The Collection (148 page)

“I don't see how,” I said. “I was just inside the door the
second time it rang. Tell me about this Mr. Lasky and about his cat.”

She said, “I don't know how long he lived there. We moved
here just a year ago, and he was there then. He was rather an eccentric chap,
almost a hermit. He never had any guests, never spoke to anyone. He and the cat
lived there alone. I think he was crazy about the cat.”

“An old duck?” I asked.

“Not really old. Probably in his fifties. He had a gray
beard that made him look older.”

“And the cat. Could he possibly have had two black cats?”

“I'm almost positive he didn't. I never saw more than the
big black torn he called Satan. And there was no cat around during the week
after it was killed.”

“You're positive it died?”

“Yes. I happened to see him burying it, and it wasn't in a
box or anything. And it was almost the only time I ever heard him speak; he was
talking to himself, cursing about careless auto drivers. He took it hard.
Maybe—”

She stopped, and I tried to fill in the blank. “You mean
that was why he committed suicide a week later?”

“Oh, he must have had other reasons, but I imagine that was
a factor. He left a suicide note, I understand. It was in the papers, at the
time. There was one particularly unhappy circumstance about it. He wrote the
note and then took poison. But before the poison had taken effect, he regretted
it or changed his mind; he telephoned the police and they rushed an ambulance
and a doctor — but he was dead when they got there.”

For an instant I wondered how he could have phoned the
police from a house in which there was no telephone. Then I remembered that
there had been one, taken out before I moved in. The rental agency had told me
so, and that the wiring was already there in case I wanted one installed. For
privacy's sake I'd decided against having it done.

We'd finished our meal, and I insisted on helping with the
dishes. Then I said, “Would you like to meet the cat?”

“Of course,” she said. “Are you going to let him stay?”

I grinned. “The question seems to be whether he's going to
let me stay. Come on; maybe you can give me a recommendation.”

We were right by her kitchen door, so we cut across the back
yards into my kitchen. All the hamburger I'd put under the sink was gone. The
cat was back in the Morris chair, asleep again. He blinked at us as I turned on
the light.

Ruth stood there staring at him. “He's a dead ringer for Mr.
Lasky's Satan. I'd almost swear it's the same. But it
couldn't
be!”

I said, “A cat has nine lives, you know. Anyway, I'll call
him Satan. And since the question arises whether he's Satan One or Satan Two,
let's compromise. Satan One-and-a-Half.

So, Satan One-and-a-Half, you've got the only comfortable
chair in this room. Mind giving it up for a lady?”

Whether he minded or not, I picked him up and moved him to a
straight chair. Satan One-and-a-Half promptly jumped down to the floor from his
straight chair, went back to the Morris, and jumped up on Ruth's lap.

I said, “Shall I shut him in the kitchen?”

“No, don't. Really, I like cats.” She was stroking his fur
gently, and the cat promptly curled into a black ball of fur and went to sleep.

“Anyway,” I said, “he's got good taste. But now you're
stuck. You can't move without waking him, and that would be rude.”

She smiled. “Will you play for me? Something of your own, I
mean. Did you mean it literally when you said you'd composed nothing since
you've been here, or were you being modest?”

I looked down at the staff paper on the piano. There were a
few bars there, an opening. But it wasn't any good. I said, “I wasn't being
modest. I can compose, when I have an idea. But I haven't had an idea since
I've been here.”

She said, “Play the 'Black Cat Nocturne.' ”

“Sorry, I don't know—”

“Of course not. It hasn't been written yet.”

Then I got what she was talking about, and it began to
click.

She said, “A doorbell rings, but nobody is there. The ghost
of a dead black cat walks in and takes over your house.

It—”

“Enough,” I said, very rudely. I didn't want to hear
anymore. All I needed was the starting point.

I hit a weird arpeggio in the base, and it went on from
there. Almost by itself, it went on from there. My fingers did it, not my mind.
The melody was working up into the treble now, with a soft dissonant
thump-thump in the accompaniment that was like a cat walking across the skin of
a bass drum and— The doorbell rang.

