Shirley Murphy - Cat in the Dark

The opposite corner of the room served as a depository for trash and empty cans.

Greeley's shirt and pants were wrinkled and stained, and he smelled not only of rum but desperately in need of a bath.

"What you want, you cats? You didn't come to this dump sightseeing. Why you looking for Pearl Ann?"

But then the old man's face crumpled. "You didn't come to make condolences, either." He stared hard at them. "You saw her, didn't you. You saw her dead- I saw you looking!" He sat down on the mattress, eased a bottle of rum from under the blanket and upended it, taking a long pull. He was so pitiful that Dulcie wanted to pat his face with a soft paw.

"Ought to have swish 'n' swash," he said and took another swig. "But you need a coconut for that." He giggled at a joke the two cats didn't understand; they watched him, unblinking.

"What, for Christ's sake?" he shouted at them. "What you staring at?" He leaped up suddenly, lunging at them. Dulcie flipped away but Joe crouched snarling, ready to strike.

Greeley paused, uncertain.

"Pearl Ann Jamison," Joe hissed. "Where does she live? Which room?"

Greeley's laugh blasted the air, drowning them in the stink of rum. "I knew it. What you looking for her for?"

He sat unsteadily on a carton. "She rented the last empty room. All I could get was this storeroom."

He smirked at them, pleased. "Rental office let me have it cheap, when I tole 'em I was teetotal." And he belched and scratched his belly.

"So what do you want with her?" he said roughly. "You tell me what's your business with this Pearl Ann, maybe I'll show you which room."

For a moment, no one spoke; the three cats and the old man stared at each other, caught in a vacuum of silence. Then Greeley dug three paper cups from an open carton and set them in a row on the floor.

Pouring several inches of rum into each, he pushed two toward Joe and Dulcie. "Drink up, folks," he said, cheerfully lifting the bottle.

The biting smell of rum burned the cats' noses, made them back away. The old man stood up abruptly, catching himself against the cartons, and on tiptoe he reached to slide the third cup across the cartons to Azrael. Azrael turned his head and slitted his eyes against the fumes.

Greeley drained the bottle. And his face crumpled, tears streaking down.

"They were into something," he said softly. "Dora and Ralph. Playing cop maybe. Or maybe blackmail." He hiccuped and leaned against the cartons, scowling at the floor. He was silent for so long they thought he'd gone to sleep.

But suddenly he snatched up the battery light. "Well, come on!" He glared down at them, his red eyes watery. "I got a key to Pearl Ann's place, if that's what you're after."

His boozy laugh cracked. "She don't know I got it. Azrael fetched it. No trick at all for him to slip in through the transom. She thought she lost her key," he said, smirking. "She got another from the rent office. And what do they care?" He unbolted the door and led them down a narrow, dark hall that smelled of mice and human urine.

Padding warily after him along the dirty linoleum, Joe and Dulcie heard a loud thump behind them as Azrael hit the floor. They turned to see the black torn swagger out, taking up the rear like a guard walking behind two prisoners.

Pearl Ann's room was at the far end of the gloomy hall. Twisting a skeleton key in the lock, Greeley shoved the door open; when the cats hesitated, he laughed.

"Scared, huh? Scared I'll lock you in?" He slapped his knee, giggling, then crossed the room. Pounding on the window frame, he managed to loosen it. Lifting the bottom half, he propped it open with a dented metal wastebasket. "There, that suit you better?"

They padded into the close, sour-smelling room. In one corner stood an iron bed neatly made up with a worn chenille spread faded to the color of a grimy floor mop. The scarred dresser was of the waterfall era that had been popular in the forties, an incredibly ugly piece but one that had enjoyed a recent revival. Joe leaped to its top, onto a film of dust.

It appeared that Pearl Ann had not lived here alone. Before the mirror were two rows of toiletries, one for a man, one for a woman: hair spray and jasmine cologne on one side, can of shaving cream and bottle of shaving lotion on the other.

Two pairs of men's shoes stood in the open closet next to Pearl Ann's jogging shoes, all as neatly aligned as the shoes of soldiers placed for inspection. Above these hung a man's trousers and jeans and polo shirts and, in her half of the closet, four pastel jumpsuits of the kind that Pearl Ann favored for work, a skirt, and two blouses. In the tiny bathroom, which had no counter space but only a basin, the thin scent of shaving cream and aftershave was mixed with Pearl Ann's perfume. The man's odor was strongest around the bed. As the two cats inspected the room, Greeley stood leaning against the door frame with a strange little smile on his face, as if he were secretly amused. Azrael had remained in the hall, separating himself from their investigation with a barrier of disdain.

They had not told the black torn the results of their surveillance at Pander's restaurant, or who Dora and Ralph's host had been; they had not sought him out, to tell him, and Azrael had not come to them. Maybe, Joe thought, Azrael had gone to Pander's after all, had watched them watching Dora and Ralph. He didn't like to think that he had been so unaware, so blind to the dark tom's presence.

Now, searching for he knew not what, pawing open the drawers of the waterfall dresser, Joe found only a man's Jockey briefs and socks. No lady's panties or stockings or nighties-as if Pearl Ann didn't have much, as if she'd taken what little she owned with her to San Francisco.

In the doorway, Greeley looked increasingly smug, harboring his amusing little secret. Joe, losing patience, leaped onto the dresser and fixed him with a hard stare.

"You can keep your own council if you choose, Greeley. Or you can trade it."

"What could a cat trade? What would a cat have that would interest old Greeley?"

Joe turned his back and began to wash.

"Well, what?" Greeley shouted.

"This is about your sister," he told Greeley.

"What about my sister?"

Joe looked back at him, remote and ungiving.

"What about her!" Greeley snapped.

"She's gone," Joe said. "She disappeared. You tell me about Pearl Ann-tell me what you're grinning about-and I'll tell you about Mavity."

"Gone where? What do you mean, gone?"

"The cops are looking for her."

"You're lying. Why would the cops… I don't believe you. Mavity wouldn't be into anything the cops care about. She's as straight as a fencepost. You cats are such liars."

"What do you know about Pearl Ann?"

"You, first. Can't trust a cat to keep a fair trade."

"She might be wanted for murder," Joe said shortly. "Or she might have been murdered. Murdered, while you wallowed here frying your brain in rum."

"You stupid cat-you think I believe what a cat says?"

"She vanished from Winthrop Jergen's apartment this afternoon." Joe looked at Greeley with distaste. "Jergen was found with his throat torn open. And Mavity has disappeared."

Greeley had turned very pale. "She wouldn't kill anyone. No matter what he did, she wouldn't kill him."

Joe stared at him.

Greeley looked back a long time, his glance flicking to Azrael, to Dulcie, to the window.

"Fair trade," Joe said. "Your turn."

Greeley picked up a straight chair from beside the dresser and set it beneath the overhead light.

"Pearl Ann Jamison," he said. "What a sweet little lady." Standing on the chair, he tipped the plastic light cover askew, reached inside, and drew out a thick envelope. Climbing down, he nearly toppled the chair, caught himself against the bed. Glancing out the door at Azrael, almost as if asking permission and receiving only a haughty look from the black cat, he tossed the packet on the chenille spread.