This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright 1988 by Lilian Jackson Braun
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A JOVE BOOK
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
Jove and the J design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: May, 2002
Jove titles by Lilian Jackson Braun
THE CAT WHO COULD READ BACKWARDS
THE CAT WHO ATE DANISH MODERN
THE CAT WHO TURNED ON AND OFF
THE CAT WHO SAW RED
THE CAT WHO PLAYED BRAHMS
THE CAT WHO PLAYED POST OFFICE
THE CAT WHO KNEW SHAKESPEARE
THE CAT WHO SNIFFED GLUE
THE CAT WHO WENT UNDERGROUND
THE CAT WHO TALKED TO GHOSTS
THE CAT WHO LIVED HIGH
THE CAT WHO KNEW A CARDINAL
THE CAT WHO MOVED A MOUNTAIN
THE CAT WHO WASNT THERE
THE CAT WHO WENT INTO THE CLOSET
THE CAT WHO CAME TO BREAKFAST
THE CAT WHO BLEW THE WHISTLE
THE CAT WHO SAID CHEESE
THE CAT WHO TAILED A THIEF
THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS
THE CAT WHO SAW STARS
THE CAT WHO HAD 14 TALES
(short story collection)
THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK
in hardcover from G. P. Putnams Sons
Contents
Phut Phat Concentrates
Weekend of the Big Puddle
The Fluppie Phenomenon
The Hero of Drummond Street
The Mad Museum Mouser
The Dark One
East Side Story
Tipsy and the Board of Health
A Cat Named Conscience
SuSu and the 8:30 Ghost
Stanley and Spook
A Cat Too Small for His Whiskers
The Sin of Madame Phloi
Tragedy on New Years Eve
Phut Phat Concentrates
Phut Phat Concentrates was first published in Ellery Queens Mystery Magazine, December 1963.
Phut Phat knew, at an early age, that humans were an inferior breed. They were unable to see in the dark. They ate and drank unthinkable concoctions. And they had only five senses; the pair who lived with Phut Phat could not even transmit their thoughts without resorting to words.
For more than a year, ever since arriving at the townhouse, Phut Phat had been trying to introduce his system of communication, but his two pupils had made scant progress. At dinnertime he would sit in a corner, concentrating, and suddenly they would say: Time to feed the cat, as if it were their own idea.
Their ability to grasp Phut Phats messages extended only to the bare necessities of daily living, however.
Beyond that, nothing ever got through to them, and it seemed unlikely they would ever increase their powers.
Nevertheless, life in the townhouse was comfortable enough. It followed a fairly dependable routine, and to Phut Phat routine was the greatest of all goals. He deplored such deviations as tardy meals, loud noises, unexplained persons on the premises, or liver during the week. He always had liver on Sunday.
It was a fashionable part of the city in which Phut Phat lived. The three-story brick townhouse was furnished with thick rugs and down-cushioned chairs and tall pieces of furniture from which he could look down on questionable visitors. He could rise to the top of a highboy in a single leap, and when he scampered from first-floor kitchen to second-floor living room to third-floor bedroom, his ascent up the carpeted staircase was very close to flight, for Phut Phat was a Siamese. His fawn-colored coat was finer than ermine. His eight seal brown points (there had been nine before that trip to the hospital) were as sleek as panne velvet, and his slanted eyes brimmed with a mysterious blue.
Those who lived with Phut Phat in the townhouse were identified in his consciousness as ONE and TWO. It was ONE who supplied the creature comforts, fed his vanity with lavish compliments, and sometimes adorned his throat with jeweled collars taken from her own wrists.
TWO, on the other hand, was valued chiefly for games and entertainment. He said very little, but he jingled keys at the end of a shiny chain and swung them back and forth for Phut Phats amusement. And every morning in the dressing room he swished a necktie in tantalizing arcs while Phut Phat leaped and grabbed with pearly claws.
These daily romps, naps on downy cushions, outings in the coop on the fire escape, and two meals a day constituted the pattern of Phut Phats life.
Then one Sunday he sensed a disturbing lapse in the household routine. The Sunday papers, usually scattered on the library floor for him to shred with his claws, were stacked neatly on the desk. Furniture was rearranged. The house was filled with flowers, which he was not allowed to chew. ONE was nervous, and TWO was too busy to play. A stranger in a white coat arrived and clattered glassware, and when Phut Phat investigated an aroma of shrimp and smoked oysters in the kitchen, the maid shooed him away.
Phut Phat seemed to be in everyones way. Finally he was deposited in his wire coop on the fire escape, where he watched sparrows in the garden below until his stomach felt empty. Then he howled to come indoors.
He found ONE at her dressing table, fussing with her hair and unmindful of his hunger. Hopping lightly to the table, he sat erect among the sparkling bottles, stiffened his tail, and fastened his blue eyes on ONEs forehead. In that attitude he proceeded to concentrateand concentrateand concentrate. It was never easy to communicate with ONE. Her mind hopped about like a sparrow, never relaxed, and Phut Phat had to strain every nerve to convey his meaning.
Suddenly ONE darted a look in his direction. A thought had occurred to her.
Oh, John, she called to TWO, who was brushing his teeth, would you ask Millie to feed Phuffy. I forgot his dinner until this very minute. Its after five oclock and I havent fixed my hair yet. Youd better put your coat on; people will start coming soon. And please tell Howard to light the candles. You might stack some records on the stereo, too . . . . No, wait a minute. If Millie is still working on the hors doeuvres, would you feed Phuffy yourself? Just open a can of anything.
At this, Phut Phat stared at ONE with an intensity that made his thought waves almost visible.
Oh, John, I forgot, she corrected. Its Sunday, and hell expect liver. But before you do that, would you zip the back of my dress and put my emerald bracelet on Phuffy? Or maybe Ill wear the emerald myself, and he can have the amethyst . . . John! Do you realize its five-fifteen! I wish youd put your coat on.
And I wish youd simmer down, said TWO. No one ever comes at the stated hour. Why do you insist on giving big parties, Helen, if it makes you so nervous?
Nervous? Im not nervous. Besides, it was
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