Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

Those two cops were going to get some heavy claws if they tried that trick.

"They won't hurt us," she said gently. "We're not criminals, we're just little village cats."

"Village cats don't get locked in the stores; they have better sense." He gave her a long look. "Get real, Dulcie. In here, we classify as a nuisance, and a nuisance goes to the pound. You think, at the pound, they allow you to call your attorney?"

He didn't know what was wrong with him tonight; he was acting like a total wimp. Maybe he was sickening with something. He dug his claws into the carpet, watching the two officers let themselves in the front door, shivering as their spotlights swept the angled walls-and trying to talk sense to himself.

So they see us. Dulcie's right, no big deal. We're not strays, we're respected village cats. People know us. Certainly most of the cops know us.

And if some of the cops knew them too well, so what? Though he had to admit, Captain Harper had enough questions about them already without provoking him further.

Harper was, in fact, too damn suspicious. And when Harper asked questions of Clyde, Clyde got upset. And Clyde lit into him.

No, if we're going to snoop into police business, play PI and maybe step on a few police toes, then secrecy is our best weapon - our only weapon.

The cops' lights glanced and paused, illuminating paintings, then running on across the zigzag walls, illuminating a sculpture stand holding a bronze head, flashing across a huge seascape, then onto the desk, blazing inches from their noses.

Spotlights hit the desk, focusing on the open drawer above Joe and Dulcie, and an officer approached. Black trouser legs and black shoes filled their vision. He smelled of shoe polish and gun oil, stood above them as if looking into the drawer and studying its contents. The cats barely breathed. But Dulcie's dark eyes were slitted with amusement. She had that devilish look, as if any second she'd trot out from under the desk and wind around the officer's ankles. Joe glared until she quit grinning and settled back into the blackness of the desk's cubbyhole.

But at last the officer turned away, directing his beam on across the gallery, the officers' two lights washing away each shadow, illuminating each niche. And talk about a small world. Lieutenant Brennan and Officer Wendell had been present up at the car agency when Captain Harper found the counterfeit money. The cats, wandering among the officers' feet, had watched the result of their clandestine efforts with great satisfaction. Brennan was the hefty one. It was hard to tell whether his snug uniform concealed fat or muscle. Wendell was skinny, pale, his narrow face too serious. Joe could not remember ever seeing Wendell smile.

As the officers moved toward the back of the gallery, throwing the desk into darkness, Dulcie shifted her position, easing her tension. At the back, the flashlight beams picked out, one by one, the storeroom door, the three closed doors, the loading door.

But suddenly Brennan's beam swung around, returned to Janet's desk, and dropped beneath it. Hit them square in the face. They were pinned in the glare like moths against a window.

Brennan's gun was drawn. When he saw them he lowered it, laughing. "Cats! Only a couple of cats."

"Cats, for Christ sake," Wendell said. "Could cats trip the alarm?"

"It's at floor level. Anything moving could trip it." Brennan approached the desk, but still scanning the room, keeping his back to the wall. He knelt, reached under. "Come on out, you two. Come on out of there." He reached for Joe, gentle but authoritative.

Joe snarled.

Brennan drew his hand back.

"Okay, don't come out. How did you two get in here-you don't belong here. Sicily doesn't have cats." He rose. "We'll let them be, maybe they'll come out on their own." He started away, then looked back. "You better not have left a mess."

The two officers checked the padlock on the loading door, opened each of the other doors, then moved into the storeroom. Switching on the lights, they covered each other as they searched the three narrow aisles. Only when they had cleared the premises, had found no human intruder and nothing else that seemed disturbed except for the open desk drawer, did they return to rout the cats. And, of course, the cats were gone.

Crouched in a dark angle of wall near the front, Joe and Dulcie waited, hoping to escape, hoping one of the officers would open the door. But before they could streak away to freedom Brennan's roving light found them again. Joe snarled into the dazzle. Dulcie gave Brennan an innocent smile, her eyes wide and loving, and raised a soft paw, all sleepy-eyed sweetness. As Brennan knelt to pet her, only Joe saw, only another cat would detect deep within her green gaze, a wicked feline guile.

Behind Brennan, Wendell frowned. "Could those be the two cats from Beckwhite's? The cats that were hanging around when we found the counterfeit bills?"

"Looks like the same two. That gray one, that looks like Clyde Damen's cat."

Wendell nodded. "Maybe they wandered in before Ms. Aronson locked up-or when someone else came in, or left. That stripy one, I've seen a cat like that over around the dress shops on Dolores."

Brennan shrugged. "Go call Sicily Aronson, use the phone on the desk. See if she'll come down and check the place out before we lock up. Use your handkerchief, don't smear any prints." He knelt again and reached for Joe.

Joe raised a bladed paw, but didn't strike; he studied the officer, considering.

Stupid move, really stupid. Bloody the hand of the law, Bucko, and you're in big trouble.

He drew back his claws.

Brennan touched Joe's ear with a gentle, unthreatening finger. He was reaching to stroke Joe's back when a shout from the street sent the officer spinning around, his hand on his revolver.

The glass door rattled, shook under pounding fists. "What are you doing. That's my cat!" Clyde beat harder, and Joe thought he'd shatter the glass. "That's my cat, Brennan! Let me in."

Brennan rose, unlocked the door, and switched on the gallery lights, illuminating Clyde and Charlie.

"What the hell is this? Put down the damned gun, Brennan. How did my cat-our cats-get in here?"

Joe sat very straight, his ears erect. He was mighty relieved to see Clyde. But he wasn't going to let him know it. As Clyde moved into the gallery, Charlie stood in the doorway regarding the scene, looking from the officers to the cats with a puzzled, crooked little grin. Caught in a deliberate breaking and entering, Dulcie gave her a wide stare, then began to wash, as if all this fuss was unspeakably boring.

Clyde scooped Joe up. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Joe regarded him coldly. Clyde clutched him with unnecessary firmness, gave him a deep, penetrating stare, then glared down at Dulcie. "What the hell were you two doing?" But he looked as if he didn't want to know.

"They set off the alarm," Brennan said, "there below the glass. Must have got ten shut in by mistake-no harm done."

Charlie knelt and gathered up Dulcie, cuddling her. Dulcie lay softly against Charlie's shoulder, cutting her eyes at Joe, highly amused.

Brennan had bolstered his pistol. "Sicily's on her way down to check the place out" He nodded toward the open desk drawer. "Maybe someone was in here and left-but they must have had a key, no sign of forced entry."

Clyde stared at the open drawer. He looked at Joe. He said nothing. His eyes said plenty. He took a firmer grip on the nape of Joe's neck, his fist almost pulsing with anger.

"Sorry they made trouble, Brennan," he said pleasantly. "Damn cats, always into something."