The Lord God Made Them All Read online

  This sounded to me like canker, and, in fact, when I saw the cat sitting on the desk twisting his head around uneasily, I was sure that was it, but the ears were clean and painless.

  This amiable cat seemed to like being examined, and the purring rose to a crescendo as I made a close inspection of his teeth, mouth, eyes and nostrils. Nothing. Yet something up there was causing a lot of discomfort.

  I began to work my way through the black hair, and suddenly the purring was interrupted by a sharp “miaow” as my fingers came upon a painful spot on his neck.

  “Something here,” I murmured. I took out my scissors and began to clip. And as the hair fell away and the skin showed through, a wave of disbelief swept through me. I was looking down at a neat little transverse slit, the identical twin of the one I had seen before.

  My God, surely not on the neck. I went into the wound with probe and forceps, and within seconds I had brought the familiar brown band to the surface. A quick snip and I pulled it clear.

  “More elastic,” I said dully.

  “Round ‘is neck!”

  “Afraid so. Somebody really meant business this time.”

  He drew his enormous forefinger along the furry flank, and the cat rubbed delightedly against him. “Who’s doin’ this?”

  I shrugged. “No way of telling. The police are always on the lookout for cruelty, but they would have to catch a person actually in the act.”

  I knew he was wondering when the next attempt would come, and so was I, but there were no more elastic bands for Fred. The neck healed rapidly, and I didn’t see the cat for nearly a year till one morning Helen met me as I was coming in from my round.

  “Mr. Barnett’s just been on the phone, Jim. Would you please go at once? He thinks his cat has been poisoned.”

  Another attack on this nice little animal, and after all this time. It didn’t make sense, and my mind was a jumble as I hurried into Walt Barnett’s office.

  I found a vastly different Fred this time. The cat was not in his old place on the desk but was crouched on the floor among a litter of newspapers. He did not look up, but as I went over to him, he retched and vomited a yellow fluid onto the paper. More vomit lay around among pools of diarrhea which had the same yellowish hue.

  Walt Barnett, overflowing the chair behind the desk, spoke past the dangling cigarette. “He’s poisoned, isn’t ‘e? Somebody’s given ’im summat.”

  “It’s possible. ” I watched the cat move slowly to a saucer of milk and sit over it in the same crouching attitude. He did not drink but sat looking down with a curious immobility. There was a sad familiarity in the little animal’s appearance. This could be something worse even than poison.

  “Well, it is, isn’t it?” the big man went on. “Somebody’s tried to kill ’im again.”

  “I’m not sure.” As I took the cat’s temperature, there was none of the purring or outgoing friendliness I had known before. He was sunk in a profound lethargy.

  The temperature was 105°F. I palpated the abdomen, feeling the doughy consistency of the bowels, the lack of muscular tone.

  “Well, if it’s not that, what is it?”

  “It’s feline enteritis. I’m nearly certain.”

  He looked at me blankly.

  “Some people call it cat distemper,” I said. “There’s an outbreak in Darrowby just now. I’ve seen several cases lately, and Fred’s symptoms are typical.”

  The big man heaved his bulk from behind the desk, went over to the cat and rubbed his forefinger along the unheeding back. “Well, if it’s that, can you cure ’im?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr. Barnett, but the mortality rate is very high.”

  “You mean, most of ’em die?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “How can that be? I thought you fellers had all them wonderful new medicines now.”

  “Yes, but this is a virus, and viruses are resistant to antibiotics.”

  “Awright, then.” Wheezing, he drew himself upright and returned to his chair. “What are you goin’ to do?”

  “I’m going to start right now,” I said. I injected electrolytic fluid to combat the dehydration. I gave antibiotics against the secondary bacteria and finished with a sedative to control the vomiting. But I knew that everything I had done was merely supportive. I had never had much luck with feline enteritis.

  I visited Fred each morning, and the very sight of him made me unhappy. He was either hunched over the saucer or he was curled up on the desk in a little basket. He had no interest in the world around him.

  He never moved when I gave him his injections. It was like pushing a needle into a lifeless animal, and on the fourth morning I could see that he was sinking rapidly.

  “I’ll call in tomorrow,” I said, and Walt Barnett nodded without speaking. He had shown no emotion throughout the cat’s illness.

  Next day, when I entered the office, I found the usual scene —the huge figure in his chair, brown trilby on the back of his head and cigarette hanging from his lips, the cat in the basket on the desk.

  Fred was very still and as I approached, I saw with a dull feeling of inevitability that he was not breathing. I put my stethoscope over his heart for a few moments, then looked up.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead, Mr. Barnett.”

  The big man did not change expression. He reached slowly across and rubbed his forefinger against the dark fur in that familiar gesture. Then he put his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands.

  I did not know what to say; I watched helplessly as his shoulders began to shake and tears welled between the thick fingers. He stayed like that for some time, then he spoke.

  “He was my friend,” he said.

  I still could find no words, and the silence was heavy in the room until he suddenly pulled his hands from his face.

  He glared at me defiantly. “Aye, ah know what you’re thinkin’. This is that big, tough bugger, Walt Barnett, cryin’ his eyes out over a cat. What a joke! I reckon you’ll have a bloody good laugh later on.”

  Evidently he was sure that what he considered a display of weakness would lower my opinion of him, and yet he was so wrong. I have liked him better ever since.

  Chapter

  32

  August 9, 1963

  THERE WAS A GENERAL chattering and lightening of spirits when we landed safely and taxied to a halt. With everybody else, I climbed out and looked around. We were standing on a wide, concreted airfield. Nearby there was a hangar; away on the other side a long stretch of coarse grass ran down to the sea, and over everything the beautiful hot sunshine washed in a comforting flood. The airport buildings were about a quarter of a mile away and far beyond in the shimmering heat haze I could make out the . high buildings of the city. It was just eight o’clock. We would unload the cattle, and then there would be most of the day to explore Istanbul. I felt a tinge of excitement at the prospect.

  The two farmers were soon ready for action, jackets off, sleeves rolled up. Noel grinned at me as he flexed his muscles after the long night of inactivity. “Where are the wagons?” he asked.

  It was a good question. Where indeed were they? They should have been awaiting our arrival, but I scanned the airfield in vain. Karl went over to the buildings to make enquiries but returned looking despondent.

  “Nobody knows,” he said. “We wait.”

  So we waited as the sun beat on the concrete and the sweat trickled inside our shirts. It was over an hour later when the wagons rolled up.

  Just then, the captain’s tall form hovered over me. “Mr. Her-riot.” The grave eyes looked down, and he ran a finger over his beard. Again I felt the impact of a masterful personality. “Mr. Herriot, there are a few things I must do. I have to see about getting that engine repaired and there is the hotel accommodation to arrange. I am leaving now and I rely on you to supervise things here.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that the animals are all right.”

  He nodded sl