Murder on Show (7 page)

A claw descended, hooking into the back of my hand. ‘Don't move,' Helena Keswick said quickly. ‘She doesn't mean to hurt you. Cats don't often scratch people. People scratch themselves. A cat's claws are curved at the ends, so that they hook into their quarry. You scratch yourself when you pull away – the
cat
doesn't scratch
you.
Just don't struggle, and she'll let go in a few seconds.'

I froze. I had no choice but to take her word for it. Mother Brown glanced up at me quickly, sensing she had won without a fight. She brought her other front paw up and hooked the hamburger out of the bun in my nerveless grasp. Picking it up in her teeth, she retracted her claws, and backed with it to the far corner of her stall, giving me a chummy growl that dared me to come after her and try to retrieve it.

‘I wouldn't dream of it,' I told her. ‘Ladies first. Motherhood must be served – and all that sort of thing.'

Helena Keswick watched us both with amusement. Mother Brown paused and raked a bit of fried onion off the hamburger.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I'd have told them to hold the onion, if I'd known. Is the ketchup all right?'

Helena Keswick laughed out loud. I began to feel that the hamburger might be considered an investment in good will – as well as being eligible for the Expense Account. ‘You wouldn't,' I offered it to her, ‘care for a slightly used bun, would you?'

‘It's amazing,' she chortled. ‘I can't believe it didn't happen by accident, but Rose Chesne-Malvern actually got the
right
PRO for this Exhibition.'

But an accident-prone Security Guard.
To put the best possible light on it.

It didn't seem a good thing to say to Helena Keswick, however. She'd been under a strain, worrying about Mother Brown and her brood. She had a right to some light relief. I bowed to her and continued on my way. There was just one more stop I had to make before I began worrying about the two-legged characters.

I might as well not have bothered. Although she had been watching my approach, Pandora wasn't speaking to me. She made that quite clear, turning her back as I came up to our –
her
– stall.

‘Look,' I said, ‘I couldn't help it. You saw her. She just waltzed up and snatched it away from me. I ask you, what could I
do?

Turning her head only slightly, she damned me for a faithless wretch, unworthy of the devotion of a poor, honest, trusting cat.

‘Look,' I said desperately, leaning on the rail, ‘just tell me – what could I do? Did you expect me to belt her one, or something? Haven't you any regard for the sanctity of the home and motherhood, and all that?'

She uncurled slowly and turned to face me. Unhurriedly, she sauntered over. I was just relaxing, thinking we were friends again, when she hooked her claws into the back of my hand. Remembering Helena Keswick's advice, I froze.

‘Grryah!' she snarled, deliberately pulling her claws the length of my hand and removing several shreds of skin. Then she sauntered back to the farthest corner of her stall and crouched down, back to me, tail curled around her, still muttering imprecations.

‘All right,' I said, licking the back of my hand and trying to avoid Marcus Opal's sympathetic gaze, ‘all right, I can take a hint.'

I stormed outside to the hamburger stall again. ‘Two,' I ordered, ‘forget the bun on one of them.'

But the order was too confusing. While the concessionaire attempted to argue it out with me, I became aware of a pair of pleading eyes just above knee level.

‘Are you going to eat
two
hamburgers, mister?' she asked. ‘All by
yourself
?'

She was nearly as good as Pandora at making me feel a great, hulking, insensitive brute. ‘Why, are you hungry?'

‘Oh, yes,
please.
' Her eyes glowed with hope, but dimmed as I pulled a handful of change out of my pocket.

‘What's the matter?' Belatedly, I remembered that most children are trained never to take money or sweets from strangers. Unless, of course, they're collecting for a Guy.

‘If you give us money,' she said, ‘Brian won't let us spend it. Because we've got to get into the Show. And we have to pay our fares, too.'

‘Fares?' I was momentarily diverted. ‘Where do you come from, then?'

‘Peckham,' she said.

‘Peckham – that's the other side of the city and across the river. You must really want to see this Show.'

‘We've
got
to get in. So we have to save all the money we get. But –' she smiled enchantingly – ‘if you give us
hamburgers,
we'll have to eat them. Because you can't save them up.'

