A Cat in the Wings:

by Lydia Adamson

  It was best, I realized, to keep my own counsel, for what I was thinking at that moment was very strange . . . quite unbelievable. It was best just to proceed . . . to say nothing . . . to do what had to be done. I felt that I had to be careful. That no one could be trusted; even, oddly, myself.

  “Tony,” I need your help. Think back on what you know of Dobrynin, what we learned about him from our research. I’m talking about when he was still dancing, before he dropped out and into his crazy world. What would you say characterized his life?”

  “Women—sex.”

  “Besides that.”

  “Booze.”

  “Would you say he was an alcoholic?”

  “If he wasn’t, no one is. He seemed to spend all his time in bars or cafés or at parties. He probably drank himself into his psychosis. But you know what they say about Russians and booze.”

  “He was only half-Russian. But as regards his drinking, I agree with you. Now tell me, don’t most alcoholics have their favorite bars?”

  “Sure.”

  “What were Dobrynin’s favorite bars? Who are the bartenders who knew him? Who let him drink when he was temporarily out of cash? Who listened to him talk? Who heard his pre-psychotic musings?”

  “In other words, you’re going bar-hopping.”

  “But to which bars, Tony? How will I find them?”

  “All those gossip columns, I guess. Go back and look at them again. You know how they do it: So-and-so was seen with so-and-so at such-and-such trendy new bistro.”

  Yes, that was the way to go. But still my thoughts were spiraling wildly. Anna Pavlova. Anna Pavlova Smith. Cat. Nude tapes. Checking back through old celebrity-peeping columns in the daily papers might be the perfect, mundane antidote for a disordered state of mind.

  “Help me on this one, Tony!” I said desperately.

  “On what? Help you on what?” Tony demanded loudly. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. You look like you belong in that hospital now.” He bounded out of his chair. “All right, all right! Sure. I’m in this with you to the bitter end. But once you get in these crazy cat moods, nothing ever—” He stopped in his tracks, looked at me, and laughed wildly. “It was Anna Pavlova Smith who murdered Dobrynin! Right?”

  “In a way, Tony,” I said calmly.

  He raised his eyes reverently to the ceiling and brought his hands together in a prayerful gesture.

  ***

  We spent three days in the library going over the microfiche, viewing hundreds of gossip and “about town” columns in newspapers and magazines.

  Tony worked as hard as I did, but he kept muttering and complaining and sometimes outright taunting me. He kept saying, “Come on, Sweet Alice, tell me what you have. Tell me what that stupid cat drawing really meant. Tell me all about the mysterious Anna Pavlova Smith. If you have something, share it with your partner.”

  I told him nothing. It was all too inchoate, at that point. It was a bunch of little things that were slowly falling into place in my head. Dobrynin feeding stray cats . . . Dobrynin thinking a cat was hunting him with a view toward emasculation . . . Dobrynin’s infatuation with that name, Anna Pavlova Smith. Oh, there were so many things. Things Tony wouldn’t understand. He would just think my lifelong obsession with cats was dovetailing nicely with Dobrynin’s psychotic delusion about one nonexistent monster cat. No, it was best to keep my mouth shut.

  At the end of the three days we consolidated our notes. Going over them together, we noted that there were really only two kinds of references to the dancer in the columns. Two genres of gossip. The first had to do with Dobrynin the bad boy, as he played out his assigned role of enfant terrible of the ballet world. These always seemed to mention well-known Manhattan bars and night spots such as P.J. Clark, or the Algonquin, or a host of whimsically named SoHo and Tribeca bars.

  The other type simply noted that the dancer had been seen in such-and-such a place with such-and-such companion. That was all.

  What was very interesting about the two types of references was that in the second sort Dobrynin was always in a totally different kind of place than he was in the first. Which is to say, places like the piano bar of the Hotel Carlyle, the Polo Bar of the Westbury, or a whole host of small, elegant cafés that radiate out from Madison Avenue in the Sixties and Seventies and are the stomping ground of the quietly rich East Side denizen, the older European tourist, and very old New York money.

  It was as if he had divided his drinking life into two distinct parts, one wild and one sedate.

