Murder on Show (15 page)

‘Perhaps so, sir.' He gave me the look reserved for imbeciles again. ‘However,
this
insurance cover ran for three days, the sum involved is half a million pounds – and Mr Hugo Verrier filed his claim yesterday afternoon.'

I looked at my watch. It was only a quarter past eleven. And it was already one of the longest days of my life. I tried to think of some intelligent comment. Fortunately, he didn't seem to expect one.

‘Who does it belong to now?' He shot the question at me suddenly, taking me off guard, as usual.

‘Why, er, Hugo Verrier –' (Just in time, I had stopped myself from saying ‘To whoever stole it' – not the type of answer calculated to endear oneself to a policeman.) ‘That is, possibly to the Insurance Company now – or as soon as they've paid the claim.'

‘No, sir. Not that cat.' He leaned forward and levelled his biro at Pandora. ‘
That
one.'

Pandora rose abruptly, her paw slashed out and sent the biro clattering to the opposite wall. She spat softly and violently. Standing there on my shoulder, she let loose a snarling tirade that gave us to understand that she was a feline at the end of her tether. She'd had a terrible night, been frightened and upset, seen more than any cat ought to see – and what she
didn't
need at this juncture was some clown ramming his biro into her face.

The Inspector had snatched his hand back and was nursing it against his chest, although Pandora had barely grazed a fingertip. He glared at me, as though suspecting I was responsible for the whole thing by means of some sort of remote control.

‘That animal is dangerous!' he accused. There was no difference to him between Pandora and Pyramus and Thisbe – I could see it in his eyes. He felt she should be locked up in a cage, too.

‘She's upset,' I said. Pandora dropped down into my lap, still complaining.

The Inspector flinched as she moved. I think he expected her to leap for his jugular vein. She gave him a nasty look and turned her back on him, settling high on my lap, burying her face in the crook of my arm. I patted her consolingly.

‘She ought to go home,' I told him. ‘She ought to have some warm milk, perhaps with a drop or two of whisky in it, and go to sleep for twenty-four hours or so. She needs time to get over it all.'

He ground his teeth, almost audibly. ‘Precisely what I was getting at, sir. Where
is
its home?'

Not precisely. He was getting at me – and I knew it. ‘Helena Keswick takes care of her,' I said. ‘She boards at the Keswick Cattery.'

He still waited, and I admitted it. ‘She belongs to Roger Chesne-Malvern now, I suppose.'

‘Quite.' He nodded. ‘The Chesne-Malverns had – have a Kensington address. They don't keep the animal there with them, then?'

‘Mr Chesne-Malvern is allergic to cats,' I said. ‘And I understand Mrs Chesne-Malvern thought it was bad discipline for a working cat to be treated like a pet.'

‘Quite.' He nodded appreciatively, his face clearing somewhat. I gathered he considered the Chesne-Malvern attitude the first reasonable one he had encountered since this case started.

It was dawning upon me that we had been landed with a fully-fledged ailurophobe in charge of the investigation. Below us, an unearthly yowl came from Pyramus, or perhaps Thisbe. The Inspector flinched again – and I was with him on that one. But it was ridiculous to act as though little Pandora were on the same level as those beasts.

‘What
is
happening about that damned statue?' I asked. There was no question of throwing caution to the winds – no matter how cautious I was, he was going to hate me. ‘Haven't you found it yet?'

‘Investigations are proceeding.' He glared at me. I saw that I was getting under his skin.

‘I suppose they've melted it down by this time,' I said pleasantly. ‘And Rose Chesne-Malvern's emeralds are probably back in new settings as another pair of earrings.'

‘We're doing our best,
sir.
' At least, he was hating me for myself alone now, and not just because I liked cats.

‘As the sign said in the delicatessen, “Our best is none too good,” eh?' It occurred to me that, if I kept goading him, he might end the interview in his fury, and let me go. Time was getting on, and I had things to do down on the Floor.

