Читать книгу The Case of the Deadly Ha-Ha Game - John R. Erickson - Страница 6

Chapter One: I Arrest the Cat

It’s me again, Hank the Cowdog. It was springtime, as I recall, and the mystery began on a Tuesday evening. Wednesday. It doesn’t matter. It happened, that’s the important thing. That was the night we went out in search of the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken and found ourselves involved in the Case of the Deadly Ha-Ha Game.

Yes, of course it was, and we were almost eaten by . . . wait a second. This is all classified infor­mation, and I mean, very secret. Those files on the Ha-Ha Game have been sealed and aren’t supposed to be viewed by anyone outside of the Security Division.

Why? Well, for one thing, it turned out to be a pretty scary case. Furthermore, if we opened the files, someone might get the impression that Pete . . . I’m sorry, we can’t go any further with this. Just forget I said anything about the Deadly Ha-Ha Game.

Those files are missing from our, uh, files. No kidding.

I was . . . misquoted. If anyone asks if I blurted out any secret information about the so-forths, tell ’em no, I was merely misquoted. Tell ’em I was talking about barbecued steak, not some wild and dangerous contest with the Coyote Brotherhood.

And speaking of barbecued steaks, at precisely five o’clock in the evening, I noticed something unusual. High Loper, the owner of this outfit, came home from the hay field and went inside the house. This was unusual, because at five o’clock in the evening, in the springtime in the Texas Panhandle, we still have three hours of daylight left.

Do you see what this meant? It meant that Loper had quit work before dark. Pretty strange. It wasn’t his usual pattern, especially during hay season.

Drover and I were up at the machine shed, crunching tasteless kernels of Co-op dog food from the overturned Ford hubcap that served as our official dog bowl. And in case you wondered, the answer is yes—the old hubcap still held the faint taste and aroma of axle grease, so that with every bite of Co-op, we were reminded that our official dog bowl was nothing more than a piece of junk.

You’d think our human friends would have jumped at the chance to provide us with a bowl of . . . well, gold or silver, or even cast iron, but that’s not the way it had turned out. We took our meals from a smelly old hubcap and tried not to think of the terrible injustice of . . . so forth.

Anyway, there we were, Drover and I, crunching Co-op dog food kernels, when I noticed the business about Loper quitting work in the middle of the day. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the middle of the day, but I found it pretty unusual that Loper would be quitting work at five o’clock in the evening.

“What do you think, Drover? Pretty strange, huh?”

“Yeah, it reminds me of stale grease. And I think it’s made out of sawdust.”

I stopped chewing and stared at him. “The hay baler is made out of sawdust?”

“No, I’m talking about our dog food.”

“Why are you talking about our dog food?”

“I don’t know. ’Cause that’s what I’m eating, I guess.”

“It’s not polite to talk while you’re eating, Drover. You should never chew with your mouth full.”

“Yeah, but you can’t chew when your mouth’s empty, ’cause when your mouth’s empty, there’s nothing to chew.”

“Don’t argue with me. You should never chew with your . . . did I say that you should never chew with your mouth full? What I meant to say was that you should never talk with your mouth full.” I took a bite of Co-op. “Does that sound better?”

“You mean the way you crunched the dog food?”

“No, I mean . . . never mind, Drover. The point is that you should never talk with your mouth full.”

“Yeah, but that’s what you’re doing right now. I know, ’cause you just spit a crumb on me.”

“See? That’s my whole point. When you try to talk with your mouth stuffed, you end up spewing crumbs all over the party to who or whom you’re speaking.”

“Yeah, and there’s another crumb.”

“So let this be a lesson to you. Never chew with your mouth full.”

“I think I’ve got it now.”

“Good. Now, I was trying to call your attention to a very interesting detail: Loper just went into the house and it’s only five o’clock.”

He gave me a troubled look. “The house is only five o’clock?”

“No, the house is where he lives.”

“Oh. That’s what I thought but . . .”

“The clock says five.”

He glanced around. “Where’s the clock?”

“The clock is . . . it doesn’t matter where the clock is, Drover. Any clock would say that it’s five o’clock, because it is five o’clock.”

“How does a clock know what time it is?”

