Death Has a Small Voice Read Online Free Page B

and they all turned it down.”
    â€œGo on,” Weigand said.
    â€œYeah,” Mullins said. “That’s right. Mr. North was one of them. There was a letter from him in Eaton’s place.”
    Bill Weigand said, “Oh.”
    â€œSo there you are,” Mullins said. “I thought I’d better tell you.”
    Bill Weigand nodded. He said, “Right.” He stood up.
    â€œWell,” he said, “what are we waiting for, Sergeant?”
    Mullins couldn’t think of anything.
    Three cats yammered at Martha. They sat and yammered; they clawed at her skirt and yammered; they reared themselves against kitchen counters and spoke their anger and chagrin in the harsh accents of cats with blue eyes and masked faces. They spoke of neglect, of the collapse of the routine by which a cat prefers to live; they spoke of hunger. Most of all, they spoke of hunger.
    â€œWhat’s the matter with you cats?” Martha asked them, hanging her coat in the kitchen closet “What’s all the fussin’?”
    Spoken to, the three cats raised their voices in answer. Martini went to an empty tin pie plate and put her foot on it; Gin leaped to the counter which contained small cans of prepared beef, for juniors, and pointed at the cans. Sherry sang a dirge, in a voice pitched higher than the other voices.
    â€œNow that’s funny,” Martha told the cats. “You know you’ve had your breakfast. You’re trying to put one over.”
    They weren’t, the cats said. Had breakfast indeed! They had never eaten.
    â€œWell,” Martha said, and stood in the middle of the kitchen and looked around. “It is funny.”
    Their food pan was empty. That could be explained. They had eaten their breakfast and forgotten it. But their water bowl also was empty, and they would not have drunk a bowl of water since breakfast. And Mrs. North would not have forgotten; Mrs. North now and then forgot things—to order steel wool, for example. But she did not forget cats.
    Martha said “hm-m-m” and went in search. The search did not take long. Mrs. North was not in the apartment. And—she had been. She had got home from the country.
    Her week-end case, still packed, stood on the bedroom floor. But neither bed had been occupied. Martha said “hm-m-m” again and then, to the cats who followed her, “All right, come on.” She fed the cats. They ate with fervor. Martha watched them; she had been wrong to think they had been trying to put one over. They had been hungry cats. Martini stopped midway, hurried to the water bowl, lapped anxiously, hurried back, found her place again at the tin pie pan. Thirsty cats, too. Hm-m-m.
    Martha went back into the living room. Yes, Mrs. North had come home all right. She had opened mail, and put aside mail addressed to Mr. North. It was a funny thing. Mrs. North had come home, she had fed the cats—Martha had washed the used food pan before she left the afternoon before; it had been filled and put down again. Mrs. North had opened mail. She had—yes, she had smoked a cigarette. Then she had gone out and not come back.
    It is perhaps to Mrs. North’s credit that Martha assumed only disaster. Mrs. North was not a fly-by-night; if she had flown and not returned, and not made provision for the cats, only disaster could explain. Other attractive women might, with husbands distant, flutter prettily from the nest; Martha had heard of such, and known a few. But Mrs. North would not. (Or, if she did, she would be home in time to feed her cats.)
    There was that policeman friend of theirs; he would know what to do. She looked in the Norths’ address book and found a number and dialed it. She heard, “Homicide, Sergeant Stein” and asked for Acting Captain Weigand. He had just gone out “No,” Martha said, “I guess not,” when she was asked if anyone else could help. Going to a policeman who was a