Murder in a Hurry (11 page)

But she still had to make studies of ordinary cats—of grocery store cats, and drug store cats and cats with only back fences to their names—and of long-hairs, like the little black cat at the shop. Like Electra. (Electra, Aegisthus, Electra—she forced her mind away.) She hoped the little cat, all the animals, were being taken care of, being fed. She took a sip of milk. Particularly the tiny kittens Mr. Halder had shown her, because kittens, she thought, had to be fed—And then, in an odd way, she recognized her own thoughts and sat up suddenly. She hoped the animals were being fed. But were they?

For heaven's sake, Liza, she told herself, what a thing to get upset about! Of course somebody's feeding them. And the responsibility isn't yours. The responsibility is—But she could not finish that, she found. Who had the responsibility? The police? She doubted it. The members of the Halder family, of course; in a sense the animals had, now, become their property. But with all this—with grief, fear, shock, whatever it was they felt, together and as individuals—which of them would remember a few very small kittens, a black, long-haired young cat with a pink mouth, a half-grown Siamese with a strident voice? And, actually, wouldn't everybody just assume that the responsibility was that of someone else; wouldn't everybody merely hope, idly, as she had hoped, that somebody else would remember? Whereas, Liza thought, uncomfortably, I
have
remembered.

It was five minutes before she gave up the compulsion which she considered, with all the logic she could summon, to be entirely ridiculous, and which was none the less compulsive. (Why, the little kittens might die! Just lie there in that funny little pile of kittens and starve to death. They might cry their funny, quavering little cries, and never understand—)
Oh, for God's sake
, Liza told herself, go down and do it, then. If you're going to be so utterly silly, keep yourself awake about a bunch of animals, probably fed hours ago at that, go down and see. Whereupon she put her shoes back on, put the empty glass which had held milk in the sink, and went down to look for a taxicab. She found one quickly, which was lucky or not, as you looked at it. She gave the cab driver a point of reference near West Kepp Street. You
are
a fool, she thought and leaned back in the cab and lighted a cigarette. And then she sat up again and repeated the accusation with increased vehemence. And, she thought, whatever makes you think you can get into the shop? Don't you know it will be locked up?

She almost abandoned it then; almost told the cab driver to take her back to Murray Hill. But they had gone so rapidly through the almost traffic-free streets, were so clearly only a few blocks from her destination, that to go back seemed more foolish than to go on. After all, she thought, there probably will be a policeman guarding the place, and he will let me in when I tell him why. He can come in with me, to see—to see that it's only for that.

The cab slowed and the driver looked around.

“The next corner's all right,” she said.

“There was some trouble down here today,” he said. “Somebody got knocked off.”

“Did they?” she said. “This will do, thanks.”

It did. She left the cab, watched it drive away, walked another short block and turned into West Kepp Street. She could see to the crook in the middle of West Kepp, and for a distance beyond, before the angle cut the sight line. It was empty as far as she could see. But then—was it? Wasn't that a man—or was it only a shadow?—in front of the shop, standing on the sidewalk, bent a little and seeming to peer in? Of course, Liza thought, there is a policeman; there would be. She went on, feeling that she had been right, after all, to come, because there was a policeman to let her in. She went more quickly, her heels clicking on the pavement.

But when she was nearer the shop, there was not really any man in front of it. There was a shadow, thrown by the standard of the street lamp, which might have seemed, from a distance, to be a man. There were other shadows in the inadequately lighted street; between the shop and the house next door there was, she now saw, a narrow area-way. She hesitated, momentarily, and went on, more slowly. It was to be a fool's errand, after all.

But having come so far, so foolishly far, she might as well try the door, Liza thought. It would, of course, be locked; it was absurd to think it would not be. But it was even more absurd to come a couple of miles downtown to do something and to stop, in the last twenty feet—fifteen feet now; five, now—without even trying to do it. Liza O'Brien, small and quick (and inwardly very contemptuous of herself), went down the three steps to the shop level and tried the door. It opened at once.

