Edgar Allan Paws and the Tell-Tale Tail

November 1st, 1842

         Edgar Allan Paws, having just alighted from his coach outside the gates of the colossal fortress that was the Maryland State Petitentiary in Baltimore, was escorted across the grounds of the compound by two uniformed guards under an icy barrage of freezing rain.  Fatigued from an agonizingly slow ride up from the District of Columbia, where the offices of the Washington Whisker (the newspaper that had sent him on assignment) were located, the Maine Coon of macabre and mystery fiction let out a weary sigh as he followed the guards to a building that stood alone from those of the main prison.  The wrought iron gates circumnavigating the oblong stone structure made Edgar feel uneasy, eliciting a shudder in spite of the heavy frock coat he wore over a layer of dark brown fur.

         “Welcome to Euthanasia Row, Mister Paws,” said one of the guards.

         “Welcome, Sir?” Edgar replied.  “This place is no more welcome than Hell’s front door is to the lost souls weeping at its threshold.  Even the Baltimore City Pound, as squalid as its conditions may be, has more residential appeal than this domicile of death.”

         The guards tuned Edgar out as they greeted the sentry posted at the entrance, exchanged trifle pleasantries, and continued on to the building itself.  Once inside, they led their guest down a long dark corridor flanked by a series of thick metal doors separating them from the dangerous animals lurking on the other side - all half-crazed, cold-blooded killers waiting until their appointed hour of termination.  Soon they arrived at one door in particular and both guards rapped on it with their truncheons.

         “Wake up you mangy Manx,” one of them shouted.  “Someone from the Whisker is here to meet you.”

         A moment later a mottle of black, orange, and white fur hovered in a small square aperture in the door through which its meals were delivered.  Two large golden eyes broke up the mosaic of the creature’s calico coat and peered out at the visitors with keen interest.  It purred with delight.

         “A visitor, you say?” said the Manx.  “It is so nice to have company again.  The mice stopped talking to me weeks ago.”

         “That’s because you eat them after you gain their trust,” a guard pointed out.

         The Manx shrugged.  “What can I say?  My predatory nature does get the better of my manners.  Now, to whom do I owe the honor of this rare occasion?”

         “Mister Paws,” said Edgar, stepping between the guards to get a better view of his subject.  “Edgar Allan Paws.”

         “An honor indeed!” cried the Manx.  “Your collection Tales of the Grotesque and the Felinesque was a splendid read and should have been the toast of contemporary American literature.”

         “You are far kinder than my critics were,” said Edgar.  “But I am here to work, not engage in a discussion about the merits of my books – or turbulent literary career.”

         “Fair enough,” said the Manx.  “I will tell my story, just not in the presence of the officers who brought you here.”

         Edgar turned to the two guards, who nodded and indicated they would return to escort him back out in one quarter of an hour.  He then acquired a wooden chair he spotted nearby, took a seat in it directly opposite the Manx, and withdrew some writing implements from his coat. 

         “Ask anything you wish,” said the Manx.

         “Start from the beginning,” Edgar replied, ready with pad and quill.  “Tell me when you first decided to murder your uncle Hiram.”

         “Very well then,” the Manx said in turn.  He took a deep breath and began the tale.

###

         “It is impossible to say how or when the idea first entered my feline brain; but enter it did, haunting me day and night.  I loved the old tabby.  He had never wronged me, or given me insult.  For his gold I had no desire.  So what was the impetus for the growing hatred of my uncle Hiram?  I think it was his eye; yes, it was this!  He had the eye of a vulture – a pale blue eye, with a film over it.  A displacement of the lens from a freak accident had caused it to appear as such and, whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so I made up my mind to take my uncle’s life, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

         “Oh, my dear Mister Paws, you should have seen how wisely I proceeded with my plan – with what caution, foresight, and pretense I went to work!  I was never kinder to my uncle than during the whole week before I killed him.  And every night, about midnight, I would turn the latch of his chamber door and open it – oh so gently!  And then, once I had made an opening of sufficient width, I would put in a closed lantern through which no light shone out, and thrust in my head.  How you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in!  I moved slowly, every so slowly so as not to disturb the old tabby’s slumber.  It would take me an hour to place my whole head within the opening to where I could see him curled up in his bed.  And then, when my head was well in the room, I would undo the lantern – just enough to where a single narrow ray of light fell upon that contemptible cat’s eye I loathed so much.  This I did for seven long nights, always at midnight, but found the eye closed every time; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not my uncle who vexed me, but his Evil Eye.  And on the eighth morning at daybreak, I boldly walked into the old tabby’s chamber and addressed him in the following manner:

         “‘Good morning, Uncle!’ I said in a hearty tone, tying back the drapes and opening the shutters. ‘How did you pass the night?’

