“Ah,” said Henry.
Henry thought he knew his client fairly well by this interview. He had a definite picture of a timid, conservative man of much property, a bachelor with the inherited tendencies toward thrift common to long lines of property holders, now exaggerated into stinginess.
He saw a quiet household of three servants lingering on in that bachelor’s employment because of the hope of substantial legacies; putting up with little wages because of that same hope. And he saw Matthew Stuyvesant terrified by unexplained events for which, perhaps, his own parsimony was directly to blame.
“I’ll take your case, if you wish,” Henry said then. “But you understand my services cost money, cost rather dearly in fact?”
“Name your own figure, Mr. Rood,” Stuyvesant declared, clasping his thin hands together. “I am quite content to trust to your sense of fair dealing — and generosity. If you can clear up these things that are upsetting me I’ll pay gladly.”
“No,” Henry interrupted. “I’ll have to insist that I be paid, regardless of success. Those are my terms.”
“Oh, I’m sure you won’t ask too much!” the client gasped. “Oh, I trust to your generosity. Name your fee.”
Henry named it.
Stuyvesant gasped afresh. For a moment he looked like a man inclined to bargain. Then he sighed prodigiously. “Very well, I agree. Only in goodness’ name get to the bottom of this terrible affair!”
Chapter III
A Rusty, Black Tom
Henry and his client neared Matthew Stuyvesant’s home. They had ridden across the city by street car.
When they boarded the car Matthew Stuyvesant fumbled nervously in his change pocket and seemed to have difficulty finding any money.
“Allow me,” said Henry, and paid both fares.
Stuyvesant thanked him warmly, and Henry noted that he sighed with obvious relief, a cunning, sly little gleam in his eyes. But Henry considered the nickel well invested, since it further proved Stuyvesant’s hereditary objection to parting with money.
When they left the car Henry instructed his client, “Please make no reference of any sort to the attempt to poison your morning tea. To do so might provoke a further attack and put you in danger I could not handle.”
Stuyvesant promised hastily.
“Just tell your servants that you have hired me to get rid of the plague of cats,” Henry said further. “That is sufficient excuse for my visiting you.”
As they entered by an old iron gate Stuyvesant grasped Henry’s arm. “Look!” he bleated. “You see?”
It was an old brick house they faced, one of a row of old dwellings mostly used as boarding houses now. A little cement paved yard and area stood before the house, and on the brownstone steps they beheld three slinking forms — cats.
All three were those gaunt, half savage unfortunates common to cities, alley cats, marauders of ash cans, and disturbers of midnight peace. Ordinarily the theme for the jokesmith and the humorous artist, these cats did not strike Henry as humorous at the moment. Rather they were a little weird and distressing as they sat immobile, their greenish yellow eyes turned on the two men, their glances half scared, half defiant.
Not until Henry set foot on the bottom step did the three cats move. Suddenly all three uncurled their folded limbs and rose. One rusty black Tom bristled at the intruders, opened his wicked mouth and spat, baring fangs and claws big enough to make even a man thoughtful.
Then all three slipped noiselessly and sinuously off the stone steps and made way.
“You see?” Stuyvesant cried. “Day and night they haunt my house.”
A woman past middle age opened the door before Stuyvesant could use his key. Henry was introduced to Mrs. Loos, the housekeeper. She had a shrewd, rather kindly face, and was evidently a woman of practical common sense. When she learned Henry’s business there, Mrs. Loos rolled her eyes and declared it her heartfelt wish that he might succeed without loss of time.
Matthew Stuyvesant led the way to his own quarters, a study sitting room, and opening off it, through a wide arch, a bedroom. The two rooms made up the second floor accommodations.
Henry glanced about the sitting room, noted its wide, hospitable open hearth, in which a fire was laid, but not burning; its large windows, walnut furniture and figured carpet. The bedroom beyond was furnished in walnut also, walnut of a design more popular seventy years ago. The general effect was of quiet conservatism; comfort without fashion.
“I suppose this has been your home many years?” he remarked.
“All of my life — nearly. The rooms were my mother’s, first. I took them after her death.”
“And you own other houses in the row, beside this one?”
“Five,” Stuyvesant said. “The first five from the street corner.”
“Quite valuable property, I should think? I notice most of the rest of the block is built into large apartments.”
“But not my property,” Stuyvesant answered promptly. “My grandfather built these houses. He lived in this one and added the others later. My father lived here. Perhaps I’m a little old fashioned, like they were, but I dislike changes. While I live this property will remain as it is.”
“Rather an expensive taste,” Henry smiled. “I dare say for hotel or apartment use the land would bring a good price?”
“Not while I’m alive,” Stuyvesant’s mouth tightened a little. A stubborn look came into his face. “The rentals pay taxes and earn me two or three per cent over. I am content.”
“But you have had offers, no doubt?”
“Oh, offers!” A shrug. “But I really don’t see why you—”
A slight noise, just the ghost of a sound, caused both men to turn about. Stuyvesant began to retreat hastily across the room, his mouth open and his eyes staring.
Even Henry’s nerves jumped with the surprise.
A rusty, black Tom cat — Henry would have sworn it was the same he had seen on the steps as he entered — crouched on the carpet, glaring at them as though about to spring.
It had not been there a moment before, Henry could have sworn to that.
And it had not entered by the hall door, because Henry had closed the hall door carefully as he entered.
There was another door to the hall from the bedroom beyond, but he and Stuyvesant were facing that room as they talked, so the cat had not come in that way, even if it could have opened a closed door.
But there it was now, glaring at them, half crouched, the hair of its back stirring, and a low, menacing snarl rumbling in its throat.
“Stand perfectly still,” Henry said to Stuyvesant. He began to remove his own coat. It was the coat of Henry’s best suit of clothes, and he regretted having to use it so badly. But he stripped it off deftly and held it poised.
Henry took one delicate step, then another toward the cat, his eyes keenly fixed on its baleful glare.
A sudden spring and a swoop and Henry pounced with the coat outspread. The cat was a second too late in its retreat. Henry had it imprisoned in the folds of his coat.
Matthew Stuyvesant gave a shrill little cry and retreated shakily into the bedroom. His white face peeped out at Henry as the head of the Argus agency tucked the kicking, squirming bundle under his arm and let himself out into the hall.
Chapter IV
Cause of the Cats
The basement front room was used by Mrs. Loos and the two other servants for their dining and sitting room. Off it opened a butler’s pantry, and then an old fashioned kitchen.
The basement room was rather pleasant and homey, and the four who visited in it were getting quite at ease.