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diff --git a/32630-8.txt b/32630-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ddc230b --- /dev/null +++ b/32630-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1152 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiger Cat, by David H. Keller + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tiger Cat + +Author: David H. Keller + +Release Date: May 31, 2010 [EBook #32630] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIGER CAT *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + Tiger Cat + + By DAVID H. KELLER + +[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October +1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed.] + + +[Sidenote: _A grim tale of torture, and the blind men who were chained +to pillars in an underground cave_] + + +The man tried his best to sell me the house. He was confident that I +would like it. Repeatedly he called my attention to the view. + +There was something in what he said about the view. The villa on the top +of a mountain commanded a vision of the valley, vine-clad and +cottage-studded. It was an irregular bowl of green, dotted with stone +houses which were whitewashed to almost painful brilliancy. + +The valley was three and a third miles at its greatest width. Standing +at the front door of the house, an expert marksman with telescopic sight +could have placed a rifle bullet in each of the white marks of cottages. +They nestled like little pearls amid a sea of green grape-vines. + +"A wonderful view, _Signor_," the real-estate agent repeated. "That +scene, at any time of the year, is worth twice what I am asking for the +villa." + +"But I can see all this without buying," I argued. + +"Not without trespassing." + +"But the place is old. It has no running water." + +"Wrong!" and he smiled expansively, showing a row of gold-filled teeth. +"Listen." + +We were silent. + +There came to us the sound of bubbling water. Turning, I traced the +sound. I found a marble Cupid spurting water in a most peculiar way into +a wall basin. I smiled and commented. + +"There is one like that in Brussels and another in Madrid. But this is +very fine. However, I referred to running water in a modern bathroom." + +"But why bathe when you can sit here and enjoy the view?" + +He was impossible. So, I wrote a check, took his bill of sale and became +the owner of a mountain, topped by a stone house that seemed to be half +ruin. But he did not know, and I did not tell him that I considered the +fountain alone worth the price that I had paid. In fact, I had come to +Italy to buy that fountain if I could; buy it and take it back to +America with me. I knew all about that curious piece of marble. George +Seabrook had written to me about it. Just one letter, and then he had +gone on, goodness knows where. George was like that, always on the move. +Now I owned the fountain and was already planning where I should place +it in my New York home. Certainly not in the rose garden. + +I sat down on a marble bench and looked down on the valley. The +real-estate man was right. It was a delicate, delicious piece of +scenery. The surrounding mountains were high enough to throw a constant +shadow on some part of the valley except at high noon. There was no sign +of life, but I was sure that the vineyards were alive with husband-men +and their families. An eagle floated serenely on the upper air currents, +automatically adjusting himself to their constant changing. + +Stretching myself, I gave one look at my car and then walked into the +house. + + * * * * * + +In the kitchen two peasants sat, an old man and an old woman. They rose +as I entered. + +"Who are you?" I asked in English. + +They simply smiled and waved their hands. I repeated my question in +Italian. + +"We serve," the man replied. + +"Serve whom?" + +"Whoever is the master." + +"Have you been here long?" + +"We have always been here. It is our home." + +His statement amused me, and I commented, "The masters come and go, but +you remain?" + +"It seems so." + +"Many masters?" + +"Alas! yes. They come and go. Nice young men, like you, but they do not +stay. They buy and look at the view, and eat with us a few days and then +they are gone." + +"And then the villa is sold again?" + +The man shrugged. "How should we know? We simply serve." + +"Then prepare me my dinner. And serve it outside, under the grapevine, +where I can see the view." + +The woman started to obey. The man came nearer. + +"Shall I carry your bags to the bedroom?" + +"Yes. And I will go with you and unpack." + +He took me to a room on the second floor. There was a bed there and a +very old chest of drawers. The floor, everything about the room was +spotlessly clean. The walls had been freshly whitewashed. Their smooth +whiteness suggested wonderful possibilities for despoliation, the +drawing of a picture, the