Cat Under Fire

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  The discs had finished when he returned to the living room. He was dressed in dark slacks, a white, turtleneck pullover, and a suede sport coat. And though his clothes were handsome, Mahl still looked like a bad-tempered owl. He turned off the CD player, locked the sliding door to the balcony, and left the apartment. Joe woke as Dulcie raced to the balcony and leaped to unlock the door again, slapping at the latch.

  Outside, they jumped to the rail to look down, watched him cross the parking lot, get into a white BMW, and head out. Beyond the parking lot and beyond the red tile roofs of the condo complex, the hills and the mountains were burnished gold in the late-afternoon light. They could not see the ocean, to the west, or the setting sun. But off to their right, beyond the village rooftops, the bay looked like melted gold. Along the bay sprawled the warehouses and wharves.

  "Rob's studio is there," Dulcie said. "I bet, if Mahl had binoculars, he could see it from right here."

  "And if he could?"

  "I don't know-a funny feeling." She lay down on the concrete rail, batted at a bougainvillea flower. "Rob got home from San Francisco the morning of the fire around four. That's what he told the court. He said he partied late, drove home tired, and went to bed.

  "But then a phone call woke him around four-thirty. He said he answered and he guessed it was a wrong number, no one was there."

  "What are you getting at?"

  She licked her paw. "It would probably have been easy for Mahl to get hold of Rob's car keys, maybe when Rob was in the gallery unloading paintings. Pick them up, step out for a few minutes, have them copied."

  He waited, ears forward.

  "Just assume Mahl did take the paintings. He might even have used Janet's own van, taken it out of the St. Francis parking garage late Saturday night. Say he drove down to Molena Point, used his key to her studio, loaded up the paintings. Hid them in that locker…"

  "If there is a locker."

  She flicked her ears impatiently. "He hid the paintings, drove back to the city, arrived before dawn Sunday morning. Put her car back in the garage…"

  "So what did he use for a ticket, to get her van out in the first place?"

  "Used his own parking ticket, for the BMW. Then when he drove her van back in Sunday morning, he got another ticket. Used that to take the BMW out, Sunday night.

  "But somewhere along the way he realized he'd lost his watch.

  "He couldn't turn around and drive back to Molena Point-it was nearly dawn. He had to be seen having breakfast in the hotel, that was part of his alibi."

  "And then," Joe said, "it was daylight, he didn't want to be seen going into Janet's studio in broad daylight. And that night, Sunday night, was the opening, he had to be seen there."

  Mahl had testified that after the opening he did not return to his home in Mill Valley, but had driven down to the Molena Point condo, intending to meet with two buyers on Monday morning. Both buyers, one a well-known collector, had testified that they did meet with Mahl late that Monday morning.

  Dulcie leaped down and began to pace the balcony. "He must have been panicked about the watch. He wanted it back; he didn't dare let it be found in Janet's studio."

  She smiled, smoothed her whiskers. "He got here to the condo sometime after midnight. All he could think of was the watch. Maybe he sat here on the balcony, with the binoculars, watching the warehouse area, watching for a light to come on in Rob's studio."

  "But when a light did come on," Joe said, "maybe he couldn't be really sure it was Rob's studio. So he picked up the phone. That's what the phone call was."

  "Yes. When Rob answered, Mahl hung up. Got in his car, drove down there, took Rob's Suburban, and hightailed it up to Janet's to get his watch."

  Joe nodded. "But Janet was already up, lights were on in the studio, he didn't dare go in. All he could do was hope the watch would be destroyed in the fire, melted beyond recognition."

  "And when the watch didn't turn up as part of the evidence, and when no one had testified to seeing him take Rob's Suburban or return it, he thought he was home free."

  "Right. Except that this is all supposition."

  "It won't be supposition if we find the paintings," she said.

  Joe sighed. "You're imagining a lot. Talk about a needle in a haystack." He scratched a flea, then rose, trotted back inside across the thick oriental rug toward the kitchen. "But first things first. I'm not going to search two or three locker complexes, all those miles of buildings, on an empty stomach."

