Murder on Show (2 page)

The cat again – I sincerely hoped. I tried to look intelligent – a task I felt increasingly beyond me. Perhaps I should have let my partner, Gerry Tate, handle this. It had never occurred to me to plumb his feelings about cats but, at this moment, I felt they
must
be warmer than mine.

I recognized that I was being unfair. I hadn't seen any cats yet – not the four-legged variety. But Mrs Chesne-Malvern was rapidly putting me off the entire breed for life.

‘When do the animals move in?' I asked. ‘I mean, do you bring them in the night before? Get them used to the whole idea before the Public arrives to stare at them? Or do you just have them come in that morning?'

‘The
working cats,'
she said pointedly, ‘will come in tomorrow night. Actually, they'll be working
here
the next day. Perfection Hosiery has hired them for that day, so, of course, the general Rules for Exhibitions don't apply to them. Working cats are in a special category. Perfection Hosiery will be photographing ‘The Purr-fect Year', their next year's calendar, here. Lady Purr-fect will be posing with each of the working cats, and by herself, for the months of the year. That will take care of that day.

‘The day after that, will be the Exhibition proper. Again, the cats will come in the night before, be checked by the Vet, and settled comfortably into their pens. The pedigree cats, that is. The domestic cats will arrive on the morning of the Exhibition. The pedigree cats won't be judged, they're just for exhibition, as are the working cats. The domestic cats, however, will be given prizes.'

‘That sounds fine,' I said, taking the line of least resistance. I felt that, with any encouragement at all, she'd spend a few hours initiating me into all the reasons for everything. Which would be more information than I needed to know just to get publicity for them. She seemed to expect me to say something more, however, and I tried to oblige.

‘What about the owners?' I asked. ‘Where do they stay while their cats are penned here?'

‘The Committee – the owners of the Working Cats – will be staying in the hotel. The hotel has kindly made rooms available to us –' she waved a hand – ‘in a corridor adjoining the Exhibition Hall, so that we can be nearby. It was most kind of them – even though they've just opened, the hotel is fully booked. I suppose,' she added reluctantly, ‘we'll have to acknowledge them in the publicity releases.'

‘It would be the sporting thing to do,' I agreed. ‘It's nice of them to fit you in, and so close to the Exhibition Hall itself. It means you can pop in and see how the cats are during the night, doesn't it?'

‘You must remember,' she said, perhaps detecting something not quite
simpatico
in my tone, ‘that these are extremely valuable animals. Each one represents a small fortune – both now and potentially. Of course, we'll have a Security Man on guard throughout, but it's in the hotel's best interest that the cats are as well looked after as possible. Also, these owners
are
the Committee, and they'd prefer to take no risk at all. They'll remain near their cats.'

‘I see.' It was a new world, and I felt I would rather not turn around too suddenly in it, in case I saw the disembodied grin of the Cheshire Cat floating above one of the unfinished stalls. I
could
see, however, that the Committee had a vested interest in the Exhibition. You don't hire a PRO unless you have a vested interest in something.

They'd seen that Perfection Hosiery and Lady Purr-fect were in great danger of taking over the Exhibition completely, and so they'd brought in Perkins & Tate to do the publicity for their own Working Cats. The Lady Purr-fects (I'd heard there was a stable of them, all identical, and all doubling for each other like actors and dictators in a Banana Republic) were an industry in themselves. An industry geared to, and powered by, high-octane publicity.

The Committee, not realizing the ins and outs of the matter, would expect the Working Cats' publicity to equal, if not surpass, Lady Purr-fect's publicity. Otherwise, why were they spending good money hiring a PRO? The resultant space would be matched, line by line and photo by photo, with Lady Purr-fect's coverage and – inevitably – found wanting. But how do you explain these things to amateurs? They think you're just concocting an alibi before you even start.

‘The Working Cats will move in tomorrow night,' Mrs Chesne-Malvern said crisply. ‘Oh, yes,' she answered my raised eyebrow, ‘everything will be ready by then. Next morning, they'll start shooting the calendar. At 12.30, television news cameras will be here to take Kellington Dasczo unveiling the Whittington Cat. Mr Dasczo is also on the Committee and will be exhibiting his Pearlie King.' She glanced at me proudly. ‘So, you see, we'll already have quite a bit of publicity from him – before you even start.'

