Maher-Shalal-Hashbaz

 

NO LONDONER CAN EVER resist the attraction of a street crowd. Mr.

Montague Egg, driving up Kingsway, and observing a group of people

staring into the branches of one of the slender plane-trees which embellish

that thoroughfare, drew up to see what all the excitement was about.

“Poor puss!” cried the bystanders, snapping encouraging fingers. “Poor

pussy, then! Kitty, kitty, kitty, come on!”

“Look, baby, look at the pretty pussy!”

“Fetch her a bit of cat’s-meat.”

“She’ll come down when she’s tired of it.”

“Chuck a stone at her!”

“Now then, what’s all this about?”

The slender, shabby child who stood so forlornly holding the empty

basket appealed to the policeman.

“Oh, do please send these people away! How can he come down, with

everybody shouting at him? He’s frightened, poor darling.”

From among the swaying branches a pair of amber eyes gleamed

wrathfully down. The policeman scratched his head.

“Bit of a job, ain’t it, missie? However did he come to get up there?”

“The fastening came undone, and he jumped out of the basket just as we

were getting off the ’bus. Oh, please do something!”

Mr. Montague Egg, casting his eye over the crowd, perceived on its

outskirts a window-cleaner with his ladders upon a truck. He hailed him.

“Fetch that ladder along, sonnie, and we’ll soon get him down, if you’ll

allow me to try, miss. If we leave him to himself, he’ll probably stick up there for ages. ‘It’s hard to reassure, persuade or charm the customer who

once has felt alarm.’ Carefully, now. That’s the ticket.”

“Oh, thank you so much! Oh, do be gentle with him. He does so hate

being handled.”

“That’s all right, miss; don’t you worry. Always the gentleman, that’s

Monty Egg. Kind about the house and clean with children. Up she goes!”

And Mr. Egg, clapping his smart trilby upon his head and uttering

crooning noises, ascended into the leafage. A loud explosion of spitting

sounds and a small shower of twigs floated down to the spectators, and

presently Mr. Egg followed, rather awkwardly, clutching a reluctant bunch

of ginger fur. The girl held out the basket, the four furiously kicking legs

were somehow bundled in, a tradesman’s lad produced a piece of string, the

lid was secured, the window-cleaner was rewarded and removed his ladder,

and the crowd dispersed. Mr. Egg, winding his pocket-handkerchief about a

lacerated wrist, picked the scattered leaves out of his collar and straightened

his tie.

“Oh, he’s scratched you dreadfully!” lamented the girl, her blue eyes

large and tragic.

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Egg. “Very happy to have been of assistance, I

am sure. Can I have the pleasure of driving you anywhere? It’ll be

pleasanter for him than a ’bus, and if we pull up the windows he can’t jump

out, even if he does get the basket open again.”

The girl protested, but Mr. Egg firmly bustled her into his little saloon

and inquired where she wanted to go.

“It’s this address,” said the girl, pulling a newspaper cutting out of her

worn handbag. “Somewhere in Soho, isn’t it?”

Mr. Egg, with some surprise, read the advertisement:

“WANTED: hard-working, capable CAT (either sex), keep down mice in

pleasant villa residence and be companion to middle-aged couple. Ten

shillings and good home to suitable applicant. Apply personally to Mr. John

Doe, La Cigale Bienheureuse, Frith St., W., on Tuesday between 11 and 1

o’clock.”

“That’s a funny set-out,” said Mr. Egg, frowning.

“Oh! do you think there’s anything wrong with it? Is it just a joke?”

“Well,” said Mr. Egg, “I can’t quite see why anybody wants to pay ten

bob for an ordinary cat, can you? I mean, they usually come gratis and f.o.b.

from somebody who doesn’t like drowning kittens. And I don’t quite

believe in Mr. John Doe; he sounds like what they call a legal fiction.”

