nly a disgrace. I was
going to call Mrs. Anderson."

With the door open, the hall seemed filled with the very odd odor of
Mrs. Moffatt's apartment--not really unpleasant, but musty, with the
smell of antiques. The apartment itself was like a museum. Ellen had
been inside once when the old lady invited her in for a cup of tea. Its
two rooms were crammed with a bizarre assortment of furniture,
bric-a-brac and souvenirs.

"Oh, how's your bird this morning?" Ellen asked.

In addition to being a collector, Mrs. Moffatt was an animal fancier.
She owned three cats, a pair of love-birds, goldfish, and even a cage of
white mice. One of the love-birds, she had informed Ellen yesterday, was
ailing.

"Oh, Buzzy's much better today," she beamed. "The doctor told me to feed
him whisky every three hours--with an eyedropper, you know--and you'd be
surprised how it helped the little fellow. He even ate some bird-seed
this morning."

"I'm so glad," said Ellen. She picked up her paper and smiled at Mrs.
Moffatt. "I'll see you later."

The old woman closed her door, shutting off the musty smell, and Ellen
walked back to her own apartment. She filled the coffee pot with water
and four tablespoons of coffee, then dressed herself while the coffee
percolated. Standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, she took
the bobbypins out of her hair. Her reflection looked back at her from
the mirror, and she felt that unaccountable depression again. I'm not
bad-looking, she thought, and young, and not too dumb. What have other
women got that I haven't? She thought of the days and years passing, the
meals all alone, and nothing ever happening.

That kind of thinking gets you nowhere; forget it. She combed her hair
back, pinned it securely behind her ears, ran a lipstick over her mouth.
Then she went into the kitchenette, turned off the gas flame under the
coffee pot, and raised the window shade to let in the sun that was just
beginning to show through morning fog.

A dead cat lay on the fire escape under the window.

* * * * *

She stared at it, feeling sick to her stomach. It was an ordinary gray
cat, the kind you see in every alley, but its head was twisted back so
that its open eyes and open mouth leered at her.

She pulled the blind down, fast.

Sit down, light a cigarette. It's nothing, just a dead cat, that's all.
But how did it get on the fire escape? Fell, maybe, from the roof? And
how did it