         “‘Well enough,’ he replied, ‘although I had another dream about being attacked by a cat burglar.’

         “‘Really, Uncle Hiram,’ I said with a laugh, ‘you must cut back on that habit of yours of indulging in milk and brandy before bed.  After all, the sleep of indigestion produces devils.’

         “‘Pure catdoodle!’ he shouted, and then rose to join me for our breakfast in the dining room.

         “I found it especially interesting that these dreams had coincided with my own nocturnal habits the week leading up to my uncle’s death, but I was not concerned in the least.  No, he did not suspect that every night, precisely at twelve, I had been looking in upon him while he slept. 

         “I spent the remainder of the day entrenched in a state of deep thought, mentally rehearsing the murderous plot I was determined to carry out before the next sunrise.  Once twelve o’clock had arrived on what was the eighth fateful night, I was more than usually cautious in opening my uncle’s door.  A watch’s minute hand moved more quickly than did my paw.  I could scarcely contain my own triumph and recall feeling my pulse quicken as I stood there opening the door, little by little.  To think that there I was, just a few feet away from the old tabby, and he not even aware of the secret deeds I had in store for him.  I chuckled at the idea; and, in letting hubris overtake my caution, I was sure he had heard me, for he suddenly moved on the bed, as if startled by a strange sound.  I did not dare draw back.  His room was pitch black, the shutters closed for fear of the phantom burglar that had plagued his dreams, and I knew he could not see the opening of the door given the peculiar nature of his ocular condition.  So I pushed on steadily, steadily.

         “I had just gotten my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my paw slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old tabby sprang up in the bed.

         “‘Who’s there?’ he cried.

         “I remained quite still, saying nothing, and did so for a whole hour.  During that time I did not hear him lie down, and sensed he was still sitting up in bed – ears twitching and hackles raised in alarm. 

         “The next thing I heard was a long, mournful mewl.  It was not one of pain or of grief, but of mortal terror – the kind that wells up from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.  I knew the sound well.  I also knew he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, and that his fears had been ever since growing upon him.

         “‘It is nothing but the wind in the chimney,’ he said to himself.  ‘Perhaps it is a mouse crossing the floor, or a cricket which has made a single chirp.’

         “My uncle tried to quell his feelings of dread with these suppositions; but he found all in vain.  There was no longer any comfort to be had, because Death’s shadow was making its final approach and would soon envelope him as its victim.  And I strongly believe it was the influence of that shadow which caused him to feel the presence of my head within the room.

         “Eventually, I resolved to open a tiny little crevice in the lantern, and did so until a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot out from that crevice and fell upon the Evil Eye. 

         “It was wide open and I grew furious as I gazed upon it.  I saw it with perfect distinctness – all a dull blue, with a hideous gray veil over it that chilled the marrow in my bones.  Of the old tabby’s face or the apparent shape of the letter ‘M’ on his forehead I could see nothing: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

         “Suddenly there came to my ears a quick rhythmic sound, such as the repetitious clicking a metronome makes when set in motion.  I knew that sound, too.  It was the thumping of the old tabby’s tail.  It only served to increase my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

         “Yet I resisted the urge to strike and kept still.  I scarcely breathed.  I held the lantern motionless, trying to maintain its ray upon the eye.  But the hellish tattoo of the tail increased.  It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant.  My uncle’s terror must have been extreme.  I tried for some minutes longer to stand still and refrain from acting on impulse.  But the thumping grew louder, louder!  Enough!  The old tabby’s hour had come!  With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and pounced into the room.  He shrieked only once.  In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and heard a sickening crunch as I pulled the heavy bed over him.  I then smiled gaily, the deed finally done.  But, for many minutes, the tail thumped on.  This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall.  At length it ceased.  My uncle was dead.  I removed the bed and examined the corpse.  He was stone dead.  I checked his heart to be sure, detected no pulse, and breathed a sigh of relief.  His eye would trouble me no more.

         “Let me now describe for you the wise precautions I took to conceal my crime.  First of all I dismembered the corpse.  I cut off the head and the legs and the tail.

