The Great Fog (24 page)

He was sure he had used the right tone as far as Innes was concerned. The man seemed relieved at once. Hamilton naturally shared his relief. His mind had already run ahead to the story's end. He knew now it was a little insomnia, domestic strain—a doctor has to diagnose the whole family of a patient—perhaps a few Freudian fear-dreams, perhaps a freak or two of amnesia. Yes, five to ten grains daily of dear old Pot. Amon. I'm young enough, he thought, to be returning to the old sound sedatives—not, of course, Pot. Brom—that was too lowering. Perhaps a little iron—often a touch of anemia gave one queer exhaustions and fancies.

But Innes was well under way. “They're the more intelligent and beautiful.” Damn, he'd missed the beginning and mustn't show it. “He taps against that French window over there. And I go over and let him in. I've often sketched him as he grooms himself.” Of course, it's a cat he has! “We've had him some six months. He isn't a success with the ladies. Of course, she should have known, if she had thought a moment. They can't be turned into lap-dogs or mannikins. He's himself—at least, I was sure—well, to go on. I call him ‘I am'; he's so clear and emphatic. They're lovely, those Siamese with their pale blue, almost transparent eyes,” he paused a moment, “and their smoky fur. But they have strong characters. Very temperamental, in fact. He got in some fine scratches on my wife.” Innes laughed. “Tore her lace coverlets and silk pillows; actually bit the cook and of course tried to eat a squawking blackbird they're trying to tame and teach words to. Silly; let an animal be an animal, I say. Cook said the cat deliberately bit her but she's so deaf I expect she never saw that I Am was about—though Siamese have a step as audible as a dog's. I've often heard my wife saying to Cook, in a voice that certainly carries into the diningroom, ‘Are you deaf?' She says Cook never even turns around and then says she's not deaf and Mrs. Innes shouldn't speak so indistinctly.”

Hamilton was not interested in hearing a patient diagnose another patient's very different symptoms. But a description of domestic tensions could throw a valuable sidelight on the situation. He attended carefully as Innes went on. “It seems that just at the point where it would have been necessary to sacrifice the cat to save a major loss in the kitchen, I Am took himself off. I thought he'd gone for good, bagged by a passing hobo who saw there'd be a couple of meals to be got for his pelt. But in three or four days there was a tap on the bottom pane of that French window back there—I've never known another cat to do it—a smart little tap—no mewing—you could hear his claws click on the glass. That became a regular arrangement. I read in here after dinner, as a rule. Regular as clockwork, the tap would come at nine-thirty.”

Hamilton glanced casually at his watch; it was nine. “I get up and let him in. He runs in and trots in front of me to the fire here. He waits till I'm settled again and then, after a look at the fire, to judge, I suppose, whether he's at the right distance from it, he settles down to groom himself. It's a regular ritual and takes considerable time: first the chest; then round the ears with the paws; next, paw-drill working between the pads; that's followed with big, side sweeps that get most of the coat clean; and the whole concludes with the most gymnastic pose. It must be good for the figure as well as for the fur. You hoist one back leg like a signal while, with the help of a front paw driven out behind you, you thrust your head forward and clean the fur right down on your tummy.”

“Yes,” said Hamilton, “yes,” impatiently wondering why all this rather old-maidish cat-cataloguing. Then, with self-reproof, he realized that Innes must be spinning out his story, trying to gain time. He was edging toward some part of it that must be creepy. He was trying, with an accumulation of sane, simple, boring detail to give a setting of reassuring dullness to what had to come out at last. “Yes,” Hamilton said encouragingly.

“Well,” said Innes, “well, just four nights ago the tap came as usual. I got up, went over there, and I could see his misty-looking face waiting to be let in. As I opened the window, he hopped over the threshold and trotted ahead of me to the fireplace. I sat down. He chose his position, just about where your feet now are, gave a lick, and then, with that queer deliberate way cats have, as though he had suddenly remembered something he had been told but till that minute had all but forgotten, he got up again—he had never done so before—and went over there.” Innes pointed to a bookcase which was almost opposite the French window and the lowest shelf of which was within an inch of the floor.

