Murder on Show (10 page)

‘Precious, you're eating!' Marcus Opal had come up behind us. Precious glowered at him and lifted his head out of the tin, as though aware that he was pleasing Marcus Opal by eating and unwilling to continue. But hunger won again and he compromised by lowering his chin into the tin and backing as far away as he could get, dragging the tin with him and growling menacingly all the way.

Pandora watched the tin of sardines slide out of her reach with the unworried composure of a feline who not only knows where her next meal is coming from, but has zeroed in on a sucker to keep her plied with between-meal snacks. She sprang for my shoulder and settled down there purring, gusts of fish-scented affectionate breath wafted past my nostrils. I decided to slip her something less pungent next time.

‘He wouldn't eat for
me,
' Marcus Opal said accusingly.

‘Perhaps he favours sardines,' I suggested, feeling guilty.

‘
I
tried him with sardines yesterday.'

‘Perhaps he's worked up an appetite since then.' It was the best I could think of, and I hoped it was good enough. Marcus Opal would be suing me for alienation of affection, if I didn't watch my step.

‘Perhaps he
has
settled down.' Opal decided to accept my explanation as a face-saver. ‘He ought to have some milk, too, he'll be thirsty. Sardines are salty, you know.' He fussed over to the hamper of supplies and pulled out a Thermos, pouring cool milk into the cat's bowl.

Precious watched him approach, then struck out as Opal bent to place the bowl in front of him. The bowl overturned, showering milk everywhere. I thought Precious looked at the droplets a bit avidly, but decided I'd better not say anything.

Marcus Opal had noticed, too. ‘I wonder, Douglas –' he picked up the bowl and handed it to me – ‘if you'd mind trying to give Precious some milk. He seems to like you.'

‘I'll have a go.' I poured some more milk into the bowl, Precious was still glowering. I set it down a safe distance from him and backed away from it. ‘Come on, sport,' I said. ‘You know you're parched – stop fighting it.'

He inched forward slowly, still growling and, with a baleful glare at Marcus Opal, fell upon the milk, splashing it in all directions in the ferocity of his assault.

‘You have a way with cats,' Marcus Opal conceded nobly.

I'd been thinking something along those lines myself. Or perhaps that chunk of mousetrap cheese had created a bond between Precious and me. Reinforced, of course, by the sardines. Again, it was a little item I had better not mention to Marcus Opal. I shrugged modestly.

There was an increasing commotion at the next stall, not alone to be explained by the quiet policemen who had been working there since they arrived. Pandora and I strolled across to the dividing rail to see what was going on. After a moment, Marcus Opal abandoned Precious to his milk and joined us.

Hugo Verrier was fighting for admittance to the stall, waving a large black and white glossy photo. I recognized it as one of the ones Gerry had taken the night before the Exhibition opened.

‘I have a
right
to be in here,' Hugo was storming. ‘This is
my
stall. This –' he waved the photo wildly – ‘is
my
Work of Art. My
stolen
Work of Art. Why aren't you police out looking for it, instead of wasting your time here? It isn't here. It's gone! Stolen – you idiots – and you're not even bothering!'

He sounded thoroughly hysterical. I was reminded of Gerry's gloomy comment, when he found out who Hugo Verrier was – or, rather, who he was related to. ‘We might have known there'd be trouble,' Gerry had said, stroking his face reflectively. ‘There's bad blood in that family!'

The dark saturnine official who had given me such a bad time yesterday was regarding Hugo with gloomy relish. I had the impression that Hugo was setting himself up for one great big fall. I hoped I'd be there to see it, but it obviously wasn't going to be this time.

Taking a deep breath, the official said, ‘We're busy here now, sir. Perhaps you could come back later. We might be able to let you in then.'

‘Ridiculous!' Hugo Verrier screamed. ‘I insist on my rights. Where's Rose Chesne-Malvern?
She'll
tell you who I am!'

‘That's right,' Marcus Opal said softly behind me, ‘where
is
Rose? We haven't seen her since that Insurance Investigator asked to speak to her privately – and that was
hours
ago.'

