Cat Under Fire

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Brennan shrugged. "Go call Sicily Aronson, use the phone on the desk. See if she'll come down and check the place out before we lock up. Use your handkerchief, don't smear any prints." He knelt again and reached for Joe.

  Joe raised a bladed paw, but didn't strike; he studied the officer, considering.

  Stupid move, really stupid. Bloody the hand of the law, Bucko, and you're in big trouble.

  He drew back his claws.

  Brennan touched Joe's ear with a gentle, unthreatening finger. He was reaching to stroke Joe's back when a shout from the street sent the officer spinning around, his hand on his revolver.

  The glass door rattled, shook under pounding fists. "What are you doing. That's my cat!" Clyde beat harder, and Joe thought he'd shatter the glass. "That's my cat, Brennan! Let me in."

  Brennan rose, unlocked the door, and switched on the gallery lights, illuminating Clyde and Charlie.

  "What the hell is this? Put down the damned gun, Brennan. How did my cat-our cats-get in here?"

  Joe sat very straight, his ears erect. He was mighty relieved to see Clyde. But he wasn't going to let him know it. As Clyde moved into the gallery, Charlie stood in the doorway regarding the scene, looking from the officers to the cats with a puzzled, crooked little grin. Caught in a deliberate breaking and entering, Dulcie gave her a wide stare, then began to wash, as if all this fuss was unspeakably boring.

  Clyde scooped Joe up. "How the hell did you get in here?"

  Joe regarded him coldly. Clyde clutched him with unnecessary firmness, gave him a deep, penetrating stare, then glared down at Dulcie. "What the hell were you two doing?" But he looked as if he didn't want to know.

  "They set off the alarm," Brennan said, "there below the glass. Must have got ten shut in by mistake-no harm done."

  Charlie knelt and gathered up Dulcie, cuddling her. Dulcie lay softly against Charlie's shoulder, cutting her eyes at Joe, highly amused.

  Brennan had bolstered his pistol. "Sicily's on her way down to check the place out" He nodded toward the open desk drawer. "Maybe someone was in here and left-but they must have had a key, no sign of forced entry."

  Clyde stared at the open drawer. He looked at Joe. He said nothing. His eyes said plenty. He took a firmer grip on the nape of Joe's neck, his fist almost pulsing with anger.

  "Sorry they made trouble, Brennan," he said pleasantly. "Damn cats, always into something."

  But out on the street again, scowling into Joe's face, he said, "What the hell were you two doing in there? Can't you stay out of anything. Now what am I going to do with you? Turn you loose, you'll be right back in there.

  "And I didn't plan to spend the evening baby-sitting a couple of snooping cats. I don't know why you two can't stay out of trouble. I don't see why you can't behave with some sense."

  Charlie studied Clyde, puzzled. "Aren't you overreacting, maybe?"

  Clyde glared.

  She looked at Clyde and Joe, frowning, as if she were missing something. "We can take them over to Wilma's, shut them in the house, then we can have dinner. I'm starved."

  Shifting Dulcie to a more comfortable position, she set off up the street, glancing back at Clyde. "You can't expect a cat to think what might happen if he wanders into a shop. How were they to know they couldn't get out?"

  Clyde did not reply. Joe could imagine what he was thinking. Joe had a few things he'd like to say in return. He hated when he had to remain mute. It was grossly unfair for Clyde to read him off when he couldn't answer back. He dug his claws into Clyde's shoulder until Clyde drew in his breath.

  As Clyde forced his finger under Joe's pads to release the offending needles, a pale blue Mercedes turned onto the street and the driver waved. Clyde lifted his hand in greeting; just one of his customers. Then he pressed Joe's pads, rotating the claws inward, releasing Joe's lethal grip, and shifted Joe away from his shoulder. The tomcat was getting out of hand. It was going to be interesting to hear Joe's explanation for this little escapade. Of course it had to do with the murder trial, he knew the single-minded compulsion of these two.

  Whatever they were doing in the gallery, their adventure hadn't helped his own evening. Half an hour ago he and Charlie had been walking along holding hands like kids, joking, laughing, discussing where to have dinner. He hadn't intended to finish off the night playing free taxi to a couple of disaster-prone felines.

