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“We’ll get her back,” said Odelia, addressing Brutus, who looked decidedly glum now, staring before him like a cat bereft of his mate, which of course he was.

“I should have stopped him,” he said now. “I should have scratched his face.”

“He was wearing a mask,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but the least I could have done was scratched his neck or something.”

“It all happened so fast. By the time we realized what was happening, he was gone.”

“Yeah, he must have prepared his catnapping carefully,” said Marge.

Chase and Uncle Alec had left, intent on nabbing the nabber, and Odelia nervously checked her phone for a message from either of the two cops.

“It’s possible we won’t get more news until tomorrow,” she said. “If this guy is smart, he’ll lay low for a while.”

“I don’t get it,” said Gran. “What does he hope to accomplish by stealing a cat, for crying out loud?”

“He said he wants to shoot videos of Harriet painting. He told me it’s very soothing, and would prove a big hit, because of the combination of painting and cats, both popular topics.”

“I think the guy is nuts,” said Gran.

Which was also a distinct possibility.

A call came in, and Odelia picked up her phone in seconds.“Chase?” She listened for a moment, then pumped the air with her fist. “Thanks, babe.” She hung up, her eyes shining with excitement. “They’ve just secured a search warrant for Gallagher Davenport’s house and they’re going in.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” said Gran. “Let’s go!”

CHAPTER 21

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Gallagher Davenport lived in a biggish house in one of the more posh neighborhoods of our fair little town. It looked like one of those Victorian mansions that England is littered with, an iron fence with sharp spikes protecting the perimeter to keep intruders out—or Persian abductees in. It even had a weathervane on the roof, something you don’t see that often. It struck me as a gloomy sort of place, and I fully expected bats to fly out from some attic window, or a creepy ghost to haunt the house and grounds.

“I’ll bet he keeps his ancestors in a crypt!” Brutus lamented.

A small police contingent had arrived, and at Uncle Alec’s signal, they all marched up to the house, and the Chief did the honors by ringing the bell.

Mr. Davenport soon appeared, dressed in slippers and a velvet dressing gown, a glass of port in his hand and a cigar clenched between his lips. He politely inquired as to the nature of this unexpected intrusion.

Uncle Alec duly showed him the search warrant, and then the cops all swarmed out, in search of our friend.

Dooley, Brutus and I joined the search, and soon were sniffing everywhere, hoping to pick up Harriet’s trail.

No such luck, though I did see plenty of Persians… stuffed Persians, that is!

“Yikes!” Dooley cried when we first came face to face with such a specimen. She looked exactly like Harriet, but was obviously long expired. Her mortal remains had been stuffed and positioned on the floor next to what looked like a mouse, who had gone through the same experience and was now stuffed for life.

“This place is hell!” Brutus croaked hoarsely.

“He’s going to murder Harriet and stuff her, isn’t he, Max?” asked Dooley.

I could only agree that this was a distinct possibility!

Our search carried us into the downstairs area, where the basement had been turned into a large wine cellar, filled with bottles of wine of all description, covered with the requisite spiderwebs, but of Harriet there was no trace.

“I don’t smell her, Max,” said Brutus as we returned upstairs along the creaky wooden stairs. “I can’t smell my sweetheart anywhere!”

“He must have tucked her away somewhere else,” I said.

“We have to find her, Max,” said Brutus. “We have to find her tonight!”

“Yeah, before he kills her and stuffs her!” Dooley added.

The police were busy searching high and low, judging from the sounds of stomping feet all around us, and since the house was well covered, we decided to take the search operation onto the grounds, something that is often forgotten.

And of course Brutus’s prediction proved correct, and before long we found ourselves face to face with a large crypt, on top of which a monument of monumental proportions had been placed, devoted to the Davenport family tree, of which presumably many a member had been entombed beneath our paws.

“Do you think she’s down there?” asked Brutus, gesturing to the stone steps that led into the abyss.

“I’m not so sure,” I said. I mean, who keeps a cat in a crypt? Only a madman! But we owed it to ourselves to look everywhere, so even though it turned our stomachs, we still headed down into the Davenport family tomb. It was pretty chilly down there, and smelled a little stale, but once more our search proved fruitless, for of Harriet there was no sign.

“It’s pretty dead down here,” said Dooley, summing up the atmosphere nicely.

Somehow I fully expected a Davenport ghost to raise its voice and warn us off, but nothing stirred, nor man or beast, and we were glad to escape from the place.