Unobtrusively, I started searching. I began in the Press Gallery. There were still a few of the Press around. We were News now, not just Features. I nodded to them, but managed to avoid them. I didn't want anyone else asking me where Rose Chesne-Malvern was. Not until it was a question I could answer.

Through the plate-glass window of the overhanging booth, I studied the movement of traffic on the floor. Penny was at the stall now. Obviously inspired by the example of Kellington Dasczo, who was grooming Pearlie King, she had taken Pandora out of her pen and was brushing her. Pandora seemed quite happy with the procedure. Across the aisle, Betty Lington shook talcum powder into Silver Fir's coat and fluffed it out to an improbable size.

I scanned the other aisles slowly. Quite a few of the long-distance Exhibitors had checked in now and were settling their cats into the pens.

But there was no sign of the trim, self-contained figure we all knew and loathed. A disturbance at the entrance to the Special Exhibits caught my eye. I watched as Carlotta Montera swung down that aisle, pulling a small wagon loaded with red meat.

The roars shook the Press Gallery, directly over the cage, and sent several nervous customers skittering for the safety of the Main Floor. I couldn't see the cage itself, of course, but I had a prime view of Carlotta swaggering down towards it. The roars increased, the nearer she got.

I watched the pattern of traffic change on the floor. Drawn, however reluctantly, by the noise, all those who were in the immediate area moved to the cage. There was quite a crowd by the time Carlotta reached the end of the aisle.

I'd watched this performance from the floor, myself, last night. It was far more impressive from the overhanging balcony. She pushed the wagon under the guard rail and swung over the top of the rail herself, in a flurry of legs and swirling skirt. I saw her lips move as she approached the cage, and the movement of her arms as she slid up the trapdoor. Then she shovelled the first two pieces of meat inside with blurring swiftness. I knew they were being snatched out of her hands as they got within clawswipe of the trapdoor. It was probably too small a door for the animals to squeeze out of, in any case, but I wouldn't have liked to take any firm bets on it.

She pushed the remaining chunks of meat into the cage a bit more slowly, letting the audience gasp and worry about how small the door really was, and whether one of the tigers would force through it before she slid it closed again. The audience loves to scare itself, and has a touching faith that a wild animal would rather chase a piece of raw meat on the hoof – like one of them instead of settling down to gnaw a chunk neatly delivered to its waiting claws.

With a flourish, Carlotta slid the trapdoor closed. No one quite dared applaud, but the awed murmur was satisfying enough. She swung across the guard rail again and marched down the aisle, the empty wagon rumbling behind her. I knew that she would come back a few minutes later and fill the water pans as though she were taking an encore.

It was a superb piece of showmanship. I only wished she weren't performing it here.

I left the almost-deserted Press Gallery and descended the spiral iron staircase. Very carefully. On impulse, as I reached the ground, I bent to stare into the shadowed area beneath it. But it was empty.

I turned to find Dave Prendergast smiling wanly at me. He looked very seedy – but tractable. It was no time to ask him whether
he
had seen Rose Chesne-Malvern lately. He had too much imagination to be able to deal with that sort of question.

‘Hello, Dave,' I said. ‘How's business?'

‘Good, Doug, very good. The overnighters are queuing up for the Product, to make pussy's night more comfortable. And we should do a rushing business tomorrow when the rest of them get here. What else can you expect?' His smile widened. ‘We're preaching to the converted. As soon as we find out the points that appeal to them most, we'll incorporate them into our television commercials – and we'll be home and dry.'

He might have chosen his words more carefully, but I made allowances for his condition and nodded. Gerry didn't do things by halves. Dave had obviously gone through the afternoon on automatic pilot. But I had every confidence in him. His automatic pilot was probably more efficient than any lesser man's eight cylinders.

‘I've been thinking, Doug,' he said.

‘Have you?' I tried not to groan. Gerry hadn't used sufficient judgment in choosing the drinks, after all. For Dave, that last one should have been chloral hydrate.

‘Quite a lot,' he said earnestly. ‘Gerry is right. There isn't any sense in bothering the police with my theory, is there?'

