Pancho gave a low growl and turned a bulging eye on Elvira. He was a big, smelly bulldog with heavy jowls and huge teeth. Elvira loathed the animal, and not only because he terrorized her four cats. Pancho was like a Central American dictator, a creature of explosive noise and dark menace, full of waddling arrogance. When he and Dorothy moved away, he was no docile pet being taken for a stroll, but a monarch of all he surveyed, lifting a rear leg contemptuously against it at regular intervals.
Elvira hurried into her apartment and shut the door behind her before collapsing into her armchair. She felt humiliated. It had been too embarrassing to confess to Dorothy Fielding that she had been dropped by her publisher, and she had been horrified to learn that the feline heroes of her novels had been turned into dogs in order to appease Pancho, her canine monster. It was sacrilege.
Just when she needed consolation, it came in quadruplicate. The cat flap clicked four separate times and a quartet of furry cats came in from the garden to jump into Elvira’s lap. They snuggled up to her and gave a collective purr. She was back among those who loved her. Still smarting from her encounter with Pancho, she caressed her four cats lovingly. They appreciated her. Secure in their company, she was able to think clearly at last. Her mind was racing.
In order to continue as an author, she had to devise something new and completely cat-free. It was an awesome task—or was it? Perhaps she could simply emulate Dorothy Fielding and turn a cat into something else. Not a dog, of course—her pen would wilt at the very thought. No, her protagonist would not be an animal of any kind. He would be a human being. The notion excited her. She could recycle the plot of her first novel—The Cat at the President Kennedy Assassination—and have a hero who accidentally witnessed a crime. Better still, why not turn the man into a criminal himself—Kenneth Hooper had called for noir—and have him see a murder while in the act of committing a burglary?
Elvira let out such a whoop of joy that the four cats leapt off her in fear and fled back into the garden, leaving her to congratulate herself on her brainwave. If she could bring it off, her career would be saved. Elvira Coyne would be home and dry. The trick would be to get inside the mind of a criminal, and she had already done that once. It was her most closely guarded secret.Though she looked like the epitome of a law-abiding, middle class English spinster, Elvira had, in fact, built her whole professional life on a criminal act.
She was an unredeemed plagiarist. The idea of a series about cats had not been hers at all, but that of a sick friend, Isobel Nolan, who whiled away the long months she spent in a hospital bed by dreaming up tales of feline adventure. Teachers at the same girls’ school, Elvira and Isobel had lived together, without scandal, for a number of years. It was Isobel who had the creative imagination. During her illness, she wrote a series of engaging short stories featuring a cat. Elvira was so impressed with them that she promised to have them published by way of a memento. What she did not tell her dying friend was that the stories would be developed into full-length novels and that the name of Elvira Coyne would be attached to them. It was a cruel and calculated theft from a woman who was in no position to protect her work.
Fame as a writer enabled Elvira to retire from teaching and to move
into a luxury apartment close to Regent’s Park. She felt no sense of guilt at passing Isobel Nolan’s stories off as her own. Indeed, each time she pillaged her friend’s work for a new novel, she experienced a sensation of pure joy. Only when she was established as the ruling queen of the cat mystery did she deign to dedicate one of her books to the person who had actually created the series.
It was time for Elvira to commit a more daring crime, one that involved the risk of detection and gave her a real insight into the criminal psyche. The beauty of it was that she would not even have to leave the building. Elvira could steal from another woman—Dorothy Fielding—and strike back at her for the way that the landlady allowed Pancho to chase the four beloved cats. Dorothy had other properties in London and they brought in a substantial income. Her penthouse apartment was larger and more lavish than anything else in the block. Elvira had always coveted its Turkish carpets and its array of antiques. What she had particularly envied was Dorothy’s collection of jewelry. Kept in three mahogany boxes, it was shown off to selected friends, and Elvira had been one of them. It had been a mouth-watering experience. There were so many different items of jewelry that Dorothy would not possibly miss a few of them. Because the theft would go unnoticed, it would be the perfect crime. The burglar would have additional insurance. Elvira would not even have to break into
the apartment.