‘You're right.' The kid's logic was irrefutable. Her arithmetic was pretty good, too. Somehow, the hamburger I'd planned on buying her had been parlayed into three hamburgers.

‘Three more hamburgers,' I conceded without a struggle. ‘And I suppose you could use three Pepsis, too?'

‘Oooh,
thank
you, mister.' She turned and signalled to her companions. The older boy glowered disapprovingly – I gathered he was Brian and would rather have had the money – but the younger boy came running up to help her carry the loot. I helped load them up, conscious of a glow of virtue. The poor kids were probably starving, and it was nearly noontime.

I was back inside the Exhibition before I realized that I was only carrying one hamburger, and Pandora was waiting for me. I debated whether it was worth continuing to be in the doghouse with her, and decided to put it to her squarely.

‘Look,' I said reasonably, ‘for reasons too involved to go into, this is all I was able to get. I'm hungry. How about going halves with me?'

Cocking her head to one side, she appeared to consider the proposition. Then, lashing one paw out suddenly, she hooked the meat out from the middle of the bun and carried it into the corner of her cage, leaving me with
my
half – the empty bun.

‘Thanks a lot,' I said bitterly. ‘You're a real sport.' Sneering, she settled down to enjoy her hamburger. The onions didn't seem to bother her at all. In fact, she seemed to enjoy them, too.

I nibbled moodily at the dry bun, but gave up and roamed off to find the litter bin I'd noticed at some earlier point in my travels.

‘Psst, Doug.' The hail from behind the shrubbery startled me. Brooding over the injustices of the world, I had nearly forgotten the reason I had come back to the Exhibition unfed. Dave Prendergast, motioning me into his stall, reminded me.

‘Doug, am I glad to see you! Listen, have you seen Rose Chesne-Malvern yet?'

‘No,' I said, ‘only her cat –
she
was in a lousy mood, too.'

‘Listen, Doug,' Dave said urgently, ‘there's something funny going on. I can't get to the bottom of it, I'm stuck here on the Stand. But you can wander around –'

He was a nice guy, but a bit naïve. It didn't seem to occur to him that I had no interest in getting to the bottom of anything funny. Quite the contrary. I just wanted to ignore it. And make sure the newspapers ignored it, too. I tried to give him a gentle hint.

‘The Press are here,' I said. ‘We're photographing the Private Opening soon. Just cool it, will you?'

‘Oh.' The idea seemed to startle him. ‘Sure, Doug, sure. I'm sorry. I just got carried away –'

‘Well, don't,' I said. ‘It was quite enough to have the Security Guard carried away. We want to soft-pedal that sort of thing. We're concentrating on the nice pretty little moggies, remember?'

‘Okay, Doug, sure, but I think I ought to tip you off –' I saw, gloomily, that Dave was going to have no nonsense about bearing a burden alone and privately – ‘I heard the ambulance men talking. They found the Guard right here, you know, under those stairs. And the intern said he couldn't explain those head injuries at all. He said they couldn't possibly have been incurred by just falling down stairs!' He leaned back and looked at me expectantly.

‘Thank you, Dave,' I said. ‘I'll bear that in mind. It will lighten many a dark hour for me. I hope you don't intend to confide that little item to too many. I mean, like not more than
one
reporter from each newspaper?'

‘Oh.' Something in my tone finally got through to him. ‘I wouldn't do that, Doug. Honest, I wouldn't. I just thought
you
ought to know. I mean, if I don't tell you, who ought I to tell?'

Who, indeed? ‘Okay, Dave,' I said. ‘Just leave it with me, will you?'

‘Oh, sure, Doug, that's what I meant. That's all I intended to do. Honest. I can keep my mouth shut.' He shuffled through several boxes of his product anxiously, like a gambler shuffling cards to reassure himself that he hadn't lost his touch.

‘Here.' He picked up a couple of large size boxes of Pussy No-Poo and thrust them at me. ‘Compliments of the house. No,' as I hesitated, ‘I mean it. Take them.'

There was nothing else I could do. ‘Well thanks,' I said, recognizing the gesture of amends, rather than fully appreciating it. ‘That's kind of you.'

‘Think nothing of it.' He began bustling about the Stand, rearranging the display.