  “So what?” Tony asked, after we’d discovered the pattern.

  “So, Tony, you and I are going to produce and star in a little costume drama. We’ll dress up and spend some time in some of those genteel boites where the rich get soused.’”

  “But why?”

  “Simple. I want to find a confidant of Dobrynin. Maybe a kindly old-world bartender who fed him drinks and tapas—and listened to him.”

  “Fine. And what is Dobrynin supposed to have told this confidant—that he secretly wanted a career as a cat portraitist?”

  “No, dear. He told him the murderous secret of Anna Pavlova Smith.”

  ***

  If we were going to move, even briefly, among Manhattan’s quiet rich, Tony and I would have to create roles for ourselves. And I dreamed up two of them so delicious that even Tony, appalled at the fact that I was continuing the case, found them amusing.

  He and I would be husband and wife, in from Spokane, Washington, for our yearly visit to the Big Apple. We—especially I—were balletomanes, and the principal reason for our visit was to see the various dance companies perform and to soak up the sheer excitement of the ballet milieu. Toward that end, we were stopping in at several bars that the great Peter Dobrynin was said to have frequented. I was on a sort of arcane pilgrimage, following in the steps of the master.

  As for clothes, it would be necessary to appear wealthy but blasé, to have it be obvious, yet not blatant, that we had money up the nose. Hence I decked myself out in the colors and shapes and hemlines and accessories Women’s Wear Daily and W and Vogue told me were appropriate.

  Most of our targeted cafés open at around four in the afternoon, but a few of them do have a lunch trade. Banquo, for instance. Though no one was about when we arrived.

  It was pretty dark inside, but the gloom was pierced by the brightly polished deep-dark wood, the silver, and the glasses. No plastic here. The bar itself was tiny. Then there was a cocktail table area. And toward the rear, larger dining tables.

  Polishing glasses behind the bar was a Filipino wearing one of those cutaway outfits one might have seen in England a hundred years ago. He was a youngish man with strong-looking hands, and he polished with an almost gleeful commitment.

  The moment he saw us approach he flew into action, placing in front of each of us two napkins. Yes, two napkins apiece. The first was a square paper napkin with the name BANQUO printed on both sides. The second was a large, folded linen napkin.

  Tony picked up the cloth one, grinned, and whispered to me, “The rich must drool a lot.”

  We ordered drinks, wincing as the register toted up sixteen dollars.

  The bartender went back to his polishing. It was time for me to start acting. “Excuse me!” I called out to him in a breathy voice. He looked up and moved closer to us, ever-obliging. “This may seem silly to you,” I said self-deprecatingly, “but I’ve heard that this is one of the places Peter Dobrynin, the dancer, used to frequent. We were great fans of his, my husband and I—we’re from Spokane, you know, up in Washington State?—and, like I said, we were just tremendous fans. . . . Oh, I know I’m acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, but . . . well . . . did he really come here all the time? Like they used to say in the papers?”

  A look of pain creased the bartender’s brow. For the first time, it occurred to me that his English might not be the best. After a moment’s thought he said, “Peter who?”

  So went our first excursi
on.

  But I could hardly retire a character like that after just one matinee. So we went to two other posh little places. In both the bartenders recognized the name of the great dancer, and one said he had heard that Dobrynin used to come in occasionally, but that had been before he was hired.

  Tony and I spent the next few hours relaxing at the Frick Museum. At four-thirty we headed for another café that had been mentioned many times in the columns—Camilla’s.

  The place was still there, but it was no longer called Camilla’s. The name on the canopy was VINE. Like the others it was intimate, gleaming, ordered. The bar was a bit larger, and very high off the ground, I thought. Behind it stood an elderly man in formal jacket who looked very much like T. S. Eliot.

  Prissy, he was, but approachable. If not Eliot, then Clifton Webb. Tony said he thought Franklin Pangborn was the model, but I disagreed with that.

  Incredibly, the man bowed as Tony and I seated ourselves on the uncomfortably tall stools. Off liquor for the rest of the day, we asked for club sodas with lime. He smiled at the order, as if to say that it was a brilliant choice, then made a great fuss about preparing the drinks and setting them out in front of us. He capped his performance with another bow.