         “I then took up the false bottom from an old trunk my uncle had kept at the foot of his bed, and deposited all down in that space.  I then replaced the bottom and its contents (mostly clothes and a few books) so cleverly that not even the keenest cat’s eye could have detected anything wrong.  There was nothing to wash out – neither a stain of any kind or a blood-spot.  I had been too wary for that.  A tub had caught all - ha! ha!

         “When I had reached the end of these labors, it was four o’clock and still dark as midnight.  As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the front door.  I opened it with a light heart - for what had I now to fear?  There entered three uniformed cats, which introduced themselves as officers of the Puss Police Squad.  A shriek had been heard by one of the neighbors in the night, arousing suspicion of foul play; a complaint had been lodged at the Baltimore precinct, and they (the officers) had been dispatched to my late Uncle Hiram’s residence to conduct a search.

         “‘Please come in,’ I said to the officers, showing them inside once they had stated the nature of their business.  ‘The shriek, I am embarrassed to say, was my own in a dream.’ 

         “‘I see,’ one of the officers commented, making a note of this.  ‘Is your uncle here by any chance?  We need to speak to him as well.’

         “‘Away in the country,’ I replied.  ‘I’m afraid the city air has taken quite a toll on the poor tabby’s health.’

         “The officers nodded, having no reason to doubt the veracity of what I told them, and I then proceeded to take my visitors all over the house.
 
         “‘Search, search well,’ I bade them, leading them through every room starting with my own quarters in the attic, and saved my uncle’s chamber for last.

         “Upon entering Hiram’s room, they could plainly see his treasures had remained secure and undisturbed.  In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I went out of my way to bring some extra chairs into the room, and even desired that they take a brief rest from their fatigues, while I myself, reveling in the wild audacity of my triumph, sat down upon the very trunk in which reposed the corpus delicti. 

         “The officers were satisfied.  My manner had convinced them.  I was singularly at ease.  They sat, and while I momentarily stole myself away to the kitchen to brew them some catnip tea, they chatted of familiar things.  Upon returning to the room with a tray bearing kettle, cups, spoons, etc., one of the officers remarked how they admired the trunk on which I had been seated.

         “‘It is an excellent piece,’ I said, and explained that my uncle had acquired it during his travels abroad while enlisted in naval service. ‘Perhaps you would care to see the inside?’ I asked, shivering with delight.

         “They did, so I opened it, and demonstrated how sturdy it was by knocking on the wood.  ‘Crafted from solid oak,’ I told them.

         “They stood around me, looking down over my shoulder while I rifled through my uncle’s old uniforms and showed them some of the other trinkets stowed therein.  Occasionally one of the officers would ask a question, to which I would respond cheerily.  But, before long, I started feeling ill and wished them gone.  My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they stood and chatted away.  The ringing only became more distinct the longer they stayed: it continued and gained definitiveness – until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

         “I then grew very pale, but talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice to try and drown it out.  Yet the sound increased.  It was a quick rhythmic sound – such as the repetitious clicking a metronome makes when set in motion.  I gasped for breath, and yet by some miracle the officers heard it not.  I talked more quickly, more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased, even as I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with wild gesticulations.  Why would they not be gone?  I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of these felines of the law, and the noise steadily increased.  Oh God!  What could I do?  I foamed, I raved, I swore – clicking my claws and gnashing my teeth!  The sound only grew louder, louder, louder!  And still the officers chatted pleasantly, smiled, and stroked their whiskers.  Was it possible they heard not?  No, no!  They heard, they suspected, they knew, and were making a mockery of my horror!  The agony of their derision was more than I could bear!  I felt that I must scream or die!

         “‘Villains!’ I shrieked, ‘dissemble no more!  I admit the deed!  Take up the false bottom of the trunk!  Here, here!  It is the thumping of his detestable tail!’”

###

         “There, now you have it,” said the Manx, concluding his story and receding into the gloom of his cell.

         Edgar rose from the chair as both guards returned and subsequently escorted him out into the icy November night.  Once he was inside the closed carriage waiting just beyond the prison compound, its horse cantering off on the journey back to Washington, the Manx’s story filled his mind with a turbulent sea of ideas.  He already had a sense of how he was going to write the piece for the Whisker, but first he needed a title.

         Yes!  Now I’ve got it, Edgar thought to himself after a while, recalling what had done the Manx in and consigned him to the hangman’s noose.  I shall call it “The Tell-Tale Tail.”

The End

(Read the illustrated version here: http://chasmkline.wordpress.com/2013/10/20/edgar-allan-paws-and-the-tell-tale-ta...)