I winced inwardly. No wonder we'd been hired, as an afterthought. The presence of Kellington Dasczo would practically guarantee that no one else in the Press would give the Show a tumble. Kellington Dasczo had parlayed his mother's indiscretion with a Czechoslovakian pilot during the War into two pathetic autobiographies of fatherless chee-ild, just as soon as he had been old enough to realize the saleability of the theme and change his name by deed poll to the one he swore was his father's. In moments when he thought he could get away with it, he hinted strongly at a Title which should have gone with the name – Count, at least. After that lucrative mine had been nearly played out, he struck pay dirt again by adopting a luckless alley cat and concentrating on
its
biography. This had gained him, apart from great sales and lecture tours, a weekly column in one of the soppier tabloids. And succeeded in making Pearlie King nearly as despised in Fleet Street as his master.

‘You'll want to see the Press arrangements, of course.' Mrs Chesne-Malvern set off at a brisk pace across a labyrinth of abandoned timber and led the way up a flight of spiral iron stairs. ‘We have a Press Box overlooking the Exhibition, with quite a comprehensive bar. The Exhibitors –' she sounded disapproving – ‘will be using it for the duration of the Exhibition, and a catering firm will provide sandwiches and snacks.' She opened the door and snapped the light on.

A tall, lanky man unwound himself from an easy chair and stood up, trying to look disassociated from the double brandy in his hand. ‘Ah, there you are, Rose,' he said. ‘I was just looking for you.'

‘Were you?' she said icily.

‘Yes, that is –' He stopped, and a distressed quiver shook him just before he sneezed so violently he nearly spilled his drink. His eyes, I noticed, were red-rimmed and watery. ‘Sorry, my dear,' he said apologetically.

‘Your allergy –' she was icier than before – ‘cannot possibly be bothering you. There isn't a cat in the place.'

‘There must be ... be ... he sneezed again. ‘Either that, or there are cat hairs on some of the –'

‘Nonsense!' she snapped. ‘It's all your imagination – I keep telling you that.'

‘But, my dear, the doctor –'

‘He's a fool, and so are –' She broke off, remembering my presence. She turned to me and gestured in introduction to the man.

‘My husband, Roger,' she admitted regretfully.

Perkins & Tate were at the Exhibition Hall at 7.00 next evening. Gerry Tate brought the camera – it always reassures the Clients to see a camera. Penny, our secretary-assistant, had volunteered free-of-charge overtime, so that she wouldn't miss any of the fun. Since the price was right, we allowed her to come along and carry spare flashbulbs.

A giant Puss-in-Boots bestrode the front entrance like a feline Colossus of Rhodes. Huddled nearby, an anxious knot of children – two boys and a girl – stared up at it, and then at the sign on the entrance booth, which said, ‘Children, accompanied by adults only ... 25P : (5/-).' It rather surprised me, as I hadn't considered a Cat Exhibition an X Certificate production. On second thought, I realized that stray urchins darting through the Exhibition Hall, calling to each other, and trying to pat pretty pussy would make for a great deal of confusion and upset. It seemed tough on these kids, though. They seemed to be a serious little group, and they were taking the bad news pretty hard.

Gerry took a couple of shots of the entrance and we went inside. At first glance, there seemed confusion and kitty-litter everywhere.

There was a crowd at Lady Purr-fect's booth. A group of advertising types were setting up lights and cameras, while a few more brushed her fur, retied a satin bow around her neck, and all but sprayed her with perfume. She sat in the midst of all the attention, looking sulky and bored. I couldn't say I blamed her.

The next stall was occupied by a small, silver-haired man, wearing enormous silver-rimmed glasses, and a sleek, black tail-less tom with a nasty look in its eye. They were both regarding Lady Purr-fect's set-up with envy. Seeing Gerry's camera, the man hurried forward.

‘Good evening, are you Press? My name is Marcus Opal – and this is Precious Black Jade, my Manx. Precious has won five County Cat Shows in just one year of showing,
and
done several freelance modelling assignments. We're expecting great things from this Exhibition, aren't we, Precious?' He reached out an abstracted hand to stroke the cat, still watching us. He should have been watching the cat. Precious laid his ears back and raked several inches of skin off Opal's hand.