This was so surprising, and at the same time so disquieting, that Liza stopped with the door only ajar and looked carefully into the shop. It was dimly lighted by a single bulb near the rear of the room and, at the instant, the animals were quiet. But then the cockers in the window barked together and then the room was full of sound, and this was cheering. What's happened, actually (she thought), is that the policeman was standing in front of the shop, looking into it, and now for some reason has gone in, leaving the door unlocked behind him. Probably the policeman is in the rear room, in which Mr. Halder had lived—and might, if Lieutenant Weigand was right, have died. Perhaps the policeman has even—

But that thought died as she looked into the pen which held Electra. The little cat's water bowl was empty and there was no sign of food; Electra looked up and, wistfully, hopefully, complained about this. The cockers, when Liza went to their pen, were less wistful, more emphatic, equally unprovided for. And the Siamese cat in the first of the pens arranged down the right wall spoke his grievance with harsh, almost jungle fury. “You poor things,” Liza O'Brien said, generally, to the occupants of the room and, on her way to the rear room, walked down the row of pens against the wall. None of the animals had been fed. The sick boxer was gone, so that now there were, one after another, three empty pens. Liza passed the last of these pens quickly, not looking at it.

The five tiny kittens got up as she stopped in front of them, got up out of their defensive pile, and wabbled to the front of the pen, and their complaints were tiny, worried squeaks. Liza squatted until her face was level with the faces of the kittens and said, “Now just wait. I'll fix things.” One of the kittens made a tiny gesture toward her face with a forepaw, the fumbling suggestion of a cat's quick jab. Unbalanced by the effort, the tiny cat fell down. Then it squeaked more loudly than the others.

The little kittens first, Liza decided, and went to the door leading to the back room and opened it. The room was unlighted; with the door open, some of what little light the larger room had to spare seeped into the back room. It was enough to help Liza find a wall switch and then the back room was brighter, gave back with interest the light it had borrowed from the shop. But the shop still was dim.

The room was as she had seen it before, except that someone had opened the barred window. Liza found milk in the refrigerator, tasted it and found it sweet, warmed what she thought might be enough and put it in a flat dish she thought might do. This she carried in to the small kittens; around this they gathered, tails in the air, snuffling, getting milk in their noses, getting some—she hoped—into their stomachs. Then she filled a pitcher of water and, from it—as she had done those hours before while she waited for Brian, done then because it was something to do—filled the drinking vessels in the pens. Then she went back to the refrigerator, found meat for the cats, hoped the dogs would be content for the time with prepared food, filled pans with each and turned back toward the shop. She was busy, now; preoccupied with the task, thinking of nothing else. She stepped quickly into the shop room, stepped confidently; had stepped too far before she realized that the single bulb which had grudgingly illuminated the room had gone out.

She half turned to retreat, the movement involuntarily, too quickly, made for more than the beginning of fear to rise. But the movement was not completed. There was, with no warning, a great, numbing pain in the back of her head, a great swirling of darkness and she felt herself falling. As she fell she thought, dazedly,
Why, I've fainted again! I've
— Then the blackness surged over her thoughts.…

“Liza,” a voice said. It was a faint voice; it came from an immeasurable distance, whispered across stretching darkness. “Liza!” It was stronger, now. “
Liza!
”

She was lying on her back on the floor, on the hardness of the floor. But there was a pillow under her head. She moved, resenting the hardness, the discomfort. “
Liza!
” She opened her eyes; a face was near her own, looking down at her.

“Hello, Brian,” she said, and smiled. “Where did you—” Then she remembered, partly remembered, and tried to sit up. “Lie still,” Brian said. “You're in the shop.”

“Of course,” she said. “Nobody fed the animals. But I fainted.” But then there was a pain surging in her head. She half raised herself and, this time, Brian did not object. Instead, he helped her to a sitting posture. Her hand went to her head, to the place where the hurt was. It was much worse, incredibly worse, when she touched it. “I bumped myself,” she said, and now was conscious that she was speaking like a child.