writing of a poem, the careless writhing +autograph that caused my relatives so much despair. + +"Have all the masters slept here?" I asked carelessly. + +"All." + +"Was there one by the name of George Seabrook?" + +"I think so. But they come and go. I am old and forget." + +"And all these masters, none of them ever wrote on the walls?" + +"Of a certainty. All wrote with pencil what they desired to write. Who +should say they should not? For did not the villa belong to them while +they were here? But always we prepared for the new master, and made the +walls clean and beautiful again." + +"You were always sure that there would be a new master?" + +"Certainly. Someone must pay us our wages." + +I gravely placed a gold piece in his itching palm, asking, "What did +they write on the walls?" + +He looked at me with old, unblinking eyes. Owl eyes! That is what they +were, and he slowly said, + +"Each wrote or drew as his fancy led him, for they were the masters and +could do as they wished." + +"But what were the words?" + +"I cannot speak English, or read it." + +Evidently, the man was not going to talk. To me the entire situation was +most interesting. Same servants, same villa, many masters. They came and +bought and wrote on the wall and left, and then my real-estate friend +sold the house again. A fine racket! + +Downstairs, outdoors, under the grapevine, eating a good Italian meal, +looking at the wonderful view, I came to laugh at my suspicions. I ate +spaghetti, olives, dark bread and wine. Silence hung heavily over the +sullen sleepy afternoon. The sky became copper-colored. It was about to +rain. The old man came and showed me a place to put my car, a recess in +the wall of the house, open at one end, but sheltered from the weather. +The stone floor was black with grease; more than one automobile had been +kept there. + +"Other cars have been here," I ventured. + +"All the masters had cars," the old man replied. + + * * * * * + +Back on the stone gallery I waited for the storm to break. At last it +came in a solid wall of gray wetness across the valley. Nearer and +nearer it came till it deluged my villa and drove me inside. + +The woman was lighting candles. I took one from her hand. + +"I want to look through the house," I explained. + +She made no protest; so I started exploring the first floor. One room +was evidently the sleeping-quarters for the servants; another was the +kitchen, and the remaining two might have served in the old days for +dining-room and drawing-room. There was little furniture, and the walls +were gray with time and mold. One flight of stone stairs led upward to +the bedroom, another to the cellar. I decided to go downstairs. + +They were steps, not made of masonry, but apparently carved out of the +living rock. The cellar was simply a cubical hole in the mountain. It +all looked very old. I had the uneasy feeling that originally that +cellar had been a tomb and that later the house had been built over it. +But, once at the bottom, there was nothing to indicate a sepulcher. A +few small casks of wine, some junk, odds of rope and rusty iron, those +were in the corners; otherwise, the room was empty, and dusty. + +"It is an odd room," I commented to myself. It seemed in some way out of +place and out of shape and size for the villa above it. I had expected +something more, something larger, gloomier. Walking around, I examined +the walls, and then something came to my alert senses. + +Three sides of the room were carved out of rock, but the remaining side +was of masonry, and in that side there was a door. A door! And why +should a door be there except to lead to another room? There was a door, +and that presupposed something on the other side. And what a door it +was! More of a barricade than a partition. The iron hinges were built to +support weight and give complete defense and support. There was a +keyhole, and if the key corresponded with the size of the hole, it was +the largest that I had ever heard of. + +Naturally, I wanted to open the door. As master of the villa, I had a +right to. Upstairs the old woman seemed unable to understand me and +ended by telling me to see her husband. He, in turn, seemed incapable of +following my stream of talk. At last, I took him to the door and pointed +to the keyhole. In English, Italian and sign language I told him rather +emphatically that I wanted the key to that door. At last he was willing +to admit that he understood my questions. He shook his head. He had +never had the key to that door. Yes, he knew that there was such a door, +but he had never been on the other side. It was very old. Perhaps his +ancestors understood about it, but they were all dead. He made me tired, +so much so that I rested by placing a hand on the butt of the upper +hinge. I knew that he was deceiving me. Lived there all his life and +never saw the door open! + +"And you have no