ONE gazed into Phut Phat’s eyes. “Did the phone ring tonight while we were out, Phuffy?” she asked, shaking him lovingly. “If only Phut Phat could tell us what happened! He must have had a terrifying experience. Thank heaven he wasn’t harmed.”
Phut Phat raised his paw to lick between his toes, still defiled with human blood.
“If only Phuffy could tell us who was here!”
Phut Phat paused with toes spread and pink tongue extended. He stared at ONE’s forehead.
“Have you folks noticed any strangers in the neighborhood?” the lieutenant was asking. “Anyone who would arouse suspicion?”
Phut Phat’s body tensed, and his blue eyes, brimming with knowledge, bored into that spot above ONE’s eyebrows.
“I can’t think of anyone. Can you, John?”
TWO shook his head.
“Poor Phuffy,” said ONE. “See how he stares at me; he must be hungry. Does Phuffy want a little snack?”
The cat squirmed.
“About those bloodstains on the windowsill,” said the detective. “Would the cat attack anyone viciously enough to draw blood?”
“Heavens, no!” said ONE. “He’s just a pampered little house pet. We found him hiding under the bed, scared stiff.”
“And you’re sure you can’t remember any unusual incident lately? Has anyone come to the house who might have seen the silver or jewelry? Repairman? Window washer?”
“I wish I could be more helpful,” said ONE, “but honestly, I can’t think of a single suspect.”
Phut Phat gave up!
Wriggling free, he jumped down from ONE’s lap and walked toward the door with head depressed and hind legs stiff with disgust. He knew who it was. He knew! The man with the shiny stick. But it was useless to try to communicate. The human mind was so tightly closed that nothing important would ever penetrate. And ONE was so busy with her own chatter that her mind …
The jingle of keys caught Phut Phat’s attention. He turned and saw TWO swinging his key chain back and forth, back and forth, and saying nothing. TWO always did more thinking than talking. Perhaps Phut Phat had been trying to communicate with the wrong mind. Perhaps TWO was really Number One in the household and ONE was Number Two.
Phut Phat froze in his position of concentration, sitting tall and compact with tail stiff. The key chain swung back and forth, and Phut Phat fastened his blue eyes on three wrinkles just underneath TWO’s hairline. He concentrated. The key chain swung back and forth, back and forth. Phut Phat kept concentrating.
“Wait a minute,” said TWO, coming out of his puzzled silence. “I just thought of something. Helen, remember that party we gave a couple of weeks ago? There was one guest we couldn’t account for—a man with a silver cane.”
“Why, yes! He was curious about the coop on the fire escape. Why didn’t I think of him? Lieutenant, he was terribly interested in our silver collection.”
TWO said:“Does that suggest anything to you, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, it does.” The detective exchanged nods with his partner.
“This man,” ONE volunteered, “had a very cultivated voice and a charming manner. He walked with a limp.”
“We know him,” the detective said grimly. “The limp is phony. We know his method and what you tell us fits perfectly. But we didn’t know he was operating in this neighborhood again.”
ONE said:“What mystifies me is the blood on the windowsill.”
Phut Phat arched his body in a long, luxurious stretch and walked from the room, looking for a soft, dark, quiet place. Now he would sleep. He felt relaxed and satisfied. He had made vital contact with a human mind, and perhaps—after all—there was hope. Some day they might learn the system, learn to open their minds and receive. They had a long way to go before they realized their potential. But there was hope.
WEEKEND OF THE BIG PUDDLE
Ghosts were no novelty to Percy. In England, his birthplace, they had them all the time. But British ghosts had always shown their good breeding; the uncouth pair that turned up at Percy’s summer residence in Michigan left him outraged and chagrined.
Percy was a comfortable middle-aged bachelor with quiet tastes and fastidious habits, who distributed his contempt equally among small children, yipping dogs, and noisy adults. His own manners were impeccable, his reputation blameless. In fact, Percy would have been considered somewhat stuffy, had he been a man. Being a cat, he was admired for his good behavior.
He was a portly silver tabby with a gray-and-black coat patterned as precisely as a butterfly’s wing. Something about his strong, fierce face gave an impression of integrity, rather like a benevolent man-eating tiger.
Percy spent summer weekends at a rustic chalet in the north woods—on the shore of the exclusive Big Pine Lake. Here he dozed away the hours in the company of Cornelius and Margaret or stared unblinking at the placid lake.
Cornelius was a comfortable middle-aged attorney with equally quiet tastes. He too was portly and had Percy’s look of integrity. On weekends Cornelius worked jigsaw puzzles, took untaxing strolls with his wife, or went through the motions of fishing. Margaret knitted sweaters or puttered lovingly in the push-button kitchen. When they entertained, their guests were calm, temperate, and middle-aged, with no great desire to exert themselves. Everything was quite civilized and dull—the way Percy liked it—until the weekend of the big puddle.
Bill Diddleton and his wife had been invited to spend Saturday and Sunday at the chalet. The bar was stocked with the expensive brands that Cornelius took pride in serving, and the refrigerator contained Margaret’s specialties: shrimp bisque, veal in aspic, and blueberry buckle. Her chief delight was the feeding of guests; for Cornelius the greatest pleasure came when he tied on a chef’s apron and broiled the steaks that he ordered from Texas.
“I wonder what Bill’s new wife will be like,” Margaret murmured over her knitting as they awaited the arrival of the Diddletons. “I hope she appreciates good food.”
“A piece of this puzzle is missing,” said Cornelius, frowning at a jigsaw version of the Mona Lisa.
“It’s under your left foot, dear. Do you think Percy will object to Bill? He’s rather a boisterous character.”
At the sound of his name Percy raised his head. He noticed the ball of yarn unwinding, but it failed to tempt him. He never disturbed Margaret’s knitting or Cornelius’s jigsaw puzzles.
The man beamed a brotherly smile at the silver tabby.“Percy, the gentleman you are about to meet is an excellent client of mine, and we shall all endeavor to tolerate his bombast for thirty-six hours.”
Percy squeezed his eyes in casual consent, but when the Diddletons arrived, shouting and squealing and creating a general uproar, he retired to the balcony where he could observe from a discreet distance.
The woman, small and nervous, spoke in a shrill voice, and Percy put her in the classification with small yipping dogs. Nevertheless, he stared in fascination at her jewelry, which flashed in the shafts of sunlight slanting into the chalet. The man was muscular, arrogant, and active, like some of the boxer dogs Percy had encountered. The silver tabby had strong opinions about that particular breed.
Upon entering the chalet Bill Diddleton caught sight of a horizontal beam spanning the living room, and he jumped up and hand-walked the length of it. The irregularity of this conduct made Percy squirm uncomfortably.
“Well, well!” said Cornelius in his best genial tone. “After that exhibition of athletic prowess I daresay you are ready for a drink, my boy. And what is Mrs. Diddleton’s pleasure, may I ask?”
“Call me Deedee,” she said.
“Indeed! So I shall. Now, might I offer you a fine eighteen-year-old Scotch?”
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Bill. “Just show me the bar and I’ll mix you a drink you’ll never forget. Got any tomato juice?”
“Bill’s famous for this cute drink,” said his wife. “It’s tomato juice, ginger ale, Scotch, and …” Rolling her eyes upward to recollect the fourth ingredient, she shrieked. A disembodied head with staring eyes was wedged between the balusters of the balcony railing.