Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Topaz Tango

“What do you call him?”

“Hot. Did you see that pasodoble he did? I trust we will still see his tango tonight.”

Oh, no. Females are so shallow. “The show must go on,” I say sourly.

She stops and turns. I find I have trailed her to the theater area, where yellow crime-scene tape warns off all comers.

Topaz walks under the streamers, tail high. I follow.

“No, Louie. ‘The Shoe Must Go On.’”

Yikes! Has she been talking to my Miss Temple lately? What is it with these females and fancy footwear?

I soon discover what. The area is deserted while the forensics people are back at the lab doing CSI: Las Vegas film montage tests and things to music. Who would ever imagine major network viewers would be seduced into watching science how-to films in the name of crime drama? Mr. Wizard would have been proud. Bill Nye, the PBS “science guy” would have been begging for cameo roles.

Miss Topaz trots through the empty audience seating and onto the wooden set floor, bold as old gold. She stops by the velvet curtains backing the stage above the set of four risers.

I can see where the curtain has been torn and dusted for prints. Blood runs down the velvet in an ugly dark snake of color to the floor, where it has dried to a carmine color.

I come from a hunter breed. Normally blood is no big deal, even though I have not had to eat live game in years. But when it is the blood of someone you know. . . .

“He could have bled to death.”

“I know,” Topaz says. “But it is lucky he bled here.”

I eye the many drops. I know the forensics people numbered and photographed each one. We should not be leaving pad prints on the scene of the crime. I am about to say so when Topaz darts to the side of the stage.

She has zeroed in on the last tracked blood drop of Mr. Matt, no doubt on the perp’s Cuban heel, because it is moving toward the aisle to the exit.

“He stepped in Mr. Matt’s blood as he was leaving,” I say, shuddering.

“Now, Louie. I know you are emotionally involved, but we must keep a clear head.”

“‘We’ must keep a clear head? You were not in the heat of battle, rushing into the churning size-twelve footwork of two men fighting to the death. You did not take the body blows that I did, the kicks that spun me almost into the aisle. I am black and blue all over, except it does not show.”

“Poor Louie,” she purrs, polishing my indignantly heaving sides with her close-cropped satin coat.

Not bad.

“No doubt you are too distracted to notice the significant difference in this particular blood drop.”

I put my eyes to the floor. The light here is horrible. “The blood mark sinks in the middle.”

“It does not sink. The heel has a flaw. It marks the floor with a small depression, and the blood drop is uneven.”

I look again. Sure enough, the heel has left a small dent in the floor. I sit. And think. I lash my tail about for effect. Miss Topaz watches me, her vibrissae shivering with anticipation.

“Mr. Matt said he was drawn onto the stage by the stamp of flamenco heels that he took for Miss Tatyana in Spanish mode,” I finally say. “But the stamping sound was made by a man wearing Cuban heels. Those heels sound so sharp and loud because pounded-in nail heads pave the bottom surface. During his frenzied stomping, a nail must have been vibrated loose, and . . . bent back into the heel from the pressure of the next stomp, producing—”

“A lovely little dent that will follow him wherever he goes.”

“Yes. I take it you have explored that direction.”

“Down the aisle and out into the carpeted casino.”

“Carpeting.” I frown, fearful.

“A bent nail head leaves an indent there too, but we must hurry, Louie. Foot traffic is fierce out there and could erase the trail.”

“Would a Zorro in retreat not attract attention?” I ask.

“Yes. But you say he left the sword behind and likely took the hat and gloves away in a—”

I glance at the empty bandstand to the side. “An empty guitar case would do it.”

“Brilliant!” she coos. “Let us make our own tracks.”

So we do the feline hustle out of there and into the noisy casino, where we must dodge the constant kick of tourist shoes to follow the trail of the bent nail.

It is not so arduous as I supposed.

The man’s stride is about eighteen inches and the nail is snagging the carpet strands. In forty feet we have dodged around some deserted slot machines far from the central aisles where they are set “loose” to lure tourists.

A plain door in the wall is where they stop.

“What is this, a janitor’s closet?” I ask.

Topaz looks thoughtful, then solemn, which is not hard to do with those pieces-of-eight eyes.

“Better, Louie.”

I wait.

“It is an employee bathroom, opening only with a key, not usable by the public.”

The truth sinks in.

This was an inside job.

An Open and Shut Case

Somehow I did not expect my first date with Topaz to be staking out an employee rest room at the Oasis.

I was hoping for one of those storied Italian dinners behind the restaurant at the Venetian. Gondoliers poling tourists through the faux canals and singing “O Sole Mio,” which pays tribute to a variety of fish much prized in feline circles.

My green eyes meeting Topaz’s golden ones as we each chow down on the same long strand of angel-hair pasta until our vibrissae duel delightfully. . . .

Instead we are crouching under a pair of empty stools waiting for a croupier to need to take a leak.

Romantic, not!

Actually, it is a little waitress doll who unlocks the rest room door and allows us to shadow her inside. This is not good. She senses our soft furry sides on her hosed calves and looks down with a frown just as we dash out of sight into a cubicle. Euw. These floors are never cleaned to the demanding standards of those who have to put four unshod feet down on them.

Luckily, the waitress just wanted to repair her lipstick and quickly waltzes out again.

We return to the rest room’s main area and loft up on the countertop to wash our feet in moist sink bowls. I manage to put my weight on the flipper that lowers the paper towels and we soon are high, clean, and dry.

Topaz nods to a row of metal lockers on the entry wall. All boast combination locks. These must be assigned to key personnel. We sniff around the locked doors, but accomplish nothing but sneezes from all the scented products within.

“How are we going to get out?” Topaz asks.

I can tell she has never done a stakeout before. Before I can explain that we will get out as we got in, the key scrabbles in the door again. We whoosh back into the cubicle, undoing all our good footwork.

“Listen!” I hiss.

Our backs arch in unison as we hear the scrape of a shoe cleat on the plain tile floor. I duck my head under the door to peek. A pair of large, black, Cuban-heeled shoes stands before the locker. We hear the combination lock spinning and clicking, the door opened and shut.

Then the shoes and wide-bottomed black trousers head for the door.

I poke Topaz in the shoulder with a rude claw and whisk out to race through the door before it closes and locks automatically. The minute I am through, I throw all my weight against it to force it to a standstill.

Miss Topaz eases out at an unruffled pace while I huff and puff from my effort. “Quick!” she says, “he is wasting no time.”

All we have seen from our floor-bound rear viewpoint is that he is a tall white male with a loping stride. I was right! He is carrying a stolen guitar case, and his hands are gloved in black leather. The shirt, cape, and hat must be in the case.