|
MACAVITY: THE MYSTERY CAT by T.S. Eliot
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw -
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air -
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!
Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square -
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!
He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!
And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair -
But it's useless to investigate - Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:
At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
|
THE FINAL PROBLEM by Arthur Conan Doyle
My friend Mr Holmes was looking pale, I thought: nervous, even.
"Watson, have you ever heard of Professor Moriarty?"
he asked.
"No, never," I replied.
"Aye, that is the genius of the thing! No one has heard of
him, yet he pervades the area, ghostly: shapeless."
"Why, what has he done?"
"Oh, he's a mastermind, a thief, a crook with a fine
mathematical brain: an abstract thinker linked with many unsolved
crimes, the most heinous of illegal activities. Yet he remains a
sketchy figure, hidden behind a smokescreen of respectability;
doing little himself, while systematically making fancy, elaborate
plans for his agents.
Oh, we dare not underestimate such skill or malevolence. I can
relate frequent instances when he has been the suspect, yet I have
no concrete evidence which may prove any connection with him and
knavery in the case.
Ah, frankly, Watson, if I were to beat him, I swear that I'd rejoice
and rest easy!
He has a scraggy physique, with tatty hair, sunken shifty eyes:
he slouches. His face protrudes forward, and oscillates from side
to side in the strangest reptilian fashion. Aye, Watson, I'm keenly
aware of the facts: that archenemy, my foe, is evading capture, at
liberty to commit dastardly deeds; is stealthily active everywhere
but never seen to misbehave, and my, how he seems to vanish!
Oh yes, make no mistake, Watson, the wretch is very clever. Why,
I bet now that this scheming cove must have realised the truth: sees
he's met his match (talent always recognises genius) he may target
and attack me. An incident has just occurred, which may illustrate
my misgivings, as it affects my safety.
I set forth at noon, to transact some official business in the
city. To my alarm, a road vehicle suddenly bore down on me, avoiding
me by a mere whisker. The culprit screeched off at speed. Later as I
walked along, a heavy slate plummeted from above and smashed at my
feet. The police came to check, yet, as I anticipated, no sign: nothing.
I made my way to my brother's house and stayed there for the day.
Now I have come to you, and on the way was attacked by a rough with
a bludgeon. I knocked him down, and he's in jail. But police will
find nothing to link him with my evil, shifty adversary who is, I
dare say, miles away.
You may not be surprised, Watson, that I've needed to close your
shutters. And may I, pray, leave via a rear door, not the front one?
That's bright yellow. It's a lemon entry, my dear Watson."
|
