The Adventures of Jill Berrisford

When she got back to the cart, she found that the cat had not left. What’s more, it had punctured the top of one of the milk bottles and was now busily lapping up the cream. "Shoo cat!" Jill repeated, annoyed. She was about to forcibly evict the little cat, when she had second thoughts. "Oh, you poor thing," she crooned, picking the ‘poor thing’ up. "You look like you haven’t eaten for days." She walked to the cab talking soothingly, "You’d better sit up front with me. I’ll take you home. You can have a nice warm basket by the fireside while I cook you some fish." She placed the cat on the bench seat and stroked him, "You poor thing," she repeated. "I shall call you ‘Straypuss’, because that’s what I think you are... a poor stray puss."

Jill’s new friend quickly fell asleep on the hard bench seat, twitching, as if trying to run.

‘Machine Gun Max’, late of Wimbledon (but more lately of Wormwood Scrubs prison) prowled along the all but deserted street. The clothing he insisted on wearing, all the rage in the Chicago of the nineteen-thirties, looked slightly ridiculous here and now. "Come on, choo-choo-choo," he called out. "Where’s that bleedin’ moggie?" he demanded of no-one in particular. "Why I ever left Horace in charge of the bleedin’ loot I’ll never know."

His car, a stolen ‘S Type’ Jaguar, sidled up alongside. The horn beeped rapidly in time with the driver’s gesticulations. "Shut that bleedin’ racket up!" he yelled. "D’ya want ta wake up every nosy parker for miles around do ya?"

"I’ve seen the cat," the driver called out, just as loudly.

Max strutted around the car, yanked the driver’s door open and pulled his partner’s thumb off the horn button. "Now then, Horace. Suppose you tell me what you’re up to?"

"I’ve seen the cat. It jumped up on a milk cart down the street we just passed."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than max was back on the other side of the car and climbing in. He slammed the door behind him. "You sure it was the one?"

"Yeah, a mowlie lookin’ black and white thing; half starved. That’s the one all right." Horace rubbed at the scratches on his cheeks, "I’ll never forget the bleedin’ thing."