  As he presented to us a silver bowl filled with mixed nuts, I immediately went into my starry-eyed dance-fan routine.

  At the end of it, he reached across the bar and patted me paternally on the arm. His face had broken into a most unexpected smile. “Yes,” he said, “Mr. Dobrynin came in here often. And he would sit right there—exactly where your husband is sitting.”

  By the time I’d finished gushing about that, Clifton’s smile had faded.

  “Oh, that poor young man!” he said sadly. “What a terrible, tragic way for him to die.”

  Then, as if to extricate himself from a memory just too painful, he turned away and walked to a shelf, where he busied himself rearranging bottles.

  I kicked Tony’s leg, signaling that we were in luck. I saw him nod in affirmation.

  The old bartender stole a quick glance at us over his shoulder, as if he were conflicted, as if he wouldn’t mind speaking more about Peter Dobrynin but thought it might be indiscreet.

  Noting the glance, I pressed on, talking a mile a minute about all the scandalous things I used to read in the New York papers I’d had delivered to my Spokane home.

  Finally, he broke. “I want you to know that he was not what they said about him in the papers! Mr. Dobrynin was a kind gentleman—generous and very polite. Oh yes, there was many a night when he drank much more than he should have, but he never misbehaved in this establishment. That talk of his being ejected from our bar is all nonsense. That never happened here. Never.”

  He waited for a response from me, as if I might find his defense of Dobrynin impossible to believe. I said nothing.

  There was nothing that could dam the flood of the bartender’s memories now. They broke the dike and rushed relentlessly on. As he reminisced, he needlessly wiped the top of the bar and tidied up.

  “Certainly he did some . . . unusual things here. But they were never harmful to anyone. He was an artist, Mr. Dobrynin, an eccentric. And quite an artist he was, as I’m sure I needn’t tell you. Why, he once gave me tickets to see him perform. I took my young niece. How thrilling that was! He was grand.”

  “What do you mean when you say he was an eccentric?”

  He smiled indulgently. “Well, he would often come in with pets . . . animals. Now, of course pets are not allowed in eating establishments in this country. But once, I remember he was with another dancer, a gentleman from the Netherlands, I believe, and Mr. Dobrynin had a parrot on his shoulder. And the parrot was wearing the same clothing as Mr. Dobrynin—the same hat, the same jacket. The bird spoke only in Dutch, and Mr. Dobrynin assured me that while its language was foul, no one would understand it.

  “Oh, yes indeed. And once he brought in a wonderful labrador retriever he said he’d found in the street. He’d bought it a muffler, and he sat right here feeding it steak tartare. Oh, yes indeed, he was fond of animals—and he always dressed them.”

  The man wheeled suddenly and opened a glass cabinet, removing a lovely bottle. He held it up. “Delamain,” he said fondly. “The brandy Mr. Dobrynin loved. How often he would insist I have a drink with him . . . like this.” He reached for a snifter, placed it on the bar, poured out a little of the pale brown liquid, and downed it in one gulp. Then he filled the glass with water, drank that, gargled daintily, and spat the water out. It was both fastidious and remarkably vulgar. This prissy bartender was really something.

  He looked at me slyly, as if his mind were on some private joke. Then he moved close and began to speak in a conspiratorial voice. “To tell the entire truth,” he said, “I did once have to ask Mr. Dobrynin to leave. Just once.” He shook his head a little sadly. “He came in quite late one evening, sat in his usual spot. He had a friend with him. A cat. A big fluffy cat with a charming ruff on its chest. He was quite in his cups that night. He had put one of those ballet costumes that the ladies wear on the little beast.”

  “A tutu?” I inquired anxiously.

  “Yes. A skirt. It was very amusing. Not that the kitty seemed to mind. It just stayed on top of the bar while he drank. But as I said, Mr. Dobrynin was over the limit that night. He started taking the cat around to all the tables, introducing it to everyone, and several of the customers objected. When the manager told him he would have to desist, he became quite angry. He did have a temper, you know. He claimed we’d insulted the cat. Made a horrible fuss before he finally left. Yes, he said we’d insulted a great dancer, Anna Pavlova.”