key to that door?" I repeated. + +"No. I have no key." + +"Who has the key?" + +"The owner of the house." + +"But I own it." + +"Yes, you are the master; but I mean the one who owns it all the time." + +"So, the various masters do not really buy the place?" + +"They buy it, but they come and go." + +"But the owner keeps on selling it and owning it?" + +"Yes." + +"Must be a profitable business. And who owns it?" + +"Donna Marchesi." + +"I think I met her yesterday in Sorona." + +"Yes, that is where she lives." + +The storm had passed. Sorona was only two miles away, on the other side +of the mountain. The cellar, the door, the mysterious uncertainty on the +other side intrigued me. I told the man that I would be back by supper, +and I went to my bedroom to change, preparatory to making an afternoon +call. + +In the room I found my hand black with oil. + +And that told me a good many things, as it was the hand that had rested +against the upper hinge of the door. I washed the hand, changed my +clothes and drove my car to Sorona. + + * * * * * + +Fortunately, the Donna Marchesi was at home. I might have met her +before, but I now saw her ethereal beauty for the first time. At least, +it seemed ethereal at the first moment. In some ways she was the most +beautiful woman that I had ever seen: skin white as milk, hair a tawny +red, piled in great masses on her head, and eyes of a peculiar green, +with pupils that were slots instead of circles. She wore her nails long, +and they were tinted red to match the Titian of her hair. She seemed +surprized to have me call on her, and more surprized to hear of my +errand. + +"You bought the villa?" she asked. + +"Yes. Though, when I bought it, I did not know that you were the owner. +The agent never stated whom he was acting for." + +"I know," she said with a smile. "Franco is peculiar that way. He always +pretends that he owns the place." + +"No doubt he has used it more than once." + +"I fear so. The place seems to be unfortunate. I sell it with a reserve +clause. The owner must live there. And no one seems to want to stay; so +the place reverts back to me." + +"It seems to be an old place." + +"Very old. It has been in my family for generations. I have tried to get +rid of it, but what can I do when the young men will not stay?" + +She shrugged her shoulders expressively. I countered with, + +"Perhaps if they knew, as I do, that you owned the property, they would +be content to stay, for ever, in Sorona." + +"Prettily said," she answered. Then the room became silent, and I heard +her heavy breathing, like the deep purr of a cat. + +"They come and go," she said at last. + +"And, when they go, you sell to another?" I asked. + +"Naturally, and with the hope that one will stay." + +"I have come for the key," I said bluntly, "the key to the cellar door." + +"Are you sure you want it?" + +"Absolutely! It is my villa and my cellar and my door. I want the key. I +want to see what is on the other side of the door." + +And then it was that I saw the pupils of her eyes narrow to livid slits. +She looked at me for a second, for five, and then opening a drawer in a +cabinet near her chair, she took out the key and handed it to me. It was +a tool worthy of the door that it was supposed to open, being fully +eight inches long and a pound in weight. + +Taking it, I thanked her and said good-bye. Fifteen minutes later I was +back, profuse in my apologies: I was temperamental, I explained, and I +frequently changed my mind. Whatever was on the other side of the door +could stay there, as far as I was concerned. Then again I kissed her +hand farewell. + +On the side street I passed through the door of a locksmith and waited +while he completed a key. He was following a wax impression of the +original key. An hour later I was on the way back to the villa, with the +key in my pocket, a key that I was sure would unlock the door, and I was +confident that the lady with the cat eyes felt sure that I had lost all +interest in that door and what was beyond it. + +The full moon was just appearing over the mountains when I drove my car +up to the villa. I was tired, but happy. Taking the candlestick in my +hand, which candlestick was handed to me with a deep bow by the old +woman, I ascended the stairs to my bedroom. And soon I was fast asleep. + + * * * * * + +I awoke with a start. The moon was still shining. It was midnight. I +heard, or thought I heard, a deep moaning. It sounded a little like +waves beating on a rockbound coast. Then it ceased and was replaced by a +musical element that came in certain stately measures. Those sounds were +in the room, but they came from far away; only by straining my sense of +sound to the utmost could I hear anything. + +Slippers on my feet, flashlight in my hand and the key in the pocket of +my dressing-gown, I slowly descended the stairs. Loud snores from the +servants' room