Page 27 - Fables volume 1

How the Cats Took Care of Complaints

The door began to open. The visitor abruptly stopped musing and
assumed an air of official importance. Before him stood a small
bespectacled man in a faded brown corduroy jumpsuit.
“Yes?” he said, in a soft voice with a slight foreign accent.
The visitor took a card from his breast pocket and handed it to the
man. “I’d like to have a few words with you, if I may.”
The other looked up from the card with a smile. “Well, won’t you
come in, Mr. Bertrand. You must be Mr. Sorenson’s replacement. I
heard that he was about to retire. My name is Max Fiedler, by the way.
Mrrowr?”
The last remark seemed to be directed to the orange cat. Its gaze
had shifted back to the street and driveway once the door had opened.
Bertrand turned involuntarily toward the animal when it uttered a
single low growl, as if in reply.
“Leo there is always a bit suspicious of strangers,” Fiedler said, half-
humorously, “depending upon how many there are, what they are
carrying, and, of course, a vast range of subliminal clues you and I
could never even guess at. But you seem to have met with his
approval—grudgingly, though, it would seem. Anyway, do come in,
Mr. Bertrand: let us have our words inside.”
He turned and Bertrand followed him into the house, an image of
the large orange cat with unblinking eyes still in his mind. It was dark
in the living room, but Fiedler led him through it to another chamber.
“This used to be Mrs. Oliphant’s dining room, you know, but I
always eat in the kitchen with the cats; so now I use it as a study.
Please sit down.”
Fiedler indicated a threadbare armchair on one side of a bay
window, and seated himself at a roll-top desk on the other. Bertrand
took the seat offered, holding his briefcase on his lap. The light in
here is much better, he thought; and does this guy really think that cat
was telling him something?
“Excuse me, Mr. Fiedler,” he said aloud. “How did you know that
old Sorenson had retired? We had no advance warning at the Humane
Society. He had been keeping it a secret until just last Friday, when he
left—said he didn’t like long goodbyes…” Bertrand left the question
hanging. Was Fiedler a friend of Sorenson’s? How could that be?

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