“Oh, dear!” cried the girl, with tears in the blue eyes. “I did so hope it

would be all right. You see, we’re so dreadfully hard up, with father out of

work, and Maggie—that’s my stepmother—says she won’t keep Maher-

shalal-hashbaz any longer, because he scratches the table-legs and eats as

much as a Christian, bless him!—though he doesn’t really—only a little

milk and a bit of cat’s-meat, and he’s a beautiful mouser, only there aren’t

many mice where we live—and I thought, if I could get him a good home—

and ten shillings for some new boots for Dad, he needs them so badly—”

“Oh, well, cheer up,” said Mr. Egg. “Perhaps they’re willing to pay for a

full-grown, certified mouser. Or—tell you what—it may be one of these

cinema stunts. We’ll go and see, anyhow; only I think you’d better let me

come with you and interview Mr. Doe. I’m quite respectable,” he added

hastily. “Here’s my card. Montague Egg, travelling representative of

Plummet & Rose, wines and spirits, Piccadilly. Interviewing customers is

my long suit. ‘The salesman’s job is to get the trade—don’t leave the house

till the deal is made’—that’s Monty’s motto.”

“My name’s Jean Maitland, and Dad’s in the commercial line himself—

at least, he was till he got bronchitis last winter, and now he isn’t strong

enough to go on the road.”

“Bad luck!” said Monty sympathetically, as he turned down High

Holborn. He liked this child of sixteen or so, and registered a vow that

“something should be done about it.”

It seemed as though there were other people who thought ten shillings

good payment for a cat. The pavement before the grubby little Soho

restaurant was thick with cat-owners, some carrying baskets, some

clutching their animals in their arms. The air resounded with the mournful

cries of the prisoners.

“Some competition,” said Monty. “Well, anyhow, the post doesn’t seem

to be filled yet. Hang on to me, and we’ll try what we can do.”

They waited for some time. It seemed that the applicants were being

passed out through a back entrance, for, though many went in, some

returned. Eventually they secured a place in the queue going up a dingy

staircase, and, after a further eternity, found themselves facing a dark and

discouraging door. Presently this was opened by a stout and pursy-faced

man, with very sharp little eyes, who said briskly: “Next, please!” and they

walked in.

“Mr. John Doe?” said Monty.

“Yes. Brought your cat? Oh, the young lady’s cat. I see. Sit down,

please. Name and address, miss?”

The girl gave an address south of the Thames, and the man made a note

of it, “in case,” he explained, “the chosen candidate should prove

unsuitable, and I might want to write to you again. Now, let us see the cat.”

The basket was opened, and a ginger head emerged resentfully.

“Oh, yes. Fine specimen. Poor pussy, then. He doesn’t seem very

friendly.”

“He’s frightened by the journey, but he’s a darling when he once knows

you, and a splendid mouser. And so clean.”

“That’s important. Must have him clean. And he must work for his

living, you know.”

“Oh, he will. He can tackle rats or anything. We call him Maher-shalal-

hashbaz, because he ‘makes haste to the spoil.’ But he answers to Mash,

don’t you, darling?”

“I see. Well, he seems to be in good condition. No fleas? No diseases?

My wife is very particular.”

“Oh, no. He’s a splendid healthy cat. Fleas, indeed!”

“No offence, but I must be particular, because we shall make a great pet

of him. I don’t care much for his colour. Ten shillings is a high price to pay

for a ginger one. I don’t know whether—”

“Come, come,” said Monty. “Nothing was said in your advertisement

about colour. This lady has come a long way to bring you the cat, and you

can’t expect her to take less than she’s offered. You’ll never get a better cat

than this; everyone knows that the ginger ones are the best mousers—

they’ve got more go in them. And look at his handsome white shirt-front. It

shows you how beautifully clean he is. And think of the advantage—you

can see him—you and your good lady won’t go tripping over him in a dark

corner, same as you do with these black and tabby ones. As a matter of fact,

we ought to charge extra for such a handsome colour as this. They’re much

rarer and more high-class than the ordinary cat.”

“There’s something in that,” admitted Mr. Doe. “Well, look here, Miss

Maitland. Suppose you bring Maher—what you said—out to our place this evening, and if my wife likes him we will keep him. Here’s the address.

