Martha Grimes - The Black Cat

“Yet Superintendent Jury doesn’t get it.”

“Oh, he gets it all right. He seems to be returning the favor.” Harry turned partway in his chair, not far enough that he could actually see Jury, just enough to let Jury know he was aware he was there.

Jury smiled, saying nothing.

“All right,” said Jenkins in a tone that suggested it was not “all right,” that it was indeed idiotic. “Perhaps someone did see you. A man with a cat carrier might be noticed.”

“No one saw me, Inspector. I took pains that no one would.”

Mention of the carrier reminded Jury to check his watch. It was by now nearly five, almost an hour since they’d left Harry’s house. Plant would be well away by now. Halfway to Chesham.

“Let’s talk about the second victim. Kate Banks. On the night she was murdered, you were at home?”

“Yes, again.”

“You were alone.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, as I said.”

“Are you familiar with the King’s Road Companions escort service? Or Smart Set or Valentine’s?”

Harry’s expression was contemptuous. “Inspector, I’ve never used an escort service in my life. Highly paid and well-organized prostitution.”

“Perhaps not all of them. King’s Road Companions claims to work just that way. Companionship, either alone or at social functions. No sex.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“I’m inclined to after talking with several of the women who work for it. It’s different from the escort services.”

Jury wondered if the difference was significant. Poor Kate. Her death moved him in a way the others’ hadn’t. Perhaps because she seemed such a good person.

Fifteen minutes later, he left Snow Hill after Jenkins said to him, “You know we can’t hold him much longer.”

“Try.” Jury thanked him and left.

Jury didn’t take off his coat so much as cast it off, aiming it in the general direction of the office coatrack. “Is it getting cold or am I getting old? You don’t really have to think about it, Wiggins. So where’s this photo?”

Holding the picture, Wiggins slapped it down on Jury’s desk. “It’s from Myra Brewer’s album. Taken on Brighton pier. Prepare to be surprised, boss. The girls are friends of Kate Banks.”

Jury glanced at the line of girls. “I don’t see Deirdre Small or Mariah Cox here.”

“I didn’t say they were. Look again.”

Jury did so. His glance stopped on the face of the unsmiling girl-aggressively unsmiling, if there were such an expression. As if she hated the person holding the camera.

“Bloody hell. Christine Cummins.”

“Her name’s not Christine, sir. It’s Crystal, Crystal North back then. Which is probably why we missed any connection to Mrs. Cummins when we were checking these women’s backgrounds. Not that we’d’ve come up with every single friend or acquaintance… But what do you think, guv?”

Jury sat staring at the photo. “I don’t. I don’t have one bloody idea, Wiggins.”

“Maybe this time it is coincidence. I know you hate that word, only…”

Jury leaned back. “The trouble with coincidence in this case is that Chris Cummins didn’t say anything about knowing Kate Banks. Not a word.”

“Maybe she just saw the write-up in the papers or heard the news and didn’t put the murdered Kate together with her old Roedean chum Kate. Of course, we don’t know she went there. And these girls in the photo didn’t necessarily go there. Although Myra Brewer seemed to think they were all school chums.”

“‘A pricey public school on the coast,’ that’s what David Cummins said. That could certainly have meant Roedean. It’s near Brighton.”

“There’re a lot of pricey schools. That could just be coincidence, too.”

Jury shook his head. “Could be, but…” He checked his watch, got up. “I’ve got to get back to my place and change my clothes. I’ve got a date with our girl from Valentine’s. Stacy Storm’s flatmate.”

“You mean Adele Astaire?”

“Right. Aka Rose Moss.” He retrieved his coat, which had fallen to the floor. “Come on, it’s nearly six. Good job, Wiggins.”

Walking down the corridor, Wiggins said, “What about Harry Johnson?”

“Jenkins took him in for questioning. ‘Helping us with our inquiries.’ ” Jury snickered.

“Do you honestly think he killed these women?”

“No.” Jury smiled.

After a scanty half an hour’s presence in the Black Cat, Mungo had already divested a tubby man sitting at the bar of half a banger; been offered a hard-boiled egg, which he’d turned down, not knowing what to do with it; got a large portion of beans on toast (eaten the beans and left the toast) belonging to a couple who’d been having a quiet meal at a table by the fireplace.

Sally Hawkins, who was having no success at all in shooing Mungo away from the tables, complained bitterly to Melrose. “Who’s that dog that’s been all over the room begging food off my customers?”

Melrose put down his book and looked puzzled. “What dog?”

“That dog!” The finger she pointed had a cutting edge. “That mutt that’s begging his dinner.” It was a table where a lone man sat. Melrose stood up, hoping the “mutt” attribution hadn’t reached Mungo’s ears. Mungo had now drifted from the beans-on-toast couple to a man by himself with a paper and a ploughman’s. The man was handing Mungo down a bit of cheese.

Melrose adjusted his glasses, as if the fractional realignment of glasses with eyes would reacquaint him with the dog. “I have no idea.”

She stood with hands on hips. “Well, he came in with you!”

Melrose leaned back from her. “With me? I believe you’re mistaken. I brought Dora’s cat back.” His injured tone suggested that this act of mercy and heroism was being unkindly repaid. “Dora is certainly happy.”

“Well, the dog was with Morris, is what I’m saying.”

Melrose laughed. “With Morris? I don’t think so. Morris-” Here he ran his hand over Morris, who was in her favorite spot by a window, where light was fast deepening into dusk. “Morris strikes me as a cat who would hardly strike up a friendship with a gypsy dog.” He picked up his book. It was called A Dog’s Life. Not the best choice for a man who had no interest in dogs.

“You’re telling me the dog’s a stray?”

Melrose shut his eyes as if his patience were wearing thin. “I’m not telling you anything, other than I don’t feel I should be held responsible for knowing the dog’s provenance. He appears to be well-mannered-that is, he’s not fighting your customers for food-so I’d assume he belongs to someone in Chesham here.”

“He’s been round all the tables.”

“Just as long as he’s not eating with a runcible spoon.”

“A what?”

Melrose was saved from reciting “The Owl and the Pussycat” by the return of Dora, who veritably bounced into the chair beside Morris (never mind Melrose).

Mungo chose this moment to turn up, too, at their table. Great.

He hauled himself up beside Morris, lay down, and tried to fold in his paws.

Sally Hawkins nodded toward the two. “There’s something awful matey about those two. The dog acts like it knows Morris. Like they’re mates.”

Just as she said that, Schrödinger (if it was Schrödinger) raced by with the other black cat (unless that was Schrödinger instead) on her heels. They pulled up under the table of the elderly lady with the racing form. The two cats nearly brought her down as all of their ten legs got caught up together.

“Bloody beasts,” the elderly lady muttered, and went for them with the racing form. “You know, Mrs. Hawkins, you’ve got three cats in here. You might think more about that problem than about the one dog.”