  Having left his car at Wilma's, he and Charlie had walked up through the village into the hills as the sun set, had climbed above the last scattered houses toward the eastern mountains gleaming gold in the falling light. High up the face of a steep hill among an outcropping of boulders they sat looking down on the village spread below them, watching the sky slowly darken, watching the cottage lights blink on in sudden bursts of illumination, the village quickly coming alive, preparing for evening. They could smell wood fires; the breeze was cool, their mood peaceful and compliant. Their mellow warmth, which had lasted all the way down the hills again and into the village, was shattered suddenly by sirens. They quickened their pace, curious, heading up the street to where the squad cars had careened by…

  They saw the squad car parked in front of the Aronson, spotlights sweeping the dim gallery as they approached. Then they saw the harsh beams of light fix suddenly on the two cats, catching their eyes in a blaze of fire-and Joe and Dulcie looking as guilty as any two human thieves.

  He supposed, overreacting, he'd roused Charlie's curiosity, but it didn't matter. Charlie was as ignorant of the cats' true nature as the two officers.

  Joe crept up Clyde's shoulder to a more comfortable position, watched Dulcie cuddling in Charlie's arms happy as a nesting bird. He kept his claws sheathed, and tentatively he rubbed his face against Clyde's ear. Clyde ignored him. Clyde sometimes had an unreasonably sour disposition.

  Charlie said, "We'll drop these two off, then grab a quick hamburger. Five o'clock comes early, and tomorrow will be twelve hours or more, without Stamps. When he gets back from his little jaunt, he gets the ax; he's out of here."

  Dulcie's head had come up, and, her ears up, she turned on Charlie's shoulder to stare across at Joe, her eyes wide with interest.

  "Settle down," Charlie said, stroking her. "We're nearly home." She looked across to Clyde. "Did you decide what to do with Janet's diary?"

  Both cats jerked to alert. Charlie frowned at Dulcie and shifted her to a more comfortable position. Clyde looked down at Joe, his grip tightening, his eyes narrowing to sudden realization.

  Joe looked back innocently. So you found the diary. So now you know bow it got under Janet's deck. So do you have to look so righteous?

  But at least Clyde had the decency to offer some information. "We'll have to give it to Harper. Good thing you went up to Janet's after work to leave food for her cat. Good thing the kibble box was ripped and empty, and the bowl shoved on under the deck, or you'd never have seen that plastic package."

  "I still don't see why someone would hide her diary like that. Why not just steal it? If that's what they intended, why not take it with them?" She stroked Dulcie absently. "It had to be Stamps's dog that ate the food. No other dog would leave pawprints that huge.

  "Do you suppose Stamps took the diary from the house? But why would he want it? And why leave it there? I'll be glad when I'm rid of Stamps. He makes me nervous."

  "You need workers pretty bad to be firing Stamps just because he's taking a day off-and because his dog growls at you."

  "That dog's growled at Mavity a dozen times. If he bites her, or bites anyone at work, I'm the one who gets sued. What if he bit a client? Stamps encourages that mean streak-he laughs when the dog snarls at me. Mavity's terrified of it."

  Charlie sighed. "Until today Stamps has been tolerable, but today tore it. To wait until quitting time, then tell me he's taking tomorrow off, just like that, no warning. No time to find someone else. He didn't even have the decency to lie to me, to say he felt sick, just all of a sudden he had to run over to Stockton."

&
nbsp; Joe looked across at Dulcie. Her ears were back, her tail lashing, her eyes blazed.

  This was it, tomorrow was hit day. Had to be. Burglary day for seven hillside residences. Stamps was taking the day off to tend to his real business. Joe licked a whisker, watching Dulcie. She was clinging tensely to Charlie, totally wired. Charlie looked down, frowning, and began to stroke her.

  "What's the matter, Dulcie? There's nothing to be afraid of. You weren't afraid in the gallery, not afraid of the police and their spotlights. Now all of a sudden… What's gotten into you?"

  But Dulcie's tension wasn't fear. She was primed. Every muscle twitched, her tail lashed and trembled. The little brindle cat was all nervous energy, set to explode, burning with predatory hunger to nail those two creeps-to see cold justice overtake Stamps and Varnie.

