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Drive—a building which was now a reminder of the Drive’s one-time grandeur. He had walked a block, carrying a small black bag, to the building, which had an enormous lobby. He had walked across the lobby briskly, his heels clicking on marble, to a ridiculously small elevator. On Sunday mornings the elevator was passenger-operated. It was also inclined to stick between floors.
    It was a few minutes after ten when the elevator, having hesitated between third and fourth but decided against sticking, stopped at the sixth floor. Dr. Gebhardt was already late by then. He had expected to arrive not later than nine—had, in fact, promised to arrive not later than nine. He had been delayed by an unexpectedly difficult parturition on the part of a Siamese queen. (Inadequate pelvic girdle; should never have been bred; if people had half the sense of cats. To which the answer, somewhat plaintively voiced, had been, “But you should have heard her, doctor.”)
    He rang the doorbell quickly, three times. This was a habit of which, with no success, he was trying to break himself. He knew that any cat he had treated before went under the nearest object on hearing, for a second time, the remembered warning of three quick rings. Which meant that he, and assorted cat owners, spent considerable time under nearest objects, usually beds.
    Today, the doorbell was unanswered. Dr. Gebhardt rang again, this time one long ring. Not that that would fool the cats. When there was no response, Dr. Gebhardt fished out of his pocket the key which had been given him for this purpose. (“I won’t be there much over the weekend and I’m letting the servants off.”) He opened the heavy door and went into the ancient apartment, filled with dark furniture—and an infinity of cat hiding places. It was to be hoped that their owner had remembered to lock the cats up in the kitchen, as he had promised. If not, Amantha would have to skip a shot. Oscar Gebhardt had no intention of pursuing her through ten rooms, with Perkins, the black Manx, and Marigold, the red long-hair, engaging in diversionary tactics.
    â€œHe in the habit of giving you the key?” Mullins enquired when Dr. Gebhardt had, for the third time, got to the key. “Mister,” Mullins added, to show where he stood on this “doctor” business. Doctors do not go around, especially on Sunday, in oddly assorted garments. They are as neat as their small black bags.
    â€œNo. I told you—”
    â€œHad he ever given you a key before?”
    â€œWell,” Gebhardt said, “I can’t say he had. I explained that.” He sighed. “God knows I explained it,” he said. “All right—once more. I’m giving one of his cats a series of shots. It’s desirable that they be given daily, without interruption. For some reason, he couldn’t be sure to be here to let me in—”
    â€œYou told me that,” Mullins said, unfairly. But he was not in a mood to be fair. Doctor indeed! It was true Gebhardt had produced a small black bag. If he thought that made him look like a doctor. “Go ahead. You went in. Did you yell or anything?”
    â€œI called out, ‘Anybody home?’” Gebhardt said. “If that’s what you mean by yelling.”
    â€œNobody answered?”
    â€œAmantha did,” Gebhardt said. “Amantha yelled. She’s a Siamese. They most always yell.”
    The Siamese, betrayed by her own vocal responsiveness, had revealed that she was in the rear of the apartment. It had also become pretty evident that she was not in the kitchen, behind a closed door.
    The apartment was oddly laid out; it was as if the architect—assuming an architect to have been involved—had, on being confronted with an enormous, roughly square, area said, “Let’s put a wall here and another one here and see what happens.” What had happened was a corridor in the shape of an