Meanwhile, though, he could expand his knowledge of the countryside and the nearby town, and of the inhabitants of the town. The radio-television repairman had turned out to be a poor prospect, but there might be better ones. Even if not, one could not have too much knowledge.
So—the cats. The silent-footed, keen-eared cats that made such perfect spy-hosts.
The mind thing concentrated upon the concept cat.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday morning was cloudy in Bartlesville, and just before noon a slight drizzle of rain started to fall. Willie Chandler looked out of the window of his radio and television repair shop and was glad he’d brought a lunch and wouldn’t have to walk to the restaurant.
It was about the only thing he was glad about.
Business was poor and he was head over heels in debt. He’d made a bad mistake, three years ago, in believing that Bartlesville was large enough to support a repair shop for radio and television sets. Every family, almost, had a radio—but it was very seldom that anything went wrong with one. And there were few television sets; it was possible to get reception from Green Bay, but it was not too satisfactory at that distance. Even the few people who owned sets used them very little.
Willie Chandler was thirty-two; he was tall and lanky and wore shell-rimmed glasses. He had a cheerful smile and people nod him and gave him what repair business they had, but it just wasn’t enough to let him support himself and an invalid mother.
He had been born and raised in Bartlesville. His father had owned a not too prosperous feed business there and, after high school, he had worked in his father’s store until his father’s death.
But he had never liked the feed business, and had always been interested in radio; he had made his own sets as a boy and understood a little, at least, of how they worked. He had talked his mother into selling the feed store—the only valuable part of his father’s estate—and using part of the proceeds to send him to Chicago for four months to attend a technical school that taught radio and television repairing. His mother had not been an invalid then, so it had been all right for him to leave her that long. At the end of the course, most of the rest of his father’s money had gone into setting him up in business as a repairman.
The shop had never actually lost money, but it had earned pitifully little. A year later his mother had been partly paralyzed by a stroke, and doctor and hospital bills had taken the rest of her money. He had had to borrow several times from the bank and to stretch his credit to the breaking point with wholesalers to keep up his stock of tubes and other parts. Currently the shop brought him in barely enough to stave off foreclosure by paying interest on his loans, and to provide the absolute necessities of life for his mother and himself. At their home, a small rented cottage with the rent usually a month or two overdue, a neighbor came in to feed Mrs. Chandler at lunchtime; Willie did all the rest of the work himself.
Except for his mother, whom he could not leave and who was unable to travel, he knew he’d be much better off to let the bank and his creditors foreclose and take his stock and equipment. In a city such as Milwaukee or Minneapolis, he could get a job as assistant in a repair shop big enough to use more than one man and make more money than he was making now, a lot more. But unless her condition should improve, and that seemed unlikely, he was stuck with the status quo. He couldn’t even call the deal off and take a job in some other store in town, selling groceries or hardware or whatever, since there weren’t any such jobs open. He’d even talked to the man who’d bought the feed store and had learned that there was no chance of his getting back the job he’d had with his father. He knew nothing of farming, and even if he could get a job as a farmhand he wouldn’t make enough to take care of his mother in town; a good part of a farmhand’s wages were in the form of room and board.
He was stuck with doing the best he could with what he had, at least until someday his mother got well or— He loved his mother too much to think about the “or.”
He left the bleak view from his front window and went back to his workbench. He cleared space on it and opened the lunch he’d put up for himself that morning. Wrapped with a small thermos jar of hot coffee, there were two sandwiches. One was peanut butter and the other jelly; he’d been having to watch pennies for so long that he was used to such fare. Only on special occasions did he splurge on buying sandwich meat for a lunch. At home they seldom had meat other than hamburger, the cheapest kind, or a soup bone. Rent, both for the house and for the store, came first, and while he and his mother got enough to eat in quantity, it was seldom they could afford really good eating. The last really good eating he could remember had been for a month about three months ago when Walter Schroeder had been short of cash to pay for repairs to his television set and had offered him a smoked ham instead. It had been a twenty-pound ham and a real bargain for him, because he’d only replaced a couple of small tubes in the set and wouldn’t have charged Schroeder more than six dollars in cash. The ham had been worth twice that and they’d eaten well for almost a month.
He finished the peanut butter sandwich and most of the jelly one and was finishing the hot coffee when he heard a scratching sound and looked around to see where it came from.
A cat was sitting on the sill of the side window, scratching at the glass with one paw. It was a big black cat and it looked as wet and bedraggled as though it had been in swimming. He walked over to the window and looked at the cat at closer range. He didn’t recognize it as any cat he’d seen before. “Well, what do you want, cat?” he asked it. He liked cats.
This one looked gaunt and almost starved—although he realized that part of the reason for its looking that way was that the rain had plastered down its fur. As though in answer to his question the cat opened its mouth and probably miaouwed, although he couldn’t hear the miaouw through the glass, and then it pawed and scratched again at the pane.
“Want to come in out of the rain? Sensible cat!” Willie opened the window and the cat dropped down lightly on the floor.
He closed the window and looked down at the cat: “Hungry?” he asked. “’Fraid all I can offer you is bread crusts with a little jelly, and that’s not exactly cat food, but if you’re really hungry—”
He sat down at the workbench again and broke a cat-sized piece off one of the crusts of the jelly sandwich. The cat sniffed at first, as though puzzled, and then ate the bit of crust. What was left of the crusts followed, in small pieces. Willie knew enough about cats to know that they would eat things handed to them in bite-sized pieces which they would ignore if offered in bulk.
“Thirsty too?” Willie asked. He rummaged about the junk on the workbench until he found a tin lid that would hold water. He took it to the sink at the back and filled it, and put it down. “Sorry it isn’t milk,” he said, “but if you’re thirsty enough—”
The cat took a few laps of the water. Willie looked at the two towels hanging over the sink. One of them was dirty enough to take home and wash, the next time he did washing. He took it down. “Rubdown’s the only other thing I can do for you, cat. I can’t get you dry, but I can get you less wet than you are now.”
The cat held still and seemed to enjoy the rubbing. Willie had barely finished when the phone rang. He answered it, “Willie Chandler, radio and T.V. repairs.”
“This is Cap Hayden, Willie.” Cap Hayden ran the general store and was postmaster on the side. “Asked me to call you when a package came from Chicago. Its here.”
“Swell, Cap. I’ll be right over.”
“Just a second, Willie. Bring some money with you. It’s C. O. D., six dollars and eighty cents. And I can’t put that on your bill ’cause it’s government money for the post office department and I got to keep those things straight, in cash.”