James the Conniosseur Cat Page 8

  Finicky wives generally hauled their husbands out of the flat and out of the building posthaste.

  However, these efforts were seldom required. The reputation of Baron’s Chambers as a well-run, well-bred home away from home was solidly established, and only on rare occasions was it necessary to deflect an unsuitable guest.

  However, it took vigilance. Once in a flat, guests were hard to dislodge before they had to leave, so James had been in the habit of screening all corners with some care, except, of course, for the time he was spending at Thwaite’s, or off junketing with Lord Henry, Helena, and me. More and more, tenants were arriving without ever seeing the great gray feline.

  One day he found a middle-aged man wearing a dripping raincoat entering the elevator with a big, multicolored vinyl suitcase. James jumped in with him.

  “Nice kitty,” said the man in a palliative manner.

  James glowered.

  When they reached the sixth floor, James followed the man into the office and sat on the desk, glaring.

  “Good morning,” said Mrs. March. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m Fred Wilberforce, and I’ve come to join Bill Bummell in flat two,” the man said heartily. “I thought I had better check in and get a key.”

  James shook his head.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. March. “Mr. Bummell has been expecting you.”

  James hopped off the desk and began to examine the large suitcase in detail.

  “Nice kitty,” said Mr. Wilberforce, as he tried to brush James away. James hissed, and Wilberforce withdrew his hand. The small office had begun to smell of very flowery after-shave.

  “Just sign this registration card, and here’s your key,” said Mrs. March.

  “Thanks, love,” said Mr. Wilberforce in his loud voice.

  James paced around in distress.

  At that moment, Mr. Bummell appeared from the fourth floor. James looked at the newcomer with interest.

  “Scat!” said Mr. Bummell. “Get that cat away!”

  James retired behind the desk.

  “Mr. Bummell!” said Mrs. March. “I guess you never met James.”

  “And I never want to see him again,” said Bummell.

  “Hello, Wilberforce,” he added, slapping Mr. Wilberforce on the back. “Let’s go.”

  I had walked up to the sixth floor to get my laundry from one of the maids, and I’d stopped outside the office, interested because James so clearly despised these two men. They paid no attention to me, but got in the elevator and descended to the fourth floor to enter the flat adjoining mine. James did not accompany them in the elevator, but watched as the cage left our floor, and his expression was not pleasant.

  “Nice kitty,” I said, and jumped out of the way to avoid a fierce swipe of a big gray paw.

  An angry James trotted downstairs to the ground floor, where he took up his position on the table.

  “Who are those two?” I asked Mrs. March.

  “Mr. Bummell came in about a week ago, when James was spending all that time at Thwaite’s. He said Mr. Wilberforce would be coming,” said Mrs. March. “He is out all day, and for all I know, all evening as well. We never hear from him.” She paused. “He certainly hates cats. I hope James will not give him a hard time.”

  I had a feeling James was out to give him as hard a time as possible, but I didn’t say so. No need to make Mrs. March unhappy.

  The first thing we noticed was that Mr. Wilberforce and Mr. Bummell had very loud voices. They liked to kid around, and when one came into the building of an evening, the other, if he was home, would call down the elevator shaft. All six floors of Baron’s Chambers would know what kind of a day Mr. Bummell and Mr. Wilberforce had had. Mr. Bummell liked to sing, and he had a loud singing voice that was slightly off key. His favorite song was “Violate Me in the Violet Time,” of which he knew two lines, and often sang them as he left in the morning.

  During the day, Baron’s Chambers was respectably quiet. The rest of the tenants spoke in lowered tones. In fact, most of us had begun to whisper.

  In the evening, however, things were different. Often both men would spend the evening together at the local pub and come home arm in arm, singing. They would crash into the entrance, howl with laughter in the elevator, punch each other affectionately, fall over each other on the fourth floor, forget to close the elevator door—so that it was immobile till someone came along and closed the doors properly—and finally collapse into the flat, banging the door after them.

  There were no fights, only noisy conviviality. It woke the building and left the tenants angry. James was beside himself.

