“But, ma, what would one guy want with five cats? We had four besides Miss Weyburn’s. Did he say what he wanted them for?”
Ma leaned her elbows on the counter. “He wanted a dozen,” she said. “Like I told you. And he said he had a big farm and it was overrun with field mice, and that he liked cats and decided to get several of them while he was at it.”
I looked at her aghast. “The Siamese? Don’t tell me he paid twenty-five bucks for that Siamese to hunt mice on a farm?”
“Phil, you know that cat was only three-quarters Siamese,” said ma, “and that you told me to take fifteen, or even less, if we could get it. And the others were all ordinary cats, and he offered twenty-five for the five of them and I took it.”
“But haven’t you any idea who he was, or where his farm is, or anything about him?”
“Hm-m-m,” said ma thoughtfully. “He said his name was—yes, that was it, Smith. Didn’t mention his first name. Nor where he lived. Let’s see—he was short and stocky, about the size and build of Mr. Workus, say. But he was bald; he didn’t wear a hat. And he had a reddish mustache and wore dark glasses.”
“That sounds like a disguise,” said Miss Weyburn.
Ma blinked. “Why should anyone disguise himself to buy cats?”
“But, ma,” I protested, “there must have been something screwy about the guy. Dark glasses and a name like ‘Smith’ and— Heck, if he wanted cats for mousing, he could have got ‘em for nothing. Why pay a fancy price?”
I turned to our customer. “Listen, Miss Weyburn,” I said, “I’ll check into this, and I’ll find your cat, if it’s possible. But if I can’t—well, were you awfully attached to it? Or if I got you a beautiful thoroughbred Angora or Siamese kitten, would you be—”
Tears were running down her cheeks, and I said hastily, “Please don’t cry! If it’s that important, I’ll find your cat if I have to…to go to China for it. And if I don’t, you can have our whole store, and—” And me with it, I wanted to say, but it didn’t seem the proper time and place to say it.
“I don’t want your d-darned store. I want—”
“Listen, ma,” I said, “you’ll watch the store for the rest of the day, won’t you? I’m going out to hunt—”
“Sure, Phil.” Ma gave me a knowing look. “But first you go back and finish currying that pony, and let me talk to Miss Weyburn.”
I got the idea, because we didn’t have a pony to curry. So I made myself scarce out the back door for about ten minutes, and gave ma a chance to stop the girl crying. Ma can talk; she can convince almost anybody of almost anything, and when I came in again the girl wasn’t crying, and she looked less mad and more cheerful.
“Well,” I said, “if you’ll tell me where I can get in touch with you, miss, I’ll let you know the minute I find—”
“I’m going with you,” she interrupted. And I didn’t object to that, at all. I said, “That’s swell. I’ll get the car out of the garage and bring it around front.”
And five minutes later, we were driving downtown. First, we stopped at the offices of the two local newspapers and arranged to put in ads addressed to a Mr. Smith who had purchased five cats the day before.
And then I turned the car down Barclay Street.
“Where are we going now?” Miss Weyburn wanted to know.
“Police station,” I told her. “Those personal ads were just in case this Smith guy is what he said he was. But there seems to be a faint smell of fish about a guy wanting a dozen cats, and it’s just possible that the police may know of him as a nut, or something.”
“But—”
“It won’t cost anything to try, will it?” I pointed out. “And Lieutenant Granville is a good friend of mine. If he’s in—”
And he was. We walked into his office and I said, “Hi, Hank. This is Miss Weyburn. We wanted to talk about a cat. Her cat. A small gray—”
“Stolen?”
“Well, not exactly. I mean if it was, I’m the one who stole it. I was boarding it for her and it was sold by mistake.”
Hank glowered at me. “I got real trouble. I’m working on a murder case that happened night before last and there aren’t any leads and we’re against a blank wall, and you come in and want me to hunt a cat.”
“If you’re up against a blank wall,” I pointed out, quite reasonably, “then there’s nothing you can do for the moment, and you might as well be human and listen to us.”
“Shut up,” said Hank. “Miss Weyburn, if Phil sold a cat that belongs to you, he’s responsible. Do you want to bring charges against him?”
“N-no.”
Hank looked at me again. “Well, then what do you want me to do?”
“You yahoo,” I said, “I want you to listen. And then, if possible, be helpful.” And before he could interrupt again, I managed to tell him the story.
He looked thoughtful. “Checked the pound yet?”
“Why, no—but why would anyone buy a cat, or cats, and then take them to the pound?”
“Not that, Phil. But the guy might have tried to get cats there. You said he originally wanted a dozen. Well, it sounds silly to buy cats by the dozen, but it’s not illegal. Anyway, he got only five from you. Maybe he kept on trying, or maybe he’d been to the pound first. Maybe he left his address there.”
I nodded. “Thanks,” I said. “That might be a lead. Hank, I knew there must be some reason why they made you a detective. We’ll go to the pound, and we’ll go to Workus’ pet shop, too. And meanwhile, if you should happen to hear anything—”
“Sure,” Hank agreed. “I’ll let you know. And, Miss Weyburn, anytime you want to have this guy here put in jail, just let me know and sign a complaint, and I’ll be glad to—”
But I got the girl out before Hank could give her any more ideas, and when we got out of the station, I glanced at my watch and saw that it was after noon.
So we stopped in the restaurant across the street, and when we’d ordered, she asked, “Who is this Mr. Workus you mentioned?”
“He runs the other pet shop in town,” I explained. “If this Smith wasn’t satisfied with five cats, he probably went there next. Anyway, we’ll try.”
“And if he didn’t leave an address at the pound or at the other pet shop?”
Well, she had me there, but I ducked answering, and tried to keep the conversation on more cheerful topics while we ate.
Hank strolled into the restaurant while we were having coffee, and I motioned him over to a seat at our table. He grinned and said, “Well, any more news on the cat-astrophe?”
“This isn’t funny,” I told him. “Miss Weyburn is attached to that cat. That beagle I sold you last fall, Hank—would you think it a joke if something happened to it?”
He reddened a bit and said, “Sorry, Miss Weyburn. I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s all right, lieutenant,” she said. “What’s the important case you’re working on?”
“Guy named Blake. Somebody burglarized the Dean laboratories night before last. Blake was the watchman, and they killed him.”
“Laboratories?” I asked. “What’d they steal?”
Hank shook his head. “We haven’t made a check-up yet; not thorough enough to tell if anything gone. But there isn’t a single clue. Even the F.B.I, men—” He broke off.
“Huh?” I said. “What would the F.B.I, be doing on a burglary-and-murder case?”
Hank looked uncomfortable. He said. “They aren’t here on that. Something else. I didn’t mean that the Dean burglary was an F.B.I, case.”
“In other words,” I suggested, “do I think it will rain tomorrow?”
He grinned sheepishly. “That’s the general idea.”
By that time the waitress was there to take Hank’s order, and Miss Weyburn and I left and headed first for the pound. We drew a blank. They hadn’t had any cats for several days. There’d been two inquiries about cats the day before, but both by phone calls, and no record had been made. Nor could the man who’d taken the calls remember any helpful details.