The Man Upstairs and Other Stories
escaped once again from its cage and was 'aving an argument with that
cat which Captain Bassett has given to you.'
'Oh! I hope that Alexander 'as not hurt poor Polly, of whom I am very
fond,' she has said.
'The affair did not come to blows,' has said Mr 'Enderson. 'You may
trust that bird to take care of himself, my dear. When I came upon the
scene the cat was crouching in a corner, with his fur bristling and his
back up, while Polly, standing before 'im, was telling 'im not to move
or he would shoot. Nor did he move, till I 'ad seized the parrot and
replaced him in the cage, when he shot upstairs like a streak of
lightning. By sheer force of character that excellent bird 'ad won the
bloodless victory. I drink to 'im!'
You can conceive my emotion as I listen to this tale. I am like the
poet's mice and men whose best-kid schemes have gone away. I am
baffled. I am discouraged. I do not know what I shall do. I must find
another plan, but I do not know what.
How shall I remove the cat? Shall I kill 'im? No, for I might be
suspect.
Shall I 'ire someone to steal 'im? No, for my accomplice might betray
me.
Shall I myself steal 'im? Ah! that is better. That is a very good plan.
Soon I have it perfected, this plan. Listen, monsieur; it is as
follows. It is simple, but it is good. I will await my opportunity. I
will remove the cat secretly from the 'ouse. I will take him to an
office of the District Messenger Boys. I will order a messenger to
carry him at once to the Cats' House, and to request M. le Directeur
immediately to destroy him. It is a simple plan, but it is good.
I carry it through without a 'itch. It is not so difficult to secure
the cat. 'E is asleep in the drawing-room. There is nobody at hand. I
have in my bedroom a 'at-box which I have brought from Paris. I have
brought it with me to the drawing-room. I have placed in it the cat. I
have escaped from the 'ouse. The cat has uttered a cry, but none has
'eard. I have reached the office of the District Messenger Boys. I have
'anded over the cat in its box. The manager is courteous, sympathetic.
A messenger has started in a cab for the Cats' House. I have breathed
a sigh of relief. I am saved.
That is what I say to myself as I return. My troubles are over, and
once more I can be gay, debonair, vivacious with Miss Marion, for no
longer will there be present the cat Alexander to 'arass me.
When I have returned there is commotion in the 'ouse. I pass on the
stairs domestics calling 'Puss, puss!' The butler is chirruping loudly
and poking beneath the furniture with a umbrella. All is confusion and
agitation.
In the drawing-room is Miss Marion. She is distressed.
'Nowhere,' she has said, 'can there be found the cat Alexander of whom
I am so fond. Nowhere in the 'ouse is he, Where can he be? He is lost.'
I am gentle, sympathetic. I endeavour to console her. I 'int to her
that am I not sufficient substitute for a beastly cat? She is, however,
inconsolable. I must be patient. I must wait my time.
Captain Bassett is announced. He is informed of what has 'appened. He
is distressed. He has the air as if he, too, would endeavour to be
gentle, sympathetic. But I am Johnny-on-the-spot. I stay till he 'as
gone.
Next day again it is 'Puss, puss!' Again the butler has explored under
the furniture with the umbrella. Again Miss Marion is distressed. Again
'ave I endeavoured to console.
This time I think I am not so unsuccessful. I am, you understand,
young, 'andsome, sympathetic. In another two ticks I am about to seize
'er 'and and declare my passion.
But, before I can do so, Captain Bassett is announced.
I gaze at him as at unsuccessful rival. I am confident. I am conqueror.
Ah, I little know! It is in the moments of our highest 'ope, monsieur,
that we are destroyed.
Captain Bassett, he, too, 'as the air of the conqueror.
He has begun to speak.
'Miss 'Enderson,' he has said, 'I have once more the bally good news. I
rather fancy that I 'ave tracked down the missing Alexander, do you not
know?'
Miss Marion 'as cried out with joy. But I am calm, for is not Alexander
already yesterday destroyed?
'It is like this,' he has resumed. 'I have thought to myself where is
lost cat most likely to be? And I have answered, "In the Cats' House."
I go this morning to the Cats' House, and there I see a cat which is
either lost Alexander or his living image. Exactly is he the same to
all appearances as the lost Alexander. But there is, when I try to
purchase 'im, some curious 'itch which they do not explain. They must
'ave time, they say, to consider. They cannot at once decide.'
'Why, what nonsense!' Miss Marion 'ave cried. 'If the cat is my cat,
surely then must they return 'im to me! Come,' she has said, 'let us
all three at once in a taxi-cab go to the Cats' House. If the all three
of us identify the lost Alexander, then must they return 'im.'
Monsieur, I am uneasy. I have foreboding. But I go. What choice? We go
in a taxi-cab to the Cats' House.
The _directeur_ is courteous and sympathetic. He has introduced us
to the cat, and my 'eart 'as turned to water, for it is Alexander. Why
has he not been destroyed?
The _directeur_ is speaking. I 'ear him in a dream.
'If you identify 'im as your cat, miss,' he has said, 'the matter is
ended. My 'esitation when you, sir, approached me this morning on the
matter was due to the fact that a messenger was sent with instructions
that he be destroyed at once.'
'Rather rough, wasn't it, that, on the messenger, yes,' Captain Bassett
has said. He is facetious, you understand, for he is conqueror.
I am silent. I am not facetious. For already I feel--how do you
say?--my fowl is cooked.