  One dripping afternoon we sat in the sitting room. Or rather, I sat and James paced the floor. Clearly he felt something needed to be done. He left right after the news without a backward glance. At about one in the morning I was startled awake by a crash, followed by extensive swearing in familiar loud voices. The elevator rose to the fourth floor. Sounds of stumbling could be heard outside my door. Someone fell against it. I did not open the door. Mr. Wilberforce was laughing hugely. Mr. Bummell was cursing frantically. At last they slammed their door.

  The next morning early I heard the flat next door being opened. There was a yelp and a scuffle.

  “Help! Help!” I heard Mr. Bummell cry.

  I opened my door, and there was Mr. Bummell in a pair of bright green pajamas. His face was red with rage and—could I believe it?—fear.

  “That damned cat is in my flat!” he yelled. “Get him out!”

  Mr. Wilberforce was sitting at the table in the sitting room, dressed in a red and purple striped dressing gown. The apartment was strewn with clothing, newspapers, and dirty glasses. There was no sign of James. He had disappeared. I was not surprised.

  “What cat?” I asked. “I don’t see one.”

  “I saw him come in. I can’t stand cats,” cried Mr. Bummell.

  “Come on,” said Mr. Wilberforce, “he’s gone, if he was ever here. Thanks for checking,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Mr. Bummell sat down and looked around apprehensively. He was indeed afraid of cats.

  During the rest of the day, James sat in his usual place and supervised Baron’s Chambers.

  Late in the afternoon, when Mr. Bummell returned to this flat, I heard him stop off on six and shout at Mrs. March.

  “Keep that cat away from me!” he roared. “A cat does not belong in a service apartment building at all, so keep him up here!” He stomped down the stairs and slammed his door.

  Some time later, James and I heard the two men leave their flat and stomp down the stairs together. Mr. Wilberforce was singing “Violate Me in the Violet Time” as they went. James sighed a deep sigh and curled up on the sofa for a nap. He wanted no reading, no whiskey, nothing. I patted him in an affectionate way, but he refused to purr.

  His nap over, James asked to be let out long before Mrs. March came for him. He obviously had some plan in mind, but I had no idea what it was.

  That night at about two-thirty, there was a terrible sound in the entrance. Part of the sound was in the form of a terrified roar from Mr. Bummell, part was a shriek from Mr. Wilberforce, and the rest consisted of howls and hisses—new to me and to all the rest of the tenants.

  There was a lot of stumbling around and at last the two men reached their flat and slammed the door.

  The next morning, as I left, I said good morning to a solemn James, who sat on the table, regarding his domain. On the table next to him was what appeared to be a white tablecloth in rather rumpled condition.

  James was tired in the afternoon and took a nap. He left early.

  That night, Mr. Bummell and Mr. Wilberforce stayed at home and played sentimental music on their record player. Thanks to Baron’s Chambers’ thick walls, we didn’t hear too much.

  The next morning I overheard the two men talking as they left the building.

  “This place is haunted,” said Bummell.

  “Nonsense,” said Wilbe
rforce in his hearty voice. “You were just drunker than usual. It was only a curtain.”

  “A curtain that shrieks?”

  “It was nothing, I tell you,” said Wilberforce. “This is a good flat, the service is better than most, and I like the sitting room.”

  “It’s haunted,” Bummell muttered.

  I did not see James at all in the afternoon. At about eleven that night, however, I heard the front door open as I stood at my own door. I was coming in after dinner. Wilberforce and Bummell were banging their way in as usual. An eerie howl rose from the hall, and the lights in the entrance were suddenly extinguished, except for the weak lamp on the table.

  I heard the howl repeated. A heavy body hit the ground and Mr. Wilberforce said “Oh, Christ!” and ran upstairs.

  The howl ceased. Wilberforce ran past me, fumbled for his key, flung open his door, and dove inside, slamming the door after him.

  I walked downstairs to see Bummell slowly getting up off the floor, where he had apparently fainted. The light in the entrance was dim, and it was hard to see exactly what was going on, but it seemed to me that under a large lump of white tablecloth could be distinguished the shape of a large cat.

