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It was Gallagher Davenport, and clearly he wasn’t going to let his prize artist leave without a fight!

CHAPTER 26

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A sardonic grin spread across the catnapper’s face. “More artists for my art factory. Nice!” And in a swift motion, he slammed the door shut behind him so we were all locked up down there with that horrible man, with no avenue of escape!

“I think we’re in trouble, Max,” said Dooley.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I agreed.

“But I don’t want to be an artist!” Buster cried. “I have no artistic skills whatsoever! Unless you consider styling hair art, of course.”

“I’m an artist,” said Shanille. “Though I very much doubt this man knows the first thing about music. I’ll bet he can’t even carry a tune!”

“He’s going to stuff us,” said Brutus. “He’s going to stuff us all!”

“I need grooming,” said Harriet. “I need a visit to the pet parlor and I need it now! Why didn’t anyone tell me I looked this terrible! My nails—my hair—my whiskers!”

These were all sentiments that Davenport, for one, was oblivious to, for as you may or may not know, most humans are impervious to a cat’s finer feelings, and most certainly to our excellent skills as engaging conversationalists.

Instead, he forced us to retreat by stomping down those stairs, making us skitter and scatter to all four corners of the dungeon.

“Good,” he said. “Just the way I like it.”

“I think he’s not a Swede but a sadist, Max,” said Dooley, who was hiding in one corner with me.

“I never said he was a Swede,” I told my friend. “I said Harriet is probably suffering from Stockholm syndrome.”

“Well, now we’ll all be suffering from Stockholm syndrome,” said Dooley. “Unless we find a different exit from this dungeon.”

I had a feeling there was no different exit from this dungeon, since dungeons often consist of a big hole dug in the ground, with but a single avenue of egress.

Davenport didn’t bother looking for us, or rooting us out from our hiding places. Instead he went stomping back up the stairs. “As soon as the cops are gone, I’m going to put you all to work!” he warned, and then he was gone, slamming the door and bolting it shut for good measure.

“I wish I was a mouse,” said Dooley. “Mice always find those nooks and crannies through which to escape. They’re very clever creatures, mice.”

“Or rats,” said Buster, now emerging from his own hiding place, behind an old chair that was missing a leg, seriously hampering its usefulness.

Brutus, who’d hidden behind the pile of stuffed Persians, now also stepped to the fore. “There has to be a way out of here,” he said. “There just has to.”

“I’ve looked everywhere,” said Harriet, indicating that perhaps she hadn’t been as happy in her ‘atelier’ as she had indicated. “If there is another exit, I haven’t found it.”

“I’m going to be late,” said Shanille. “Father Reilly is going to miss me, and there will be hell to pay.”

“Fido is going to be very worried,” said Buster. “He doesn’t like it when I stay out all night. He likes me to curl up at the foot of the bed, and keep his feet warm.”

“He should have taken a dog, not a cat,” said Shanille. “Cats aren’t made for keeping human feet warm, Buster. That’s a dog’s job. You disappoint me.”

“Oh, but cats can offer that service just as well as dogs can,” said Buster. “I’ll have you know that—”

“Look, we’re not here to talk about the merits or demerits of dogs versus cats,” I said. “We’re looking for a way out of here, before this man Davenport puts us all to work in his art factory and we never see the light of day again. Ever!”

“We’re all going to die down here, aren’t we?” Dooley lamented.

“What makes you say that?” asked Harriet. “Davenport has been treating me really well. Plenty of food and drink.”

“It’s paint,” said Dooley. “If you keep licking that paint off your fur the toxins will kill you.”

Harriet gulped.“Oh, my God! Tell me it isn’t so!”

“It is so,” Dooley confirmed. “Paint is toxic, Harriet.”

“We already discussed this,” I chimed in.

“I need to see the vet!” Harriet cried. “I need to see Vena right now!”

“Isn’t a concierge doctor part of the excellent service your Davenport provides?” asked Shanille in a sardonic undertone.

“He’s notmy Davenport, Shanille. He’sa Davenport. And no, he hasn’t yet stipulated that health and dental is part of the remuneration package for his residentartiste.”

“Let’s all spread out and look for an exit, all right?” I said, trying to get us all focused on the same goal once more. “And the one who finds it, gives a holler.”

“Gives a holler?” asked Shanille. “Who do you think we are? The Spice Girls?”

“Just… do it, okay?” I said, and set the tone by heading for what looked like a very promising start: that cabinet. As we had seen upstairs, oftentimes cabinets, cupboards and racks are used to disguise an opening. And I hoped this would be just such a cabinet.

“Why the interest in those stuffed cats, Max?” asked Brutus curiously as he followed my progress closely.

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