spring on any intruder and tear his face to ribbons—just as Phut Phat shredded the Sunday paper. A primitive instinct rose in his breast, but quickly it was quelled by civilized inhibitions.
The figure in the window advanced stealthily toward the hall, and Phut Phat experienced a sense of the familiar. It was the man with the shiny stick. This time, though, his presence smelled sinister. A small blue light now glowed from the head of the cane, and instead of leaning on it, the man pointed it ahead to guide his way out of the library and toward the staircase. As the intruder passed the armoire, Phut Phat’s fur rose to form a sharp ridge down his spine. Instinct said: “Spring at him!” But vague fears held him back.
With feline stealth the man moved downstairs, unaware of two glowing diamonds that watched him in the blackness, and Phut Phat soon heard noises in the dining room. He sensed evil. Safe on top of the armoire, he trembled.
When the man reappeared he was carrying a bulky load, which he took to the library window. Then he crept to the third floor, and there were muffled sounds in the bedroom. Phut Phat licked his nose in apprehension.
Now the man reappeared, following a pool of blue light. As he approached the armoire, Phut Phat shifted his feet, bracing himself against something invisible. He felt a powerful compulsion to attack, and yet a fearful dismay.
“Get him!” commanded a savage impulse within him.
“Stay!” warned the fright throbbing in his head.
“Get him! … Now … now … …NOW!”
Phut Phat sprang at the man’s head, ripping with razor claws wherever they sank into flesh.
The hideous scream that came from the intruder was like an electric shock; it sent Phut Phat sailing through space—up the stairs—into the bedroom—under the bed.
For a long time he quaked uncontrollably, his mouth parched and his ears inside-out with horror at what had happened. There was something strange and wrong about it, although its meaning eluded him. Waiting for time to heal his confusion, he huddled there in darkness and privacy. Blood soiled his claws. He sniffed with distaste and finally was compelled to lick them clean.
He did it slowly and with repugnance. Then he tucked his paws under his warm body and waited.
When ONE and TWO came home, he sensed their arrival even before the taxicab door slammed. He should have bounded to meet them, but the experience had left him in a daze, quivering internally, weak and unsure. He heard the rattle of the front door lock, feet climbing the stairs, and the click of the light switch in the room where he waited in bewilderment under the bed.
ONE gasped, then shrieked.“John! Someone’s been in this room. We’ve been robbed!”
TWO’s voice was incredulous. “How do you know?”
“My jewel case! Look! It’s open—and empty!”
TWO threw open a closet door.“Your furs are still here, Helen. What about money? Did you have any money in the house?”
“I never leave money around. But the silver! What about the silver? John, go down and see. I’m afraid to look … No! Wait a minute!” ONE’s voice rose in panic. “Where’s Phut Phat? What happened to Phut Phat?”
“I don’t know,” said TWO with alarm. “I haven’t seen him since we came in.”
They searched the house, calling his name—unaware, with their limited senses, that Phut Phat was right there under the bed, brooding over the upheaval in his small world, and now and then licking his claws.
When at last, crawling on their hands and knees, they spied two eyes glowing red under the bed, they drew him out gently. ONE hugged him with a rocking embrace and rubbed her face, wet and salty, on his fur, while TWO stood by, stroking him with a heavy hand. Comforted and reassured, Phut Phat stopped trembling. He tried to purr, but the shock had contracted his larynx.
ONE continued to hold Phut Phat in her arms—and he had no will to jump down—even after two strange men were admitted to the house. They asked questions and examined all the rooms.
“Everything is insured,” ONE told them, “but the silver is irreplaceable. It’s old and very rare. Is there any chance of getting it back, Lieutenant?” She fingered Phut Phat’s ears nervously.
“At this point it’s hard to say,” the detective said, “but you may be able to help us. Have you noticed any strange incidents lately? Any unusual telephone calls?”
“Yes,” said ONE. “Several times recently the phone has rung, and when we answered it, no one was there.”
“That’s the usual method. They wait until they know you’re not at home.”