“That’s what clocks do, Drover. They tell time.”

“What do they tell it?”

“They tell it that it’s five o’clock.”

“But wouldn’t time already know what time it was? Why does it need a clock?”

“It needs a clock because . . . are you trying to make this complicated? I made the simple statement that it’s five o’clock. Do you believe that or not?”

“Well . . .” He rolled his eyes around. “What about yesterday? Wasn’t it five o’clock yesterday?”

I stuck my nose in his face and lifted my lips into a snarl. “Drover, sometimes I feel that you’re trying to make a mockery of my life’s work. And furthermore, we’re out of time for your foolish questions.”

“Well, it’s about time.”

“Exactly my point. Now, I’m going down to the yard to investigate.”

“What did it do?”

“What?”

“The gate. What did the gate do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, you said you were going down to arrest the gate.”

My eyes began to bulge and I felt my temper rising. “I said that I was going down to the yard gate to investigate. IN-VES-TI-GATE. Do you stay awake at night, thinking of ways to bring chaos into our conversations? Or does it happen naturally?”

“Oh, I guess it just happens. Did you notice that Loper came back to the house, and it’s only five o’clock?”

I stared into the huge vacuum of his eyes. “Drover, I pointed that out ten minutes ago, and then you . . . never mind. I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here, and don’t ever speak to me again.”

And with that, I left the little lunatic and marched down to arrest the gate.

Investigate.

See what he does to me?

By the time I reached the yard gate, I had managed to clear most of the toxic fumes that Drover had released into my brainial cavity. And upon reaching the gate, I activated all my sensory equip­ment and began gathering clues.

Clue #1: Loper had gone inside the house.

Clue #2: The yard appeared to be empty.

Clue #3: What we had here was . . . well, no clues, no case, and nothing of any particular interest . . . except . . .

Aha! A cat. Yes, we had a cat in the yard, on the other side of the fence. Right away, I picked him up on VizRad (Visual Radar) and ran his profile through Data Control. Within seconds, the report came back, and it confirmed my initial impression.

It was Pete the Barncat. Mister Never Sweat. Mister Kitty Moocher. He was lying in the iris patch on the north side of the house, lounging in the shade and staring at me with his big cattish eyes. Oh, and his tail was sticking straight up and flicking back and forth. That seemed pretty suspicious.

Right away, I punched in Sirens and Lights and reached for the microphone of my mind. “Okay, Kitty, we see you there,” I called out. “Come out with your tail up. We’ll need to check some identification.”

He came, but took his sweet time. He pushed himself up from the iris patch, threw a curve into his back, and stretched all four legs. Oh, and he yawned. I picked that up right away, and even got a count on his spiky little teeth (seven). I’m sure the cat had no idea that he was being observed, photographed, mapped, and memorized, but he was. It all went straight to Data Control.

He came slithering out into the fading sunlight and slithered his way over to the gate—again, taking his sweet time. This was a typical cat trick, and we’d seen it before. He used it as a provocatory gesture, don’t you see, because he knew that I hate to wait. I hate to wait for anyone or anything, but I especially hate to wait for a cat.

Have we discussed my Position on Cats? I don’t like ’em, never have. I’m against all cats but espe­cially Pete. He’s a troublemaker, and he also causes trouble.

And here he came, slithering and grinning. I watched him with daggerish eyes. I could feel my lips quivering and trying to rise into a snarl. “Hurry up, cat, we don’t have all day.”

“I’m coming, Hankie, I’m coming.”

You know what he did? He slowed down. Yes sir, I saw him. He probably thought this would provoke me into a burst of angry barking that would draw the attention of Sally May and get me in trouble. Ha. Little did he know that I had been to school on cats and had learned to control my savage instinks.

No, I washed and watted. I watted and wayched. I waited and watched, shall we say, and tried to get a firm grip on my lip, and okay, it wasn’t so easy—standing there, waiting for a sniveling little cat whilst my whole inner bean was trembling and aching with a desire to snarl and bark and give him a pounding.

But I managed to control myself. Everything but my upper lip, which continued to twitch. “Okay, let’s see some ID, Pete. State your name, rank, and cereal, and be quick about it.”

And so the mystery began.