The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  “He’s crazy. Why would he bring his cat here?”

  “Well, he didn’t know it was his, did he? He thought he was bringing Morris back.”

  “So he couldn’t tell his own cat?”

  “Not him. Not without the collar. He put a collar on Morris in order to tell them apart. Now, the real mystery is how Morris got the collar off and onto Schrödinger. I suspect Mungo managed that little trick. Easy enough to get it off; it’s just a Velcro closure. Well, we’ll never know.”

  “You’re just leaving Schrödinger here and Morris with Harry?”

  “No, of course not. You’re going to get Morris back.”

  Melrose stared, not at Jury but at some impossible image in his head. Then he collected his cigarettes and lighter, stuffed them into his pockets, drank off his beer, and said, “That’s it.”

  When he got up, Jury pulled him down by his sleeve. “It’s perfectly simple. You’ll go to Harry’s. I have a dog, I mean cat, carrier in the car—”

  “Why? What would you have a carrier for?” Melrose had sat down again.

  “It’s . . . Wiggins’s. He got a hamster. We’ll put the carrier in your car. You’ll be staying at Boring’s.” Pleased, Jury drank his beer.

  “Is there any part of my life you don’t have plans for? Why will I be staying at Boring’s?”

  “Because you’re going to London.”

  “I have no plans to go to London.”

  “You do now. That’s the second thing: Have you ever used an escort service?”

  Melrose sat back and regarded Jury through narrowed and suspicious eyes. “No, and I don’t plan to in the future.”

  “Here’s a change in your future plans: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road Companions. You choose.”

  “Oh, thanks very much. None of the above. I don’t fancy sex I have to pay for.”

  “Who said you had to?”

  “Pay for it?”

  “No, have it.”

  “Well, that’s what those escort places are for.”

  “Not necessarily. You can have an escort for a lot of things. Just take her to dinner or a show or for a walk in Green Park or to the Royal Albert Hall or to the Vic—”

  “Can you see me taking a woman of that sort to the Victoria and Albert?”

  “Christ, but you’re a snob. I never knew you were a snob.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Well, but you’re not. Look at all your canoodling with the Crippses. Anyone who can hang around White Elite and Ash the Flash by definition is not a snob. Not to mention Piddlin’ Pete.” Jury gave a brief but beery laugh. “And what about Bea? Yes, Bea. You didn’t waste any time taking her to the National Gallery. She’s a lot more EC3 than SW1.”

  “Bea’s an artist.”

  “I know. But her accent’s Brixton. So go ahead, choose: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road.”

  Melrose continued to stare at Jury.

  “Oh, for God’s sakes. I’ll go first.” Jury was certain that Rosie Moss knew more than she’d told him; now was as good a time as any to ring her. He did. “Rosie, hello. Richard Jury ... yes, that one. Look, if you’ve nothing on, how about a drink tomorrow night ... No? ... Thursday night, then?” He danced his eyebrows at a leery-eyed Melrose Plant. “Okay, I will. Thanks.” Jury rang off. “See? Simple as that? Rosie’s with Valentine’s. So you take one of the others.”

  “If you were actually talking to someone just now. You could have been faking the whole thing.”

  Jury just gave him a look.

  “Oh, very well. Smart Set. I like the name better.”

  “Right.” Jury got out his mobile phone. “We’ll call that first.”

  Melrose threw up his hands. “Wait a minute: you think I’m going to do this right now?”

  “Why not? I did it right now.”

  “You don’t trust me to do it?”

  “No.”

  “Hell.” Melrose reached over and grabbed the mobile. “What’s the number?”

  Jury slid a page from his small notebook across to Melrose. “Don’t forget the London code’s just changed.”

  Melrose glared. “I’m not a child.” He tapped in the number and waited for the ring. “Yes . . . hello ... I was just wondering . . . I’m going to be in London—”

  Jury held up a page on which he’d been writing. “—tomorrow and I’m interested in your, uh, service.”

  Jury went on writing.

  “And I was just wondering about the procedure ... Yes . . . Yes.”

  Jury held up his note: “They’ll want to know what kind of girl.” “Oh, I’m not particular—no, wait, I’d say a blonde, tallish, good-looking, of course, but then you wouldn’t have one that’s bad-looking, would you, a-ha?”

  A twitter came out of the mobile.

  “That sounds all right ... Where will I be staying? At my club. Boring’s. It’s in Mayfair ... Oh, cocktails and dinner, I think ... At my club? Well ... look, I’ll get in touch after I get to London to pick a place to meet . . . Yes.” He gave her his particulars, including a credit card number. He had to wrestle the card out of his leather billfold. “Yes. Good-bye.” Melrose gave the mobile and a dirty look to Jury, who smiled and stowed it in his pocket.

  Dora was back again, sitting down beside Jury, ignoring Sally Hawkins. “When you go to London,” she said to Melrose, “will you go to this person’s house and get Morris?”

  “No,” he said to her. Ignoring Dora’s crestfallen look, he turned to Jury. “Now, what are your instructions? I mean, about how to behave on a first date?”

  “I don’t care what you do as long as you get the information.” Jury thought of the cabdriver who’d whisked him to the animal hospital, and smiled. The Knowledge.”

  Jury looked at his watch. “Got to go. I want to make a few stops before I head back to London.”

