Martha Grimes - The Black Cat

“Knifing the foam from those glasses of Guinness, is he?”

Two fresh pints sat beneath the beer pulls, settling.

“I think Sally’s put down food for him,” whispered Dora as if Mungo might hear her. “We can get him if we’re careful. His back’s turned. I’ll go over and you come with the carrier. But you keep out of sight.”

Dora started over, and after slugging back his whiskey, Melrose picked up the carrier and went toward the bar, skirting the tables. Dora must have grabbed Mungo, for he heard an uncustomary “yip!” and he quickly opened the top of the carrier so that Dora could shovel Mungo in. “Good work, Dora!”

But Dora was looking toward the front of the pub and in a raging whisper said, “Your friend’s just come in!”

Melrose turned and saw Jury. “Sit on it!” he whispered back.

Dora flopped down on the carrier and nearly squashed Mungo. It wasn’t substantial enough to sit. Quickly, she rose and stood in front of it.

Melrose picked up the two pints of unclaimed Guinness, cried out, “Richard!” and walked toward him.

Johnny Boy tried to stop him, saying, “’Ere now, that’s my beer.”

Melrose ignored him. “Have a drink!” he said to Jury. “Let’s sit. There’s Morris! Told you I did it.”

But Morris was more interested in Mungo’s fate than in Jury. She was sitting staunchly before the carrier.

Jury drank some beer and watched this.

Dora slewed around and was petting Morris, making it appear that this was the reason for Morris’s move. It wasn’t. Morris wanted to talk to Mungo.

Can’t you get out?

Probably. I haven’t really put my mind to it.

The Spotter just came in.

Mungo was alert and sat up and tried to look back at the table, but of course he couldn’t turn around in the carrier to see out in that direction.

If you wanted to, you could get him over here. Just bark.

I only bark as a last resort.

Oh. Isn’t this?

I don’t know yet.

“What’s in the carrier?” asked Jury. He gave Melrose a level look. “It’s not Schrödinger, is it?”

“What? What? Of course not. I told you I took Schrödinger back to Belgravia. It was rather slick, if I do say-”

“You could be lying.” Jury started up.

Melrose yanked him down. “Well, ta very much. All the trouble I went to. It’s just Karl.”

“Karl? Who’s Karl?”

“The other black cat. If you remember, there were three.”

“Karl. My Lord, don’t people name their animals Boots or Princess or Spot anymore?”

“Guess not.” Change the subject. “How’s the investigation going?”

“It’s close to the end, I think.” Jury started up again. “Right now-”

Melrose pulled him down again.

“What’s the matter with you? I’ve got to get back to London. This is still an ongoing investigation and I’ve got to interview someone.”

“Oh, London! Yes, by all means. Remember, you’re coming to Ardry End after.”

“When I get done with this, yes.” He took another swallow of beer. “Thanks for the drink.”

Dora waved from the carrier, and Jury sketched her a salute just as his mobile went into its performance of “Three Blind Mice.” He was out the door.

Melrose rushed to the carrier, picked it up, and moved to the door that led to the car park.

“He’s back!” cried Dora.

Melrose dumped the carrier and turned. There was Jury again.

“Guess who that was on the phone? Harry Johnson, if you can believe it. He wants to know what in hell happened to his dog.”

Melrose squinted. “What dog?”

Mungo was having none of it.

Well, some of it, perhaps. There’s not much you can do against four hands stuffing you into a box and then sitting on you. It’s always a battle between cleverness and brute force, isn’t it? Then into the car, heave-ho, and the Duck into the driver’s seat, and they were off.

He wished he could have got free of the carrier before the car left the Black Cat car park so that he could have pressed his face against the rear window and waved good-bye, good-bye, as was always done in films.

But he could still send the message to Morris: Good-bye, I’ll see you soon. Morris had very nearly jumped in the car but had been torn between leaving and staying and had made the wrong choice, of course, and stayed.

Cats. How much fun could a cat have sitting on a table in the sun for endless hours without going stark raving mad with boredom? Never mind, he would see Morris again.

But at the moment, he was intent upon working his way out of this carrier. It wouldn’t be too difficult as long as someone wasn’t sitting on it. It was closed only by a couple of stuck-together flaps, and the Duck hadn’t even done them up properly. He’d been all in a hurry to get Mungo out the door of the pub. What Mungo couldn’t understand was why the Spotter hadn’t twigged it.

Come on, is it that difficult to sort out? Cat carrier. Cat outside it. Something inside. Dog missing. What conclusion would one draw from that? What might the something inside the carrier be? If the Spotter couldn’t work out that equation, how could he sort a murder case?

Mungo had worked his paw up against the flap, wedged it into the flap, and worked it back and forth patiently. He got it open. He climbed out, stealth being his middle name. The Duck was driving, humming away…

Mungo pulled up to a window. He wanted to see just where they were, for instinct told him the Duck was going the wrong way-

Slough? What in God’s name were they doing in Slough? He watched as the car plowed round the roundabout twice. The Duck didn’t even know where-oh, there he went, missed it again!

LONDON RING ROAD

M4 M25 M40

Missed it again! What was it with humans? Had they no instinct for direction? Had they no maps in their minds? Good grief, even eels could swim from Europe to Bermuda; monarch butterflies could fly from Canada to Mexico; cows in a field could all point true north-but the Duck couldn’t manage to get out of Slough?

Mungo slid down to the seat and went back to the carrier. Might as well have a kip. It’s all going to come to tears anyway.

He crawled back into the carrier and didn’t bother pulling the flaps or this shambles of the human race in with him.

And the Duck drove on.

Rose Moss came to the door, looking as she had the first time Jury had seen her: cotton dress, hair in bunches, feet this time in a different pair of furry slippers, white with floppy ears. It made Jury wonder for a moment if he must be wrong, if this was the woman who had sat with him in Cigar; if this was the woman who had killed one person and probably two.

“Hello, Rose.”

It looked as if she might shut the door in his face but thought better of it and opened it wider instead. “Come to give me a hard time, have you?” she said as he entered.

He smiled. “Yes.”

“Me, I’m having a drink. If you want one.”

“I don’t mind. Whiskey’s fine.”

“Ha! Listen to him. It better be, as it’s all I have.”

Jury tossed his coat onto a chair and watched her walk toward the small tray table of faded flowers where the bottles were. How could the woman in Cigar, her feet encased in Christian Louboutin heels, be here now wearing bunny slippers?

“Rose…”

“Pardon? Adele to you, love.”

“Oh, we’re no longer friends?”

She handed him a glass with barely enough whiskey to copper-line the bottom. “Let the good times roll.”

Jury held it up.

Rose took a seat not by him on the sofa but in a small armchair opposite with her half-finger of whiskey.

“Tell me about Stacy, will you?”