Shirley Murphy - Cat Under Fire

She would not even consider, now, that they might be disappointed, that the locker might contain something very different from Janet's paintings, she had put that unworthy idea aside. Dulcie felt success in her bones; she was afire with the same surge of blood, the same deep, sure excitement as when they trotted up into the hills on a fine hunting night-on a night she knew would be laced with some pure, hot victory.

Shorebird Lockers was a complex of twelve concrete buildings, each a hundred feet long, with wide aisles between. The roofs were of corrugated metal, and a six-foot chain-link fence enclosed the compound, its posts and bottom edge set securely into cement. The facility had all the charm of a concentration camp as seen in some old World War II movie, barren, chill to the spirit, hard to escape.

But there were no prisoners here, this camp was empty of humanity. The only life visible was the two cats trotting quickly up a wide concrete alley beneath the yellow glow cast by security lamps rising at regular intervals from the corners of the buildings. The cats avoided the center of the alley, where metal grids covered a six-inch gutter littered with refuse, scraps of paper, muddy leaves, bobby pins, an occasional lost key. The corrugated metal doors above them reflected their swift shadows flashing through shafts of harsh light. Some of the doors were narrow, some as wide as a double garage. Locker K20 was halfway up the last alley. The time was eight-fifteen. The complex had been closed for fifteen minutes.

Earlier, slipping inside the open gate, they had hidden behind a Dumpster, watching for the caretaker to come out of the office, lock up, and go home. The office occupied the far end of the building nearest the gate, and the lights were still on. They presumed the caretaker's car was parked beyond the fence on the street, one of several at the curb in front of the adjoining hardware and tool rental stores. Both those shops were closed.

Soon the man appeared, heading for the gate, a small, silver-haired old fellow. They watched him pull the chain-link gate closed from inside, snap the padlock, and turn back into the complex. He made no move to leave. Entering the little office, soon those lights went out and lights at the back came on, in the room behind, accompanied by the sound of a television, the unmistakable canned laughter of a sitcom.

"He's in for the night," Dulcie said. "I hadn't thought he might live here. But maybe the TV will hide whatever noise we make."

"I'm not planning to make any noise." He trotted away toward the back, following the numbers.

But when they had located locker K20, in the building nearest the back fence, they found there would be two locks to open.

One communal door led to a group of inner rooms, apparently small lockers sharing an inner hall. The outer door to lockers K17 through K28 was secured with a combination lock. This might be the lock Mahl's combination opened, or it might not. There was bound to be another lock inside at his individual door. Maybe a keyed lock, maybe another combination. There was also the question of the keyed padlock on the front gate. Mahl, at three in the morning, had to have a key for that. And he would have had to be very quiet loading and unloading the paintings, with the old man asleep so nearby.

They looked up at the communal padlock, its tiny silver numbers etched into a black circle. Crouching, Dulcie leaped at the heavy lock, clawing at the dial, grasping at it ineffectually with her paws.

She jumped six times and fell back. It would take both paws to turn the dial and would take a steady stance-she couldn't do it, jumping. She tried balancing on Joe's back but still she needed both paws and couldn't stay steady without bracing herself against the door. "Stop shifting around. Can't you stand still? Can't you hold your back flatter?"

"My back is not flat. I can't balance you unless I move around. This isn't going to work."

This was totally frustrating. Cats were masters at the art of balancing; any scruffy stray could trot casually along the thinnest fence. But trying to stand on Joe's back she felt as clumsy as a two-legged dog.

Irritated, she began to pace. Joe hardly noticed her as he stared high above, toward the roof.

"There's a vent up there." He crouched. "Maybe I can get through the screen."

Before she could comment he gave a powerful spring, hit the top of the metal door, clawing, digging into the wood frame. Hanging from the frame, fighting, reaching up, he was just able to hook his claws into the screen of the small, high vent. The screen ripped under his weight, and with one powerful heave he pulled himself in. Hanging in the rectangular hole, half in and half out, his belly over the sill, he kicked again and disappeared inside.

She crouched, wiggled her butt, and sprang after him up the side of the wall-and fell back, her claws screeching down the steel door so loudly she was sure the watchman would hear.

She tried again. And again. At the third leap she caught the bottom of the vent, clawing, scrabbling to hang on. Kicking hard, she pulled herself up through the screen, felt its torn, ragged edges tearing out hanks of fur.

Inside she stood in darkness, perched above the lockers just beneath the metal roof. It was warm against her back, the day's accumulation of heat still radiating from the metal. The tops of the locker walls formed an open grid stretching away. The only light was from the vent opening behind her and a matching vent maybe forty feet away, at the back. In the locker directly below her, she could make out stacked furniture, tables, chairs, bedsprings, suitcases. Peering along above the walls, she could not see Joe. She didn't call to him, she mewled softly.

"Come over the walls." His voice sounded hollow. "The fourth locker."

She crept along the top of the wall, brushing under cobwebs. The second locker smelled of mildewed clothes and was piled with cardboard boxes. Two bicycles hung on its wall beside several car parts: bumpers, fenders, a hood. The third locker was empty, emitting a chill breath that smelled of concrete. She found it mildly amusing that humans accumulated so many possessions they had to rent lockers to store them-or clutter the house to distraction, like Mama.

But why should she be amused? Was she any different, with her box of stolen sweaters and silk stockings and lacy teddies? Who knew, maybe if she was a human person she might have every closet and dresser crammed full, a compulsive shopper mindlessly dragging home everything that took her fancy.

But then, peering down into the fourth locker, she forgot human foibles, forgot her own acquisitive weakness. Looking, crouching forward, she caught her breath.

The locker was filled with paintings. Not a foot below her marched a row of big canvases, standing upright in a wooden rack.

Oh, the lovely smell of canvas and dried oil paints. Shivering, her heart pounding, she reached down her paw to pat their rough edges.

And the canvas was stapled. She could not feel any thumbtacks.

Then she saw, on the floor beyond the painting rack, Joe's white face, white chest and paws, the rest of him lost in darkness. "Be careful," he said, as she bunched to leap down, "there's some…"

Too late. She landed on something hard that flew from under her, crashing to the floor loud as an explosion.

"Some wooden crates," Joe finished. "Are you okay?"

"Damn. I'll bet the guard heard that."

"Maybe not, with the TV on. His room is clear across the complex. Maybe the crates contain Janet's sculpture; that one rattled like metal when it fell." The six wooden crates had no markings, but they were heavy and solid, securely nailed.