  In Mahl's kitchen they polished off half of the remaining roast beef, hoping Mahl would assume that was all he'd left when he made his sandwich. They enjoyed a hunk of Camembert, but left the remains suspiciously ragged. They smoothed it out as best they could with neat little nibbles. They split the last yogurt and hid the empty container in the bottom of the trash can. Who would guess cats had been at the refrigerator? They licked up a few stray cat hairs and then, strengthened, searched the condo.

  Looking into the cupboards, the dresser drawers, the closet, and the nightstand, they found nothing of interest. But when Dulcie pulled out a briefcase from behind Mahl's Ballys, they hit pay dirt.

  The closet was neatly arranged. The hanging garments were sorted as to type and color with the help of one of those intricate modular systems designed for optimum space utilization. The white, wire mesh shelves beneath his slacks and suit coats held twelve pairs of perfectly arranged dress shoes and loafers, a leather overnight bag, a pair of golf shoes, and a small metal tool box. In the corner leaning against the wall was an expensive-looking golf bag and a three-foot-long pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters. The briefcase was on the bottom rack behind the shoes. They dragged it out, sliding the shoes aside.

  The combination lock wasn't engaged. The briefcase contained a stack of letters, and a sheaf of paid bills and receipts secured by a rubber band. Dulcie pulled off the elastic with her teeth, and they began to nose through.

  "I don't believe this," Joe said when, halfway through, they found a receipt from Shorebird Storage, for locker K20. Dulcie said nothing. She only smiled. The locker had been rented four months ago, for an annual fee of twelve hundred dollars.

  They put the bills back as they had found them, closed the briefcase, and slid it behind the shoes, straightening the Ballys to perfect symmetry, as Mahl had left them. And within minutes they were down the bougainvillea vine and headed for Highway One, the locker combination firmly engraved on their furtive cat minds.

  The golden October evening was deepening, the sky streaked with indigo. As they trotted up Sixth Street, enjoying the warmth of the sidewalk beneath their paws, they sniffed the good village smells of fresh-cut grass, crushed eucalyptus leaves, and the salty, iodine smell of the sea. And at this hour the air was filled, too, with the aromas of suppers cooking in the houses they passed, the scents of baking ham, of hot cheese and beef stew. That snack at Mahl's had been a nice first course; but who knew if there was anything edible in a concrete locker complex? Who knew how long they'd be occupied? Cats, as Joe had pointed out to Clyde on more than one occasion, needed frequent sustenance.

  In an overgrown flower garden they stalked and caught a starling. The bird was tough, not tender and sweet like a robin or a dove, but it was filling. They finished their supper quickly, washed up with a few hasty licks, and trotted on into the deepening evening.

  Crossing over the top of Highway One, where it tunneled under Sixth, they turned north. Traveling along through a string of cottage gardens, leaping through flower beds and watching for sudden dogs, Joe looked ahead lustily, his yellow eyes burning. Dulcie, watching him with a sideways glance, had to smile. He was all aggression now, hot for the kill-as if nothing would keep them from Mahl's locker even if he had to claw through solid wood.

  And now they could see, a quarter mile ahead where the highway came up out of the tunnel, the Shorebird Storage Lockers sign, its red neon glowing brighter than fresh blood against the gathering evening.

  Their plan was to slip i
nto the complex before it closed, wait inside until the caretaker locked up and went home, until they had Shorebird Lockers to themselves. And Dulcie shivered with anticipation. They could be coming down, tonight, on some heavy stuff. If the paintings were there, this would blow Rob's trial wide-open. Detective Marritt's sloppy investigation, his lack of investigation, would be clear for everyone to see.

  She would not even consider, now, that they might be disappointed, that the locker might contain something very different from Janet's paintings, she had put that unworthy idea aside. Dulcie felt success in her bones; she was afire with the same surge of blood, the same deep, sure excitement as when they trotted up into the hills on a fine hunting night-on a night she knew would be laced with some pure, hot victory.

