“Hasn’t your human written about Ellmore in the paper yet?” the Tatter Cat asked.
“No,” Minou said. “He says he doesn’t have any proof.”
“What a coward! How gutless can you get! Humans are the most useless animals around! They’re as spineless as dogs,” the Tatter Cat cried. She was so wound up, she forgot to keep an eye on her babies. One of the little tortoiseshell kittens had walked almost all the way to the caravan door. When the mother cat saw it, she shouted, “Hey, look at that! Someone’s ready for the great outdoors! Come here, stupid!” She grabbed the baby cat by the scruff of the neck and dragged it back to the blanket and the rest of the litter. “They’re starting to be a real pain,” she said. “The little brats.”
The kittens had their eyes open. They kept tumbling over each other and playing with each other’s tails. And with their mother’s tattered, stringy tail.
“How’s your leg?” Minou asked.
“It’s a bit better. I’m still limping though. It’s probably permanent. Every day I go out to drink from the puddle under the tap and it takes me ages to get there.”
“Can you leave the children alone that long?” Minou asked anxiously. “Is it safe?”
“Nobody ever comes here,” the Tatter Cat said. “Just you and Bibi. She brings me something every day too. And today she took photos of the little riff-raff. Pictures of all those ugly little monsters! Weird, huh? Oh, yeah, before I forget… their father, the Pump Cat, asked if you could drop by on your way past. He’s got something to tell you. Don’t ask me what, but it’s probably something to do with the fishmonger’s accident.”
Minou said goodbye and walked over to the petrol station. The Pump Cat said a friendly hello.
“I don’t know if it’s worth bothering about,” he said, “but I thought… it can’t do any harm to mention it.”
“Mention what?”
“Ellmore was here. He had a big dent in his bumper. And a smashed headlight.”
“Ah!” said Minou.
“He’s got two cars,” the Pump Cat said. “It was the big one, the blue Chevy. You know we’ve got a garage here as well as a petrol station. So he says to my human, the mechanic, ‘I ran into my own garden wall. Could you fix it today?’ And my human says, ‘That’s gonna be difficult.’”
“And then?” Minou asked.
“Then Ellmore gave him some money. I couldn’t see how much, but it must have been a lot because my human looked very happy. And then Ellmore said, ‘If anyone should ask any questions… about dents in my car or anything like that… I’d rather you didn’t mention it.’”
“A-ha,” said Minou. “Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
While she was heading off, she turned and called back, “You’ve got some lovely kids there.”
“Who?” asked the Pump Cat.
“You.”
“Me? Who says so?”
“The Tatter Cat.”
“She says all kinds of things,” scoffed the Pump Cat.
The Metropole Cat was a gleaming, pitch-black tom with a white chest. He was also extremely fat from the luxurious life he led in the hotel dining room. At mealtimes, he wandered slowly from table to table, looking up at the hotel guests with pitiful, pleading eyes, as if to say, can’t you see I’m starving to death? Most people gave him something and gradually he’d grown fatter and fatter. He waddled.
It was Friday evening around six-thirty, and the dining room was fairly full. Waiters were walking in and out, knives and plates rattled, people were eating and chatting, it smelt of roast beef and roast potatoes.
Sitting in a corner by the window, a little to one side, were Mr and Mrs Ellmore.
The Metropole Cat made a tentative approach. He’d promised Minou to listen in, but because Ellmore had once kicked him under the table, he was being cautious. He sat down a few feet away and didn’t go any closer. They were arguing, he could tell that from their gestures and faces, but unfortunately they were arguing under their breath.
I’m definitely not going to sit under the table, thought the cat. I’d get a boot straight away. But if I go and sit next to her chair, I’ll be safe enough.
Now he was close enough to hear what they were saying.
“So incredibly stupid of you,” said Mrs Ellmore, “you should have reported it immediately.”
“You’re not going to start all over again, are you?” said Mr Ellmore. “Stop nagging.”
“I still think you should have reported it,” she persisted. “You still can.”
He shook his head fiercely and stabbed a piece of meat with his fork.
The Metropole Cat took another step closer.
“Get lost, you nasty little monster,” Mr Ellmore hissed. But the cat stayed where it was and looked up at him with a very innocent and very hungry expression.
“Don’t talk rubbish,” Mr Ellmore continued. “It’s too late now. Of course you’re right… I should have reported it at once… but I didn’t. And now it’s too late.”
“But what if it gets out?”
“It can’t. Nobody saw it, except for a dim-witted ex-canteen assistant from the factory, and I gave him his job back right away.”
“And the garage where you’re getting the car fixed?”
“The mechanic will keep his mouth shut. He’s a buddy of mine. Through thick and thin.”
“I still think you should go and report it,” Mrs Ellmore said stubbornly.
“Will you just give it a rest? You think I’m mad? I’ve gone to so much trouble to get people here in town on side. I’ve donated money left, right and centre, one charity after the other. All to make people like me, all to get in. I’ve joined associations, I’m the president of this, that and the other, I’m on committees… I’ve done everything I can to make people trust me. And I’ve succeeded!”
The Metropole Cat took another sneaky step forward.
“Psst, scat!” hissed Mr Ellmore. “That cat’s enough to put you off your dinner!”
The black cat waddled off, did a small circuit of the dining room and returned to the same spot. He heard Ellmore saying, “What if it got in the paper! My good name would be ruined. And then I wouldn’t be voted onto the council committee. And the expansion of the factory wouldn’t go ahead. I’d have everyone against me. And now let’s change the subject. What are you having for dessert?”
“Cassata ice cream,” said Mrs Ellmore.
“And if I ever bump into that disgusting cat in the dark, I’ll strangle it,” her husband said, glaring at the fat black tom.
The Metropole Cat had heard enough. He strolled out through the door and dragged himself up to the rooftops to report back to Minou.
“Another cat who’s overheard him,” Tibble complained. “We still don’t have a real witness. How can I write an article without proof? And the two people who could help me, Billy and the mechanic, refuse to speak up. They both claim they don’t know anything about it.”
“But you do believe the cats now, don’t you?” Minou asked.
“Yes,” said Tibble. “I believe you.”
“I hope one day I’ll get to give Ellmore a good scratch,” said Minou.
“I hope so too,” said Tibble.
It made him feel very despondent. He was convinced the cats were telling the truth, but he didn’t dare write about it without any evidence. Besides being despondent, he was also angry. Angry and indignant. And all that anger made him less shy. It made him brave enough to approach people and ask them all kinds of questions.
But whenever he casually said, “I’ve heard that Mr Ellmore caused that accident with the fish stall,” people were outraged. “Where’d you get that idea? Who’s spreading stories like that? Mr Ellmore would never do anything of the kind! First of all, he’s a careful driver and second, he’d have owned up to it straight away. He would never drive off like that…”
“No, Tibble,” Mr Smith said. “You’re talking complete and utter rubbish. That’s nothing but cheap gossip.”