The Catbird Seat
                                      
  BY JAMES THURBER
  
  MR. MARTIN BOUGHT the pack of Camels on Monday night in the mostcrowded cigar
  store on Broadway. It was theatre time and seven or eight men were
  buyingcigarettes. The clerk didn't even glance at Mr. Martin, who put the
  pack in his overcoat pocket andwent out. If any of the staff at F & S had
  seen him buy the cigarettes, they would have beenastonished, for it was
  generally known that Mr. Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him.
  It was just a week to the day since Mr. Martin had decided to rubout Mrs.
  Ulgine Barrows. The term "rub out" pleased him because it suggested nothing
  more thanthe correction of an error--in this case an error of Mr. Fitweiler.
  Mr. Martin had spent eachnight of the past week working out his plan and
  examining it. As he walked home now he went over it again.For the hundredth
  time he resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork
  thatentered into the business. The project as he had worked it out was casual
  and bold, the risks wereconsiderable. Something might go wrong anywhere along
  the line. And therein lay the cunning ofhis scheme. No one would ever see in
  it the cautious, painstaking hand of ErwinMartin, head of the filing
  department at F & S, of whom Mr. Fitweiler had once said, "Man isfallible but
  Martin isn't." No one would see his hand, that is, unless it were caught in
  the act.
  Sitting in his apartment, drinking a glass of milk, Mr. Martinreviewed his
  case against Mrs. Ulgine Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He
  began at thebeginning. Her quacking voice and braying laugh had first
  profaned the halls of F & S on March 7,1941 (Mr. Martin had a head for
  dates). Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as thenewly
  appointed special adviser to the president of the firm, Mr. Fitweiler. The
  woman had appalledMr. Martin instantly, but he hadn't shown it. He had given
  her his dry hand, a look of studiousconcentration, and a faint smile. "Well,"
  she had said, looking at the papers on his desk, "are youlifting the oxcart
  out of the ditch?" As Mr. Martin recalled that moment, over his milk, he
  squirmedslightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special adviser,
  not on her peccadillos as apersonality. This he found difficult to do, in
  spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faultsof the woman as a
  woman kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness. She had,
  foralmost two years now, baited him. In the halls, in the elevator, even in
  his own office, into which sheromped now and then like a circus horse, she
  was constantly shouting these silly questions at him."Are you lifting the
  oxcart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering
  downthe rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel?
  Are you sitting inthe catbird seat?"
  It was Joey Hart, one of Mr. Martin's two assistants, who hadexplained what
  the gibberish meant. "She must be a Dodger fan," he had said. "Red Barber
  announces theDodger games over the radio and he uses those
  expressions--picked 'em up down South." Joey hadgone on to explain one or
  two. "Tearing up the pea patch" meant going on a rampage; "sittingin the
  catbird seat" means sitting pretty, like a batter with three balls and no
  strikes onhim. Mr. Martin dismissed all this with an effort. It had been
  annoying, it had driven him near todistraction, but he was too solid a man to
  be moved to murder by anything so childish. It was fortunate, hereflected as
  he passed on to the important charges against Mrs. Barrows, that he had stood
  up underit so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite
  tolerance. "Why, I evenbelieve you like the woman," Miss Paird, his other
  assistant, had once said to him. He had simplysmiled.
  A gavel rapped in Mr. Martin's mind and the case proper wasresumed. Mrs.
  Ulgine Barrows stood charged with willful, blatant, and persistent attempts
  to destroythe efficiency and system of F & S. It was competent, material, and
  relevant to review her advent andrise to power. Mr. Martin had got the story
  from Miss Paird, who seemed always able to find thingsout. According to her,
  Mrs. Barrows had met Mr. Fitweiler at a party, where she had rescued himfrom
  the embraces of a powerfully built drunken man who had mistaken the president
  of F & S for a famous retired MiddleWestern football coach. She had led him
  to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrousmagic. The aging gentleman
  had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a womanof singular
  attainments, equipped to bring out the best in him and in the firm. A week
  laterhe had introduced her into F & S as his special adviser. On that day
  confusion got its foot in thedoor. After Miss Tyson, Mr. Brundage, and Mr.
  Bartlett had been fired and Mr. Munson had takenhis hat and stalked out,
  mailing in his resignation later, old Roberts had been emboldenedto speak to
  Mr. Fitweiler. He mentioned that Mr. Munson's department had been "a
  littledisrupted" and hadn't they perhaps better resume the old system there?
  Mr. Fitweiler had saidcertainly not. He had the greatest faith in Mrs.
