The Cat Who Had 14 Tales Part 3

"Oh, heavens! I hope the moles aren't burrowing in your father's lawn," Mrs. Jamison said. "He'll have a fit."

An hour later Vernon raced home for a can of pop. "Hey, Mom, the Drooler's still smelling around. Gimme something to poke down the hole."

"Don't you dare touch your father's lawn. I'll go out and look at it." The Drooler, Mrs. Jamison agreed, was performing a strange ritual, sniffing the gra.s.s eagerly, then retreating and twitching his nose. In a few seconds he was back at the same spot, repeating the performance with evident distaste, sneezing and baring his teeth.

Vernon shooed the cat away, and Mrs. Jamison examined a crack in the soil. "Why it's gas! I smell gas!" she cried. "I'll phone your father. Keep everyone away from it, Vernon. If it's a gas leak, there could be an explosion!" Vernon ran back to the crowd around the backhoes. "Hey, I found a gas leak!" he said.

"The whole street's gonna blow up. My mother's calling the cops." Within a matter of minutes two emergency trucks rumbled into Drummond Street, and a service crew descended on the Jamisons' front lawn with testing apparatus and excavating equipment. Two men hurried from house to house, shutting off the gas lines.

Vernon, bounding with excitement, followed one of the men on his rounds. "Hey, I'm the one that found the gas leak," he shouted, as he clung to the man's jacket.

"You're a hero," the man said, smiling stiffly and shaking free of Vernon's clutch. "You probably saved the whole neighborhood from some bad trouble."

"I'm a hero!" Vernon proclaimed some minutes later when his father came home.

Mr. Jamison only groaned. "They've wrecked my lawn! There won't be two blades of gra.s.s left."

"I had a cake in the oven, and it's ruined," his wife complained as she paced the floor, trying to quiet the baby, whose feeding was overdue.

The doorbell rang, and there on the front step stood a young woman with a tape recorder.

Behind her was a man with a camera.

"We're from the Daily Times," she said. "I understand your little boy saved the neighborhood from a disaster."

"Hey, that's me!" yelled Vernon. "I'm a hero!" and he grabbed the reporter's wrist.

"Vernon!" his father snapped. "Keep your hands off the lady."

"We'd like to take his picture," she said.

"I don't think I want my son's picture in the paper," Mr. Jamison said. "He would be-"

"Yeh yeh yeh, I want my picture in the paper," Vernon squealed. He tugged at the camera. "Take my picture!"

"Down, Junior," said the photographer.

"Honey," Mrs. Jamison whispered to her husband, "let them take his picture. It won't do any harm." So the entire family trooped to the hill of earth that had once been a lawn, Vernon clinging to the photographer's arm and Mrs. Jamison jiggling the fretful baby and talking to the woman from the newspaper.

"Exactly how did it happen?" the reporter asked.

"Well," said Mrs. Jamison, "Vernon came running in and said the Drooler was sniffing at our front lawn."

"Who was sniffing?"

"The Drooler. He's just a cat that hangs around . . . . See! There he is under the junipers.

He's a mess, but he loves the children."

"He's got a tail like a sheep."

"That's a weird story," said Vernon's mother, rolling her eyes. "A couple of weeks ago my son pulled the cat's tail off."

"Really? Do they come off easily?"

"The Drooler's did. He didn't seem to mind."

"And what happened today?"

"Well, the Drooler was sniffing a crack in the ground, so I investigated and smelled gas-that's all."

The photographer, meanwhile, had pried Vernon loose from his camera and was posing the boy in front of the junipers. "Now stoop down," he said, "as if you were examining the place where you smelled gas."

"Wait a minute," said Mrs. Jamison. "Let me comb his hair and put him in a clean s.h.i.+rt.

It won't take a second."

The photographer drew an impatient breath and looked up at the sky, and the reporter told him in a low voice: "It wasn't the kid who found the leak. It was the cat."

"That's even better. Let's shoot the cat." He aimed the camera at the Drooler and clicked off a whole roll of film.

When Vernon reappeared with damp hair and clean s.h.i.+rt, the photographer said: "Now stand where I told you and hold your cat so he's facing the camera."

"He's not my cat!" shouted Vernon. "I don't want my picture taken with that sloppy old Drooler."

"Sure you do," said the man. "He's a celebrity. He smelled gas and saved the whole neighborhood."