  20

  The cars that were parked along the curb hulked black in the predawn dark. Their bodies were beaded with dew, breathing out an icy breath radiating the night's chill. Beneath the cats' paws, the sidewalk was damp and cold. Only an occasional house shone with light. Most of the hillside residents still slept. A thin breeze nipped along the sidewalk, teasing the cats as they hurried upward toward the highest houses. Staying close to the curb, to the parked cars, they were tensed to dodge under if a marauding dog appeared out of the dark. The chill of the vehicles they passed made them shiver, but then, coming alongside a Chevy sedan, they were treated to warmth, sudden and welcome. They looked at each other and grinned. They sniffed at the rear wheel.

  The metal was dry, the tire dry, the wheel so warm that when Joe touched his nose to the hubcap he drew back. The car smelled of exhaust and fresh coffee. They reared up, trying to look in.

  The dark interior appeared empty, but they caught the faint scent of shaving lotion, too. Moving away into the bushes beside a stucco cottage, looking back, they could observe the Chevy's windows at a better angle.

  Two figures sat within, unmoving silhouettes poised in blackness. Stakeout car. Dulcie smiled and began to purr. Captain Harper had believed her. Harper had acted on her phone call. Just a few feet from them, two of Harper's officers sat in their unmarked vehicle waiting for Varnie and Stamps to go into action.

  They thought the time must be about five-fifty. The first mark would leave his house at six-fifteen. Trotting up across the dew-sodden lawns, soon they could see above them the steeply peaked roof of the first mark, the last house on Cypress, number 3920, a handsome white frame dwelling. Lights were on in what looked like a bedroom and bath, and as they hurried upward lights came on in the kitchen. They could hear a radio playing, an announcer's voice; it sounded like the morning weather report. The human need for weather reports always amused them. A cat could smell the rain coming, could feel the change of wind. A cat knows immediately when the barometric pressure changes, by the state of his nerves. High pressure, zowie. Low pressure, nap time. The human paucity of senses was really too bad.

  Drawing nearer to 3920, they could hear the faint rumble of water pipes as if someone were taking a shower. And they could smell coffee now, then could smell eggs frying and cigarette smoke.

  According to Stamps's list, Tim Hamry would leave the house in about ten minutes, in a white Toyota. His wife, June, should depart five to ten minutes later in an old black Ford sedan. The Hamry's had no children. They had no dogs, and no electronic alarm system.

  The cats entered the yard next door, trotting through a bed of dew-laden chrysanthemums, and skinned up a rose trellis to the roof, where they could observe the impending drama. Lying up along the peak, they commanded an unbroken view of 3920 and the surrounding streets. The narrow lanes were lit faintly by residential streetlights, a soft glow at each corner.

  The Hamry's bathroom light went out, soon they could hear cutlery on plates.

  And as Tim and June Hamry enjoyed breakfast, four blocks down the hill a lone figure leading a large dog appeared, walking up toward the Hamry house. Stamps and the monster.

  "Why would he bring the dog?" Dulcie said.

  "I don't know. Maybe they use him as a lookout? He barks loud enough." Joe sat taller on the steep shingles, watching Stamps. "They're headed right for the stakeout car. That dog will pitch a fit."

  "Oh, no. That will finish it."

  They held their breath.

  The dog paused at the stakeout car jerking his lead, sniffing at the Chevy. Stamps swore and pulled him along, but the dog, sniffing at the car, let out a roar loud enough to wake the hillside.

  Dulcie moaned. It was over. Stamps would see the cops and take off out of there.

  But no, the dog stuck his nose to the sidewalk. He huffed and barked, and took off uphill, jerking Stamps along-following not Harper's men but their own trail. He was headed straight for the house on which they sat.

  Joe almost fell off the roof laughing, clawing at the shingles. They watched the beast jerk Stamps along for half a block before Stamps got him stopped. Then Stamps slapped him and whipped him with the end of the lead. The beast cowered and snapped at him, but he came to heel on a short lead, and Stamps led him across the street, not approaching 3920, but heading for Varnie's.

  No light burned in the brown house. The Blankenship dwelling was dark, but as Stamps approached, the garage door swung open. He moved quickly inside. They heard him speak to the dog, saw it leap into the truck bed. Stamps moved deeper in, toward the front of the truck, out of their sight.

