Милдред Гордон - Undercover Cat

Zeke said, “She didn’t tell us anything. It doesn’t have any­thing to do with her.”

Greg raised his voice above Zeke’s. “Don’t try to cover for her. I’m an attorney, same as you. I know you’re not supposed to divulge the source of your information – but I know.”

Zeke said sharply, “You’ve got it all wrong – “

Greg interrupted. “I had this duck. I’d spent all day in a blinding rain. Almost got pneumonia. A mallard duck.”

“Please, Mr. Balter, I’m not interested in your duck.”

Greg sat down hard in the swivel. “Her cat stole the duck at about twelve-thirty last night – or this morning it would’ve been.”

Zeke shouted, “I’m sorry about your duck but – “

“So I went over to get my duck back. I had every right – and I caught the cat red-handed.” That didn’t sound right, so he corrected himself. “I caught him with the evidence in his mouth. He had committed a felony and I told her so.”

“Now wait a minute, – you’ve got to listen to me.”

“I’ve tried to be a good neighbor. I bought Mike a basket­ball last Christmas, and her kid sister’s around all the time selling tickets and raising money. She’s about to dollar me to death. Oh, sure, I said some nasty things but who wouldn’t when he’s stood all day in a storm

but I went over today at noon and apologized although I don’t know why the blazes I did.”

“If you’d just listen,” Zeke shouted, seeking to recover the initiative. What in the world had gone wrong? He had come in to ask a few simple questions, such as he asked a hundred times a week, and a mallard duck had waddled into the in­terrogation.

Greg was not to be talked down. “What kind of jurisdiction has the FBI got anyway? Don’t tell me the cat crossed a state line.”

Zeke surrendered. He rose, hat in hand, and picked up his brief case. Immediately Greg simmered down. “I’m sorry.” He wiped the nervous sweat from his forehead. “I’ve had a rough, day.”

“I haven’t had exactly a normal one myself,” Zeke re­marked. He added, “I assure you, Mr. Balter, our case has nothing whatsoever to do with Miss Randall or your duck. I thought you might know where the cat goes nights, that maybe some neighbor or friend had mentioned to you that he drops by for a visit.”

“You’re the craziest FBI agent I ever met, coming around here asking where a cat goes, in all dead seriousness.”

“Yeah, I know. Since seven-fifty this morning, my mental status has been a cause of concern for myself, too, Mr. Balter. But regardless, please give it some thought. If you do know where the cat goes – maybe even you’ve seen him some night when you’ve walked your dog.”

Greg shook his head. “No, I can’t help you. Sorry.” He grinned unexpectedly. “I guess I should feel hurt. I thought he was giving my yard his exclusive attention. From the looks of it, I didn’t suppose he had time to do any excavation work elsewhere.”

Greg added, “If you pick him up, let me know. I want to help with the prosecution.”

9

The briefing session began at 4:30 p.m. Twenty-four agents, chosen carefully for their skills, crowded into Super­visor Newton’s small, hospital-like office. They were of all ages, though the majority were in their early thirties. They wore dark, conservative suits and ties, and looked like attor­neys, which they were.

Zeke stood before a diagram that had been chalked in on a blackboard. The chart showed the Randall home and an area for two miles about. Zeke said, “Our informant will leave the house at approximately seven forty-five. I will trail him out and attempt to stay with him until he leaves the yard. According to our information, he will go around the house on the east side, keeping well under the shrubbery, and will emerge at this point.”

Newton never took his eyes from Zeke. Newton doubted if he could have chosen a better agent to run this highly un­orthodox shadow job. Zeke missed no detail. He charted a sur­veillance with the same diligence that a highly skilled crim­inal attorney would follow in briefing a court trial. And yet he possessed a great human quality. The people in his cases were people with homes and children and problems. He’ll probably be liking the confounded cat before tonight’s over, Newton thought to himself.

Now Zeke stepped to a blown-up photograph of the Ran­dall home. “He will remain here several minutes before crossing the street, where he will enter the back yard of an attorney, Greg Balter.”

Newton broke in. “I think you should point out that we do not have the co-operation of Mr. Balter. In fact, we haven’t asked for it, due to Mr. Balter’s hostility toward the informant.”

Zeke continued, “If he follows this pattern, which is his in­variable nightly routine, the number one agents will pick him up on their sound cone, which will be stationed at this cross street.”

The “sound cone” was a parabolic mike that could be aimed like a rifle to pick up the faintest noise from a distance of three hundred yards.

Zeke continued, “Miss Randall informs me that the cat will not object to wearing an old collar with a small bell at­tached. He used to wear it all the time, but when it wore out she didn’t replace it. But she’s getting it repaired today. How­ever, if he wants to, he can move so stealthily the human ear can’t pick up the sound of the bell.”

The parabolic mike would “hear” the bell, though, and “follow” D.C. from a distance sufficiently far away so that he would not know he was being shadowed. “We’re told that it’s imperative he doesn’t know we’re around,” Zeke contin­ued, “since he might become self-conscious and return home.

“Now, at the same time that the sound cone men have him under surveillance, other agents will attempt to watch the in­formant, also at a distance, through an infra-red scope.”

The scope was an instrument that used infra-red rays to “light up” the dark. An agent could look through it, and see a person – or cat – almost as clearly as in daylight.

“We will mesh this maneuver through an Operations Cen­ter in the back of a drugstore at this point, which is about two blocks from the Randall home. Supervisor Newton will be in charge, and will keep in touch by radio with all cars and agents on foot, as well as myself in the back bedroom of the Randall residence.”

Newton interrupted. “You should know that several agents are already scouring the area for possible paw prints, and are showing the informant’s photograph to children. We may get a lead from them before the informant leaves the house, and if we do we will relay it to you.”

Zeke continued, “You’re probably wondering how we are going to identify the informant once he leaves the house, since a black cat looks like any other black cat.” He smiled. “Maybe to a black cat another black cat doesn’t, the same as a Chinese to a Chinese, but to me they do. We’re taking care of that by applying phosphorescent paint to the hair on the tip of his tail.”

10

Zeke’s lank frame looked strange in the blue quilted chintz chair as he huddled over a two-way radio that he had set up alongside the extension phone in Patti’s bedroom. In the doorway Ingrid and Mike watched avidly, Mike’s eyes on the equipment, Inky’s on the man.

Sprawled on the bed was D.C. with his white-tipped tail curled around so he could reach it with his tongue. No mat­ter how strenuously he washed it, he culd not lick it clean, and he was pained deeply. They had ruined him for life. Not since Mike was ten had he been painted. He could never explain it to his friends. What would Poker Face, who lived in the next block, think? Poker Face wouldn’t say anything, of course, since D.C. invited him into the house occasionally for a bowl of milk, a liquid D.C. loathed.