It startled me and I hit about the worst discord of my
career. I'd been out of the world for maybe half a minute, and the sudden ring
of that bell was as much of a jolt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice
water on me.

I saw Ruth's face; it, too, was startled looking. And the
cat lying in her lap had raised its head. But its yellow-green eyes, slitted
against the light, were inscrutable.

The bell rang again, and I shoved back the piano bench and
stood up. Maybe, by playing, I'd hypnotized myself into a state of fright, but
I was afraid to go to that door. Twice before, today, that doorbell had rung.
Who, or what, would I find there this time?

I couldn't have told what I was afraid of. Or maybe I could,
at that. Down deep inside, we're all afraid of the supernatural. The last time
that doorbell had rung, maybe a dead cat had come back. And now — maybe its
owner .. .

I tried to be casual as I went to the door, but I could tell
from Ruth's face that she was feeling as I did about it. That damn music! I'd
picked the wrong time to get myself into a mood. If I went to the door and
nobody was there, I'd probably be in a state of jitters the rest of the night.

But there was someone there. I could see, the moment I
stepped from the living room into the hallway, that there was a man standing
there. It was too dark for me to make out his features, but, at any rate, he
didn't have a gray beard.

I opened the door.

The man outside said, “Mr. Murray?”

He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a very
round face. Right now it was split by an ingratiating smile. He looked familiar
and I knew I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him. I did know that I
didn't like him; maybe I was being psychic or maybe I was being silly, but I
felt fear and loathing at the sight of him.

I said, “Yes, my name is Murray.”

“Mine's Haskins. Milo Haskins. I'm your neighbor across the
street, Mr. Murray.”

Of course, that was where I'd seen him. He'd been mowing the
lawn over there this afternoon, when the cat came.

He said, “I'm in the insurance game, Mr. Murray.

Sometime I'd like to talk insurance with you, but that isn't
what I came to see you about tonight. It's about a cat, a black cat.”

“Yes?”

“It's mine,” he said. “I saw it go in your door today, just
before I went in the house. I came over just as soon as I could to get it.”

“Sorry, Mr. Haskins,” I told him. “I fed it and then let it
out the back door. Don't know where it went from here.”

“Oh,” he said. He looked as though he didn't know whether or
not to believe me. “Are you sure it didn't come back in a window or something?
Would you mind if I helped you look around?”

I said, “I'm afraid I would mind, Mr. Haskins. Good night.”

I stepped back to close the door, and then something soft
rubbed against my leg. At the same instant, I saw Haskins's eyes look down and
then harden as they came up and met mine again.

He said, “So?” He bent and held out a hand to the cat.

“Here, kitty. Come here, kitty.”

Then it was my turn to grin, because the cat clawed his
fingers.

“Your cat, eh?” I said. “I thought you were lying, too,
Haskins. That's why I wouldn't give you the cat. I'll change my mind now; you
can have him if he goes with you willingly. But lay a hand on him, and I'll
knock your block off.”

He said, “Damn you, I'll—”

“You'll do nothing but leave. I'll stand here, with the door
open, till you're across the street. The cat's free to follow you, if he's
yours.”

“It's my cat! And damn it, I'll—”

“You can get a writ of replevin, tomorrow,” I said. “That
is, if you can prove ownership.”

He glared a minute longer, opened his mouth to say
something, then reconsidered and strode off down the walk. I closed the door,
and the cat was still inside, in the hallway.

I turned, and Ruth Carson was in the hallway too, behind me.
She said, “I heard him say who he was and what he wanted, and when the cat
jumped down and went toward the door, I—”

“Did he see you?” I asked.

“Why, yes. Shouldn't I have let him?”

“I — I don't know,” I said. I did know that I wished he
hadn't seen her. Somehow, somewhere, I sensed danger in this. There was danger
in the very air. But to whom, and why?

We went back into the living room, but I didn't sit on the
piano bench this time; I took a chair instead. Music was out for tonight. That
ringing doorbell and the episode that had followed had ended my inclination to
improvise as effectively as though someone had chopped up the piano with an ax.

Ruth must have sensed it; she didn't suggest that I play
again.

I said, “What do you know about our pleasant neighbor, Milo
Haskins?”