"No, he didn't!" Vernon screamed, pounding the photographer in the ribs. "I saved the neighborhood! Get outa here, Drooler!" and he pitched a pebble at the cat, who blinked with pleasure and purred loudly.

"Vernon!" Mr. Jamison said sharply. "Do what the man says, or go in the house."

"That's all right," said the photographer, suddenly agreeable. "Let him have his own way," and he aimed his camera at Vernon and clicked the shutter-without, however, putting a new roll of film in the camera. To the reporter he added under his breath: "Let's get out of here. I can't stand a kid pawing me and grabbing my camera. Let's see the TV crew cope with the brat. Here comes their van."

So it was the Drooler's picture that appeared on the six o'clock news and in the Daily Times on the following morning. The story read: "A suburban cat with three-quarters of a tail averted an explosion yesterday when he sniffed out a break in a gas main, caused by sewer excavations nearby."

The photograph, which appeared on page one, was a good likeness of the Drooler, wet-chinned and congenial, and both the wire services and the national networks picked up the story. Almost overnight the Drooler became the media cat of the moment.

He is now receiving so much attention and so many offers that Mr. Jamison is acting as his personal manager. Since no family can lay undisputed claim to the Drooler, he has been incorporated, all shares being held equally by residents of Drummond Street. At the first shareholders' meeting a proposal to change the name of the street was hotly debated before being tabled.

Vernon has been sent away to school, and the Drooler is now occupying his room. He no longer drivels. After two visits to the veterinary clinic and a new diet of nutritionally balanced catfood, he has lost his unattractive habit. Nevertheless, T-s.h.i.+rts and b.u.mper stickers still proclaim him as the Drooler, and his story will soon be made into a major motion picture. Meanwhile, news has been leaked to the press that the Hero of Drummond Street will be pictured on the cover of a national magazine, nude.

The Mad Museum Mouser A police car was cruising down the street as I parked at the gate of the Lockmaster Museum, and the officer at the wheel appeared to be scrutinizing my license plate. It was the first hint that something unusual was happening in that sleepy town. Security is the first consideration in museum management, but small communities rarely provide such noticeable police protection.

I removed my sungla.s.ses, fixed my lipstick, found the Historical Society brochure in the glove compartment, and retrieved the little black box from under the seat. In doing research for my book, Minor Museums of Northeast Central United States, I have found a tape recorder more convenient than a notebook for collecting information.

The police cruiser made a second appearance as I slung the recorder strap over my shoulder, scanned the brochure, and recited the basic facts on the place I was about to visit: "Lockmaster Museum, built in 1850 by Frederick Lockmaster, wealthy lumberman, s.h.i.+pbuilder, and railroad promoter. Victorian mansion with original furnis.h.i.+ngs. In family for five generations. Donated to the Historical Society for use as museum." Then I walked up the curving brick sidewalk to the house, dictating as I went: "Three-story frame construction with turrets, gables, balconies, bay windows, and verandahs. Set in s.p.a.cious grounds surrounded by ornamental iron fence." The museum was open to the public only in the afternoon, but I had arranged for private admittance at 11:00 a.m. A tasteful sign on the door saidCLOSED , but I rang the bell.

While waiting I noted: "Magnificent carved entrance doors with stained gla.s.s fanlight and etched gla.s.s sidelights."

There was no answer from within. I rang again and waited, turning to admire the landscaping. The police car was circling the block slowly for the third time.

The Lockmaster was the fifteenth small-town museum I had researched, and I knew what to expect. The interior would be embalmed in a solemn hush. The staff would consist of two genteel ladies over seventy-five who would say, "Please sign the guestbook," when I arrived and, "Thank you for coming," when I left, meanwhile conversing in whispers about the latest local funeral.

Such was not the case at the Lockmaster, however. As I was about to ring for the third time I heard the click of a lock being turned and the clank of a heavy bolt being drawn.

Then the door was opened cautiously by a wild-eyed and fragile little woman with wispy white hair. She appeared fl.u.s.tered and kept one hand behind her back, while the other grasped a k.n.o.bby stick, midway between a cane and a club. She was accompanied by an overfed animal with bristling orange fur and a hostile glint in its squinting yellow eyes.

I identified myself, at the same time turning on the tape recorder. The cat-if that's what it was-replied with a deep rumbling growl that ended in an explosive snarl.

"Marmalade! Stop it!" gasped the little woman, breathless from some recent exertion.