  Together we rode to the fourth floor. I banged on his door, and Wilberforce opened it a crack.

  “Here, take your boy,” I said, and handed the tottering Bummell in.

  All was quiet. I entered my bedroom and turned on the light. There, sitting on the bed, was James, grinning from ear to ear.

  The next day, Mr. Bummell stormed up to the sixth floor and canceled the remainder of his stay. Since he had paid for a month in advance, he was demanding a refund. After checking the flat and assessing damages, Mrs. March happily handed his money back and wished him well in another apartment.

  “I’ll tell everyone I know that this place is haunted,” cried Bummell in his low, rasping voice.

  “Oh, shut up!” said Wilberforce. “Let’s go up the street to the Cavendish.”

  They left with their big bags in the rain.

  James moved purposefully to the entrance hall.

  “I wonder what those two were afraid of,” said Mrs. March. “There are no ghosts in Baron’s Chambers.” She was looking for something. “James,” she said, “where’s my white tea cloth?” Suddenly she turned to me blushing. “Imagine, talking like that to a cat. How could he know where my tea cloth is?”

  “You never can tell,” I said gaily, and went about my business.

  CHAPTER 8

  James was full of himself. He had developed a new posture. He lay on his table by the elevator at the entrance to Baron’s Chambers, his tail fanned out against the wall to make him look as large and important as possible.

  Mrs. March had installed a mirror across from the table in the only wall space available, so that the tenants could take a quick check of their appearance just before facing the world. It was contained in a gold baroque frame and so placed that if James stretched his neck slightly he could see himself. He did so frequently.

  As the days lengthened and sunlight, when it appeared, grew stronger even though it never actually penetrated the window of Baron’s, James fluffed his fur and turned his head this way and that, trying different effects of light and shadow.

  Lord Henry and Helena returned from Gibraltar, she to her flat in Brixton, and he to his club. They both looked fit, but there was a sadness between them. They offered no explanations, however, and greeted us all with affection.

  Peter returned from South Africa with a gleam in his eye and bulging cases of material to study, assign to lots, and auction off.

  The far-flung friends gathered again in my flat, this time for tea, scones, Devonshire cream, and strawberry jam. It promised to be a memorable reunion, and in a way it was.

  To begin with, James was impossible. Peter Hightower arrived first, and from the time he appeared, James paraded around the tea table. He bowed ceremoniously, a king deigning to greet his subjects. As each guest arrived, he indicated which chair belonged to whom, and at last he had us all arranged as he wanted, Peter and me on the sofa in the middle, and Helena and Lord Henry on either side, in the big chairs. After Helena had poured tea, he indicated by a sniff that it was not for him.

  He knocked a tin of smoked salmon off the shelf, and slapped my leg until I got up and opened it. He gobbled up smoked salmon and Devonshire cream while we ate and chatted.

  Once the tea was cleared away, he went around the circle, tapping each of us, and ended up on my lap. He pointed to himself, jabbed me in the chest, and settled down with a smirk on his face.

  Peter began to tell us about what he had found in South Africa.

  James jumped off my lap, assaulted Peter, and slammed a gray paw on his mouth. Then he returned to my lap.

  Helena started to speak.

  James glared.

  “He wants me to tell you all how he saved Baron’s Chambers,” I said irritably.

  James nodded, smiling.

  I told the story.

  When I was through, James lifted both forepaws to applaud himself, and fell off my lap.

  The congratulations were warm and effusive, but they seemed not to be enough.

  James walked around restlessly, posing before the mirror above the bar from time to time, interrupting whoever was speaking.

  “You know, darling Sir James,” said Helena at last, a little exasperation creeping into her voice, “if I didn’t know you were the most wonderful cat in the universe, I’d say you were at the moment a nuisance.”

  James was stunned. And at that moment there was a knock at the door.

  There was Mrs. March, with a tall, good-looking stranger.