  They heard the truck door open and close. A movement in the darkened garage, beside the window, indicated that Varnie was looking up the hill, watching the Hamry house.

  The darkened truck waited. The two men would be marking time until the Hamrys left for work. Dulcie yawned and settled more comfortably on the sloping roof. The predawn sky was beginning to gray, black tree branches to appear out of the night. Up beyond the black hills, the taller mountains of the coastal range stood dark against the steely sky.

  The garage door of 3920 opened. Tim Hamry appeared, wearing a tan suit and black shoes. He turned away within the lit interior and slid into the white Toyota. They heard the engine start.

  He backed out, leaving the garage door open, and headed down the hill, his lights picking out parked cars, flashing across the windows of the stakeout car. Its glass shone blank and empty, as if the officers had ducked down.

  Joe studied the faintly lit streets, wondering if there might be a second police unit. Every dark, silent vehicle seemed totally abandoned; he could detect no movement within, no red glow of a cigarette-though no cop would smoke on stakeout. They'd chew, maybe, and spit into a paper cup. The officers would be sipping coffee, hunkered down against the chill, yawning as they watched 3920-and watched Varnie's dark, open garage. Stakeout must be like any hunt. Wait for the prey to make a move, be sure you had him cornered, then nail him.

  From within the Hamry's lit garage they heard a door close. A woman in a dark suit appeared, slid into the black Ford, and started the engine. She let it idle for a moment, then backed out.

  In the drive she left the car running while she went to turn off the light and close the overhead door. Interesting that they didn't have an electric door. Maybe they had cats-automatic doors were death on cats.

  The moment June Hamry drove away, her taillights disappearing down the hill, over at the Blankenships' Varnie started his engine. He didn't turn on his headlights. The motor rumbled unevenly, belching white exhaust. He backed out without lights, the truck's slat sides rattling; its open rear end gaped. In the center of the truck bed, the dog balanced himself heavily, lurching as the truck turned uphill.

  Beside the dog reclined four plastic garbage bags, heavily filled, and tied shut. "What's with the bags?" Dulcie hunched lower against the rough shingles, looking.

  The truck moved up the hill. Pausing before 3920, it backed into the Hamry's drive as bold as if it belonged there, sat idling as, presumably, the two men watched the windows, making certain the house was indeed empty. Varnie had attached a hand-lettered sign to the sid
e of the truck: Save our earth. Help recycle.

  Who would suspect a couple of guys donating their time to collect recyclables? Maybe the bags contained beer cans for a touch of authenticity. The quickening morning breeze picked up a breath of old fish. Scanning the street, Joe saw a second stakeout car.

  "There, across the street and down three doors. That old station wagon."

  Dulcie looked, wriggling lower against the shingles. "How can you tell? I don't see a soul."

  "I saw a little movement behind the glass, just a shifting in the shadows."

  Stamps got out of the truck to open the Hamry garage door, and Varnie backed on in. Leaving the garage door open, the two men disappeared inside. The dog remained in the truck bed.

  "I'm surprised he'd stay there," Dulcie said. "Stamps didn't tie him."

  "Maybe he's not as useless as we thought."

  They heard a faint click from within the garage, then the sound of a door softly closing. In a moment a faint light swung across the kitchen windows, jiggling and darting, then disappeared.

  "Come on," Dulcie said. "Those windowsills are wide. We can see right in."

  "Hold on a minute. I saw car lights way down the hill, then they went out."

  The sky was paling toward dawn, the houses beginning to take on dimension, the bushes silhouetted stark and black. Down the street within the stakeout car a shadow moved again, then was still. The cats' paws and ears were freezing. Their early-morning meal of fresh-killed rabbit, which had warmed them nicely for a while, had lost its battle with the chill. And then, glancing down the street below Janet's house, they saw a third car moving without lights. It parked below her house, beneath a row of eucalyptus trees, under the low-hanging leaves.

  They glimpsed something shiny through a back window, then the window went blank, reflecting the tree's sword-sharp leaves. They could see, within the leafy reflections, only a hint of the driver's profile. The car had parked just above the second mark, where the officers could look down into the backyard. "Harper's doing it up fancy," Joe said. "Three stakeout cars."