“There, almost touching the books, he began his grooming. I watched him a little and then went back to my book. I was reading in this chair. I suppose my attention was again disturbed by a slight tapping. The light, you see, is a good one.” He pointed up to a powerful reading lamp which was standing behind them.

“Yes, good for the eyes,” said Hamilton.

“It has, you see, a reflector, and this was throwing the light over my shoulder. I could see that the cat had come to the concluding phase of his drill. The hind leg was hoisted—the whole body and head assembled, as it were, around this raised ensign. I could see precisely what I Am was doing as his head was pointing this way. He was grooming the inside of his raised thigh, and I could also see what caused the small regular noise. Every time he swept the fur with his tongue, the upraised leg wagged and the hoisted paw, rising above his head, tapped on the book backs behind him.”

Well, Hamilton could not help reflecting, all this parlor natural history might be reassuring, but it certainly doesn't seem to be leading anywhere.

“Well,” continued Innes, suddenly becoming hesitant, “you see, from this position I could see exactly.”

“Yes.”

“I've long sight, you know?”

“Yes, yes.”

“So there couldn't be any doubt. The books in that row are just as they were then.” Innes suddenly got up, went to the bookcase, bent down, taking a volume from the ground shelf, turned round and handed it to Hamilton. Hamilton read aloud,
Called, I Come
.

“It may be coincidence.” Innes again hesitated, as though turning over something in his mind and speaking mainly to himself.

“I don't think it is coincidence,” answered the doctor. Then, with deliberate reassurance, “Really, you may take my word for it, there is nothing in
that
.” He'd often known quiet emphasis to work with excited patients.

“Good, good,” Innes replied almost absentmindedly. “Then listen to this.” He replaced the book and sat down again, still looking at the bookcase and no longer at Hamilton. “Of course cats are creatures of habit. What makes them change a routine, Heaven knows. Some little external accident, perhaps, psychologists would say. But once it is changed, the pattern goes on in the new place. The next night the tap came on time; the same entry was made. I was accompanied to the hearth here: then I was left, and almost but not quite, the same position as that of the night before was chosen for the grooming ritual. The cat placed himself with his back to the books and got to work, but it was against the row nearest to us, and not that farther one in which the volume named
Called, I Come
is standing. I read my book until once more the regular tapping disturbed me. I knew, of course, at once what it was. It was a distracting little sound: not sufficient to be annoying, but enough to take one's attention from the book and make one raise one's eyes, so that, over the top of the page, one could watch the toilet. The paw, hoisted over the top of the rhythmically moving head, was, under the strokes, waving to and fro; and, as on the night before, it was beating on the books immediately behind. Again I idly read the title indicated in this chance way, with this queer pointer.”

Innes again got up, knelt down at the bookcase, but this time, didn't take out a book; instead he pointed with his finger and read out the title:
I Cross the Frontier
.

“It's a dull book,” he said. “The other book is, of course, that sentimental anthology which had such a success a couple of years ago. This is simply a poor autobiography of one of my wife's old pioneer ancestors of whom she's pointlessly proud.” He stopped again.

Hamilton felt he should put another layer of reassurance on the rather quaggy ground. “No,” he said judiciously, “there's certainly nothing out of the common in that either—there's not a shred of objective association between these two incidents, I'll warrant.”

“You're sure?” asked Innes with an unhappy concern.

“Quite sure.” The answer was professional. Hamilton now felt no doubt that this was no time for easy friendly speculation. He must be professionally authoritative. To himself he remarked: ‘Certainly bromide: perhaps, too, castor oil-sometimes intestinal clog can …'