It seemed to be my cue to move along. ‘See you later.' I glanced at my watch and discovered that the Exhibition was faking its opening in less than an hour. I knew from experience how fast things would move from this point to the Opening. Already, I was aware of the growing crowds surging through the Hall, of the cameramen, of the bright lights and cables snaking along the floor that meant the television cameras were waiting.

I moved back to the Special Exhibits. That was where it was all going to be happening. The concentration of portable lights was brightest around the satin curtains shrouding the gold Whittington Cat.

When Kellington Dasczo stepped forward, made his witty little speech and pulled the cord to part the curtains and display the gold image to the public gaze, the Exhibition would be ‘officially' open, although the public wouldn't come in until tomorrow.

Whatever my personal opinion of him, my duty seemed to lie with Kellington Dasczo at the moment. I checked in at the booth opposite. Pearlie King was immaculately groomed, smooth short coat gleaming, pearl-button collar glowing against the dark fur.

Kellington was slightly less well-groomed. Not seeming to notice, he was giving a final brushing to Pearlie King's sleek fur.

‘Hadn't you better change?' I suggested. ‘You're on in twenty minutes.'

‘Yes, yes,' he said abstractedly. ‘Plenty of time. I just want to get Pearlie King
quite
settled first.'

‘This might help.' On impulse, I proffered one of the large boxes of Pussy No-Poo. ‘Compliments of Dave Prendergast. It's quite good, really. Pandora likes it.'

After I'd said it, I felt absurd, giving Pandora as a sort of reference for the stuff. But Kellington didn't seem to find anything odd about it.

‘Really?' He snatched at the packet eagerly. ‘I say, that's most awfully good of you – and what's-his-name. Pearlie
has
been put off a bit by the disgraceful stuff the Committee provided.'

Quite unselfconsciously, he ripped open the packet and poured it into the earth tray. Pearlie King watched with interest and went over to sniff at it as soon as he had finished.

‘Ah,' Kellington breathed, ‘I do think that's going to do the trick. You
are
kind.' He beamed at me approvingly. ‘You know, I've underestimated you. Oh, I always knew you were clever – rather facile, I thought. I never realized you were so sensitive, had so much feeling – I mean, I didn't know you were a
cat
person!'

I bowed wordlessly. It seemed to be his ultimate in compliments. ‘So, now you know,' I said, deciding to trade on whatever new reputation I had established in his eyes. ‘So, now, will you get the hell to your room and make yourself presentable. You're on in fifteen minutes.'

‘Fifteen minutes!' he squawked. ‘Of course, Douglas, of course. Just hold the fort for me, will you, please?' He snatched up a few essentials and bolted for his room.

Outside the shrouded stall opposite, the crowd was growing thicker by the minute. Hot, bright lights centred on the satin draperies.

Pandora was right next door. I hoped it wasn't disturbing her too much. Looking over, I found her uneasy, but fairly relaxed. She was watching me intently. I realized that she was not going to get too upset about anything as long as I was in view.

Pearlie King seemed to be all right, so I moved over to Pandora. ‘Easy, pet,' I said, scratching her head. She purred softly, thrusting her head into my hand. It seemed we had buried the hatchet.

Hugo Verrier, preened to the nth degree, appeared in the next-door stall. Rose Chesne-Malvern, looking rather the peahen to his peacock, stood beside him. A few cameras flashed.

Then Kellington Dasczo dashed down the aisle, looking at his watch. I glanced at my own. 12.30 on the button. Why had I worried? Kellington Dasczo, whatever anyone might think of him, was professional to his fingertips.

He took up his stance in front of the curtained statue. He bowed to Rose Chesne-Malvern, he mentioned Hugo Verrier approvingly, he spoke of each cat in the Special Exhibits by name, citing a few salient facts and giving the television cameras time to pan down the aisle.

He swooped across the aisle and collected Pearlie King. Holding him close, best profiles turned to the cameras, he finished the expected, witty, urbane little speech.

With a flourish, he turned and pulled the cord. The satin draperies parted, the cameras zoomed in for a close-up.

Rose Chesne-Malvern screamed and fainted into Hugo Verrier's nerveless arms. He let her fall to the floor as he stood staring and using a few choice words which should never go out over the co-axial cable, even in this Permissive Society.