Милдред Гордон - Undercover Cat

She dropped to the bed beside D.C. and rubbed his neck. He groaned happily in his sleep.

“I had a pinto once,” Zeke said. “Loved to have me do that.”

She smiled, and in no time discovered they had a mutual love for the outdoors. She said, “Dad was in lumber when I was growing up, over in Arizona . I guess I was a dreamy-eyed kid. I remember I used to ride through the Coconino forest on the excuse I was seeing how many different species of birds I could count. But I was always expecting to meet some tall, handsome guy I’d fall for.”

The family had moved to Los Angeles when the work grew too rugged for her father; she had attended the University of California at Los Angeles ; and she had taken up modeling when a girl friend found her a job.

“But I’m not very ambitious. I don’t care about staying in modeling. Time catches up with you too fast. Besides, you get so hungry.”

By now the world outside was quiet, all of the noises having collected themselves and run off. She continued dreamily, “I’ve got just one burning ambition. I want to have two boys like Mike and two girls like Inky. The only trouble is that a man’s necessary, since you can’t order kids yet out of the Sears Roebuck catalogue.”

As she talked, she grew increasingly conscious of the inti­macy of the moment – Zeke in her room, his long hulk draped over the chintz chair, his head resting against the back. A short time before he had been a stranger, but he was the kind who after a half hour of talk was an old friend.

“Sure you don’t want some pajamas?” she asked, rising.

He said no, and sneezed hard. “You wouldn’t have anything for hay fever, would you?”

14

The next morning Patti overslept, and there was more hubbub than usual. Mike was upset. “I can’t tell the rocket club not to come, can I? We’ve been plannin’ it for a month.”

“Listen, Mike,” Patti’ said, plugging in the electric skillet, “don’t give me trouble.”

“D.C. won’t mind. He likes rockets.” Mike roughed up D.C., who, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, was watching the proceedings from his usual place on the refrigerator, sur­veying it all with that benevolent attitude he graciously be­stowed on humans after wolfing down a tin of cat food.

“Cancel it,” Patti said.

“What’ll I tell ‘em?”

“That I’ve got a migraine.”

“That’d be lying.”

Ingrid spoke up. “Can’t you get it through your skull, Michael Randall, how serious this is, how everything depends on our helping Mr. Kelso?”

She turned to Patti, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand him. He would undermine the FBI for an old rocket club.”

She cracked the eggs and dropped them in the skillet Patti had prepared. “Pray for me today, will you, sis?”

“Huh?” said Patti, looking up.

“If I don’t pass geometry, after all I’ve done for that stupid school.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, as I always say, flunk now and avoid the June rush.’

She turned the eggs and continued, “And I’ll simply die if Tommy doesn’t ask me, especially if I hint around.”

“What a drip,” Mike said.

“You pick your friends and I’ll pick mine.” She hurried on. “I’m going over to Bethie’s after school. Okay?”

Bethie was Beth Ann Nixon, a tall, striking girl with a poise and maturity remarkable for her age. Or any age, for that matter.

“Okay,” Patti said, appreciating the fact that Ingrid kept her posted on her whereabouts. Not many kid sisters were that thoughtful.

Zeke emerged then, drawn and haggard. He had dozed in fits and starts, to quote him. He stared with something akin to rage at the clear-eyed D.C.

“How do you want your eggs?” Patti asked. He protested, insisting he would get breakfast on his way to the office.

Ingrid pushed him toward a chair. “I’ll get your breakfast. I just love to cook.”

“Would you mind repeating that?” asked Mike.

“She’s a good cook,” Patti said.

Zeke seated Patti, and then Ingrid, at the breakfast table, and Ingrid beamed. Zeke informed them that another agent would report at 8 a.m. to take over the day shift. He was apologetic about disrupting their home. He promised he would slip in and out as unobtrusively as possible. He said he real­ized that little things might give away the presence of some­one in the house, such as the position of the bedroom drapes in the daytime. Patti opened them on rising, but he and his fellow agent would keep them drawn. It was possible, too, that neighbors might hear their movements, although they would remove their shoes and walk about in their stocking feet. He questioned her about the time the postman came, and the milkman, and if any cleaning woman or neighbor might enter.

“You’re wasting your time,” Patti said. “You couldn’t push D.C. out with a ten-ton tractor in the daytime. The mockingbirds stand guard in shifts at the back door.”

“You mean a great big cat like him is afraid of a mocking­bird?”

“Not afraid. Paralyzed.”

Blasted cat, he thought. It was a horrible enough fate to draw a cat as an informant in the first place, and even worse to draw a cat that was a coward

.

Shortly after breakfast Patti left the house. She had paused to examine the apricot when Mrs. Macdougall descended on her, all two hundred pounds. “You poor, poor child. I saw the light burning in your bedroom when I got up to take my drops. My heart’s been troublin’ me, I came near to dyin’ one night, and the doctor gave me these drops. And I said to Mr. Macdougall – he always wakes up when I get up – I said, ‘Wilbur, somebody’s been taken ill over at the Randall home!’ ” She added by way of explanation, “I could hear you and the doctor talking.”

Patti reddened, and detested herself for it. All her life she had acted guilty when under suspicion. “Not the doctor, it was the radio you heard, Mrs. Macdougall. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh.” The one word said Patti was a liar.

“Forgive me,” Patti continued, “I’ve got to run. I’m late already.”

She cut swiftly around Mrs. Macdougall, who would have blocked her if given half a chance. Patti kept her eyes straight ahead as she passed Greg’s. Blitzy threatened her as usual from the safety of the picture window. Some day, so help her, she was going to throw a rock through that win­dow.

She was waiting on the corner for the bus when Greg brought his car alongside her. “Patti,” he called. She turned away. He whistled then and heads pivoted for a block. “I’m coming after you,” he said, and started to leave the car.

She climbed in quickly, her blood pressure high enough for a stroke. “I don’t like your tactics, Mr. Balter, but I’m not going to stand there and have you create a scene.”

She grabbed her head as the car’s sudden propulsion pushed her body back until her eyes popped. He said quickly “I know how you feel and I don’t blame you. I don’t know what got into me last night. I know you didn’t set the FBI on me, but I’d surely like to know what’s behind it. What I’m trying to say is that I’m terribly sorry and couldn’t we strike the night off the calendar?”

Her blood pressure leveled off, her pulse advanced, and her anger did an about-face and turned inward. She found her­self wanting to forgive him. That old Greg Balter charm. Well, let him save it for a jury. She’d be hanged if she would be swayed by it after the way he had stood her up. And it was only last night. He didn’t even give her anger time to die and be provided a decent burial. But that was because his was a child’s, quick to run away, while hers was mature, slow to arouse and slow to fade.

“You mean,” she asked with a fall chill in the air, “like bury the duck?”