  Barrows' ideas. "They require a little seasoning, a littleseasoning, is all,"
  he had added. Mr. Roberts had given it up. Mr. Martin reviewed in detail all
  thechanges wrought by Mrs. Barrows. She had begun chipping at the cornices of
  the firm's edifice and nowshe was swinging at the foundation stones with a
  pickaxe.
  Mr. Martin came now, in his summing up, to the afternoon of Monday,November
  2,1942-just one week ago. On that day, at 3 P.M., Mrs. Barrows had bounced
  into hisoffice. "Boo!" she had yelled. "Are you scraping around the bottom of
  the pickle barrel?" Mr.Martin had looked at her from under his green
  eyeshade, saying nothing. She had begun to wander aboutthe office, taking it
  in with her great, popping eyes. "Do you really need all these
  filingcabinets?" she had demanded suddenly. Mr. Martin's heart had jumped.
  "Each of these files," he had said,keeping his voice even, "plays an
  indispensable part in the system of F & S." She had brayed at him,"Well,
  don't tear up the pea patch!" and gone to the door. From there she had
  bawled, "But yousure have got a lot of fine scrap in here!" Mr. Martin could
  no longer doubt that the finger was onhis beloved department. Her pickaxe was
  on the upswing, poised for the first blow. It had notcome yet; he had
  received no blue memo from the enchanted Mr. Fitweiler bearing
  nonsensicalinstructions deriving from the obscene woman. But there was no
  doubt in Mr. Martin's mind that one wouldbe forthcoming. He must act quickly.
  Already a precious week had gone by. Mr. Martin stood upin his living room,
  still holding his milk glass. "Gentlemen of the jury," he said to himself,
  "Idemand the death penalty for this horrible person."
  The next day Mr. Martin followed his routine, as usual. He polishedhis
  glasses more often and once sharpened an already sharp pencil, but not even
  Miss Pairdnoticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim; she swept past
  him in the hall with apatronizing "Hi!" At five-thirty he walked home, as
  usual, and had a glass of milk, as usual. He had neverdrunk anything stronger
  in his life--unless you could count ginger ale. The late Sam Schlosser,the S
  of F & S, had praised Mr. Martin at a staff meeting several years before for
  his temperatehabits. "Our most efficient worker neither drinks nor smokes,"
  he had said. "The results speak forthemselves." Mr. Fitweiler had sat by,
  nodding approval.
  Mr. Martin was still thinking about that red-letter day as hewalked over to
  the Schrafft's on Fifth Avenue near Forty-sixth Street. He got there, as he
  always did, ateight o'clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of
  the Sun at a quarter to nine, ashe always did. It was his custom after dinner
  to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenueat a casual pace. His
  gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred theCamels
  from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered, as he did so, if they did
  not representan unnecessary note of strain. Mrs. Barrows smoked only Luckies.
  It was his idea to puff a fewpuffs on a Camel (after the rubbing-out), stub
  it out in the ashtray holding herlipstick-stained Luckies, and thus drag a
  small red herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. Itwould
  take time. He might even choke, too loudly.
  Mr. Martin had never seen the house on West Twelfth Street whereMrs. Barrows
  lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged
  toeverybody about her ducky first-floor apartment in the perfectly darling
  three-story red-brick. Therewould be no doorman or other attendants; just the
  tenants of the second and third floors. As hewalked along, Mr. Martin
  realized that he would get there before nine-thirty. He had consideredwalking
  north on Fifth Avenue from Schrafft's to a point from which it would take him
  until teno'clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to
  be coming in or going out. But theprocedure would have made an awkward loop
  in the straight thread of his casualness and he hadabandoned it. It was
  impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the
  house,anyway. There was a great risk at any hour. If he ran into anybody, he
  would simply have to place therubbing-out of Ulgine Barrows in the inactive
  file forever. The same thing would hold true if therewere someone in her
  apartment. In that case he would just say that he had been passing by,
  recognizedher charming house, and thought to drop in.
  It was eighteen minutes after nine when Mr. Martin turned intoTwelfth Street.
  A man passed him, and a man and a woman, talking. There was no one within
  fifty paceswhen he came to the house, halfway down the block. He was up the
  steps and in the smallvestibule in no time, pressing the bell under the card
  that said "Mrs. Ulgine Barrows." When theclicking in the lock started, he
  jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing thedoor behind
  him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give
  a monstrouslybright light. There was nobody on the stair, which went up ahead
  of him along the left wall. Adoor opened down the hall in the wall on the
  right. He went toward it swiftly, on tiptoe.