There was a spare key.
Friday was the ideal time. Dorothy Fielding and Pancho always went to visit friends in Golders Green that afternoon. The trip would take a minimum of three hours and all that Elvira required was three minutes. From the moment she woke up that morning, her heart was pounding with excitement at the prospect of what lay ahead. To add more spice, Elvira listened to an audio tape of The Cat Who Stole the Crown Jewels, the favorite of her novels and, coincidentally, the one that Isobel Nolan had liked most when she first conceived the story. It put Elvira in the right mood. When the taxi arrived that afternoon, she was at her window to watch landlady and bulldog climb into it. Allowing it a quarter of an hour to get well clear of the apartment block, Elvira then went into action. She took the elevator to the top floor and stepped out onto the landing. Elvira knew exactly where the spare key was hidden because she had been asked to feed the tropical fish while Dorothy Fielding was in France the previous summer. After using the key to unlock the door, she replaced it behind the fire extinguisher. Elvira then stepped into her landlady’s apartment.
She felt such a thrill that her whole body seemed to be alight and her eyes misted over momentarily. It was quite unlike the feeling she had had when coming to feed the tropical fish in their illuminated tank.That was a case of sanctioned entry. Elvira had now broken the law of trespass and that filled her with elation. She looked around the living room, admiring the exquisite taste of its furniture and fittings. She even permitted herself a look at the wonderful view of Regent’s Park through the massive plate glass window. Then she remembered the jewelry.
Tingling all over, Elvira hurried into the bedroom. Dominating the room was the king-sized four poster bed with elaborate hangings. Against the opposite wall was a television set with a vast screen. The burglar did not spare it a glance. All that interested her were the three jewelry boxes, standing on a Regency table like the caskets in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice. Which one would Elvira choose first?
She began with the central box, marveling at its contents and letting her fingers play with the strings of pearls, the diamond necklaces and the emerald brooches. Elvira then inspected the other boxes and found them equally well stocked. At the most cautious estimate, the jewelry was worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. Envy flared up inside her but she resisted the urge to purloin too much. Instead, she took one item from each box—a ruby ring, an opal pendant and a gold watch. Small pickings from such a treasure trove, but enough to give her the most extraordinary sense of elation as she slipped them into the pocket of her cardigan.
The feeling did not last. Before she could escape with her booty, Elvira heard the sound of the apartment door opening. She froze instantly. Was her landlady returning unexpectedly? If so, what possible excuse could Elvira give her? She could hardly pretend that she had popped in to feed the tropical fish. When she heard a man’s voice, she was at first relieved, spared the horror of confronting Dorothy Fielding. A woman then laughed in the living room. Elvita guessed the awful truth. She was not the only person who knew about the spare key.
Diving into the fitted wardrobe, she closed the doors behind her only a split second before two people hurried into the bedroom. Elvira recognized the man’s voice as belonging to Robert Waller, a City analyst, who rented the apartment immediately opposite hers. Staid and solemn, the middle-aged Waller was always imm
aculately dressed. Not any more. When she peeped though a crack between the wardrobe doors, Elvira saw, to her amazement, that he was now being divested of his smart suit by a giggling woman in a desperate hurry. His jacket and trousers went sailing across the room.
Elvira was even more stunned when she realized that the female was none other than Janice Mead, another resident of the block, a graphic artist in her thirties, whose husband was a contract lawyer. Robert Waller was also married. Elvira throbbed with righteous fury. What she was witnessing was an act of Adultery. Thanks to the spare key, the lustful couple had arranged a rendezvous.
