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 recom-mendation."
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 com-fortable 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 any more. 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 my-self 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 mow-ing the lawn over there this afternoon, when the cat came.
He said, "I'm in the insurance game, Mr. Murray. Some-time 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 will-ingly. 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, be-hind me. She said, "I heard him say who he was and what he wanted, and when the cat jumped down and went to-ward 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.