Book 5

The Naming of Cats

October 1898
Baker Street, London

"Does it bother you, D'Angermouse?" the voice continued, "Working for ... well, a cat or a criminal, take your pick."

"You're the Colonel, sir," D'Angermouse said stolidly, "You were appointed to the head of Rodent Intelligence by Her Murine Majesty's Government."

"Yes, the idea they had was that if you were playing cat-and-mouse, it was best to have a cat on your side. And they thought that since the Jellicles had disowned me, I would be loyal. Which I was, after my fashion. It never occurred to them to wonder why I was ostracised from cat society; after all, there was never any evidence linking me to a crime...

He trailed off, then abruptly added, "But enough of this wander down memory lane, eh, D'Angermouse? I need to take command of my flying machine."

D'Angermouse was astonished "Personally, sir?"

"Certainly. Just this once, Macavity will be there."

D'Angermouse was so taken aback by this revelation that he completely failed to notice the door opening, just a little.

The Rattish Museum, London

"That's the name he used," Hawthorn told the others on his return. "Macavity. As in 'The Hidden Paw'."

"A criminal cat?" said Gizmo Hackwrench. Beneath his fur he paled in horror, "Oh, golly! I told D'Angermouse all about how to use auroral gold to power a flying machine! If he told the Colonel about that..."

"Reckon we have to assume he did," said the Sea Rat, "That's why he was in such a hurry to get the stuff out of here. His master had plans for it."

"That's right," said Hawthorn, "He talked about a hanger at the Hotel Russell. Hangars are for flying machines, aren't they?"

"I was starting to get my suspicions there was something sinister about D'Angermouse's boss," said Tanya, "But I never suspected he was a cat! I actually thought he might be Professor Ratigan."

"Ratigan's dead, isn't he?" said Marchmont, "And if he isn't, he plummeted from a flying machine in his final battle with the detective. He's not likely to go up in another one."

"There are a lot of similarities between the two," said Hawthorn, "But I'd rather face a rat than a cat any day."

"All academic though, eh?" said Rikki-tikki-tavi, "No way of facing the blighter whatever he is. He's got a flying machine and we don't."

Gizmo looked up. "That's, ah, not entirely true. I did mention I was experimenting with gliders? The only trouble is the initial lift, and I have an idea about that..."

Russell Square, London

The newly built hotel's elaborate frontage gleamed in the moonlight as a ginger cat slipped into a basement window. While the hotel was being built, his minions had adjusted the plans to his designs, adding extra space between the walls and floors, enough for him to slip around unnoticed and create hangar space for ... well, he hadn't troubled himself to name it, but the Machine.

His minions – all cats, since this was the highly-organised criminal enterprise of the Mystery Cat, not the ineffectual squeaking of Rodent Intelligence – bustled about in preparation. "You!" he snapped to one of them, "You have the gold?"

"'Course we have, boss. Nice and safe in its container, right, Rumpleteaser?"

"Right, Mungojerrie. No problem, boss."

Macavity sighed. They were two of his best agents, but their stagy stereotype of a cheery cockney attitude drove him to distraction. "Then get it installed!" he hissed.

Eventually, someone would think to look for him in this basement. By that time, however, he would be up in the air.

A short while later a huge trapdoor at the back of the hotel that everyone involved had assumed led to a coal cellar opened. The craft that emerged was not pretty. It had been made out of scrap metal and scores of cat-baskets lashed together. It was flat at the bottom, and curved upwards in a great wicker arch with a barred metal frontage. It was nine feet in height at its tallest point, and the same width at the base, giving it three storeys worth of space for a crew of cats.

In the control room Macavity exulted as he issued commands to the one-eyed cat at the pilot's station. This was true power! Much more than controlling the petty intrigues of mice, or even commanding the feline underworld. The Machine had bomb-bays on the lower deck, and the only question on his mind was who to direct them at first? The rats of Deptford and their insane god? The Burrow of Commons under Westminster, where Queen Mousetoria's patronising government dwelled? The new Cheddar Bank building in the City, home of the richest mouse in London? Or his own people, the hated Jellicle Cats of Russell Square itself?

As the fiendish feline debated with himself, and the Machine moved steadily up and round the hotel building, back on the ground a curious contraption was travelling along the street, pulled by a dog Professor Hackwrench had gained the assistance of by mentioning a mutual friend.

"Good boy, Toby," he said reassuringly to the dog, as he turned the crank on the device. The League assembled themselves in the balsa-wood glider, which had been mounted onto a ballista of Gizmo's own design.

"By the Green Mouse," murmured Hawthorn, watching the Machine ascend, "It's enormous!"

" Well, the good news there is that it makes the dashed thing easier to aim at," said Gizmo, "But if my aim isn't completely true, you can steer the glider by using the yoke to warp the wings, as I demonstrated."

The Sea Rat nodded. "It's the same as the tiller of the Vermin," he said confidently, "Only different."

Tanya would have liked to have questioned that statement, but before she had the opportunity, Hackwrench released the ballista.