‘Precious is frightfully temperamental,' he confided, raising the back of his hand to his mouth and licking the scratches absently. ‘But he's beautifully photogenic. If you'd like to –' He moved aside, so that we could have a better view of Precious.

‘Actually, we're not Press,' I explained. ‘We're the PROs for the Exhibition, but I'm sure we can use a shot of ... er ... Precious ... for some publicity.'

Gerry raised the camera and aimed it. Precious crouched back on his haunches, looking like a miniature panther, and spat viciously. Gerry lowered the camera hurriedly.

‘He seems to be camera-shy,' Gerry said.

‘It's temperament – he's a very highly-bred cat and he has his little nervous crisis just before he settles down for every Show.' Marcus Opal stretched out his hand, and withdrew it quickly, as Precious raked the air with his claws. ‘
So
high-spirited,' he murmured.

Precious turned in our direction and spat forcefully. ‘Perhaps we should come back later – when he's settled down,' I said. Gerry was already backing hurriedly away.

In backing, he tripped over a suitcase.

‘Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' Opal rushed forward and gathered up the suitcase. ‘My case. I'll stay here during the Show. I couldn't leave Precious Black Jade alone. He's much too sensitive.'

Precious arched his back and spat again.

‘I can see that,' Gerry murmured, still backing.

We were at the next stall now. A small, haughty Siamese stared at us coolly. A whisker twitched, as though in amusement. It seems silly to say so but, after Precious, there was something almost human about this one.

‘Hello, darling,' Penny said softly. ‘What are
you
doing here all alone?'

‘Poor darling,' a warm voice said behind us, ‘she's always alone. I expect she's used to it by this time. She's Pandora – Rose Chesne-Malvern's cat. Rose only keeps her to show –' the voice hardened with the animosity of the true cat-lover for those who care only for ribbons – ‘she boards her out the rest of the time.'

We turned as one. ‘That's monstrous!' Penny said indignantly. I wouldn't have put it quite so strongly, but it was evidently the right thing to say, and not a bit exaggerated for a cat-lover.

‘I agree,' the voice warmed again, almost purring. ‘Most of us think that. Unfortunately, there's nothing in the Rules against it.'

The woman was rather like a cat, herself. A small face, pointed chin, green eyes that didn't quite slant, somehow all added up to a friendly effect. Especially when she smiled – the smile was rather devastating. It let us in on secrets, on amusement, on a different way of life. As though she were an interpreter who would guide us through the protocol of a country that was stranger than we had imagined, but not nearly so daunting.

Gerry – always the ladies' man – was reeling. ‘I don't believe we've had the pleasure –'

‘I'm Helena Keswick,' she said, extending her hand. (He nearly kissed it.) ‘Of Keswick Catteries. You know,' her smile broadened, confided, ‘Mother Brown.'

‘Not really!' Gerry bluffed. It seemed to be the only possible answer.

It was so smoothly done I wouldn't have believed it possible but, without quite realizing we were moving, we had been led across the aisle and were standing in front of another stall. It occurred to me that she was probably quite a loss to the Public Relations business.

‘Really!' The wave of her hand took in the stall. On the Napoleonic bed, a smooth, beautifully-groomed, reddish-brown cat lay peacefully, nearly submerged under a heap of slumbering kittens. Discreetly tucked away in a corner of the stall was a suitcase.

‘You're on the Committee, too,' I remarked. ‘And you'll be staying here during the Exhibition.'

‘Naturally.' She turned to me. ‘In any case, I wouldn't like to leave Mother Brown overnight. And Exhibition Litters can't be penned overnight, so they'll all spend their nights in my room with me. Naturally, I'm very pleased that the hotel has given us rooms so close to the Exhibition Hall.'

‘Naturally.' Penny smiled at her, they seemed to have established an instant rapport. Well, it might be useful. But I had never suspected Penny of this fellow-feeling for cats. It made me mildly uneasy.

In the adjoining stall, at the end of the aisle, the immense granite statue of Bast towered over the booth benignly, and seemed to regard Mother Brown with approval. I blinked hard, and it turned to an impassive carving.