Archie, full name Archie Goodwin, was a sleek Burmese given to eloquent yowling. Ubi, full name Ubiquity or Ubiquitous, I forget which, was a plump Russian Blue, more affectionate and a good deal less assertive than his Burmese buddy. Both had started life as males, and each had received at a tender age the sort of surgical attention which leaves one purring in soprano.

“He was hiding somewhere,” I suggested.

“No way. I looked in all his hiding places. In things, under things, behind things. Besides, I ran the electric can opener. That’s like a fire alarm to a dalmatian.”

“Maybe he snuck out.”

“How? The window was shut and the door was locked. John Dickson Carr couldn’t have slipped him out of there.”

“The door was locked?”

“Locked up tight. I always double-lock my dead bolt locks when I go out. You made me a believer in that department. And I locked the Fox police lock. I know I locked all those locks because I had to unlock them to get in.”

“So he went out when you left. Or maybe he snuck out while you were letting yourself in.”

“I would have noticed.”

“Well, you said yourself that you’d had a few drinks more than usual to celebrate the full moon. Maybe-”

“I wasn’t that bad, Bern.”

“Okay.”

“And he never does that anyway. Neither of the cats ever tries to get out. Look, you could say this and I could say that and we’d be going around Robin Hood’s barn because I know for a fact the cat was snatched. I got a phone call.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what time I got home and I don’t know how much time I spent looking for the cat and running the electric can opener. There was a little brandy and I finally poured some for myself and sat down with it and the phone rang.”