told, or seemed to tell, of their deep slumbers. Down +into the cellar I went and put the key into the hole of the lock. The +key turned easily--no rust there--the springs and the tumblers had been +well oiled, like the hinges. It was evident that the door had been used +often. Turning the light on the hinges, I saw what had made my hand +black with oil. Earnestly I damned the servants. They knew about the +door. They knew what was on the other side! + +Just as I was about to open the door I heard a woman's voice singing in +Italian; it sounded like a selection from an opera. It was followed by +applause, and then a moaning, and one shrill cry, as though someone had +been hurt. There was no doubt now as to where the sounds that I heard in +my room had come from; they had come from the other side of the door. +There was a mystery there for me to solve. But I was not ready to solve +it; so I turned the key noiselessly, and with the door locked, tiptoed +back to my bed. + +There I tried to put two and two together. They made five, seven, a +million vague admixtures of impossible results, all filled with weird +forebodings. But never did they make four, and till they did, I knew the +answers to be wrong, for two and two had to make four. + +Many changes of masters! One after another they came and bought and +disappeared. A whitewashed wall. What secrets were covered with that +whitewash? A door in a cellar. And what deviltry went on behind it? A +key and a well-oiled lock, and servants that knew everything. In vain +the question came to me. _What is back of the door?_ There was no ready +answer. But, Donna Marchesi knew! Was it her voice that I had heard? She +knew almost everything about it, but there was one thing that I knew and +she did not. She did not know that I could pass through the door and +find out what was on the other side. She did not know that I had a key. + +The next day I pleaded indisposition and spent most of the hours idling +and drowsing in my chamber. Not till nearly midnight did I venture down. +The servants were certainly asleep that time. A dose of chloral in their +wine had attended to the certainty of their slumbers. Fully dressed, +with an automatic in my pocket, I reached the cellar and opened the +door. It swung noiselessly on its well-greased hinges. The darkness on +the other side was the blackness of hell. An indescribable odor came to +me, a prison smell and with it the soft half sob, half laugh of sleeping +children, dreaming in their sleep, and not happy. + +I flashed the light around the room. It was not a room but a cavern, a +cave that extended far into the distance, the roof supported by stone +pillars, set at regular intervals. As far as my light would carry I saw +the long rows of white columns. + +And to each pillar was bound a man, by chains. They were resting on the +stone floor, twenty or more of them, and all asleep. Snores, grunts and +weary sighs came from them, but not a single eyelid opened. Even when I +flashed the light in their faces their eyes were shut. + +And those faces sickened me; white and drawn and filled with the lines +of deep suffering. All were covered with scars; long, narrow, deep +scars, some fresh and red, others old and dead-white. At last, the +sunken eyelids and the inability to see my flashlight and respond told +me the nauseating truth. Those men were all blind. + +[Illustration: "Looking eternally into the blackness of his life and +chained to a pillar of stone."] + +A pleasant sight! One blind man, looking eternally into the blackness of +his life, and chained to a pillar of stone--that was bad enough; but +multiply that by twenty! Was it worse? Could it be worse? Could twenty +men suffer more than one man? And then a thought came to me, a terrible, +impossible thought, so horrible that I doubted my logic. But now two and +two were beginning to make four. Could those men be the _masters_? They +came and bought and left--to go to the cellar and stay there! + +"Oh! Donna Marchesi!" I whispered. "How about those cat-eyes? If you had +a hand in this, you are not a woman. You are a tiger." + + * * * * * + +I thought that I understood part of it. The latest master came to her +for the key to the cellar, and then, when he once passed through the +door he never left. She and her servants were not there to welcome me +that night, because she did not know that I had a key. + +The thought came to me that perhaps one of those sleeping men was George +Seabrook. He and I used to play tennis together and we knew each other +like brothers. He had a large scar on the back of his right hand; a +livid star-shaped scar. With that in mind, I walked carefully from +sleeping man to sleeping man, looking at their right hands. And I found +a right hand with a scar that was shaped like the one I knew so well. +But that blind man, only a skin-covered skeleton, chained to a bed of +stone! That could not be my gay young tennis player, George! + +The discovery nauseated me. What did it mean? What _could_ it mean? If +the Donna Marchesi was back of all that misery, what was her motive? + +Down the long cave-like room I went. There seemed to be no end to it, +though many of the columns were surrounded with empty chains. Only those +near the door had their human flies in the trap. In the opposite +direction the rows of pillars stretched into a far oblivion. I thought +that at the end there was the black mouth of a tunnel, but I could not +be sure and dared not go that far to explore the truth. Then, out of +that tunnel, I heard a voice come, a singing voice. Slipping my shoes +off, I ran back near the door and hid as best I could in a dark recess, +back of a far piece of stone. I stood there in the darkness, my torch +out, the handle of the revolver in my hand. + +The singing grew louder and louder, and then the singer came into view. +It was none other than Donna Marchesi! She carried a lantern in one hand +and a basket in the other. Hanging the lantern on a nail, she took the +basket and went from one sleeping man to another. With each her +performance was the same; she awakened them with a kick in the face, and +then, when they sat up crying with pain, she placed a hard roll of bread +in their blind, trembling, outstretched hand. With all fed, there was +silence save for gnawing teeth breaking through the hard crusts. The +poor devils were hungry, starving slowly to death, and how they wolfed +the bread! She laughed with animal delight as they cried for more. +Standing under the lamp, a lovely devil in her decolleté dress, she +laughed at them. I swear I saw her yellow eyes, dilated in the +semi-darkness! + +Suddenly she gave the command, + +"Up! you dogs, _up_!" + + * * * * * + +Like well-trained animals they rose to their feet, clumsily, but as fast +as they could under the handicap of trembling limbs and heavy chains. +Two were slow in obeying, and those she struck across the face with a +small whip, till they whined with pain. + +They stood there in silence, twenty odd blind men, chained against as +many pillars of stone; and then the woman, standing in the middle of +them, started to sing. It was a well-trained voice, but metallic, and +her high notes had in them the cry of a wild animal. No feminine +softness there. She sang from an Italian opera, and I knew that I had +heard that song before. While she sang, her audience waited silently. At +last she finished, and they started to applaud. Shrunken hands beat +noisily against shrunken hands. + +She seemed to watch them carefully, as though she were measuring the +degree of their appreciation. One man did not satisfy her. She went over +and dug into his face with long strokes of those long red nails until +his face was red and her fingers bloody. And when she finished her +second song that man clapped louder than any of them. He had learned his +lesson. + +She ended by giving them each another roll and a dipper of water. Then, +lantern and basket in her hands, she walked away and disappeared down +the tunnel. The blind men, crying and cursing in their impotent rage, +sank down on their stone beds. + +I went to my friend, and took his hand. + +"George! George Seabrook!" I whispered. + +He sat up and cried, "Who calls me? Who is there?" + +I told him, and he started to cry. At last he became quiet enough to +talk to me. What he told me, with slight variants, was the story of all +the men there and all the men who had been there but who had died. Each +man had been master for a day or a week. Each had found the cellar door +and had come to the Donna Marchesi for the key. Some had been suspicious +and had written their thoughts on the wall of their bedroom. But one and +all had, in the end, found their curiosity more than they could resist +and had opened the door. On the other side they had been overpowered and +chained to a pillar, and there they had remained till they died. Some of +them lived longer than the rest. Smith of Boston had been there over two +years, though he was coughing badly and did not think that he could last +much longer. Seabrook told me their names. They were the best blood of +America, with three Englishmen and one Frenchman. + +"And are you all blind?" I whispered, dreading the answer. + +"Yes. That happens the first night we are here. She does it with her +nails." + +"And she comes every night?" + +"Every night. She feeds us and sings to us and we applaud. When one of +us dies, she unchains the body, and throws it down a hole somewhere. She +talks to us about that hole sometimes and brags that she is going to +fill it up before she stops." + +"But who is helping her?" + +"I think it is the real-estate man. Of course, the old devils upstairs +help. I think that they must drug us. Some of the men say that they went +to sleep in