“Liza!” Brian said. “What were you doing here? What did you come for?”

The concern which had been in the voice which called to her across darkness, called her name—but had that been a kind of dream?—was not in Brian Halder's voice as he spoke now. He was insistent, now; his voice was almost harsh.

“What is it, Brian?” she said. “I don't understand. I—I got to thinking about the animals, wondering if anyone had fed them. I came down to see.” She looked into his face, into the dark intensity of his eyes. But she could not see Brian in his eyes. “Nobody had,” she said.

He shook his head. “Why did you come here?” he asked, as if she had not spoken. “Didn't you realize—didn't you think what might happen?”

She shook her head, and pain surged through it.

“You got hit,” Brian said. “Don't you understand that? You might have been killed.”

“I don't know,” she said. “I was bringing out the food. I thought I fainted.” But then she remembered the pain which had preceded the blackness. “Of course I know now,” she said.

“You didn't see anyone?” he asked, and she said, “No, Brian.”

“At any time?”

She remembered, then. She told him she had thought she saw a man standing on the sidewalk, leaning down to look into the shop; told him that the man was not there when she was nearer the shop.

“A man?” Brian said.

“I don't know. I supposed it was a man. I supposed it was a policeman.”

He shook his head; she thought he seemed puzzled. But she felt that she did not, any longer, realize how he seemed, how he felt. In the drawn harshness of his face, of his voice, she could not find Brian.

“There wasn't anybody here when I came,” he said. “The front door was open. The light out. You were just—lying here. I could just make you out. I thought—” He broke off.

“What did Felix Sneddiger tell you, Liza?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “I told you—no, I told the others. He didn't tell me anything.”

He merely looked at her, his eyes deep in shadow.

“Nothing,” she said. “He told me nothing.”

“And you came to feed the animals?” Brian said, and his tone did not believe she had come to feed the animals.

His arm had still been supporting her; now she moved, freeing herself, moving away from him.

“Why were you here?” she said, and heard suspicion in her own voice. “If that's so important, why were
you
here?”

He shook his head again, as if that were of no importance.

“We've got to get you out of this,” he said. “Can't you see that? Before you get hurt.” He paused. “In one way or another,” he said, trying to make her eyes meet his. But now she avoided looking into his eyes.

“Why didn't you see anyone?” she asked. “There was—” She stopped. Now she looked at him. “There
was
somebody else?” It was strange to hear her own voice asking this of Brian.

“Of course,” he said. “You—apparently you surprised someone. Here for—I don't know why he was here.”

“He—this somebody—seemed to be just looking in,” Liza said. “As if he wanted to find out what—what could be seen from outside.”

He seemed to consider this for a moment; then he shook his head.

“How did you get in?” he asked. She told him. “The place was locked up,” he said. “Whoever it was had been in, gone out again, set the catch so he could return. Don't you see that?”

She said she didn't see anything.

“Why wouldn't you have seen this—this man?” she asked him again. “If there was light enough to see me? Or do you think he just knocked me out and went away, leaving me here? Why would he do that?”

“To keep you from recognizing him,” Brian said. But now his voice was puzzled.

“Why would he come here?”

Brian shook his head. Then he stood up.

“Will you get out of this, Liza?” he said. She got to her feet, too; got to her feet unsteadily, but moved away when he would have helped her. “Your people live in Schenectady, you said? Why don't you go there? For a while. Until—”

“No,” she said. “What's the good of that?”

“Something can happen to you,” he said. Momentarily, there was faintly a smile on his lips, but it was not a pleasant smile. “Something did,” he told her. “Next time—”

“No,” she said.

“Now,” he said. “Tonight. We'll put you on a train.” He was urgent; now, she thought, he was trying to re-establish contact between them. But now that was impossible.