  24

  Shorebird Lockers was a complex of twelve concrete buildings, each a hundred feet long, with wide aisles between. The roofs were of corrugated metal, and a six-foot chain-link fence enclosed the compound, its posts and bottom edge set securely into cement. The facility had all the charm of a concentration camp as seen in some old World War II movie, barren, chill to the spirit, hard to escape.

  But there were no prisoners here, this camp was empty of humanity. The only life visible was the two cats trotting quickly up a wide concrete alley beneath the yellow glow cast by security lamps rising at regular intervals from the corners of the buildings. The cats avoided the center of the alley, where metal grids covered a six-inch gutter littered with refuse, scraps of paper, muddy leaves, bobby pins, an occasional lost key. The corrugated metal doors above them reflected their swift shadows flashing through shafts of harsh light. Some of the doors were narrow, some as wide as a double garage. Locker K20 was halfway up the last alley. The time was eight-fifteen. The complex had been closed for fifteen minutes.

  Earlier, slipping inside the open gate, they had hidden behind a Dumpster, watching for the caretaker to come out of the office, lock up, and go home. The office occupied the far end of the building nearest the gate, and the lights were still on. They presumed the caretaker's car was parked beyond the fence on the street, one of several at the curb in front of the adjoining hardware and tool rental stores. Both those shops were closed.

  Soon the man appeared, heading for the gate, a small, silver-haired old fellow. They watched him pull the chain-link gate closed from inside, snap the padlock, and turn back into the complex. He made no move to leave. Entering the little office, soon those lights went out and lights at the back came on, in the room behind, accompanied by the sound of a television, the unmistakable canned laughter of a sitcom.

  "He's in for the night," Dulcie said. "I hadn't thought he might live here. But maybe the TV will hide whatever noise we make."

  "I'm not planning to make any noise." He trotted away toward the back, following the numbers.

  But when they had located locker K20, in the building nearest the back fence, they found there would be two locks to open.

  One communal door led to a group of inner rooms, apparently small lockers sharing an inner hall. The outer door to lockers K17 through K28 was secured with a combination lock. This might be the lock Mahl's combination opened, or it might not. There was bound to be another lock inside at his individual door. Maybe a keyed lock, maybe another combination. There was also the question of the keyed padlock on the front gate. Mahl, at three in the morning, had to have a key for that. And he would have had to be very quiet loading and unloading the paintings, with the old man asleep so nearby.

  They looked up at the communal padlock, its tiny silver numbers etched into a black circle. Crouching, Dulcie leaped at the heavy lock, clawing at the dial, grasping at it ineffectually with her paws.

  She jumped six times and fell back. It would take both paws to turn the dial and would take a steady stance-she couldn't do it, jumping. She tried balancing on Joe's back but still she needed both paws and couldn't stay steady without bracing herself against the door. "Stop shifting around. Can't you stand still? Can't you hold your back flatter?"

  "My back is not flat. I can't balance you unless I move around. This isn't going to work."

  This was totally frustrating. Cats were masters at the art of balancing; any scruffy stray could trot casually along the thinnest fence. But trying to stand on Joe's back she felt as clumsy as a two-legged dog.

  Irritated, she began to pace. Joe hardly noticed her as he stared high above, toward the roof.

  "There's a vent up there." He crouched. "Maybe I can get through the screen."

  Before she could comment he gave a powerful spring, hit the top of the metal door, clawing, digging into the wood frame. Hanging from the frame, fighting, reaching up, he was just able to hook his claws into the screen of the small, high vent. The screen ripped under his weight, and with one powerful heave he pulled himself in. Hanging in the rectangular hole, half in and half out, his belly over the sill, he kicked again and disappeared inside.

  She crouched, wiggled her butt, and sprang after him up the side of the wall-and fell back, her claws screeching down the steel door so loudly she was sure the watchman would hear.