  “This is Mr. Wolf,” said Mrs. March. “He says he has come to interview James, and since James spends all his time with you, I thought he might find him here.”

  James turned from the mirror over the bar and looked Mr. Wolf up and down. What he saw was a lean, tanned man of about thirty-five, dressed in a sheepskin jacket and well-worn blue jeans. He had curly black hair, gray eyes, and a clipped black beard.

  “Come in, come in,” I said. “We’d love to give you both tea or, if you prefer, whiskey. Perhaps Mr. Wolf could talk to James here.”

  Mr. Wolf walked in and smiled.

  Mrs. March sidled in apologetically.

  “I really don’t want to intrude!” she said.

  James gave her a severe look.

  The rest of us were frankly curious, and since James would not let us talk about anything but James, we might as well see what was going to happen.

  For a minute or so, James and Mr. Wolf eyed each other.

  “Let me take your coat,” I said. “Will you have some whiskey?”

  “Tea, thank you,” said Mr. Wolf in a firm baritone. “Whiskey spoils my creative perceptions.”

  James stopped posing and mulled over the phrase “creative perceptions.”

  Mr. Wolf and Mrs. March were provided with tea, and we all turned to Mr. Wolf. James draped himself over the coffee table and looked dignified.

  “I’m a TV producer,” Mr. Wolf began, “and I’m working on, among other things, a program for children based on the story of ‘Puss in Boots.’ We have the script and the cast, I am directing the production myself, and now all I need is the cat. I saw your cat when he appeared on TV recently in connection with the Constable matter at Thwaite’s. He photographs well [James preened], seems intelligent [James nodded], and since the animal trainers I know have no appropriate cats at the moment, I thought I would look him over. If you are willing, of course,” he added to Mrs. March.

  James rolled over on his back, and waving his paws in the air, he grinned a silly, sappy grin at Mr. Wolf and then rolled off the table, jumped into Mr. Wolf’s lap, curled up, and purred.

  Mr. Wolf regarded him with pleasure.

  “Is he trained in any way?” he asked Mrs. March.

  “Good heavens! Not that I know of.” Mrs. March gasped.

  James l
eaped off Wolf’s lap and on to the table, where he nodded vigorously.

  “Roll over,” I said.

  James rolled over. Wolf watched.

  “Sit on Helena’s purse,” I commanded.

  With a flourish, James did as he was bid.

  “Walk to the door,” said Mr. Wolf.

  James obeyed, looking over his shoulder with a smirk.

  “Well,” said Mr. Wolf. “He certainly does seem to take direction.”

  None of us said anything.

  James returned to the coffee table, looked at Mr. Wolf, and proceeded to portray a range of emotions from fear through anger to ecstatic bliss.

  Mr. Wolf let out a great booming laugh.

  “You will certainly do!” he said, patting James affectionately but none too gently. “Now, Mrs. March, how much do you want for his services?”

  Mrs. March, no longer apologetic, got up. “Mr. Wolf, let us go up to my office and discuss terms,” she said. We all knew that Mrs. March would discuss terms very effectively.

  “There is one problem, however,” said Mr. Wolf. “Someone will have to come to the studio with James.”

  Mrs. March looked crestfallen. We all knew she couldn’t leave Baron’s very long.

  “I’d be glad to go,” I said. “I can fit my research around James’s working hours, I’m sure.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Wolf in his hearty way.

  “If Mrs. March and I can come to terms, I’ll see you and James at our studio.” He gave me a card. “Day after tomorrow.”

  Mrs. March and Mr. Wolf left. Mr. Wolf, his jacket over his arm, banged the door behind him. His powerful voice could be heard in the hall as he and Mrs. March headed for the sixth-floor office.

  In the sitting room, James was beside himself. He rolled over, sat up, pretended to catch mice, walked on his hind legs on the back of the sofa, collapsed in Helena’s lap, and purred like a giant vacuum cleaner.

  Lord Henry brought glasses for us all, and a saucer for James, and we toasted the new TV star in Laphroaig and, it being that time, we all watched the news together with our eyes open.