‘None at all,' I agreed with relief. Gerry had done his job well, after all.

‘I mean, as Gerry said, if they haven't already thought of it themselves, they won't appreciate my pointing it out to them. It might even stop them getting to the same theory, in the long run, because they wouldn't like to admit they hadn't thought of it first, and –'

One of the big cats screamed in challenge, the other backed it with a tremendous roar. Dave winced and lifted a slightly shaking hand to his forehead.

‘Could you watch the stand for a few minutes, Doug? I'll be right back.'

I stepped up into the stand and he tottered away. From my position, I could see the spiral staircase leading up to the Press Gallery, and most of the Big Cage. The tigers were in opposite corners, tearing at their meat. At least, the one in the farther corner was. The one near to me seemed to be a rather more delicate eater – perhaps this was Thisbe?

Head tilted to one side, the giant cat gnawed carefully at the meat, instead of ripping off chunks the way the other one was doing. I had the sudden suspicion that Carlotta had not checked to make sure the meat was completely thawed – a smaller cat, trying to eat a deep-frozen fillet, would be acting in just the same way. But there was nothing I could do about it. I didn't think the big cat would appreciate my motives if I tried to take it away from her until it defrosted a bit more.

Dave came back, clutching a glass of fizzing liquid. Thanks, Doug.' He sipped at it morosely. ‘I think I can last a while longer now.'

I nodded and slipped away, no more in the mood for conversation than he was. Rose Chesne-Malvern hadn't been out of sight for a moment all day, she
must
be lurking around somewhere tonight.

Trying to look as though it were just one of my routine patrols, checking to see that everything was going smoothly, I began strolling up and down the aisles, nodding to the Exhibitors penning their cats for the night.

Some of the Exhibitors had already settled their cats and left – at least, they'd thought their cats were settled. Probably the cats would settle when the lights went out, which would be soon now. Meanwhile, they were restless.

Could you blame them? They were pampered pets, admired and petted by everyone who called. Now, suddenly, they had been taken from home, shut up in this pen, and – worst of all – no one was paying enough attention to them. They wouldn't know that the piece of cardboard in the upper corner of the cage read, ‘Please Do Not Touch The Exhibit' (although a few crafty ones had clawed it down and were sitting on it). They simply thought they'd lost all their charm, and were going wild. Some of them sulked, most of them paced the front of their pens, calling out brazenly to the passers-by and rubbing the top of their heads against the mesh in an anxious plea for affection.

I strolled along the aisles, whenever possible (that is, when I wasn't being observed), pausing to scratch an ear or head. After all, weren't the cats as much my clients as the Exhibition Committee? My job was to keep up morale when it was flagging.

I was in the Cream and Blue-Cream Longhair aisle, cheering the lot of a lonely little Cream Longhair, when I sensed an angry presence behind me. I turned, carelessly leaving my fingers still thrust through the mesh, absently stroking a nose.

‘Well!' she said angrily. She was a short, sharp little creature, ruffled up like an angry hen, and she was looking at me as though she had caught me with a fistful of catnip and an empty sack in my hand.

‘It's all right, madam.' I drew away hastily. ‘I'm the Public Relations Officer for this Exhibition.'

‘And
when
did you last wash your hands?' she demanded.

There must be an answer to that. Besides, they didn't look very dirty to me. I backed a little farther away.

‘Oh, I've been watching you,' she went on. ‘I've seen you – petting every cat in the place. Not caring that you might spread disease from one to the other. It's a disgrace! If you
are
the Public Relations Officer, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're setting a bad example to the Public.'

Her voice was dying away as she opened the cage and pulled out her cat. When I looked back, she was brushing its fur. I continued on my way. There had still been no sign of Rose Chesne-Malvern anywhere.

The last aisle was occupied by some Colourpoints. They looked like Siamese gone wrong. Perhaps they were. Long, fluffy coats, with unmistakable Siamese markings: the dark mask, ears, legs and tail. They were incongruous, appealing, and thoroughly preoccupied with settling in. It was just as well they
were
in the last aisle, they reminded me so strongly of Pandora, I wanted to get back and see how she was doing.