Over his shoulder, through the plate-glass window, I could see crowds eddying down the Exhibition Aisle. We were, I noticed, drawing far bigger crowds than might normally have been expected. The early editions were out now, and the newscasts would be carrying the story. They had rushed over to get double value for their money – not only had there been a large-scale theft here, but now it was the scene of a particularly bloody carnage as well. Value for money, indeed, and the whole family out to enjoy it. No wonder whoever-it-was had said, ‘The Public be damned.'

‘... this morning?' While I was abstractedly counting the house, the Inspector had been asking me another question.

‘I beg your pardon?' It didn't improve my standing with him. But then, what would?

‘Why did you leave the Exhibition before the police arrived this morning?'

I had been afraid that would come up. ‘I wanted to go home – shave, shower, change. Quite natural, you know.'

‘Yes, sir.' His tone was carefully neutral. ‘And now, tell me, sir –' his voice changed – ‘why did you take the
cat
along with you?'
Tell me THAT was natural,
his tone implied.

‘She was upset,' I said. ‘She couldn't be left alone.'

‘But there were many people here. The lady from Keswick Cattery it boards with. Mr Chesne-Malvern – it wouldn't have been left alone.'

‘They didn't have time to pay attention to her,' I said. ‘Not properly. It would have been the same as leaving her alone.'

‘I see.' His deep sigh told me that he didn't. That he would never be able to sort out one factor of honest motivation from amongst all us nuts. We were playing some devious game of our own – we must be. Whoever dreamed of worrying about whether or not a cat were left on its own?

I kept quiet, although he let the silence drag on for an inordinate time. There was no use trying to explain further.

‘So you walked out of this Exhibition, carrying an extremely valuable animal, and no one protested?'

‘Why should they protest? They approved. Everyone realized that Pandora needed to get away for a bit and calm down.'

He shuddered, looking as though he could do with a bit of calming himself. ‘No one watched you leave, then?'

‘Of course not. Why should they?'

‘What I mean, sir, is –' he had regained control and the unctuous smoothness of his voice should have warned me that a particularly nasty one was coming at me – ‘if you were not observed when you walked away with the animal, then, in all probability, no one paid any attention when you brought it back.'

‘I shouldn't think they did,' I said. ‘Why on earth should they?'

‘Then –' he closed in triumphantly for the kill – ‘how do we know you brought back the same animal you took away?'

I laughed out loud – I couldn't help it. Pandora raised her head and spoke sharply. The Inspector waited, but something in his manner betrayed that he already knew that he had made a fool of himself by asking that question.

‘That couldn't be done,' I said. ‘Everyone knows Pandora.' He had obviously heard too many stories about ringers being used in horse races.

‘You mean,' he said dubiously, ‘that an animal is
that
instantly recognizable?' He was going to go down fighting.

‘A cat is in this Exhibition,' I assured him. ‘You couldn't possibly ring in a double on all these people. Helena Keswick boards her. The Committee all know her. Roger Chesne-Malvern would notice at once – he's only allergic to cats, not indifferent to them. The idea is absurd. Why – it would be easier to get away with the Whittington Cat than with one of the live cats here.'

‘Would it, sir?' he asked softly.

‘Yes.' I decided the only way to counter was to look him straight in the eye. ‘Yes, it would. But of course it wasn't done that way, was it? You'd have solved the whole case yesterday, if it were as easy as that.' Too late, I remembered that we were involved in a different case today.

‘Perhaps we're not at such a loss as you think, sir.' He leaned forward and locked glances with me. Unfortunately, his was inscrutable.

‘It wasn't a very subtle crime, you know, sir. It wasn't subtle at all.'

They were changing the guard at Lady Purr-fect's stall when I got back. Also the cat. Another beautiful, completely anonymous, interchangeable animal. Looking exactly as bored and sulky as the other.

‘Is it worth taking her for the last few hours of the Exhibition?' I asked the handler who was tucking the regular cat into the carrying case.

‘Have to,' he said shortly. ‘This one's needed for a rush photography session. Sits still better, and not so excitable. The other one's too nervy, won't stay still if she can help it. Only good in long shots. Least little thing upsets her and she runs all over the studio.'

‘Too bad,' I said. ‘She's a pretty little thing.'