"Please come in," she said to me. "This is Marmalade, our resident mouser. He is usually quite friendly, but he has had a traumatic experience of some mysterious kind. I hope you will forgive him."

As I stepped into the large formal entrance hall the orange cat arched his back and fluffed his tail, swelling to twice his size, then bared his long yellow fangs and flattened his ears to attack position.

"Has this cat been watching horror films?" I asked.

"Go away, Marmalade. You are not needed." The woman nudged him with the stick, which he grabbed in his teeth. "Nice kitty, nice kitty," she said as she wrestled with him for possession of the s.h.i.+llelagh. I noticed that her left hand was wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief.

"What happened to you?" I asked in surprise.

"I do hope you didn't wait long," she said, still breathing heavily. "I didn't hear the bell.

My hearing aid seems to be out of order. I think the battery is weak. But Marmalade let me know you had arrived. You must pardon us. We're a little disorganized this morning.

I'm subst.i.tuting for Mrs. Sheffield. The ambulance took her away just half an hour ago. I hurried over as fast as I could to let you in."

From the entrance hall I could see the drawing room-huge and lavishly furnished, but with tables and chairs knocked over and broken china on the floor.

"What happened here?" I asked in a louder voice.

"I'm Rhoda Finney. Mrs. Sheffield is the real authority on the collection, but I shall do my best. Let me get rid of this handkerchief. The bleeding seems to have stopped. It's nothing serious." She turned to the cat, who had a.s.sumed a bulldog stance and was eyeing both of us with suspicion. "We had a little misunderstanding, didn't we, kitty?" He started licking his claws. I looked at him with speculation, and he took time out to hiss in a nasty way before resuming his ch.o.r.e.

"I'm afraid the drawing room is a sorry mess," Ms. Finney went on, "but we have been told not to touch anything. Mrs. Sheffield discovered it an hour ago and had a heart attack. Fortunately Mr. Tibbitt arrived and found her. He's our volunteer custodian. A dear sweet man. Ninety years old."

"Is this the work of vandals?" I shouted. Marmalade gave me a mean look, and Ms.

Finney continued as if I had not said a word.

"To appreciate this house you must understand the five generations of Lockmasters.

Frederick was the founder of the family fortune. Being a lumber baron he used only the finest hardwoods in the house, and the construction was done by s.h.i.+p's carpenters. Notice the superb woodwork in the grand staircase." Her manner became coy. "Frederick was a handsome bearded man and had mistresses by the dozen! We're not supposed to mention personal details, but I think it adds to the interest, don't you? And I know you won't print it . . . . Now let us step into the drawing room. Be careful of the broken porcelain." The walls were hung with oil paintings and tapestries, while the far end of the room was dominated by an elaborate organ on a dais, above which were four portraits. Besides the bearded Frederick there were a Civil War officer, a dapper Edwardian chap, and a contemporary businessman in banker's gray, double-breasted.

"The four generations," my guide explained. "Frederick's son was named Charles. We call him Charles the Connoisseur. After the war, in which he fought heroically, he acquired the old masters you see in this room, and the Gobelin tapestries, and the signed French furniture. Also the rare reed organ. They're all identified in our catalog, which sells for three dollars, but I'll give you a copy . . . . Oh, dear! There's blood all over this valuable Aubusson. Do you think the rug cleaners will be able to get it out?

Marmalade has been licking his claws all morning. I think it was the taste of human blood that drove him out of his head."

My efforts to interject a question or a comment went ignored as Ms. Finney led the way into the next room.

"Now we come to the third generation," she said. "Theo was a world traveler and big-game hunter. Also a bit of a playboy like his grandfather, but don't print that. Shot himself in India- not accidentally, they say. This is the gentlemen's smoking room." On the tooled leather walls were mounted animal heads of every exotic species, as well as primitive hunting spears. The orange cat was still following us and was now smelling my shoes and making a disagreeable face.

"Kitty, stop that!" my guide scolded. "It's not proper! Go and watch a mousehole . . . .

To continue: the fourth generation established the fine library across the hall-thousands of rare books and first editions. Philip the Philanthropist, we named him. He and his charming wife, Margaret, deeded this house to the Historical Society when they disinherited their son. A tragic situation! He was their only child. Dennis the Disappointment, our custodian calls him. Dennis is in prison now, and we all feel more comfortable knowing he's behind bars. Please don't print that, however." I had given up trying to ask questions and was following the guide dumbly.