'Not the messenger, sir,' the _directeur_ has said. 'You 'ave
misunderstood me. It was the cat which was to be destroyed as per
instructions of the anonymous sender.'
'Who could have played such a wicked trick?' Miss Marion has asked,
indignant.
The _directeur_ has stooped, and from behind a table he has
brought a 'at-box.
'In this,' he has said, 'the above animal was conveyed. But with it was
no accompanying letter. The sender was anonymous.'
'Per'aps,' Captain Bassett has said--and still more in a dream I 'ear
him--'per'aps on the 'at-box there is some bally name or other, do you
not know--what?'
I clutch at the table. The room is spinning round and round. I have no
stomach--only emptiness.
'Why, bless me,' the _directeur_ has said, 'you're quite right,
sir. So there is. Funny of me not to have before observed it. There is
a name, and also an address. It is the name of Jean Priaulx, and the
address is the Hotel Jules Priaulx, Paris.'
My companion stopped abruptly. He passed a handkerchief over his
forehead. With a quick movement he reached for his glass of liqueur
brandy and drained it at a gulp.
'Monsieur,' he said, 'you will not wish me to describe the scene? There
is no need for me--_hein?_--to be Zolaesque. You can imagine?'
'She chucked you?' In moments of emotion it is the simplest language
that comes to the lips.
He nodded.
'And married Captain Bassett?'
He nodded again.
'And your uncle?' I said. 'How did he take it?'
He sighed.
'There was once more,' he said, 'blooming row, monsieur.'
'He washed his hands of you?'
'Not altogether. He was angry, but he gave me one more chance. I am
still 'is dear brother's child, and he cannot forget it. An
acquaintance of his, a man of letters, a M. Paul Sartines, was in need
of a secretary. The post was not well paid, but it was permanent. My
uncle insist that I take it. What choice? I took it. It is the post
which I still 'old.'
He ordered another liqueur brandy and gulped it down.
'The name is familiar to you, monsieur? You 'ave 'eard of M. Sartines?'
'I don't think I have. Who is he?'
'He is a man of letters, a _savant_. For five years he has been
occupied upon a great work. It is with that that I assist him by
collecting facts for 'is use. I 'ave spent this afternoon in the
British Museum collecting facts. Tomorrow I go again. And the next day.
And again after that. The book will occupy yet another ten years before
it is completed. It is his great work.'
'It sounds as if it was,' I said. 'What's it about?'
He signalled to the waiter.
'_Garcon_, one other liqueur brandy. The book, monsieur, is a
'_Istory of the Cat in Ancient Egypt._'
RUTH IN EXILE
The clock struck five--briskly, as if time were money. Ruth Warden got
up from her desk and, having put on her hat, emerged into the outer
office where M. Gandinot received visitors. M. Gandinot, the ugliest
man in Roville-sur-Mer, presided over the local _mont-de-piete_,
and Ruth served him, from ten to five, as a sort of secretary-clerk.
Her duties, if monotonous, were simple. They consisted of sitting,
detached and invisible, behind a ground-glass screen, and entering
details of loans in a fat book. She was kept busy as a rule, for
Roville possesses two casinos, each offering the attraction of
_petits chevaux_, and just round the corner is Monte Carlo. Very
brisk was the business done by M. Gandinot, the pawnbroker, and very
frequent were the pitying shakes of the head and clicks of the tongue
of M. Gandinot, the man; for in his unofficial capacity Ruth's employer
had a gentle soul, and winced at the evidences of tragedy which
presented themselves before his official eyes.
He blinked up at Ruth as she appeared, and Ruth, as she looked at him,
was conscious, as usual, of a lightening of the depression which,
nowadays, seemed to have settled permanently upon her. The peculiar
quality of M. Gandinot's extraordinary countenance was that it induced
mirth--not mocking laughter, but a kind of smiling happiness. It
possessed that indefinable quality which characterizes the Billiken,
due, perhaps, to the unquenchable optimism which shone through the
irregular features; for M. Gandinot, despite his calling, believed in
his fellow-man.
'You are going, mademoiselle?'
As Ruth was wearing her hat and making for the door, and as she always
left at this hour, a purist might have considered the question
superfluous; but M. Gandinot was a man who seized every opportunity of
practising his English.
'You will not wait for the good papa who calls so regularly for you?'
'I think I won't today, M. Gandinot. I want to get out into the air. I
have rather a headache. Will you tell my father I have gone to the
Promenade?'
M. Gandinot sighed as the door closed behind her. Ruth's depression had
not escaped his notice. He was sorry for her. And not without cause,
for Fate had not dealt too kindly with Ruth.
It would have amazed Mr Eugene Warden, that genial old gentleman, if,
on one of those occasions of manly emotion when he was in the habit of
observing that he had been nobody's enemy but his own, somebody had
hinted that he had spoiled his daughter's life. Such a thought had
never entered his head. He was one of those delightful, irresponsible,
erratic persons whose heads thoughts of this kind do not enter, and who
are about as deadly to those whose lives are bound up with theirs as a
Upas tree.
In the memory of his oldest acquaintance, Ruth's father had never done
anything but drift amiably through life. There had been a time when he
had done his drifting in London, feeding cheerfully from the hand of a
long-suffering brother-in-law. But though blood, as he was wont to
remark while negotiating his periodical loans, is thicker than water, a
brother-in-law's affection has its limits. A day came when Mr Warden
observed with pain that his relative responded less nimbly to the
touch. And a little while later the other delivered his ultimatum. Mr
Warden was to leave England, and to stay away from England, to behave