And you must come at six precisely, please, as we shall be going out later.”

Monty looked at the address, which was at the northern extremity of the

Edgware-Morden Tube.

“It’s a very long way to come on the chance,” he said resolutely. “You

will have to pay Miss Maitland’s expenses.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Doe. “That’s only fair. Here is half a crown.

You can return me the change this evening. Very well, thank you. Your cat

will have a really happy home if he comes to us. Put him back in his basket

now. The other way out, please. Mind the step. Good morning.”

Mr. Egg and his new friend, stumbling down an excessively confined

and stuffy back staircase into a malodorous by-street, looked at one another.

“He seemed rather an abrupt sort of person,” said Miss Maitland. “I do

hope he’ll be kind to Maher-shalal-hashbaz. You were marvellous about the

gingeriness—I thought he was going to be stuffy about that. My angel

Mash! how anybody could object to his beautiful colour!”

“Um!” said Mr. Egg. “Well, Mr. Doe may be O.K., but I shall believe in

his ten shillings when I see it. And, in any case, you’re not going to his

house alone. I shall call for you in the car at five o’clock.”

“But, Mr. Egg—I can’t allow you! Besides, you’ve taken half a crown

off him for my fare.”

“That’s only business,” said Mr. Egg. “Five o’clock sharp I shall be

there.”

“Well, come at four, and let us give you a cup of tea, anyway. That’s the

least we can do.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” said Mr. Egg.

The house occupied by Mr. John Doe was a new detached villa standing

solitary at the extreme end of a new and unmade surburban road. It was Mrs. Doe who answered the bell—a small, frightened-looking woman with

watery eyes and a nervous habit of plucking at her pale lips with her

fingers. Maher-shalal-hashbaz was released from his basket in the sitting-

room, where Mr. Doe was reclining in an armchair, reading the evening

paper. The cat sniffed suspiciously at him, but softened to Mrs. Doe’s timid

advances so far as to allow his ears to be tickled.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Doe, “will he do? You don’t object to the

colour, eh?”

“Oh, no. He’s a beautiful cat. I like him very much.”

“Right. Then we’ll take him. Here you are, Miss Maitland. Ten

shillings. Please sign this receipt. Thanks. Never mind about the change

from the half-crown. There you are, my dear; you’ve got your cat, and I

hope we shall see no more of those mice. Now”—he glanced at his watch

—“I’m afraid you must say good-bye to your pet quickly, Miss Maitland;

we’ve got to get off. He’ll be quite safe with us.”

Monty strolled out with gentlemanly reticence into the hall while the

last words were said. It was, no doubt, the same gentlemanly feeling which

led him to move away from the sitting-room door towards the back part of

the house; but he had only waited a very few minutes when Jean Maitland

came out, sniffing valiantly into a small handkerchief, and followed by Mrs.

Doe.

“You’re fond of your cat, aren’t you, my dear? I do hope you don’t feel

too—”

“There, there, Flossie,” said her husband, appearing suddenly at her

shoulders, “Miss Maitland knows he’ll be well looked after.” He showed

them out, and shut the door quickly upon them.

“If you don’t feel happy about it,” said Mr. Egg uneasily, “we’ll have

him back in two twos.”

“No, it’s all right,” said Jean. “If you don’t mind, let’s get in at once and

drive away—rather fast.”

As they lurched over the uneven road, Mr. Egg saw a lad coming down

it. In one hand he carried a basket. He was whistling loudly.

“Look!” said Monty. “One of our hated rivals. We’ve got in ahead of

him, anyhow. ‘The salesman first upon the field gets the bargain signed and

sealed.’ Damn it!” he added to himself, as he pressed down the accelerator,

“I hope it’s O.K. I wonder.”

Although Mr. Egg had worked energetically to get Maher-shalal-

hashbaz settled in the world, he was not easy in his mind. The matter

preyed upon his spirits to such an extent that, finding himself back in

London on the following Saturday week, he made an expedition south of

the Thames to make inquiries. And when the Maitlands’ door was opened

by Jean, there by her side, arching his back and brandishing his tail, was

Maher-shalal-hashbaz.

