Martha Grimes - The Black Cat

“No. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

Aggrieved, Carole-anne said, “What about the shoes? What designer?”

“Jimmy Choo.”

“Sweet!”

“Not so much for the victim; she’s dead.”

“Well, Jimmy Choo didn’t do it. Were they all his shoes?”

“No. There was the French designer… Christian Lousomething.”

Carole-anne consulted her shoe memory bank and her eyes widened. “Christian Louboutin? Red soles?”

“That’s the lad, yes.”

“Those shoes cost a fortune. How does your average working girl afford them?”

“Sales or shoplifting. Anyway, would these escorts be considered ‘average working girls’? They’ve probably got rich clients. You’re beautifully silvered up tonight. Where are you going?”

“Clubbing.” She lay on the couch, ankles crossed. She must be the only woman in London who would get herself up, looking perfect, and then toss herself down any old way.

“Anyone I know?” said Jury.

“No. We don’t know each other’s anyones.” Head on the sofa arm, she held the magazine up to the light of the lamp. Her red gold hair burned in the light.

“Does yours have a name?”

“Monty.”

“And what does Monty do?”

“Sells pricey cars. You’re awful nosy tonight. I never asked you a lot of questions.”

“No, but my date isn’t pleasure. It’s work. It’s part of the investigation.”

Carole-anne brightened considerably, which was hard to do considering her hair was already on fire and her silver dress and strappy shoes were soon to follow.

“Get out from under that light before you blow us all to hell and gone.”

“Huh?” She swung herself around, but not at his insistence, plunked her Manolo Blahniks on the floor, and leaned toward him, her elbows on her knees.

It was a view not without merit. It was a good thing she was young enough to be his daughter! Excuse me, mate, but why’s that a good thing?

“Are you going undercover, then?”

“No, I’m going above cover.”

Her brow tightened in a kind of frown. “You mean this person knows who you are?”

“She does indeed. She just doesn’t know why I asked her out. She thinks I fancy her.”

“Well, you don’t.”

It wasn’t a question. “She’s a bit young for me.”

“So’s the queen. What’s she look like?”

“Like a schoolgirl. Apparently, her clients go for that kind of look.”

“Pervs.” The buzzer rang downstairs. “That’ll be Monty. You can tell me the rest later.” She rose and pulled up the back strap of her silver shoe, then wriggled a little in her dress, which she pulled down.

“Be careful,” he said.

“Careful?”

“Well, I’ve got these women on my mind, I guess. Some man did for them.”

She brushed back her hair. “Well, it wasn’t Monty. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was a man? I know girls that’d kill for a pair of Christian Louboutins. ’Night.”

And she was out of his flat and clicking those four-inch heels down the steps while he was still pondering that last statement.

By the time Melrose got to Belgravia, day was night, or nearly. He sat-they sat, Melrose and the two cats-in his car, watching Harry Johnson’s house on the other side of the square. He had let one out of the carrier so they wouldn’t kill each other. What he wanted to do was simply take the one in the carrier around in back and shove her through a doggie door, if there was one.

Well, he could do the animal shelter bit again, but not if Harry Johnson was in the house.

Melrose pulled out his mobile and, fingering the scrap of paper from his wallet on which he’d scribbled it, punched in the number.

When the housekeeper answered-it must be she, for it sounded like the woman who’d opened the door before-he asked for Mr. Johnson. Oh, too bad, he wasn’t at home.

“No,” said Melrose, “no message. I’ll just ring him again. Thank you.” He flipped the mobile shut and turned around to have a look at Schrödinger, if it was. The second cat, looking equally annoyed, had stuffed herself under the seat. Mean eyes peered out.

The first cat, on whom he was betting his 50 percent chance of success, was not at all happy to see him. Every time he looked at her, she hissed. She despised him, which irritated Melrose to death, considering he was making this effort on her behalf.

He got out and opened the rear door and reached across the backseat for the carrier. This was done to the tune of numerous hisses. He put on his True Friends cap and dragged out the carrier. The cat hissed mightily.

“Put a sock in it,” he said, and slammed the door.

“Mrs… Toby, isn’t it?” Melrose raised his cap.

“Tobias, sir.” She looked down at the carrier. “Well, I’m happy to see Schrödinger’s not come to grief.”

No she wasn’t. She was frowning all over her face. Melrose said, “I feel rather awful about this mix-up.”

“Mix-up? I don’t understand.” Her arms crossed over her bosom, she was scratching at her elbows.

“I got the wrong address, the wrong Johnson. It was not Mr. Harry Johnson’s animal I was to collect, but a Mr. Howard Johnson’s. And he lives in Cadogan Square, not Belgravia. It’s so stupid; I was given the wrong information. At any rate, here’s your cat back. Now, can you assure me it is your cat?” If not, I’ve got another one in the car.

Mrs. Tobias bent down and got a hiss for her trouble. “Oh, that’s Schrödinger”-it came out “Shunger”-“nasty-tempered thing.”

“Yes, I’d have to agree with you there.” Melrose opened the carrier and the cat made straight for the bureau in the room across the hall.

“I guess she did miss them kittens.” Mrs. Tobias sighed.

Relieved of the one cat, he said, “I do apologize again.”

“Oh, never mind, sir. ’Long as the cat’s back before Mr. Johnson.” She opened the door for him and, after he passed through it, looked out and around. “But I do wonder… you didn’t happen to see a little dog about, did you?”

“Dog?”

This would come to tears, he just knew it.

Cigar was a West End club so cool and laid-back, you could walk right past it and never know it was there.

Which was what Jury did. He wondered if that wasn’t a great metaphor for most of what passed for life. Most of the time you could walk right past it.

Its brick facade, its small brass plaque (that no one would be able to see from more than three feet away), its little wrought-iron fence, and its un-uniformed doorman-unless the black turtleneck sweater, black wool jacket, black jeans, all of the black pretensions, were to be taken as a uniform-all of this made the place look helplessly hip.

The black-garbed gatekeeper didn’t do anything except smile slightly and nod. He wasn’t there to check credentials; he was only there to assure customers that this was Mayfair, WI, and Cigar was exclusive.

Inside, he thought about checking his coat with the blonde in the small gated enclosure but decided to keep it in case of the need for a quick getaway. He was a few minutes late, so unless Rosie Moss decided to keep him waiting, she’d be here.

The room put him in mind of last century’s London before the coal fires were damped down and the city was called “the Smoke.” The club meant its name. Through vistas of smoke, he looked the wide room over: the gorgeous brunette sitting at the bar, eyeing him; a tawny-haired woman at one of the roulette tables, where a villainous-looking croupier whipped the wheel around; two blondes, like paper cutouts, sitting close together, dripping a lot of jewelry.

His eye traveled back; he had missed her just as he had missed the club itself-but why wouldn’t he? She turned out to be the gorgeous brunette at the bar, smiling at him. The hair was all curls, no bunches; the candy stripes exchanged for a long black skirt, slit to the knee; black halter top; black fringed shawl; and jade green Christian Louboutin shoes on her feet, one of which she was swinging so that the shoe hung precariously from her toe. So this was Rosie Moss: Dark hair. Black dress. Red soles.