And it was clearly not the first time they had done so. When they flung themselves naked onto the bed, they made love with such passion and invention that Elvira was both shocked and mesmerized. She would not have believed that two human beings could get into such a variety of positions, or take such outrageous liberties with each other’s bodies. It was scandalous. It was also highly alarming to a virginal spinster whose only physical contact with the opposite sex had been to submit to a guzzling kiss under the mistletoe once a year, from a panting uncle with a glass eye. The experience had put her off men forever. Sexual intercourse was a closed book to her—until now. The pages suddenly fluttered open and, unable to look away, Elvira read every licentious line. It was not just the thrusting buttocks of the City analyst and the bouncing breasts of the graphic artist that offended her delicate sensibilities. It was the coarse language with which the pulsating lovers accompanied their sinful copulation. Elvira shuddered. In her view, stealing a few items from the jewelry boxes of a wealthy woman was a permissible lapse. Soiling her sheets with such debauchery, and polluting the air with such filthy words, was a crime of unforgivable magnitude. The miscreants should be burned at the stake.
Elvira fought hard to achieve a degree of objectivity, to view the performance through the neutral eyes of a writer instead of sitting in judgement on the pair. A mere ten feet away from her was an example of what Kenneth Hooper had urged his client to embrace. It was realism, red in tooth and claw. Elvira had never seen more bite, more (hot) blood, more purpose. Against her will, she was actually doing valuable research. There had to be a way of incorporating what she saw in a novel, though she doubted if she would have the courage to describe the exact location of the mole on Robert Waller’s anatomy.
With an effort, she exerted some control over her feelings. She tried to look at the lovers as characters in a book rather than as rampant adulterers. She let professional detachment take over. Covered with sweat and sated with carnality, the couple eventually rolled apart. Janice Mead was gasping for breath.
“It gets better and better,” she said. Waller grinned. “Practice makes perfect.”
“You’ve obviously had plenty of practice at it.”
“I have to thank Elvira Coyne for that.”
“What—that old bag in number two?”
“She’s a nymphomaniac,” he teased. “Beneath that gracious exterior there beats a lecherous heart. Elvira taught me all I know.”
“You’re joking,” she said. “No man in his right mind would fancy a woman like that. As soon as you got her into bed, you’d have those four dreadful cats of hers jumping up and down on your bum.”
Elvira’s ears were burning. Her professional detachment vanished in a flash. Not only was she compelled to observe the mating of two wild animals, she now had to listen to them mocking her. When they went on to snigger at her books, she felt that she would explode. Insult followed insult. Elvira had always assumed that everyone in the block admired her work. For two of her fellow residents at least, however, she was a figure of fun. It was excruciating.
The couple eventually dressed and, to Elvira’s eternal relief, left the apartment. She burst out of the wardrobe like a rhino breaking free of its cage. Standing in the middle of the room, she breathed loudly through flared nostrils. Well-mannered neighbors with whom she always exchanged a pleasant word had been exposed as sneering enemies of hers. It was a hideous revelation. Elvira needed the comfort of her four cats in order to get over it.
But somebody else knew where the spare key was concealed.
Hearing it turn in the lock, she almost fainted. It took all of Elvira’s strength to stagger back to her hiding place. She prayed that she would not have to bear witness to another bout of sexual athleticism. This time, only one person arrived but he entered the bedroom with such an air of familiarity that he had obviously been there before. Kicking off his shoes, he lay propped up on the bed so that he could watch theTV screen. Elvira saw him using the remote control to flick through the channels in search of the cricket match he wanted to see. When he found it, he reached out for the bottle of gin on the bedside table and poured himself a generous amount, adding a little tonic to it.
Elvira was mortified. The person who was treating his landlady’s property as if it were his own was Victor Villiers, another denizen of the block. A thin, ascetic weasel of a man, Villiers was the Religious Correspondent for a national newspaper. Elvira had always found him dull, pious and pedantic. She had never suspected that Villiers’ idea of heaven had no theological basis. It consisted of lying on a magnificent four poster bed, drinking someone else’s gin and watching a test match on a massive TV screen. The Religious Correspondent, it appeared, had forsaken the twelve apostles for the England Cricket X1. Imprisoned in the wardrobe, Elvira wanted to leap out to challenge the man like an avenging angel, but she saw the folly of such an action. How could she explain away her own presence in the apartment? In castigating Villiers, she would be admitting her guilt. All that she could do was to watch and pray. The problem was that the cricket match went on and on. When she added the time taken up by the secret lovers, Elvira worked out that her confinement amid the designer dresses in the wardrobe had lasted for all of three hours. It would not be long before Dorothy Fielding returned.