“Yes,” said the girl, “he found his way back, the clever darling! Just a

week ago to-day—and he was dreadfully thin and draggled—how he did it,

I can’t think. But we simply couldn’t send him away again, could we,

Maggie?”

“No,” said Mrs. Maitland. “I don’t like the cat, and never did, but there!

I suppose even cats have their feelings. But it’s an awkward thing about the

money.”

“Yes,” said Jean. “You see, when he got back and we decided to keep

him, I wrote to Mr. Doe and explained, and sent him a postal order for the

ten shillings. And this morning the letter came back from the Post Office,

marked ‘Not Known.’ So we don’t know what to do about it.”

“I never did believe in Mr. John Doe,” said Monty. “If you ask me, Miss

Maitland, he was no good, and I shouldn’t bother any more about him.”

But the girl was not satisfied, and presently the obliging Mr. Egg found

himself driving out northwards in search of the mysterious Mr. Doe,

carrying the postal order with him.

The door of the villa was opened by a neatly dressed, elderly woman

whom he had never seen before. Mr. Egg inquired for Mr. John Doe.

“He doesn’t live here. Never heard of him.”

Monty explained that he wanted the gentleman who had purchased the

cat.

“Cat?” said the woman. Her face changed. “Step inside, will you?

George!” she called to somebody inside the house, “here’s a gentleman

called about a cat. Perhaps you’d like to—” The rest of the sentence was

whispered into the ear of a man who emerged from the sitting-room, and

who appeared to be, and was in fact, her husband.

George looked Mr. Egg carefully up and down. “I don’t know nobody

here called Doe,” said he; “but if it’s the late tenant you’re wanting, they’ve

left. Packed and went off in a hurry the day after the old gentleman was

buried. I’m the caretaker for the landlord. And if you’ve missed a cat,

maybe you’d like to come and have a look out here.”

He led the way through the house and out at the back door into the

garden. In the middle of one of the flowerbeds was a large hole, like an

irregularly shaped and shallow grave. A spade stood upright in the mould.

And laid in two lugubrious rows upon the lawn were the corpses of some

very dead cats. At a hasty estimate, Mr. Egg reckoned that there must be

close on fifty of them.

“If any of these is yours,” said George, “you’re welcome to it. But they

ain’t in what you might call good condition.”

“Good Lord!” said Mr. Egg, appalled, and thought with pleasure of

Maher-shalal-hashbaz, tail erect, welcoming him on the Maitlands’ threshold. “Come back and tell me about this. It’s—it’s unbelievable!”

It turned out that the name of the late tenants had been Proctor. The

family consisted of an old Mr. Proctor, an invalid, to whom the house

belonged, and his married nephew and the nephew’s wife.

“They didn’t have no servant sleeping in. Old Mrs. Crabbe used to do

for them, coming in daily, and she always told me that the old gentleman

couldn’t abide cats. They made him ill like—I’ve known folks like that

afore. And, of course, they had to be careful, him being so frail and his

heart so bad he might have popped off any minute. What it seemed to us

when I found all them cats buried, like, was as how maybe young Proctor

had killed them to prevent the old gentleman seeing ’em and getting a

shock. But the queer thing is that all them cats looks to have been killed

about the same time, and not so long ago, neither.”

Mr. Egg remembered the advertisement, and the false name, and the

applicants passed out by a different door, so that none of them could

possibly tell how many cats had been bought and paid for. And he

remembered also the careful injunction to bring the cat at 6 o’clock

precisely, and the whistling lad with the basket who had appeared on the

scene about a quarter of an hour after them. He remembered another thing

—a faint miauling noise that had struck upon his ear as he stood in the hall

while Jean was saying good-bye to Maher-shalal-hashbaz, and the worried

look on Mrs. Proctor’s face when she had asked if Jean was fond of her pet.