“Very little,” she said. “Except that he's lived there since
before we moved into the neighborhood last year. He has a wife — a rather
unpleasant woman — but no children. He does sell insurance. Mostly fire
insurance, I believe.”

“Does he own a cat, that you know of?”

She shook her head. “I've never seen one. I've never seen
any black cat in this neighborhood except Mr. Lasky's, and—”

She turned to look at Satan One-and-a-Half, who was lying on
his back on the rug, batting a fore-paw, at nothing apparently.

I said, “Cat, if you could only talk. I wish I knew
whether—” I stood up abruptly. “To what side of that maple tree and how far
from it did Mr. Lasky bury that cat?”

“Are you going to ... ?”

“Yes. There's a trowel and a flashlight in the kitchen, and
I'm going to make sure of something, right now.”

“I'll show you, then.”

“No,” I said. “Just tell me. It might not be pleasant. You
wait here.”

She sat down again. “All right. On the west side of the
tree, about four feet from the trunk.”

I found the trowel and the flashlight and went out into the
yard.

Five minutes later I came in to report.

“It's there,” I told her, without going into unpleasant
details. “As soon as I wash up, I'd like to use your phone. May I?”

“Of course. Are you going to call the police?”

“No. Maybe I should — but what could I tell them?” I tried
to laugh; it didn't quite go over. This wasn't funny.

Whatever else it was, it wasn't funny. I said, “What time do
you expect your aunt and uncle home?”

“No later than eleven.”

I said, “For some reason, this Haskins is interested in that
cat. Too interested. If he sees us leave here, he might come in and get it, or
kill it, or do whatever he wants to do with it. I can't even guess. We'll sneak
out the back way and get to your place without his seeing us, and we'll leave
the lights on here so he won't know we've left.”

“Do you really think something is — is going to happen?”

“I don't know. It's just a feeling. Maybe it's just because
the things that have happened don't make sense that I have an idea it isn't
over yet. And I want you out of it.”

I washed my hands in the kitchen, and then we went outside.
It was quite dark out there, and I was sure we couldn't be seen from the front
as we cut across the lawn between the houses.

We'd left the light burning in her kitchen. I said, “I
noticed before where your phone is. I'll use it without turning on the light. I
just want to see if I can get any information that will clear this up.”

I phoned the
News
and asked for Monty Billings who is
on the city desk, evenings. I said, “This is Murray. Got time to look up
something for me?”

“Sure. What?”

“Guy named Lasky. Committed suicide at 4923

Deverton Street, three or four weeks ago. Everything you can
find out. Call me back at—” I used my flashlight to take the number off the
base of the phone — “at Saunders 4848.”

He promised to call back within half an hour and I went out
into the kitchen again. Ruth was making coffee for us.

“I'm going back home after that phone call comes,” I told
her. “And you'd better stay here. Your uncle has a key, of course?”

She nodded.

“Then lock all the doors and windows when I leave. If you
hear anyone prowling around or anything, phone for the police, or yell loud
enough so I can hear you.”

“But why would anyone—?”

“I haven't the faintest idea, except that Haskins knows you
were at my place. He might think the cat is here, or something. I haven't
anything to work on except a hunch that something's coming. I don't want you in
on it.”

“But if you really think it's dangerous,
you
shouldn't...”

We'd argued our way through two cups of coffee apiece by the
time the phone rang.

It was Monty. He said, “It was three weeks ago last
Thursday, on the fourteenth at around midnight. Police got a frantic call from
a man who said he'd taken morphine and changed his mind and would they rush an
ambulance or a doctor or something. Gave his name as Colin Lasky, and the
address you mentioned. They got there within eight minutes, but it was too
late.”

“Left a suicide note, I understand. What was in it?”

“Just said he was tired of living and he'd lost his last
friend the week before. The police figured out he meant his cat. It had been
killed about that time, and nobody knew of him having any friend but that. He'd
lived there over ten years and hadn't made any friends. Hermit type, maybe a
little wacky. Oh, yeah — and the note said he preferred cremation and that
there was enough money in a box in his bureau to cover it.”