I wandered through the main floor, then climbed the twenty-two stairs to have another look at the black onyx bathroom and the Faberg? eggs. And there—among the peach velvet draperies and peach satin boudoir chairs—I found an old man in a dark business suit, down on his knees, plugging a mousehole. The work was being supervised by asleek gray cat!
“Mr. Tibbitt!” I cried. “Remember me? Where’s Marmalade?”
He struggled to his feet, unlocking one joint at a time.“Marmalade took early retirement,” he said in the thin high-pitched voice I remembered. “The poor cat went off his rocker completely, harassing visitors and intimidating the volunteer guides. He never got over his bad experience. He lives with me now.”
“Does he miss his rich diet of mice?”
“No, no, no. He never ate mice. He was strictly a professional mouser. The guides always fed him regular catfood.”
“And what about Dennis the Disappointment? I haven’t heard a thing!”
“He’s back in prison, I’m glad to say,” said Mr. Tibbitt. “And they found the jewels.”
“What jewels?”
“Why, the priceless gems that had been in the family since 1850! It was Dennis who had stolen them. He was living here then, and he hid them in the house, thinking he’d retrieve them when the investigation cooled off. Jewelers all over the world were on the lookout for the stuff, and it was right here in the house all the time. When Dennis escaped, he came back to collect his loot. Of course, he didn’t succeed. Never succeeded at anything, that boy.”
“Who found the jewels? And how did they know they were on the premises?”
“Let me sit down and rest a minute. I’m getting old,” Mr. Tibbitt said, looking for a chair that was not peach satin or velvet. We found a black horsehair bench in the onyx bathroom, and he went on: “The detectives started noticing Marmalade’s behavior, and they got suspicious about the organ. They remembered the unsolved case of the stolen jewels.”
“But Marmalade was interested in mice, not music.”
“Anyway, they brought in an expert on reed organs, and they told him about the screwdriver. The police found a screwdriver near the organ, near the family portraits. Do you remember?”
I remembered.
“Well, that was the clue! This organ expert took the screws out of the wind-chest, raised it a bit, and there they were—diamonds and emeralds worth a fortune!”
I turned off the tape recorder and said goodbye to Mr. Tibbitt. As I walked down the twenty-two stairs he called after me:“Don’t say anything about this in your book!”
THE DARK ONE
“The Dark One” was first published inEllery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, July 1966.
Only Dakh Won knows the true reason for his action that night on the moonlit path. It is not a cat’s nature to be vengeful—or heroic. He merely does what is necessary to secure food, warmth, comfort, peace, and an occasional scratch behind the ears. But Dakh Won is a Siamese, a breed known for its intelligence and loyalty.
He has always been called“the dark one,” because his fur is an unusually deep shade of fawn. Between his seal brown ears and his seal brown tail, the silky back shades hardly at all. Only his soft underside is pale. He is a husky cat whose strength ripples under his sleek coat, and his slanted eyes are full of sapphiresecrets.
During his early life at the cattery Dakh Won enjoyed food, warmth, comfort, attention, and—most of all—peace. Then one day after he was full-grown, he was handed over to strange arms and exposed for the first time to hostility and conflict.
Before he was placed in a basket and carried away, a gentle and familiar voice said:“Dakh Won is very special. I wouldn’t sell him to anyone but you, Hilda.”
“You know I’ll give him a good home, Elizabeth.”
“How about your husband? Does he like animals?”
“He prefers dogs, but I’m the one who needs a pet. Jack’s away from home most of the time. All his construction jobs seem to be halfway across the state.”
“Honestly, Hilda, I don’t know how you stand it in the country. You were so active when you were a city gal.”
“It’s lonely, but I have my piano. I’d love to give lessons to the farm children in my community.”
“Why don’t you? It would be good for you.”
“Jack doesn’t like the idea.”
“Why on earth should he object?”
Hilda looked uncomfortable.“Oh, he’s funny about some things … . I hope Dakh Won likes music. Do cats like music?”
Elizabeth studied the face of her old friend.“Hilda, is everything all right with you and Jack? I’m worried about you.”
“Of course everything’s all right … . Now, I’d better leave if I’m going to catch that bus. I hope the cat won’t mind the ride.” Dakh Won was sniffing the strange pair of shoes and nibbling the tantalizing shoelaces; he had never seen laces with little tassels. Hilda said: “Isn’t that adorable, Elizabeth? He’s untying my shoelaces.”
“Let me tie them for you.”
“Thank you.” There was a sigh. “Aren’t these shoes horrible? The doctor says I’ll never wear pretty shoes again.”
“That was a terrible accident, Hilda—in more ways than one. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“It wasn’t really Jack’s fault, you know.”
“Yes, you’ve told me that before. Do you still have pain?”
“Not too much, but I’ll always have this ugly limp. That’s one reason I don’t mind hiding away in the country.”
Then Dakh Won was handed over, making a small verbal protest and spreading his toes in apprehension, but when he found himself in a covered basket, he settled down and was quiet throughout the long journey. Occasionally he felt reassured by strong fingers that reached into the basket, and he amiably allowed his ears to be flattened and his fur gently ruffled.
Dakh Won’s adopted home was a small house in the country, overlooking a ravine—a fascinating new world of fringed rugs, cozy heat registers, wide windowsills, soft chairs, and a grand piano.
He soon discovered the joys of sitting in this elevated box with half-opened lid, but it proved to be off-limits to cats. After lights were turned out for the night he was welcome, however, to share a soft bed with a warm armpit and reassuring heartbeat. That was where he slept—except on weekends.
“Hilda, I’m telling you for the last time: Get that animal out of this bed!”
“He isn’t bothering you, Jack. He’s over on my side.”
“I don’t want him in this bedroom! Lock him up in the basement.”
“It’s damp down there. He’ll howl all night.”
“Okay, if that cat’s more important than me, I’ll go down and bunk on the sofa.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll sleep on the sofa myself.”
“Thanks.”
“I knew you’d like the idea.”
“Don’t slam the door.”
Dakh Won jumped out of the warm bed and followed the bedroom slippers as they moved slowly down the stairs, one careful step at a time. His ears were laid back, and his fur was sharply ridged. He disliked loud voices, and the tension that he sensed made him vaguely uncomfortable.
Quarreling was not the only discomfort on weekends. There was the onslaught of feet. Nowhere on the floor could Dakh Won feel safe. He liked to sprawl full length in any patch of sun that warmed the rug. The floor was his domain, and feet were expected to detour. But on weekends his rights were ignored.
One Saturday he waked with a snarl of anguish when a crushing weight came down on the tip of his tail, and the next day he received a cruel blow to his soft underside when he was stretched trustingly in the middle of the hallway.
“Damn that cat! I tripped over him! I could have broke my leg.Hilda, do you hear me?”
“You should look where you’re going. Have you been drinking again?”
“You think more of that stinking beast than you do of me.”