It looked as though Mr. Proctor junior had been collecting cats for some

rather sinister purpose. Collecting them from every quarter of London.

From quarters as far apart as possible—or why so much care to take down

names and addresses?

“What did the old gentleman die of?” he asked.

“Well,” said Mrs. George, “it was just heart-failure, or so the doctor

said. Last Tuesday week he passed away in the night, poor soul, and Mrs.

Crabbe that laid him out said he had a dreadful look of horror on his poor

face, but the doctor said that wasn’t anything out of the way, not with his

disease. But what the doctor didn’t see, being too busy to come round, was

them terrible scratches on his face and arms. Must have regular clawed

himself in his agony—oh, dear, oh, dear! But there! Anybody knew as he

might go off at any time like the blowing out of a candle.”

“I know that, Sally,” said her husband. “But what about them scratches

on the bedroom door? Don’t tell me he did that, too. Or, if he did, why

didn’t somebody hear him and come along to help him? It’s all very well for

Mr. Timbs—that’s the landlord—to say as tramps must have got into the

house after the Proctors left, and put us in here to look after the place, but

why should tramps go for to do a useless bit of damage like that?”

“A ’eartless lot, them Proctors, that’s what I say,” said Mrs. George. “A-

snoring away, most likely, and leaving their uncle to die by himself. And

wasn’t the lawyer upset about it, neither! Coming along in the morning to

make the old gentleman’s will, and him passed away so sudden. And seeing

they came in for all his money after all, you’d think they might have given

him a better funeral. Mean, I call it—not a flower, hardly—only one half-

guinea wreath—and no oak—only elm and a shabby lot of handles. Such

trash! You’d think they’d be ashamed.”

Mr. Egg was silent. He was not a man of strong imagination, but he saw

a very horrible picture in his mind. He saw an old, sick man asleep, and

hands that quietly opened the bedroom door, and dragged in, one after the

other, sacks that moved and squirmed and mewed. He saw the sacks left

open on the floor, and the door being softly shut and locked on the outside.

And then, in the dim glow of the night-light, he saw shadowy shapes that leapt and flitted about the room—black and tabby and ginger—up and

down, prowling on noiseless feet, thudding on velvet paws from tables and

chairs. And then, plump up on the bed—a great ginger cat with amber eyes

—and the sleeper waking with a cry—and after that a nightmare of terror

and disgust behind the locked and remorseless door. A very old, sick man,

stumbling and gasping for breath, striking out at the shadowy horrors that

pursued and fled him—and the last tearing pain at the heart when merciful

death overtook him. Then, nothing but a mewing of cats and a scratching at

the door, and outside, the listener, with his ear bent to the keyhole.

Mr. Egg passed his handkerchief over his forehead; he did not like his

thoughts. But he had to go on, and see the murderer sliding through the

door in the morning—hurrying to collect his innocent accomplices before

Mrs. Crabbe should come—knowing that it must be done quickly and the

corpse made decent—and that when people came to the house there must be

no mysterious miaulings to surprise them. To set the cats free would not be

enough—they might hang about the house. No; the water-butt and then the

grave in the garden. But Maher-shalal-hashbaz—nobel Maher-shalal-

hashbaz had fought for his life. He was not going to be drowned in any

water-butts. He had kicked himself loose (“and I hope,” thought Mr. Egg,

“he scratched him all to blazes”), and he had toiled his way home across

London. If only Maher-shalal-hashbaz could tell what he knew! But Monty

Egg knew something, and he could tell.

“And I will tell, what’s more,” said Monty Egg to himself, as he wrote

down the name and address of Mr. Proctor’s solicitor. He supposed it must

be murder to terrify an old man to death; he was not sure, but he meant to

find out. He cast about in his mind for a consoling motto from the

Salesman’s Handbook, but, for the first time in his life, could find nothing

that really fitted the case.

“I seem to have stepped regularly out of my line,” he thought sadly;

“but still, as a citizen—”

And then he smiled, recollecting the first and last aphorism in his

favourite book:

To serve the Public is the aim

Of every salesman worth the name

 

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