“Just what is the case?”
“Mr. Rood, I need a detective to rid my house of a plague of cats and I assure you, to me, a plague of cats is no laughing matter!”
Chapter II
Why the Cats?
Henry Rood looked again and more thoughtfully at Mr. Stuyvesant.
The client was perfectly sane, he was sure of that. Also he seemed to be a man of means. And the case he mentioned had its unusual features.
Just to make sure that he was not wasting too much time, Henry rang for Milly and secretly handed her the client’s name. Before the conference had proceeded five minutes Milly returned with a memorandum, which Henry glanced over while Stuyvesant told his story.
The memorandum said:
Matthew H. Stuyvesant — Bachelor. Owns majority of block in old West Side and scattered lots, all parts of old village section once fashionable. Vice-president and former president local Philatelist’s Society. Family first settled here 1801. He looks good to me!
Mr. Stuyvesant looked good to Henry also. A rich and pardonably eccentric old stamp collector offering him a first rate mystery and inviting him to name his own fee! What more could he ask?
While this was going on in Henry’s mind the client was saying earnestly: “Mr. Rood, I have lived in that house for sixty-two years. I was born in it, you see. It was my father’s residence when Chelsea was fashionable and his father’s before that. It was one of the first fine dwellings in the district and once had a considerable lawn and a view of the river. I have been very happy in that house and I hope to die there when time comes that I must die.
“I am a simple man with few wants. My hobby is philately, and I have one of the most notable collections of stamps in this section. I entertain scarcely at all and then only a few old friends also interested in philately. My servants consist only of Mrs. Loos, my housekeeper, who has been with me more than twenty years, a maid and a furnace man, Doran, who also looks after several other houses I own. I said I have few friends and I am equally sure I have no enemies. How could I have? Dear God, I hope in all my life I have never done harm to any human being!”
Stuyvesant blinked rapidly at Henry. His exclamation was obviously direct from his innocent old heart.
“You have seen that I fear and loathe cats,” he resumed earnestly. “It’s something in my blood — inherited, I suppose. A cat, just the sight of one, its presence near me, puts me into a panic.
“Imagine then how I felt when two weeks ago cats began to haunt my house!”
“They came into your house?” Henry asked.
“Into it and around it. Dozens of cats, great, savage stray cats from the alleys, gaunt old cats, terrible cats. They howl and fight under my windows, they cluster on the steps where I stumble over them if I venture out, and they everlastingly sneak in somehow, though I give you my word we have locked every window and every door and stopped every hole they could crawl through.
“Yet they get in! They roam the house. They come into my very bedroom. Last night I found a great black Tom in my dressing room. This morning I woke to find him curled up on my bed, sitting on my chest, Mr. Rood! The same cat — and last night, I myself accompanied Doran when he carried that cat in a sack ten blocks from my house!”
“This annoyance has been going on for two weeks, you say?”
“Yes, Mr. Rood.”
“You were never bothered by cats before?”
“Never, thank Heaven!”
Another person might have found amusement in Mr. Stuyvesant’s vehemence. Not Henry. He addressed his client with added gravity that amounted to rebuke. “Mr. Stuyvesant, you are holding something back! It is not the matter of cats alone that brings you to a detective agency. What is it?”
The color of embarrassment came into Stuyvesant’s cheeks. He frowned, avoiding Henry’s eyes. Then it came out of him with a little burst like the popping of a cork from a bottle.
“Heavens, Mr. Rood, I don’t see how you guessed that! The police and the other detectives never saw it—”
Henry smiled mysteriously.
“Yes, there is more,” Stuyvesant went on. “The cats are an annoyance. They are nearly driving me mad, but that alone is not why I am seeking your professional advice, Mr. Rood.” The older man’s voice sank mysteriously and he hitched forward in his chair. “I believe that to-day an attempt was made to poison me!”
“Very good,” said Henry, eying his rich client composedly, his round face properly grave. “Now we are getting at the meat of the thing. You are a thrifty man, Mr. Stuyvesant. I was right in thinking you would not hire a detective merely to get rid of stray cats. You believe an attempt was made on your life. How?”
“Something was put into my tea,” Stuyvesant murmured, drawing even closer and sinking his voice even lower. “That was this morning. I came at once to get help.
“When I wake in the morning I am served with a cup of hot tea, Mr. Rood. I thought there was something queer about this morning’s breakfast cup. It didn’t taste like the good China tea I am used to, and I know good tea! My father and his father were tea importers.
“I took one sip from the cup and knew at once that my tea had been tampered with. I jumped out of bed and hurried to my bath and spat out the tea and washed my mouth thoroughly. Mr. Rood, I give you my word, that was an awful moment!”
“Did you save the rest of this tea?”
Stuyvesant shook his head. Henry sighed regretfully.
“I fear I made a mistake,” Stuyvesant said. “At the moment the only idea in my mind was inspired by terror. I poured out the tea and said nothing, lest any complaint might inform my enemy that the plot was known and provoke worse attempts.”
“How did this tea taste — in what way was it different from the usual tea?”
Stuyvesant reflected, smacking his lips thoughtfully. “It was bitter — and slightly sour — and not like tea. I can’t describe it any better—”
“There was no ill effect?”
“Not yet!” The client rolled his eyes apprehensively. He seemed to be holding his breath. “Perhaps my getting rid of it and washing my mouth saved me,” he added hopefully.
“Yes, I’m sure it did. But I wish you had saved a sample! Who prepares your morning tea?”
“Sometimes Mrs. Loos, my housekeeper. Sometimes Gertie, the maid. I think it was Gertie this morning.”
“You are making a very serious charge,” Henry said, suddenly severe. “In effect, you are casting a grave suspicion upon two women, both of whom I understand you to say, have been with you a long time—”
“A long time, yes—”
“Then why should either of them wish to put poison in your tea?”
Matthew Stuyvesant considered the abrupt question and a little gleam of cunning came into his eyes. “I have made a will, Mr. Rood. The three servants are down in that will for a substantial remembrance— Heavens, Mr. Rood! I don’t charge this against any of them — but suppose one or more of them were to think too much of that money and desire my death!”
“I suppose you have paid them good wages during your lifetime?”
“All three have been adequately taken care of,” Stuyvesant murmured.
Henry detected an evasion in the answer. “How adequately, Mr. Stuyvesant?”
“They’ve had a good home,” Stuyvesant answered rather sourly. “They’ve had the best to eat and an allowance for clothes. Yes — and pocket money, too! And they know I mean to do the handsome thing by them in my will.”