The Animal-Lover's Book of Beastly Murder by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online

machine was buzzing. Now and again it made a click-click sound. Bubsy blew his nose—a sign he was feeling better.
    Bubsy didn’t go to work, didn’t work at all in the sense that Eddie had worked several hours a day at his typewriter, in some periods every day of the week. Bubsy got up in midmorning, made tea and toast, and sat in his silk dressing gown reading the newspaper which was still delivered every morning at the door. It would be nearly noon before Bubsy took the Baron out for a walk. By this time Bubsy would have telephoned at least twice, and then he would go out for a long lunch, perhaps, or anyway he seldom came back before late afternoon. Bubsy had used to have something to do with the theater, just what the Baron didn’t know. But when his master had met Bubsy, they had visited him a couple of times in the busy backstage part of a New York theater. Bubsy had been nicer then, the Baron could remember quite well, always ready to take him out for a walk, to brush his ears and the clump of curly black hair on the top of his head, because Bubsy had been proud to show him off on the street in those days. Yes, and the Baron had won a prize or two at Madison Square Garden in his prime, so many years ago. Oh, happy days! His two silver cups and two or three medals occupied a place of honor on a bookshelf in the living room, but the maid hadn’t polished them in weeks now. Eddie had shown them sometimes to people who came to the apartment, and a couple of times, laughing, Eddie had served the Baron his morning biscuits and milk in one of the cups. The Baron recalled that at the moment there were no biscuits in the house.
    Why did Bubsy hang on to him, if he didn’t really like him? The Baron suspected it was because Bubsy was thus able to hang on to his master, who had been a more important man—which meant loved and respected by a lot more people—than Bubsy. In the awful days during his master’s illness, and after his death, the person the Baron had clung to was Marion, not Bubsy. The Baron thought that his master wished, probably had made it clear, that he wanted the Baron to live with Marion after he died. Bubsy had always been jealous of the Baron, and the Baron had to admit that he had been jealous of Bubsy. But whether he lived with Bubsy or Marion, that was what the fight was about. He was no fool. Marion and Bubsy had been fighting ever since Eddie’s death.
    Down on the street, a car rattled over a manhole. From Bubsy’s room, the Baron heard wheezing inhalations. The machine was unplugged now. The Baron was thirsty, thought of getting up to drink again, then felt too tired, and merely flicked his tongue over his nose and closed his eyes. A tooth was hurting. Old age was a terrible thing. He’d had two wives, so long ago he scarcely remembered them. He’d had many children, maybe twelve, and the pictures of several of them were in the living room, and one on his master’s desk—the Baron with three of his offspring.
    The Baron woke up, growling, from a bad dream. He looked around, dazed, in the darkness. It had happened . No, it was a dream. But it had happened, yes. Just a few days ago. Bubsy had waked him from a nap, leash in hand, to take him out, and the Baron—maybe ill-tempered at that moment because he’d been awakened—had growled in an ominous way, not raising his head. And Bubsy had slowly retreated. And later that day, again with the leash in his hand, doubled, Bubsy had reminded the Baron of his bad behavior and slashed the air with the leash. The Baron had not winced, only watched Bubsy with a cool contempt. So they had stared at each other, and nothing had come of it, but Bubsy had been the first to move.
    Would he be able to get anywhere by fighting? The Baron’s old muscles grew tense at the thought. But he couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t see clearly into the future, and soon he was asleep again.
    In the evening of that day, the Baron was surprised by a delicious meal of