  Tony looked over at me, and I know I looked like a ghost. My heart was pounding. What I had been looking for, I’d found—that single, overwhelmingly absurd fact . . . a cat in a tutu . . . on the bar . . . the thing that made this whole incredible mystery comprehensible. But it was a repellent revelation. I knew now who had murdered Peter Dobrynin. And why. And that knowledge made me sick.

  “I think you mean Anna Pavlova Smith,” Tony corrected the old man.

  “Oh, yes. Of course. That was the name. My goodness, what loyal fans you must be, to know a thing so small as that! He would have been very happy—God rest his soul—to know both of you.”

  I knew that if I started to laugh I would start to cry. And that if I started to cry, I would never stop. Tony helped me out into the bracing evening air.

  Chapter 24

  I had to be especially careful in laying this, the final trap. No one under heaven would believe my story unless the proof was incontestable.

  I gave Basillio no details, but he agreed to help anyway. I don’t think he even wanted to know what I was planning—as it was, even the name “Peter Dobrynin” was getting to be too much for him.

  The ad I placed in the Sunday New York Times was short and to the point:

  CAT FOUND. ANNA PAVLOVA SMITH READY TO RETURN HOME. FEE REQUIRED. CALL 212-653-6228 AFTER SIX P.M.

  I moved in to Tony’s hotel room on Saturday afternoon. The phone number in the ad was in fact that of his hotel room. And if my suspicion proved correct, the person to whom the ad was directed would read it Saturday night, when the Times hit the stands.

  Tony was happy to have me as a guest, but he was puzzled as to why I had brought Bushy along with me in his carrier.

  “We need all the help we can get,” I said cryptically, setting Bushy free and watching him inspect the room tentatively. He didn’t much like it.

  “Do I need a gun for this one, Swede?” Tony asked, no doubt making fun of my secretive behavior.

  “No. All you need to do is listen and follow instructions.”

  He sat down primly on the bed. “I’m all ears.”

  “You’ll get a phone call tonight. If not tonight, never. Someone will ask what the fee is for Anna Pavlova Smith. You’ll tell the caller the price is five thousand dollars. Say you’ll take a check. If it is a check it must be made out to ca
sh, dated Monday, and endorsed on the back. The caller must come to your hotel room immediately. Have you got that?”

  “Yeah. Fine. But then what happens when they get here?”

  “Take the money and hand over Anna Pavlova Smith.”

  He found that funny. “And where do I find Miss Smith?’”

  I pointed at Bushy.

  “You mean you want me to give away your cat!”

  “Just follow instructions, Tony, and everything will be fine.”

  “How about calling old man Brodsky? He might get a kick out of the fact that his crack investigator is blowing what’s left of the expense account. I mean, that guy could use a laugh.”

  I sat down on the one easy chair and began the vigil. I had brought along a book—Madame Bovary, in an old paperback edition, which I tend to reread every three or four years. The bookmark was set at page sixty-two. Emma and Charles were riding in their carriage.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Tony asked suddenly.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  “You’re acting strange. You’re too cool. Like you were waiting for a delivery of cat food, not a murderer.”

  “What would you have me do, Tony? Jump around? Tremble?”

  “Do something other than just sit there reading!”

  He was right. I was strangely calm. No, not calm, sad. If what I thought would happen did happen, then I would be truly sad.

  “Besides, how do you know this person is going to see the ad? It seems like a one-in-a-million shot,” Tony observed.

  “Believe me, the murderer will see the ad. The murderer is looking for such an ad, always looking. Don’t you understand?”

  “How many times have I heard that awful phrase tumble from your bee-stung lips, I wonder?” Tony grinned and busied himself by trying to amuse Bushy. The hours went by. At ten that evening, Tony said: “You think we may have a problem?”

  “Be patient, Tony. Soon. It’ll happen soon.”

  “I think maybe you don’t know what you’re doing here. Everybody makes mistakes, Swede.”