their beds and woke, chained to their posts." + +My voice trembled as I bent over and whispered in his ear, "What would +you do, George, if she came and sang, and you found that you were not +chained? You and the other men not chained? What would you men do, +George?" + +"Ask them," he snarled. "Ask them, one at a time. But I know what I +would do. I know!" + +And he started to cry, because he could not do it the next second; cried +from rage and helplessness till the tears ran from his empty sockets. + +"Does she always come at the same time?" + +"As far as I know. But time is nothing to us. We just wait for death." + +"Are the chains locked?" + +"Yes. And she must have the key. But we could file the links if only we +had files. If only each of us had a file, we could get free. Perhaps the +man upstairs has a key, but I hardly think so." + +"Did you write on that pretty wall upstairs, the whitewashed wall?" + +"I did; I think we all did. One man wrote a sonnet to the woman, verses +in her honor, telling about her beautiful eyes. He raved about that poem +for hours while he was dying. Did you ever see it on the wall?" + +"I did not see it. The old people whitewash the walls before each new +master comes." + +"I thought so." + +"Are you sure you would know what to do, George, if she sang to you and +you were loose?" + +"Yes, we would know." + +So I left him, promising an end to the matter as soon as I could arrange +it. + + * * * * * + +The next day saw me calling on the Donna Marchesi. I took her flowers +that time, a corsage of vivid purple and scarlet orchids. She +entertained me in her music room and I, taking the hint, asked her to +sing. Shyly, almost with reluctance, she did as I asked. She sang the +selection from the Italian opera that I knew so well. I was generous in +my applause. + +She smiled. + +"You like to hear me sing?" + +"Indeed! I want to hear you again. I could hear you daily without +growing tired." + +"You're nice," she purred. "Perhaps it could be arranged." + +"You are too modest. You have a wonderful voice. Why not give it to the +world?" + +"I sang once in public," she sighed. "It was in New York, at a private +musical. There were many men there. Perhaps it was stage fright; my +voice broke badly, and the audience, especially the men, were not kind. +I am not sure, but I thought that I heard some of them hiss me." + +"Surely not!" I protested. + +"Indeed, so. But no man has hissed my singing since then." + +"I hope not!" I replied indignantly. "You have a wonderful voice, and, +when I applauded you, I was sincere. By the way, may I change my mind +and ask for the key to the door in the cellar?" + +"Do you want it, really want it, my friend?" + +"I am sure I do. I may never use it, but it will please me to have it. +Little things in life make me happy, and this key is a little thing." + +"Then you shall have it. Will you do me a favor? Wait till Sunday to use +it. Today is Friday, and you will not have to wait many hours." + +"It will be a pleasure to do as you desire," I replied, kissing her +hand. "And shall I hear you sing again? May I come often to hear you +sing?" + +"I promise you that," she sighed. "I am sure that you will hear me sing +often in the future. I feel that in some way our fates approach the same +star." + +I looked into her eyes, her yellow cat-eyes, and I was sure that she +spoke the truth. Destiny had certainly brought me to find her in Sorona. + + * * * * * + +I bought two dozen rat-tailed files, and dashed across the mountains to +Milan. There I was closeted with the consuls of three nations: England, +France and my own. They did not want to believe my story. I gave them +names, and they had to admit that there had been inquiries, but they +felt that the main details were nightmares, resulting from an over-use +of Italian wines. But I insisted that I was not drunk with new wine. At +last, they called in the chief of the detective bureau. He knew Franco, +the real-estate agent; also the lady in question. And he had heard +something of the villa; not much, but vague whisperings. + +"We will be there Saturday night," he promised. "That leaves you +tonight. The lady will not try to trap you till Sunday. Can you attend +to the old people?" + +"They will be harmless. See that Franco does not have a chance to +escape. Here is the extra key to the door. I will go through before +twelve. When I am ready, I will open the door. If I am not out by one in +the morning, you come through with your police. Do we all understand?" + +"I understand," said the American consul. "But I still think you are +dreaming." + +Back at the villa, I again drugged the old people, not much, but enough +to insure their sleep that night. They liked me. I was liberal with my +gold, and I carelessly showed them where I kept my reserve. + +Then I went through the door. Again I heard the Donna Marchesi sing to +an