Elvira made another discovery. Villiers had an accomplice. The telephone rang three times by way of a signal. Switching off the TV, the cricket lover drained his last gin and tonic then went into the bathroom to wash out the glass. It was soon replaced beside the bed. Villiers took care to rearrange everything as it had been on his arrival then he ambled out of the apartment. Elvira erupted from the wardrobe and rushed into the living room. This time, she even got as far as the door. Then she heard the elevator clanking to a halt and saw that there was no hope of escape. Villiers had obviously gone down the stairs to avoid his landlady. Elvira was trapped once more.
The ordeal continued. Back in the wardrobe, she had to watch while Dorothy Fielding came into the room and absent-mindedly poured herself a gin and tonic. The only consolation was that Pancho was not with her. He had been left in the portion of the garden that was his private kingdom. Elvira had to listen to a lengthy monologue as the other woman padded into the living room to feed the tropical fish. She was chastened. Did she talk as stupidly to her pets as the landlady did to hers? In their own way, the sentimental banalities were almost as bad as the crude esperanto of love that Elvira had eavesdropped on earlier—not to mention the sustained boredom of the cricket commentary.
It was another hour before Dorothy came back into the bedroom to replenish her glass. She then took it into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The moment she heard the sound of running water, Elvira came out of the wardrobe with the speed of an Olympic sprinter and raced out of the apartment, spurning the elevator and descending the stairs two at a time. Reaching her own door at last, she opened it with her key and went gratefully into the safety zone. She dropped into her armchair with a thud. Once again, her trusty friends came hurtling through the cat flap to jump into her lap, but she had no breath left to utter any of the ridiculous endearments that Dorothy had lavished on her tropical fish.
Elvira was thoroughly jangled. Yet she had accomplished her task. Three pieces of Cartier jewelry were in her pocket. Alone and unaided, she had committed the perfect crime.
Dorothy Fielding delayed h
er visit until mid-evening. By that time, Elvira had made a remarkable recovery. When her landlady called on her, she was able to face her with complete equanimity.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, Miss Coyne?” asked the other woman. “It’s about our rental agreement.”
“In that case, you’d better come in, Mrs Fielding,” said Elvira, stepping back to admit her. She shut the door and waved her visitor to a seat. “Do sit down. Can I get you anything?”
“Not for me,” replied Dorothy as she lowered herself on to the sofa, “but you might care to have a glass of brandy at hand.”
“Why?”
“It might help you to absorb the shock.”
“Shock?”
“Yes, Miss Coyne,” said Dorothy, sweetly. “I’m afraid that I’m going to ask for double the rent from now on.”
“Double!” echoed Elvira. “That’s quite impossible.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Which would you prefer, Miss Coyne—to pay me twice as much or to acquire a criminal conviction?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The three items of jewelry you stole from my apartment.”
“I did nothing of the kind!” insisted Elvira, summoning up all of the indignation she could find. “I strongly resent that accusation.”
“Not as strongly as I resent the theft. That ruby ring was a present from my first husband. The opal pendant was a wedding gift from my second. And that gold watch you took was a cherished souvenir of an admirer I once had.” She glanced round. “Where have you hidden them?”
Elvira’s cheeks were like ripe tomatoes but she still tried to brazen it out. Crossing to the door, she opened it dramatically.
“Good day to you, Miss Fielding,” she said. “I can see that there’s been a breakdown of trust between us. Since I refuse your exorbitant demand for additional rent, I’ve no option but to give you notice. I’ll leave at the end of the month.”
Silver Bullets Page 13