He snorted. ‘Too overbred. All of them.' His glance flickered at Pandora and up and down the Special Exhibits Aisle. I had the feeling that I'd just encountered another dog man. He snapped the catches on the case and sauntered away.

A couple of acolytes remained with the current Lady Purr-fect, shaking talcum into her fur, fluffing it out, tying the obligatory blue ribbon round her neck. I watched for another moment, then turned away.

It was a relief to see the black, miniature-panther form of Precious slinking towards me. At least he had a genuine personality. It might not be the best one in the world, but it was a definite one.

‘Hello, Old Battler,' I said. ‘How are you doing?' The mesh of the cage stopped him, but he was as close to me as he could get. He raised his head and asked
me
something. Again, the desperate urgency came over loud and clear – but not the question. I began to see how psychologists could devote their lives to trying to communicate with chimpanzees and dolphins. If I had a choice, I'd rather have comprehended that cat than win a fat account which would be absolutely no trouble to Perkins & Tate and pay us a fortune.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. I always seem to be apologizing to that cat. If it were happening anywhere but here, I'd feel a complete fool. ‘I'm sorry. Give me some clue, can't you?'

‘Strange.' Kellington Dasczo had come up behind me. ‘Old Marcus treats that cat like a real precious jewel, and yet he's the most miserably unhappy cat I've ever seen.'

‘He keeps trying to ask me something,' I said. ‘Or tell me something – I don't know which. I wish I could help him.'

‘You feel so damned powerless.' Kellington nodded. ‘Look at him – he's in perfect physical condition. I'd swear Old Marcus has never raised a hand to him. Mind you,' he added thoughtfully, ‘
I'd
have belted him a few times, if he'd clawed me the way he has Marcus – you've got to show them who's boss, sometimes. Even the best of them. But Marcus has been a saint with that brute, and the only thanks he gets is a sneak attack every time he's off guard. It makes you wonder.'

A long, snarling roar came from the Big Cage. Involuntarily, we both turned to look up that way. One of the tigers clawed frantically at the base of the cage bars, the other paced restlessly behind it.

‘Perhaps they're all wild, under the skin,' I said. ‘Perhaps some of them can never be tamed, no matter how you try.'

‘Perhaps.' He was unconvinced. ‘But the beast has never attacked
you,
has he?'

‘No,' I admitted, trying for modesty, ‘he seems to like me, rather.'

‘Then that proves something in itself,' Kellington said. ‘If only we knew what.' He moved forward suddenly and unlatched the door of the pen, stretching his hand inside. Precious backed away, but not too far. Warily, Kellington chucked him under the chin. He offered no resistance.

‘You see?' After a moment, Kellington withdrew his hand and relatched the door. ‘He likes you. He's indifferent to me. It's only poor Marcus he hates. Why?'

I shook my head. He was right. The theory of primeval wildness couldn't explain it. Otherwise, Precious Black Jade would have attacked one, if not both, of us. But that snarling, murderous fury was reserved for poor inoffensive Marcus alone.

‘It doesn't make sense,' I said.

‘It must make sense,' Kellington said. ‘It's just that we can't interpret it.'

He was right again. Pandora stirred restlessly in my arms, as though aware she was no longer the centre of my attention. I stroked her automatically, still regarding Precious.

Precious inched forward to the door of his pen once more, his molten yellow eyes glaring at me hypnotically. (No wonder the more sensational Sunday papers occasionally ran stories about weak-minded females who had found themselves hypnotized by cats.) I stared into those eyes, and heard the plaintive interrogating yowl again.

‘I'm sorry,' I shook my head. ‘I can't help you. I just don't know –'

‘
Steady
on, old chap.' Kellington shook my arm abruptly, disturbing Pandora, but snapping me out of the spell. ‘See here, it's lunchtime. Why don't we nip across to the pub? They do quite a decent lunch there. Toss Her Majesty into her pen – she'll survive – and come over with me. You'll feel a lot better.'

‘Yes. Yes, I think you're right,' I agreed. Pandora would be okay. Gerry and Penny were at the stall, still using it as temporary headquarters. I started towards it, but Helena Keswick hailed me.