Reserved for the Cat

None of them knew what to make of it. “All I can tell you is that he hated me with a terrible passion,” she said rubbing the bridge of her nose as the memory made her head ache a little. “I cannot tell you why, and I do not ever recall having seen him before.”

“Maybe we should see if the mad-house is missing an inmate,” Nigel said, half in jest. But Ninette and Arthur both turned to look at him thoughtfully,

“That might be no bad idea,” Ninette replied slowly. “The strength of that hate, the lack of anything but hate—it indeed felt like that of a madman.”

Nigel regarded both of them soberly, as Arthur nodded. “I suppose there is no harm in making sure,” he said, finally. “Very well then. I’ll send to the police and ask them to make inquiries.”

As the humans discussed just how much it would be prudent to tell the police, Thomas slipped out. There were a few advantages to being trapped in the body of a cat, and this was one. He might not have the nose of a hound, but he could follow a scent-trail, even one as muddled as this one was likely to be. He felt a distinct sense of urgency in this. He could not imagine that this was some random madman who had somehow fixated on Ninette. No, this was linked to the other attacks, and the only way to find out how it was linked was to find the attacker.

Fortunately, the attacker had been kind enough to leave a blood-trail. Faint, but it was there. And it was just as fortunate that he had elected to stagger back to whatever place he deemed safe on foot.

Since his trail took him down back streets and through alleys, Thomas presumed that whatever injuries he had gotten impacting the brick wall had been obvious enough that he did not want to show his damaged self in public.

But this was two long treks across Blackpool in one day, and he was getting very tired indeed by the time the trail ended at the back entrance of a little house with pretensions of grandeur where Thomas’s sharp ears picked up the sound of a woman’s voice raised in a plaintive tone that was not quite a whine.

Thomas quickly leapt the wall and positioned himself where he could hear every word.

“. . . dear, I wish you would go tell the police about those footpads!” said the woman. “Look at your poor face! You might have been—”

“Enough, Mother!” The male voice that answered her was rough with anger. “I am not going to the police, and that is an end to it!” The scent that wafted from the window matched the one Thomas had been following, washed over with the scent of disinfectant. “There is nothing I can tell them; I never saw those ruffians’ faces, they simply manhandled me into a wall and fled when they heard someone coming. I am not inclined to open myself to ridicule because I allowed myself to be caught off-guard by a couple of rough laborers!”

“But, dear—”

“I have made my decision, Mother! Kindly do not fret me with it any further! Now, I am going out. Thank you for your ministrations, and do not trouble yourself to wait up for me.”

For one brief moment, Thomas panicked when he realized that the man was going to be opening the door only a scant foot or two away from his hiding place.

But then he shook his head, because he knew this fellow wasn’t going to do anything except shy a stone at him, perhaps. He was a cat! If a cat could look at a king, then it could certainly lurk with impunity in the shrubbery.

The man opened his own front door, and stalked stiffly out into the street. Thomas gave him a few paces, then followed. But it was with a powerful internal struggle. When he saw the marks on the man’s face that so clearly told that he had slammed into the wall, Thomas had no doubt at all that this was his quarry. And it had taken every bit of his self control to keep from leaping on the man in a fury and making a total ruin of his head with teeth and claws.

He hoped that he would gain some clue as to why the man had attacked Ninette, but all the fellow did was to go to a second-class club and proceed to get drunk. He went at it methodically, as Thomas could tell by watching from the vantage point of a hiding place under a sofa, and he went about it silently. He was scarcely popular, that much was painfully clear. No one greeted him, and he greeted no one. Eventually, he passed out in a stupor, empty glass falling to the rug beside him. One of the club servants picked up the glass but left him where he was. Evidently he was no favorite with them, either.