  She tried again. And again. At the third leap she caught the bottom of the vent, clawing, scrabbling to hang on. Kicking hard, she pulled herself up through the screen, felt its torn, ragged edges tearing out hanks of fur.

  Inside she stood in darkness, perched above the lockers just beneath the metal roof. It was warm against her back, the day's accumulation of heat still radiating from the metal. The tops of the locker walls formed an open grid stretching away. The only light was from the vent opening behind her and a matching vent maybe forty feet away, at the back. In the locker directly below her, she could make out stacked furniture, tables, chairs, bedsprings, suitcases. Peering along above the walls, she could not see Joe. She didn't call to him, she mewled softly.

  "Come over the walls." His voice sounded hollow. "The fourth locker."

  She crept along the top of the wall, brushing under cobwebs. The second locker smelled of mildewed clothes and was piled with cardboard boxes. Two bicycles hung on its wall beside several car parts: bumpers, fenders, a hood. The third locker was empty, emitting a chill breath that smelled of concrete. She found it mildly amusing that humans accumulated so many possessions they had to rent lockers to store them-or clutter the house to distraction, like Mama.

  But why should she be amused? Was she any different, with her box of stolen sweaters and silk stockings and lacy teddies? Who knew, maybe if she was a human person she might have every closet and dresser crammed full, a compulsive shopper mindlessly dragging home everything that took her fancy.

  But then, peering down into the fourth locker, she forgot human foibles, forgot her own acquisitive weakness. Looking, crouching forward, she caught her breath.

  The locker was filled with paintings. Not a foot below her marched a row of big canvases, standing upright in a wooden rack.

  Oh, the lovely smell of canvas and dried oil paints. Shivering, her heart pounding, she reached down her paw to pat their rough edges.

  And the canvas was stapled. She could not feel any thumbtacks.

  Then she saw, on the floor beyond the painting rack, Joe's white face, white chest and paws, the rest of him lost in darkness. "Be careful," he said, as she bunched to leap down, "there's some…"

  Too late. She landed on something hard that flew from under her, crashing to the floor loud as an explosion.

  "Some wooden crates," Joe finished. "Are you okay?"

  "Damn. I'll bet the guard heard that."

  "Maybe not, with the TV on. His room is clear across the complex. Maybe the crates contain Janet's sculpture; that one rattled like metal when it fell." The six wooden crates had no markings, but they were heavy and solid, securely nailed.

  She reared up to look at the paintings, then hopped up into the rack between them, looked closely at a big landscape.

  Yes, it was Janet's, a splashy study of the Baytowne wharves, stormy sky, crashing sea. She pushed the
painting back, to reveal the next, looked up at blowing white cumulus and red rooftops. She wanted to shout, turn flips. Pushing several more canvases to lean against their mates, she feasted on blowing trees, reflective shop windows, a view uphill of dark roofs against seething cloud, the rich colors dulled in the darkness, but the movement and bold shapes were unmistakably Janet's.

  They counted forty-six paintings.

  "Then Stamps and Varnie didn't take any, they're all here." She frowned. "But the way they talked, they must know where the canvases are hidden."

  "Maybe they plan to come back when things die down, maybe with bolt cutters."

  "Why would they think the paintings would still be here? That Mahl-if he wasn't caught-wouldn't move them?"

  "I don't know, Dulcie. I guess that's why Stamps said, 'Get ours while we can, and get out.' Mahl had nerve," he said, "stashing them nearly on top of the murder scene."

  "Maybe he thought this was the last place anyone would look, maybe…"

  "Shhh. Listen." He backed away from the door.

  Footsteps approached down the wide alley beyond the communal door.

  Metal rattled as the outer door rolled up. They leaped to the top of the crates, to the top of the standing paintings balancing on their edges. They were poised to spring up to the top of the wall when lights blazed on, the bare bulb on the wall of their unit nearly blinding them. And the yellow glare above, washing across the ceiling, told them the lights in all the units had come on, ignited by a master switch.

  Footsteps entered the inner corridor, sending them flying to the top of the wall and away toward the back, through light as bright as day.