I, for one, refused to be a fool. I passed him and climbed out of the opening; he followed far enough to lean his elbows on the hatch, his feet and legs still within the secure glow of the cabin.
“You see, there’s nothing.” My wave of assurance was possibly a little over-done.
“Over there,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the shore lights. “Something swimming.”
I moved to the corner of the house and listened.
“River thieves,” I argued. “The place is full of—”
“Ridgeway. Look behind you!”
Perhaps it is the pavements—but no matter; I am not ordinarily a jumping sort. And yet there was something in the quality of that voice beyond my shoulder that brought the sweat stinging through the pores of my scalp even while I was in the act of turning.
A cat sat there on the hatch, expressionless and immobile in the gloom.
I did not say anything. I turned and went below. McCord was there already, standing on the farther side of the table. After a moment or so the cat followed and sat on her haunches at the foot of the ladder and stared at us without winking.
“I think she wants something to eat,” I said to McCord.