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                              Tiger Cat

                          By DAVID H. KELLER

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October
1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _A grim tale of torture, and the blind men who were chained
to pillars in an underground cave_]


The man tried his best to sell me the house. He was confident that I
would like it. Repeatedly he called my attention to the view. There was something in what he said about the view. The villa on the top
of a mountain commanded a vision of the valley, vine-clad and
cottage-studded. It was an irregular bowl of green, dotted with stone
houses which were whitewashed to almost painful brilliancy. The valley was three and a third miles at its greatest width. Standing
at the front door of the house, an expert marksman with telescopic sight
could have placed a rifle bullet in each of the white marks of cottages. They nestled like little pearls amid a sea of green grape-vines. "A wonderful view, _Signor_," the real-estate agent repeated. "That
scene, at any time of the year, is worth twice what I am asking for the
villa." "But I can see all this without buying," I argued. "Not without trespassing." "But the place is old. It has no running water." "Wrong!" and he smiled expansively, showing a row of gold-filled teeth. "Listen." We were silent. There came to us the sound of bubbling water. Turning, I traced the
sound. I found a marble Cupid spurting water in a most peculiar way into
a wall basin. I smiled and commented. "There is one like that in Brussels and another in Madrid. But this is
very fine. However, I referred to running water in a modern bathroom." "But why bathe when you can sit here and enjoy the view?" He was impossible. So, I wrote a check, took his bill of sale and became
the owner of a mountain, topped by a stone house that seemed to be half
ruin. But he did not know, and I did not tell him that I considered the
fountain alone worth the price that I had paid. In fact, I had come to
Italy to buy that fountain if I could; buy it and take it back to
America with me. I knew all about that curious piece of marble. George
Seabrook had written to me about it. Just one letter, and then he had
gone on, goodness knows where. George was like that, always on the move. Now I owned the fountain and was already planning where I should place
it in my New York home. Certainly not in the rose garden. I sat down on a marble bench and looked down on the valley. The
real-estate man was right. It was a delicate, delicious piece of
scenery. The surrounding mountains were high enough to throw a constant
shadow on some part of the valley except at high noon. There was no sign
of life, but I was sure that the vineyards were alive with husband-men
and their families. An eagle floated serenely on the upper air currents,
automatically adjusting himself to their constant changing. Stretching myself, I gave one look at my car and then walked into the
house. *       *       *       *       *

In the kitchen two peasants sat, an old man and an old woman. They rose
as I entered. "Who are you?" I asked in English. They simply smiled and waved their hands. I repeated my question in
Italian. "We serve," the man replied. "Serve whom?" "Whoever is the master." "Have you been here long?" "We have always been here. It is our home." His statement amused me, and I commented, "The masters come and go, but
you remain?" "It seems so." "Many masters?" "Alas! yes. They come and go. Nice young men, like you, but they do not
stay. They buy and look at the view, and eat with us a few days and then
they are gone." "And then the villa is sold again?" The man shrugged. "How should we know? We simply serve." "Then prepare me my dinner. And serve it outside, under the grapevine,
where I can see the view." The woman started to obey. The man came nearer. "Shall I carry your bags to the bedroom?" "Yes. And I will go with you and unpack." He took me to a room on the second floor. There was a bed there and a
very old chest of drawers. The floor, everything about the room was
spotlessly clean. The walls had been freshly whitewashed. Their smooth
whiteness suggested wonderful possibilities for despoliation, the
drawing of a picture, the writing of a poem, the careless writhing
autograph that caused my relatives so much despair. "Have all the masters slept here?" I asked carelessly. "All." "Was there one by the name of George Seabrook?" "I think so. But they come and go. I am old and forget." "And all these masters, none of them ever wrote on the walls?" "Of a certainty. All wrote with pencil what they desired to write. Who
should say they should not? For did not the villa belong to them while
they were here? But always we prepared for the new master, and made the
walls clean and beautiful again." "You were always sure that there would be a new master?" "Certainly. Someone must pay us our wages." I gravely placed a gold piece in his itching palm, asking, "What did
they write on the walls?" He looked at me with old, unblinking eyes. Owl eyes! That is what they
were, and he slowly said,

"Each wrote or drew as his fancy led him, for they were the masters and
could do as they wished." "But what were the words?" "I cannot speak English, or read it." Evidently, the man was not going to talk. To me the entire situation was
most interesting. Same servants, same villa, many masters. They came and
bought and wrote on the wall and left, and then my real-estate friend
sold the house again. A fine racket! Downstairs, outdoors, under the grapevine, eating a good Italian meal,
looking at the wonderful view, I came to laugh at my suspicions. I ate
spaghetti, olives, dark bread and wine. Silence hung heavily over the
sullen sleepy afternoon. The sky became copper-colored. It was about to
rain. The old man came and showed me a place to put my car, a recess in
the wall of the house, open at one end, but sheltered from the weather. The stone floor was black with grease; more than one automobile had been
kept there. "Other cars have been here," I ventured. "All the masters had cars," the old man replied. *       *       *       *       *

Back on the stone gallery I waited for the storm to break. At last it
came in a solid wall of gray wetness across the valley. Nearer and
nearer it came till it deluged my villa and drove me inside. The woman was lighting candles. I took one from her hand. "I want to look through the house," I explained. She made no protest; so I started exploring the first floor. One room
was evidently the sleeping-quarters for the servants; another was the
kitchen, and the remaining two might have served in the old days for
dining-room and drawing-room. There was little furniture, and the walls
were gray with time and mold.