She was breathing normally now, and she went on with apparent relish: "Dennis was a student of mine when I was teaching elementary, and I knew he would never amount to anything. His father believed children should attend public school like anyone else, but things got so bad that they had to take him out. Later he was expelled from three colleges-not even good ones. He got into despicable kinds of trouble. Finally he was arrested in a . . . drug bust, I believe it's called . . . . Marmalade! Leave the visitor alone!" The cat was getting chummy now, rubbing against my ankles and taking friendly nips at my nylons.

"Dennis broke his mother's heart," Ms. Finney said. "Upstairs you'll see her personal suite, all done in tones of peach. I'll not go with you because my knees rebel at those twenty-two stairs, but you'll find it well worth the climb. Be sure to see the gla.s.s cases with Margaret's collection of Faberge eggs. She also had priceless jewels that had been in the family for four generations. After they were stolen she went into a decline and died shortly after. Be sure to see her bathroom, all done in black onyx. Philip died quite recently in a plane crash in Europe. All very sad." We had reached the paneled dining room that could seat twenty-four, and my guide was extolling the boiserie, when Marmalade suddenly appeared with a dead mouse, which he dropped on my shoe. I shook it off ever so gently to avoid hurting his feelings or throwing him into a rage. He was a very peculiar animal.

"How very sweet!" Ms. Finney exclaimed. "He has brought you a present-to apologize for his rude behavior. Nice kitty!"

At this point there were sounds of activity in the rear of the house, and eventually a lanky old man approached us. He seemed vigorous for his age, but his arms and legs moved in a disjointed way, like a robot's. Although it was summer he wore a dark business suit, rusty with age and dusty around the knees. Without preliminaries he announced in a high-pitched, reedy voice: "The fingerprint people are coming this afternoon, so we can't open the museum-maybe not for several days. It depends how the investigation goes."

Ms. Finney said: "This is Mr. Tibbitt, our beloved custodian. He was my princ.i.p.al when I was teaching elementary . . . . Now that you're here, Mr. T, I'd like to run over to the hospital to see how Mrs. Sheffield is doing."

"She's all right. She's in intensive care," he said in his hooting voice. "But you never know. At her age she could go off like that. " He looked at Ms. Finney's left hand. "Better tell them to put something on your scratches, Rhoda. How's Marmalade? Is he feeling better?"

"He's getting less antisocial," I volunteered. "He brought me a mouse a few minutes ago."

"He was mad as a hornet when I got here this morning," Mr. Tibbitt said. "Growling and spitting and pacing the floor like a tiger in a cage. Too bad he can't tell us what happened last night. I've just come from the police station. Gave them what information I could.

This town used to have a one-man police force. All he had to do was help the children cross Main Street and drive the heavy tipplers home on Sat.u.r.day night. Then the tourists started coming up here and we had to buy three police cars." The garrulous Rhoda Finney departed, leaving me with the garrulous Mr. Tibbitt. Now, I hoped, I could ask questions and receive answers. "Do you think the vandals were vacationers?"

"No, this is one thing we can't blame on the tourists. There's something I didn't mention in front of Rhoda; didn't want to have to call the ambulance again. Did you hear about the three convicts that escaped yesterday?"

I vaguely remembered an item on a radio newscast.

"One of them was a member of the Lockmaster family," Mr. Tibbitt said.

"Dennis the Disappointment?"

"I see Rhoda has been telling family secrets. Yes, they caught the other two in a swamp, but Dennis is still at large. He won't get far. He's not smart enough."

"Do you think it was Dennis who wrecked the drawing room?"

"No doubt about it. He knew how to get into the house-through the chute where they used to deliver coal in the old days."

"Was it retaliation for being disinherited? Why did he concentrate on the drawing room?

Why didn't he just burn the house down?"

"Not smart enough to think of it. The police found a screwdriver on the floor, and they think he intended to mutilate his father's portrait over the organ. He's a sick boy.

Whatever he was trying to do, the cat evidently stopped him. Those sharp fangs could tap a vein, you know. The way I figure it, Dennis was creeping into the dark room and stepped on Marmalade's tail, and all of a sudden he's attacked by seven wildcats, all screeching and biting and clawing."

"So your official mouser doubles as a security guard?"

"Well, I have a theory," Mr. Tibbitt said with a glint of excitement in his filmy eyes.