audience that would never hiss her. She left, and I started to +distribute the files. From one blind wretch to the next I went, +whispering words of cheer and instruction for the next night. They were +to cut through a link in the chain, but in such a way that the Tiger Cat +would not suspect that they had gained their liberty. Were they pleased +to have a hope of freedom? I am not sure, but they were delighted at +another prospect. + +The next night I doubled the tips to the old servants. With tears of +gratitude in their eyes, they thanked me as they called me their dear +master. I put them to sleep as though they were babies. In fact, I +wondered at the time if they would ever recover from the dose of chloral +I gave them. I did not even bother to tie them, but just tossed them on +their beds. + +At half past ten, automobiles began to arrive with darkened lights. We +had a lengthy conference, and soon after eleven I went through the door. +I lost no time in making sure that each of the blind mice was a free +man, but I insisted that they act as though bound till the proper time. +They were trembling, but it was not from fear, not that time. + +Back in my hiding-place I waited, and soon I heard the singing voice. +Ten minutes later the Donna Marchesi had her lantern hung on the nail. +Ah! She was more beautiful that night than I had ever seen her. Dressed +in filmy white, her beautiful body, lovely hair, long lithe limbs would +have bound any man to her through eternity. She seemed to sense that +beauty, for, after giving out the first supply of rolls, she varied her +program. She told her audience how she had dressed that evening for +their special pleasure. She described her jewels and her costume. She +almost became grandiose as she told of her beauty, and, driving in the +dagger, she twisted it as she reminded them that never would they be +able to see her, never touch her or kiss her hand. All they could do was +to hear her sing, applaud and at last die. + +Of all the terrible things in her life that little talk to those blind +men was the climax. + +And then she sang. I watched her closely, and I saw what I suspected. +She sang with her eyes closed. Was she in fancy seeming that she was in +an opera-house before thousands of spellbound admirers? Who knows? But +ever as she sang that night her eyes were closed, and even as she came +to a close, waiting for the usual applause, her eyes were closed. + + * * * * * + +She waited in the silence for the clap of hands. It did not come. With +terrific anger, she whirled to her basket and reached for her whip. + +"Dogs!" she cried. "Have you so soon forgot your lesson?" + +And then she realized that the twenty blind men were closing in on her. +They were silent, but their outstretched hands were feeling for +something that they wanted very much. Even when her whip started to cut, +they were silent. Then one man touched her. To her credit, there was no +sign of fear. She knew what had happened. She must have known, but she +was not afraid. Her single scream was nothing but the battle-cry of the +tiger cat going into action. + +There was a single cry, and that was all. The men reached for what they +wanted in silence. For a while they were all in a struggling group on +their feet, but soon they were all on the ground. It was simply a mass, +and under that mass was a biting, scratching, fighting, dying animal. + +I couldn't stand it. I had planned it all, I wanted it all to happen, +but when it came, I just couldn't stand it. Covered with the sweat of +fear, I ran to the door and unlocked it. I swung it open, went through +the doorway, closed it and locked it again. The men, waiting for me in +the cellar, looked on with doubt. It seemed that they were right in +thinking that my tale was an alcoholic one. + +"Give me whisky!" I gasped, as I dropped on the floor. + +In a few minutes I had recovered. + +"Open the door," I ordered. "And bring the blind men out." + +One at a time they were brought to the kitchen, and identified. Some +were terribly mutilated in the face, long deep scratches, and even +pieces bitten out, and one had the corner of his mouth torn. Most of +them were sobbing hysterically, but, in some way, though none said so, I +judged that they were all happy. + +We went back to the cellar and through the door. On the stone floor was +a clotted mass of red and white. + +"What's that?" asked the American consul. + +"I think that is the Donna Marchesi," I replied. "She must have met with +an accident." + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tiger Cat, by David H. Keller + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TIGER CAT *** + +***** This file should be named 32630-8.txt or 32630-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/6/3/32630/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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