“I say Holmes,” burst out Dr Watson entering the parlour at 221B Baker Street, “have you seen Tigger?” “Not recently Watson,” replied Holmes removing his Meerschaum pipe from his mouth, “not since this morning when we shared a kipper.” “I didn’t realise you were fond of the animal, Holmes?” Holmes’ pipe had gone out so he reached for the rough shag. Holmes furrowed his brow in thought, as he tapped out the burnt remains on the hearth. “He is a remarkable animal, as many cats are, and a good judge of character.” “How so, Holmes?” “Haven’t you noticed?” replied Holmes, giving his pipe a final tap on the hearth. “he will not approach any person whom he does not trust, and he does not purr in their presence. Is he missing?” “Indeed Holmes. Mrs Hudson has prepared a nice bit of coley for him, and he usually makes his presence known at tea time, but nary a miaow is to be heard.” “That is odd, Watson. Come the game is afoot, we had better pursue the cat-nappers, be they such, and discover his whereabouts!” “Shall I flag down a Hansom cab, Holmes?” “Indeed not! The game is afoot … on foot!” Holmes and Watson searched the streets for an hour, even asking the help of the Baker Street Irregulars. “There’s loads o’ bleedin’ moggies, beggin’ yer pardon Mr ‘Olmes.” Said a grubby Tom Baker. “Woss speshul abaht this one?” “Young Tom!” Exclaimed Holmes. “Cats are very special creatures indeed. In many ways more discerning than dogs.” “Well wot I ‘eard is this, Mister ‘Olmes. There is a shop opened rahnd the back o’ Regent Street wot supplies fancy foreign nosh, on’y there’s a rumour they is grabbin’ cats off the street and turning ‘em into fings called kebabs.” “What!!” Cried Watson. “Quick Holmes we must act!” Holmes and Watson dashed quickly to the premises of Mustapha Pitta and burst through the door. A large mound of vile looking grey greasy meat was rotating on a spit behind the counter. The proprietor wiped his hands on a grey once-white cloth then rearranged his moustaches with greasy forefingers. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” He asked suspiciously in a thick accent. “What is that?” Asked Holmes, pointing to the rotating mass of indeterminate greasy meat. “That is my doner meat.” Replied Mustapha, smiling and showing missing teeth. “It looks disgusting!” Said Watson. “Ah. But you Eenglish find it irresistible after the drinking of much beer.” Replied Mustapha grinning evilly. “Damn you,” said Watson, “ we don’t want any of your Ottoman subversion here!” Watson was about to speak further when Holmes said. “Wait! Listen!” They went quiet and could vaguely hear plaintive mewing from the back of the shop. Watson pulled his weapon out and pointed it at the Turk. “Don’t move, you blackguard!” He said. Holmes and Watson pushed behind the counter, through the multi-coloured hanging strip curtain, and followed the plaintive mewing. There they discovered a folorn Tigger in a small cage mewing loudly because he had heard Dr Watson’s voice. They freed him from the cage and he took up a position on Watson’s shoulder. As they walked back through the shop Tigger took a swipe at Mustapha knocking his fez off. “Take that, you bounder!” said Watson, as Tigger snuggled into his neck. The mystery was solved.