The Case of the Cat with the Missing Ear: From the notebooks of Edward R. Smithfield, D.V.M. (The Adventures of Samuel Blackthorne, Book One, Band 1) - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Scott Emerson has been a dog lover all of his life. A former resident of San Francisco, he now lives in Phoenix with his wife of sixteen years, Molly; his daughters, Kahley and Rainey; and, of course, his dogs and faithful companions, Sam and Ed.

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Chapter 1

When I first met Mr. Samuel Blackthorne, I had no idea who he was or that one day our companionship would result in somewhat of a celebrity status for Mr. Blackthorne and by association myself to an extent. Or that the scribblings in my diary would one day become published articles featuring the exploits of my friend and the goings-on at 420 Market Street. Still I could not help but notice from almost the instant I set eyes on him that he was a singular and highly unique individual.

The year was 1887, and I had just arrived in San Francisco after nearly a decade abroad. My first task upon stepping onto dry land was to find a room to rent until I could secure gainful employment and make arrangements for more permanent quarters.

When I inquired as to where I might find lodgings, I was directed to a coffeehouse where they kept a list of rentals that were located in the neighborhoods nearby.

I'm not a coffee drinker, warm milk being my libation of choice, but I decided to make the drinking establishment my first stop on my return to the city where I was born.

My name is Edward R. Smithfield, D.V.M., and the last time I had seen San Francisco was sixteen years earlier. I was twenty-four years old, and the ink had barely dried on my degree in veterinary medicine when I set out across the seas with the smell of adventure in my nose and a song in my heart.

In those days, the Navy would pay for any qualified individual to attend medical school in return for a twelve-year term of service upon graduation. I was able to take advantage of the exchange, and I felt privileged to be given the chance.

So when it became time for me to serve my country, I went with a feeling of duty and anticipation, as well as a light-hearted energy that has long since left me and I daresay won't soon be coming back.

But I'm getting off track. After all, this story isn't about me; it is about my friend and companion Mr. Samuel Blackthorne and his peculiar qualities and characteristics. Specifically, it is about his incredible mind and his uncanny ability to see things other dogs couldn't and to smell things other dogs wouldn't.

His sharpened senses and highly focused intellect are not his only noticeably superior traits. He is very well read and seems to have an in-depth knowledge of an unimaginably wide range of subjects. From the inner workings of a Swiss timepiece, to the electrical impulses in the muscles of a frog, to the precise formula for the concoction of an extremely explosive substance made from the dried urine of the Peruvian fruit bat, there is seemingly no end to the diverse and arcane knowledge of the rather diminutive Blackthorne.

Although he has had very little formal education, he possesses such an obvious command of virtually any subject he chooses to discuss that all other dogs will immediately begin nodding their heads and making grunts and snorts in agreement with whatever he happens to be saying.

Blackthorne is small of size. He weighs a little less than six pounds, and yet he carries himself with a confidence and sense of purpose that leaves no doubt that he can be a formidable opponent no matter what the circumstances.

His family roots are originally from Yorkshire, England, and there's some evidence he is related to an unbroken line of terriers going back to the Dark Ages. Clearly he is of noble heritage.

When I first spied him, he was sitting on a stool near the front of the coffeehouse, staring silently into his demitasse cup of espresso with a look of sullen thoughtfulness. His dress consisted of a sprightly green tweed jacket, vermilion bow tie, and somewhat baggy khaki trousers.

Having just landed on the shores of this great country, and not having a single soul with whom to converse, I took up the empty seat beside him and ordered a large, warm milk with a dash of cinnamon and a bit of sugar.

The coffeehouse was a noisy, smoky place with dozens of patrons of all sizes and breeds leaning on the bar, sitting around tables, and gathering in groups, gesturing and talking in a variety of accents and at varying levels of intensity.

In one corner a Great Dane was towering over a table with cards spread around it in the obvious arrangement of a game usually known as three-card monte. Several others, including a Chihuahua, a dachshund, and two Australian shepherds were holding wads of money and barking enthusiastically as the furry paws shuffled the deck and dealt out the cards with the practiced skill of a professional gambler.

The barkeep set my milk in front of me and I slid some coins across the polished mahogany of the countertop. I was just about to take a much-anticipated sip from my glass when a loud bark came from the direction of the card game.

"You, sir, are cheating and I demand satisfaction!" growled the dachshund to the Great Dane.

The room grew quiet as the crowd listened for the reply from the Dane. "Just exactly how was it that I was cheating?" came the low, measured answer.

"I don't know how you're doing it. I just know you are!"

The Great Dane slowly smiled and tilted his head toward the dachshund. "I assure you I was not misdealing in any way, but I can't very well allow myself to be accused of something that you aren't even sure I'm doing."

The huge dog looked around the room at the faces, all staring back at him. "Don't seem fair to let him lie about me like that, does it?"

Suddenly the depressed and downward-looking Yorkshire terrier next to me swiveled his head and in a clear voice addressed the crowd as a professor would address his freshman class.

"He's not lying."

"What did you say?" growled the Great Dane, for the first time showing a genuine menace in his voice.

"I said, he's not lying."

"How's that?" asked the Great Dane, his eyes narrowing.

"Simple," replied the Yorkshire, stroking his gray goatee. "As everyone knows, the object of the game is to bet on which of the three cards is the red queen.

"Now, our large friend here" -- he indicated the Great Dane -- "is called the tosser. He shows everyone the three cards, two black cards and a red queen. He then drops them face down and begins to move them around on the table very rapidly.

"The player tries to follow which card is the red queen. When the tosser stops, the player makes a bet and points to which card he thinks is the red queen."

The tiny terrier paused and took a sip of his espresso. The crowd remained quiet.

He cleared his throat before continuing. "If you noticed, the tosser held the black card in front of the red queen in his right paw and held the other black card in his left paw when he showed them to our German friend.

"That would mean that when he turned them over and dropped them face down onto the table, the red queen would be the card on top. That's the card everyone follows.

"Unfortunately for them, the tosser switched cards as he turned them over and threw the red queen down first. That means it was the card on the bottom, not the card on the top. Therefore, everyone was following the wrong card from the beginning."

The Great Dane smiled in an uncomfortable, nervous way. "My dear sir, you are fascinating us with your dramatic explanations. But how do you explain that at least two other gentlemen won more than forty dollars from me not five minutes before this bad sport lost a few pieces of silver?"

"Simple. They work for you. They're shills, fakes planted in the crowd to encourage others to play by making winning look easy. One of them is named Charlie Knuckles and the other, I believe, is Pepe Weddle. They're both small-time crooks apparently working for you, since neither of them is smart enough to win that kind of money in a game like this."

The Yorkshire chap turned back to the Dane, who now had a look of pure hatred on his face.

"So you see, my dishonest...