But the patient was proceeding. “I see your point: just those two points, mere incidents—yes, I know. Indeed, I'm sure they didn't disturb me. True, I remembered them, because—well, because I'm interested in cat psychology.” He gave a feeble laugh. “All detail is important to a diagnostician, isn't it?” Hamilton gave only a Lord Burleigh nod. “I'm sure I'd have forgotten them, if … Well, the next night the same routine was followed. The usual tap, the entry, the walk to the fireplace, and the second thought that the better position was by the bookcase. But at that point a variation was introduced. It confirmed the psychologists: an outer stimulus altered the pattern. I think, indeed I'm pretty sure, I Am was just getting ready for his clean-up when his attention was distracted from himself. I can't be quite sure, for I only looked up when I heard a scrambling. He'd caught sight of one of those oddly inefficient but surprisingly nimble insects we used to call daddy longlegs. It was half-flying and half-hopping about. For some reason cats are easily aroused by them and, to chase them, even grooming or eating or sleeping by the fire will be instantly abandoned. Already the Siamese was boxing at it as it rose in the air and pouncing as it alighted on the carpet. But always the insect just managed to make a getaway. I watched the duel for a few moments, and then the daddy longlegs bobbed past a sweep of the cat's paw and skidded against the books. For a second it hung on to the top of a volume—the cat whirled round and sprang, and the fly, either driven by the impact of the blow or leaping away from it, shot into the space, of an inch or so, between the books and the shelf above them.

“That cat thrust its paw in, as far as it could reach. I watched, idly amused. It was so like an impatient human, groping for something he has dropped behind a chair or desk. You could almost hear I Am swearing under his breath. I let him struggle, sure that he'd give up in a moment and we'd both of us go back to our quiet concerns: he with his coat, I with my thoughts. But he didn't. I could just hear the fly faintly whirring behind the books, and maybe I Am could feel it buzz against his outstretched groping toes. Anyhow he redoubled his efforts. He pushed both front paws into the crack above the books. He wedged himself in and then, with his efforts, actually began to work a couple of volumes loose.

“I let him go on: such industry seemed to deserve not to be discouraged. Perhaps he had a purpose …” Again Innes paused. “Well, anyhow, this partial success encouraged him. He worked away and, sure enough, the two books fell out. Now he had breached the daddy longlegs defences. He thrust himself in, head and all, reaching behind the books, still straining to find his victim's retreat. It was a long reach, though—the books he had displaced were in the center of that bottom left-hand row, and, naturally, the fly retreated into the back corner of the shelf. The cat had, therefore, to push himself in and, in doing so, his hind leg, thrust out to give him drive, stamped right onto a page of a book he had thrown out and which was sprawling open.

“That was too much. My love of books won against my interest in natural history. I sprang forward, pulled him out by the scruff of his neck, and rearranged the shelf. But, in replacing the books, I noticed a vexing thing. I said I thought the cat had been distracted before he could settle down to his evening wash. Well, that was painfully obvious. His hind foot, the one with which he had done the big push, had obviously been still muddily damp. For it had left a complete imprint on the margin of the page. I brought the book to the light, hoping I might be able to wipe it clean before the mud dried in.”

Innes stopped. Putting his hand down beside him in the chair, he fished up a volume, opened it, and put it on the broad arm of the chair near Hamilton's. Hamilton leaned across. True enough, on the outer border of the left-hand page, about halfway down, was a blur of mud stain rather like a large, clumsy asterisk stamped with a blunt rubber pad. “And you see,” went on Innes, “the page is further spoiled.” That was clear, too. One of the cat's hind claws had found purchase in the paper and had made a little tear right through the page. The two men looked for a moment at the damaged leaf. Then Innes remarked in an altered tone, “Do you notice anything else about this page?”

Hamilton scanned it. “No?” he questioned. Innes sighed, but all he actually said, as he remained looking down at the open book, was: “This game fish is not only deaf but so stupid that, though it can move quickly out of range when alarmed and then keep concealed, it seems unaware of his presence: when, after four or five days of such approach, during which he has become more and more clearly visible, he can stand right over the pool and spear it easily.”

“You see,” he said, looking up from the page, for he had been reading from it, “what I may perhaps call the cat's asterisk or sign manual is put alongside that passage …” He looked up at Hamilton, but the doctor had put out his hand and taken the book. “Big Game Fish,” he read out to himself. “Well, that's healthy, outdoor sport.”