Creeps by Night: Chills and Thrills

He couldn’t get hold of Billy for three days and lived through the interval in a fever of impatience. But finally they had dinner together at Billy’s apartment, where his queer books were, and Tommy was able to blurt out the whole disordered jumble of his suspicions.

Billy listened without interrupting until Tommy was quite through. Then he pulled at his pipe. “But, my dear man—” he said, protestingly.

“Oh, I know... I know—” said Tommy, and waved his hands, “I know I’m crazy — you needn’t tell me that — but I tell you, the man’s a cat all the same — no, I don’t see how he could be, but he is — why, hang it, in the first place, everybody knows he’s got a tail!”

“Even so,” said Billy, puffing. “Oh, my dear Tommy, I don’t doubt you saw, or think you saw, everything you say. But, even so—” He shook his head.

“But what about those other birds, werwolves and things?” said Tommy.

Billy looked dubious. “We-ll,” he admitted, “you’ve got me there, of course. At least — a tailed man is possible. And the yarns about werwolves go back far enough, so that — well,

I wouldn’t say there aren’t or haven’t been werwolves — but then I’m willing to believe more things than most people. But a wer-cat — or a man that’s a cat and a cat that’s a man — honestly, Tommy—”

“If I don’t get some real advice I’ll go clean off my hinge. For Heaven’s sake, tell me something to do!”

“Lemme think,” said Billy. “First, you’re pizen-sure this man is—”

“A cat. Yeah,” and Tommy nodded violently.

“Check. And second — if it doesn’t hurt your feelings, Tommy — you’re afraid this girl you’re in love with has... er... at least a streak of — felinity — in her — and so she’s drawn to him?”

“Oh, Lord, Billy, if I only knew!”

“Well... er... suppose she really is, too, you know — would you still be keen on her?”

“I’d marry her if she turned into a dragon every Wednesday!” said Tommy, fervently.

Billy smiled. “H’m,” he said, “then the obvious thing to do is to get rid of this M. Tibault. Lemme think.”

He thought about two pipes full, while Tommy sat on pins and needles. Then, finally, he burst out laughing.

“What’s so darn funny?” said Tommy, aggrievedly.

“Nothing, Tommy, only I’ve just thought of a stunt — something so blooming crazy — but if he is — h’m — what you think he is — it might work—” And, going to the bookcase, he took down a book.

“If you think you’re going to quiet my nerves by reading me a bedtime story—”

“Shut up, Tommy, and listen to this — if you really want to get rid of your feline friend.”

“What is it?”

“Book of Agnes Repplier’s. About cats. Listen.

“ ‘There is also a Scandinavian version of the ever famous story which Sir Walter Scott told to Washington Irving, which Monk Lewis told to Shelley and which, in one form or another, we find embodied in the folklore of every land’ — now, Tommy, pay attention — ‘the story of the traveler who saw within a ruined abbey, a procession of cats, lowering into a grave a little coffin with a crown upon it. Filled with horror, he hastened from the spot; but when he had reached his destination, he could not forbear relating to a friend the wonder he had seen. Scarcely had the tale been told when his friend’s cat, who lay curled up tranquilly by the fire, sprang to its feet, cried out, „Then I am the King of the Cats!“ and disappeared in a flash up the chimney.’

“Well?” said Billy, shutting the book.

“By gum!” said Tommy, staring. “By gum! Do you think there’s a chance?”

“I think we’re both in the booby-hatch. But if you want to try it—”

“Try it! I’ll spring it on him the next time I see him. But — listen — I can’t make it a ruined abbey—”

“Oh, use your imagination! Make it Central Park — anywhere. Tell it as if it happened to you — seeing the funeral procession and all that. You can lead into it somehow — let’s see — some general line — oh, yes — ‘Strange, isn’t it, how fact so often copies fiction. Why, only yesterday—’ See?”

“Strange, isn’t it, how fact so often copies fiction,” repeated Tommy dutifully, “Why, only yesterday—”

“I happened to be strolling through Central Park when I saw something very odd.”

“I happened to be strolling through — here, gimme that book!” said Tommy, “I want to learn the rest of it by heart!”

Mrs. Dingle’s farewell dinner to the famous Monsieur Tibault, on the occasion of his departure for his Western tour, was looked forward to with the greatest expectations. Not only would everybody be there, including the Princess Vivrakanarda, but Mrs. Dingle, a hinter if there ever was one, had let it be known that at this dinner an. announcement of very unusual interest to Society might be made. So every one, for once, was almost on time, except for Tommy. He was at least fifteen minutes early, for he wanted to have speech with his aunt alone. Unfortunately, however, he had hardly taken off his overcoat when she was whispering some news in his ear so rapidly that he found it difficult to understand a word of it.