Free Return to Howliday Inn by James Howe Page A

daylight soon,” Chester remarked as he moved us through the office and out the back door. “Let’s get a head start before Dr. Greenbriar and his assistants show up for work and find us missing.”

    We were all so excited that no one noticed Ditto watch us file past. No one thought to cover her cage or to tell her not to repeat anything she’d heard.
    We were just out the door when Howie said, “Gee, Uncle Harold, this is a real adventure. Hamlet and Archie, together again!”
    No one paid attention to the voice that echoed behind us: “Together again . . . Together again! Hamlet and Archie, together again!”

[ NINE ]

Where Is Archie?
    I F there was a chill in the early morning air, we didn’t notice or mind. All that mattered as we moved single file along the edge of Highway 101 was the importance of our mission. It isn’t every day, after all, that six dogs, three cats, and a weasel have the opportunity not only to save one of their own from the Big Sleep, but to bring loved ones together again.
    Not that there weren’t distractions, mind you.
    Dippy Donuts. Bugsy Burgers. Ye Olde Clam-on-a-Roll. Tex-Mex Multiplex. LittlePizza Paradise. It wasn’t easy passing one fine dining establishment after another without stopping for breakfast. It’s true the restaurants were all closed, but the dumpsters were open. Chester, however, insisted that we keep going, pointing out that we had only a short time before the sun came up. When that happened, we would have to be much more careful about being seen. And being caught.
    I knew he was right. But leaving the House of Pies dumpster untouched just about did me in.
    â€œI’ll make it up to you, Harold,” Hamlet said sympathetically as he limped along beside me. “If we can just find Archie, I’ll see to it that he sends you a pie every week for a year. He’s rich, you know.”
    â€œI didn’t know,” I said. Not that I was planning on holding Hamlet to his promise, but I will admit just the thought of it helped me get through the next couple of miles.
    Luckily for us, Felony and Miss Demeanor knew Centerville like the pads of their filchinglittle paws. As we marched along to the accompaniment of The Weasel’s hymn humming, the two cat burglars proudly pointed out their favorite scenes of the crime. They were practically overcome with nostalgia when they realized that the address we were seeking was on the same street as the location of their very first criminal act.
    â€œIt was a pastrami sandwich,” Felony recalled, her eyes misting over. “Belonged to a guy paintin’ a house. Remember, Miss D.?”
    â€œHow could I forget?” said the fat, fuzzy one. The way she gazed off into the distance, I expected violins to start playing. “We was practically kittens. A coupla amateurs. But even then we knew we was destined for great things.”
    â€œThe way we work is Miss D.’s the good cat, I’m the bad cat,” Felony informed us. “She goes in, see, wraps herself around the unsuspecting victim’s legs, and purrs up a storm. It don’t take long. They pick her up, she nuzzles ‘em, and I go in fer the kill.”
    Miss Demeanor picked up the story. “That’s what we did with that painter. He never even knew his pastrami was missin’till he put me down and laid his mitts on a coupla pieces o’rye with mustard and no meat.”
    They chuckled. “Someday we oughta write a book, Miss D.,” said Felony. “What a life we’ve had.”
    â€œYou could call it A Tale of Two Kitties,” Howie suggested.
    â€œThat’s not bad,” said Miss Demeanor. “Let’s see, it could start like this: The best of crimes, the worst of crimes . . .’”
    Howie yipped enthusiastically while the rest of us shook our heads and Bob and Linda sighed.
    Suddenly, Felony cried out, “Hey, that’s the