The very furry case

So one day, I was inspired by Neil Gaiman's short story, "The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds" and decided to play around with nursery rhymes. This is the first part...

THE VERY FURRY CASE

The sunlight shone salmon and pink on the window pane, but I couldn't concentrate on the scenery. If I were feeling good I would take a walk, but that's not what I did. I stared at the streets below with a pounding heart.

A click. The door was pushed opened, and I cried quietly: "Oh dear, you've worried me."

I stood up and stepped forward to look at the cat, black and white, unchanged as ever. I watched him kick the door close, stretched his body and swept his tail on the floor.

"Seven days, seven whole days,"I sighed. "Where have you been?"

"London," The cat shrugged slightly. Pussycat never changed; he was always calm and cool. "Did you see the queen?"

"No. I think she went to China. Got to see some interesting people, though."

Pussycat walked down the corridor, and I followed him into the study. He sat on an armchair, curling his body into a furball---a handsome furball, that is. The cat bent and licked his forepaw, taking his time.

"Now,"I said impatiently. "Are you going to tell me or not?"

Pussycat lifted his head and looked straight in my eyes, seriously. "We've been longing for a case; and a case there is. Maybe more than one."

Pussycat's whiskers twitched with excitement. "I roamed about in London and heard news."

"From whom?" Though I trusted Pussycat, there were sources I didn't.

"A boy selling the papers...nevermind, we are going to read them anyway. And it's very convenient since we wouldn't need to leave town."

I exhaled with satisfaction. My probably only dismay of my career was the traveling. Trains and timetables, seasick and storms---I especially couldn't stand bringing my toothbrush everywhere.

So I smiled to the cat, who tugged a bunch of newspaper from the corner.(How he did that I could not imagine; Pussycat was kind of mysterious---maybe he sent it to my mailbox.)

He flipped through the pages and found a small, bordered column near the weather. "THE KITTENS LOST MITTENS"

"Hey," I murmured. "The rich daughters!" Pussycat nodded and urged me to read.

"The Three Kittens Sisters revealed to us yesterday, that their mittens are lost. They would not say enough to let us write. It has been a great fear for the society in the past decades, to have the mittens lost. Althoush no one understood the value of the mittens, they are considered very, very important, possible in connections of some secret pie. The police is currently working on the case, trying their best to find and protect the mittens. The Three Kitten Sisters have left London shortly after the incident. Their family name is well known all over the world since..."

I looked at Pussycat in surprise, who smiled and started to tidy his fur: "Prettly lame news report."

Oh, come on, I thought.

Pussycat saw my impatience: " All right...Here you go, Mister Information Hungry. I heard that the Kitten Sisters are right here in town. They have to hide their identities, ofcourse, but have chosen this place for a certain purpose."

By then my eyes glowed , and Pussycat whistled proudly.

"When do we start?" I asked. He yawned and jumped down the armchair.

"Not until tomorrow, James. Meanwhile, why not help me take a good bath, I deserve it."

I pretended to be offended, and leaned against the wall. "Okay...Please. Meow?"

Sometimes I wondered if it was me, or Pussycat doing the job. I mean, I was the detective. When we stood outside the bar, I wondered again.

"Are you sure this is the place?"

The cat nodded.

" 'Blue Apples'?"

Pussycat said cheerfully: "Sounds pretty harmless."

I sighed and reached out to open the heavy wooden door.

"Blue Apples" was covered in a more or less blue shade, illuminated by whitle lights. It was crowded with different kinds of customers---old ragged women, rude construction workers and people beyond imagination. They sat on hard wooden chairs and spoke loudly in an unbearable manner. I looked down and found Pussycat glancing around---all he could see from his position were legs and emptied mugs. I picked him up and he sat, gracefully in my arms, looking absolutely ordinary, a house cat with beautiful black and white coat.

It didn't take me long to find the kitten sisters; they all looked the same. However I was rather startled by the way they dressed---so at ease, yet with style.

I stepped forward and asked if I could buy them drinks. One of the kittens simled and agreed, not conscious of who I was.

She had a white spot beneath the eye, I realised, maybe they did not look exactly the same. I bought five beers and returned with Pussycat, and we sat opposite the kitten sisters, leaning on a very long and blue table.

"Here you go, ladies. Hope you enjoy the night."

The kittens thanked me and before I could say anything else, Pussycat interrupted.

"How are your mittens?" We all jumped a bit.

The kittens looked at each other in a startled way, and one of them spoke: "We never thought someone would recognise..."

I nodded deeply and said: "The Kitten Sisters. Nice to meet you. Allow me to introduce myself---James Feather, from Breezard Town. This is my friend---" I tapped Pussycat's shoulder, "uh, George." Pussycat merrily added, "We are detectives."

The kittens exchanged puzzled looks, and the one with a white spot spoke slowly, carefully: "You look just a little...young for the job, Mr Feather."

I looked at the lady in the eye, and smiled. "Age doesn't count; It is the quality that matters."

Deep in my head was a drowning man desperately clawing for clever words, hoping not to spoil the first impression.

"Well..."the kitten hesitated. "I'm not sure...We don't really need detectives."She lowered her voice. "We know the police are going to find them soon."

She smiled apologetically when Pussycat cleared his throat.

"I'm afraid you don't fully understand our offer, Miss Kitten. My brilliant friend here is about the best in town."

At the moment I found the kittens' faces soften, and they were listening intendly. Pussycat twitched his whiskers and continued.

"This is a complicated case, indeed. But considering the fact that we've found you, which not much people could even if they tried, with a nice offer ofcourse. I believe you had seen our abilities---and if you were offended I apologize."

The kitten with the white spot shook her head. " Thank you Mr George, but we really don't need---"Pussycat cut her short gently.

"And we all know, Miss kitten, that sometimes the police simply can't do everything. They sometimes need our little... help."

While the kitten admitted gingerly, he added: "And I believe you ladies have a special reason to be here in Breezard."

And so our happy little conversation went on, undisturbed in "Blue Apples". The kittens admitted that they chose our town to hide because they suspected people here.

"The police probably will find nothing,"said one of the ladies. "We have brought along what we could find. Keeps the reporters busy back in London."

The case was ours; Thanks to George the charming pussy.

Walking down the streets, I read the piece of paper the Kitten Sisters gave me. Their address, new names and all that---they were very clever kittens, I said to myself, enjoying the arrival of a new case.

It was a starry night, darker and bluer than the ocean, with the moon high enough for a cow to jump over.

"Remember the case we had two years ago?" I said to Pussycat, who was walking sleepily beside my shoes. "When the silver dish went missing? That was exciting."

"Yeah,"replied Pussycat drearily. "Sitting on the rooftop for nights like this one. I played the violin and we both had...tremendous times..."

I whistled low and said, "When people still believed in detectives. I still remember the expressions on the dish and the spoon's faces! Now that's really a detective's work. You think our new case is going to make up for those two years?"

"What...?"

"You think---" "Yeah, James. It's going to beat those disastrous...years..."

A thump.

I looked back, and saw Pussycat drift off on the sidewalk. I lifted him up into my arms and walked down the wide streets, thinking to myself how on earth a cat got to sleep at NIGHT. They were ACTIVE at night, weren't they? And then I looked at him, snoring softly in the wind.

Maybe he was drunk. Maye he was just really, really tired, after going to London and all that. I should give him a treat the next moring. "Tuna," I whispered, and Pussycat stirred.