  "Well, for God's sake, look who's here!" bawled Mrs. Barrows, andher braying
  laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a
  football tackle,bumping her. "Hey, quit shoving!" she said, closing the door
  behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed toMr. Martin to be
  lighted by a hundred lamps. "What's after you?" she said. "You're as jumpy as
  agoat." He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his
  throat. "I--yes," hefinally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as
  she started to help him off with his coat. "No,no," he said. "I'll put it
  here." He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. "Your hat and
  gloves,too," she said. "You're in a lady's house." He put his hat on top of
  the coat. Mrs. Barrows seemedlarger than he had thought. He kept his gloves
  on. "I was passing by," he said. "I recognized--isthere anyone here?" She
  laughed louder than ever. "No," she said, "we're all alone. You're as whiteas
  a sheet, you funny man. Whatever has come over you? I'll mix you a toddy."
  She startedtoward a door across the room. "Scotch-and-soda be all right? But
  say, you don't drink, do you?"She turned and gave him her amused look. Mr.
  Martin pulled himself together. "Scotch-and-sodawill be all right," he heard
  himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen.
  Mr. Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon. Hehad
  counted on finding one there. There were andirons and a poker and something
  in a cornerthat looked like an Indian club. None of them would do. It
  couldn't be that way. He began to pacearound. He came to a desk. On it lay a
  metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharpenough? He reached
  for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and
  itfell to the Boor with a clatter. "Hey," Mrs. Barrows yelled from the
  kitchen, "are you tearing up the peapatch?" Mr. Martin gave a strange laugh.
  Picking up the knife, he tried its point against hisleft wrist. It was blunt.
  It wouldn't do.
  When Mrs. Barrows reappeared, carrying two highballs, Mr. Martin,standing
  there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy he had
  wrought.Cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him--it was all too
  grossly improbable. It was morethan that; it was impossible. Somewhere in the
  back of his mind a vague idea stirred, sprouted."For heaven's sake, take off
  those gloves," said Mrs. Barrows. "I always wear them in thehouse," said Mr.
  Martin. The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses
  on acoffee table in front of the sofa and sat on the sofa. "Come over here,
  you odd little man," shesaid. Mr. Martin went over and sat beside her. It was
  difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack ofCamels, but he managed it.
  She held a match for him, laughing. "Well," she said, handing him hisdrink,
  "this is perfectly marvellous. You with a drink and a cigarette."
  Mr. Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of thehighball. "I
  drink and smoke all the time," he said. He clinked his glass against hers.
  "Here's nuts tothat old windbag, Fitweiler," he said, and gulped again. The
  stuff tasted awful, but he made nogrimace. "Really, Mr. Martin," she said,
  her voice and posture changing, "you are insulting ouremployer." Mrs. Barrows
  was now all special adviser to the president. "I am preparing a bomb," said
  Mr.Martin, "which will blow the old goat higher than hell." He hadonly had a
  little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn't be that. "Do you
  takedope or something?" Mrs. Barrows asked coldly. "Heroin," said Mr. Martin.
  "I'll be coked tothe gills when I bump that old buzzard off." "Mr. Martin!"
  she shouted, getting to her feet. "Thatwill be all of that. You must go at
  once." Mr. Martin took another swallow of his drink. He tapped hiscigarette
  out in the ashtray and put the pack of Camels on the coffee table. Then he
  got up. Shestood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat.
  "Not a word about this," he said,and laid an index finger against his lips.
  All Mrs. Barrows could bring out was "Really!" Mr. Martinput his hand on the
  doorknob. "I'm sitting in the catbird seat," he said. He stuck his tongue
  outat her and left. Nobody saw him go.
  Mr. Martin got to his apartment, walking, well before eleven. Noone saw him
  go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt
  elated. Itwasn't tipsiness, because he hadn't been tipsy. Anyway, the walk
  had worn off all effects of thewhiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for
  a while. He was asleep before midnight.
  Mr. Martin got to the office at eight-thirty the next morning, asusual. At a
  quarter to nine, Ulgine Barrows, who had never before arrived at work before
  ten, sweptinto his office. "I'm reporting to Mr. Fitweiler now!" she shouted.
  "If he turns you over to the police,it's no more than you deserve!" Mr.
  Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. "I beg your pardon?" hesaid. Mrs.
  Barrows snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Paird and Joey Hart
  staringafter her. "What's the matter with that old devil now?" asked Miss
  Paird. "I have no idea," saidMr. Martin, resuming his work. The other two
  looked at him and then at each other. Miss Paird gotup and went out. She
  walked slowly past the closed door of Mr. Fitweiler's office. Mrs. Barrowswas
  yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Paird could not hear what the
  woman was saying.She went back to her desk.
  Forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Barrows left the president's officeand went
  into her own, shutting the door. It wasn't until half an hour later that Mr.
  Fitweiler sentfor Mr. Martin. The head of the filing department, neat, quiet,
  attentive, stood in front of the old man'sdesk. Mr. Fitweiler was pale and
  nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made asmall, bruffing
  sound in his throat. "Martin," he said, "you have been with us more than
  twenty years.""Twenty-two, sir," said Mr. Martin. "In that time," pursued the
  president, "your work andyour--uh--manner have been exemplary." "I trust so,
  sir," said Mr. Martin. "I have understood,Martin," said Mr. Fitweiler, "that
  you have never taken a drink or smoked." "That is correct, sir,"said Mr.
  Martin. "Ah, yes." Mr. Fitweiler polished his glasses. "You may describe what
  you didafter leaving the office yesterday, Martin," he said. Mr. Martin
  allowed less than a second for hisbewildered pause. "Certainly, sir," he
  said. "I walked home. Then I went to Schrafft's for dinner.Afterward I walked
  home again. I went to bed early, sir, and reada magazine for a while. I was
  asleep before eleven." "Ah, yes," said Mr. Fitweiler again. He wassilent for
  a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing
  department."Mrs. Barrows," he said finally, "Mrs. Barrows has worked hard,
  Martin, very hard. It grieves me toreport that she has suffered a severe
  breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complexaccompanied by
  distressing hallucinations." "I am very sorry, sir," said Mr. Martin.
  "Mrs.Barrows is under the delusion," continued Mr. Fitweiler, "that you
  visited her last evening andbehaved yourself in an--uh--unseemly manner." He
  raised his hand to silence Mr. Martin's little painedoutcry. "It is the
  nature of these psychological diseases," Mr. Fitweiler said, "to fix upon the
  leastlikely and most innocent party as the--uh--source of persecution. These
  matters are not for the laymind to grasp, Martin. I've just have my
  psychiatrist, Dr. Fitch, on the phone. He would not, ofcourse, commit
  himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions.
  Isuggested to Mrs. Barrows, when she had completed her-uh--story to me this
  morning, that she visitDr. Fitch, for I suspected a condition at once. She
  flew, I regret to say, into a rage, anddemanded--uh--requested that I call
  you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Mrs. Barrows hadplanned a
  reorganization of your department--subject to my approval, of course, subject
  to myapproval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind--but
  again that is aphenomenon for Dr. Fitch and not for us. So, Martin, I am
  afraid Mrs. Barrows' usefulness here is at anend." "I am dreadfully sorry,
  sir," said Mr. Martin.
  It was at this point that the door to the office blew open with thesuddenness
  of a gas-main explosion and Mrs. Barrows catapulted through it. "Is the
  littlerat denying it?" she screamed. "He can't get away with that!" Mr.
  Martin got up and moved discreetlyto a point beside Mr. Fitweiler's chair.
  "You drank and smoked at my apartment," she bawled at Mr.Martin, "and you
  know it! You called Mr. Fitweiler an old windbag and said you were going to
  blowhim up when you got coked to the gills on your heroin!" She stopped
  yelling to catch her breathand a new glint came into her popping eyes. "If
  you weren't such a drab, ordinary little man,"she said, "I'd think you'd
  planned it all. Sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in
  thecatbird seat, because you thought no one would believe me when I told it!
  My God, it's really tooperfect!" She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the
  fury was on her again. She glared at Mr.Fitweiler. "Can't you see how he has
  tricked us, you old fool? Can't you see his little game?" But Mr.Fitweiler
  had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk
  and employees ofF & S began pouring into the room. "Stockton," said Mr.
  Fitweiler, "you and Fishbein will takeMrs. Barrows to her home. Mrs. Powell,
  you will go with them." Stockton, who had played a littlefootball in high
  school, blocked Mrs. Barrows as she made for Mr. Martin. It took him and
  Fishbeintogether to force her out of the door into the hall, crowded with
  stenographers and office boys. Shewas still screaming imprecations at Mr.
  Martin, tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died
  outdown in the corridor.
  "I regret that this happened," said Mr. Fitweiler. "I shall ask youto dismiss
  it from your mind, Martin." "Yes, sir," said Mr. Martin, anticipating his
  chief's"That will be all" by moving to the door. "I will dismiss it." He went
  out and shut the door, and his stepwas light and quick in the hall. When he
  entered his department he had slowed down to his customary gait,and he walked
  quietly across the room to the W20 file, wearing a look of studious
  concentration.