  “What about this infernal kidnapping of Morris? When am I supposed to do that?”

  “After your hot date tomorrow night. So the day after. And don’t use the Rolls; take one of your other wrecks. The Bentley. It’s pretty old as I remember.’

  “There’s the Jag.”

  “You don’t own a Jaguar.”

  “I could always buy one. I mean, we want to do this right.”

  “Why are you sodden with money, whilst I just have to squeak along?”

  Melrose shrugged. “Justice? You can have my Bentley.” “Thanks. And remember, this isn’t a kidnapping. Kidnapping is what Harry did. You’ll be going to London anyway for your date.” Jury smiled. “I’ll let you know the exact time to appear at Harry’s house. He lives in Belgravia. You know where that is.”

  “‘You know where that is,’” Melrose mimicked. “Yes, sport, I know. What’s his address?”

  Jury told him.

  “So when Harry comes to the door—incidentally, I’m sure Harry will remember me after that drama in the Old Wine Shades.”

  “Harry won’t be coming to the door.” Jury’s smile was even broader. “Harry will be elsewhere.”

  44

  “They’re calling them ‘the Escort Murders,’ subhead ‘Serial Killer on the Loose?’ At least they made it a question.” DS Cummins had turned the paper around so that Jury could see for himself the headline and the photos beneath it. There were two of the Valentine’s and Smart Set agencies, together with what looked like agency photographs, one of Deirdre Small and one of Mariah Cox using the name “Stacy Storm.” Kate Banks was missing, as was the King’s Road Companions agency. Beneath these photos was a smaller one of Rose Moss, who was “helping police with their inquiries.”

  Jury and Cummins were sitting in the Chesham station.

  Cummins went on: “I guess they’re all related, only . . .”

  “Only what? I’m open to intuition.”

  Cummins scratched his ear. He looked awfully young. Jury envied him the boyishness so close to the surface. He thought of Rosie Moss. He worried about her, to tell the truth. He hoped he wasn’t le
ading her on, making that date with her.

  “Well, it doesn’t feel right, that it’s a serial killer.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s because . . . Mariah being murdered in Chesham, not London.”

  “Exactly. Mariah Cox was murdered because she was Mariah Cox, or Stacy Storm, not because she was an escort. That it would be the same for the other two would follow, wouldn’t it? They’re connected, but not by escort services, by something else. We have to find out the something else.”

  David Cummins smiled. “Chris thinks so, too, the escort business doesn’t have anything to do with the murders. Chris thinks it’s all about shoes.”

  Jury really laughed for the first time in days. “Tell her I can send someone round to talk to Jimmy Choo.”

  “And Louboutin, the red sole guy. Those shoes look like they stepped in blood.”

  Edna Cox came to the door looking a little less worn out, but not much. She seemed, oddly, glad to see Jury, maybe because he was one of the few left who connected her with Mariah. He hoped he wasn’t the only one.

  He was seated with a cup of tea, not speaking of her niece and the other victims until she’d stopped bustling around and was herself sitting down.

  “These other two women, Mrs. Cox—Deirdre Small and Kate Banks—do those names mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head. The paper, the same one Cummins had shown to Jury, was lying on a rust-colored ottoman. Edna Cox picked it up. “No. But I’ve seen her somewhere.” As Cummins had done, she turned the paper so Jury could see. Her finger was tapping the picture of Rosie Moss. “Adele Astaire, it says her name is.” A little hmpf! of disbelief followed.

  Jury was surprised. “You’ve seen her where? I thought all you knew of her was the name.”

  “That’s right. I’d never seen these girls. I mean, their pictures. No, Adele Astaire is a made-up name just like Stacy Storm is. You’d think”—pause for a sip of tea—“they could come up with better names than those, wouldn’t you?”

  Jury thought he’d better not prompt her with Adele’s real name just now. “This Adele Astaire—do you recall where you saw her?”

  She set down the cup and was prepared to really exercise her brain. “I’ve been trying to bring it to mind ever since I saw that picture.” She shook her head. “But I can’t.”

  “Could she have come here at all, I mean, to Chesham, with Mariah?”

  Edna Cox’s eyes shut tightly, as if squeezing the last drop from memory. “No. No, I’m sure not. At least that’s not where I saw her.”

  Jury waited, but when she added nothing, he said, “Her real name is Rose Moss. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Edna frowned down to study either the hands in her lap or the carpet of cabbage roses at her feet. Then she tilted her head a bit, as in the way of one trying to hear an indistinct or distant sound. Her eyes widened. “A film! There was a film long ago that I remember seeing with my sister, Mariah’s mum, when they lived in London. Mariah must’ve heard us talking about it, and laughed and said something like its being funny, the way the film had got the name the wrong way round. It was called Moss Rose. She thought it very funny.”

  “You think Rose Moss was someone she knew?”

  “Well, it must’ve been a school chum, maybe. Mariah wouldn’t have been more than eight or nine, I shouldn’t think. But you’ve talked to the girl; what did this Moss girl say? Did she recognize Mariah?”

  “She knew her by Stacy Storm, you see. And when I told her the real name, she didn’t say she knew your niece.”

  Edna Cox leaned her head on her hand, fisted round a handkerchief. A tear tracked slowly down her face. “My Mariah making up such a name. It’s a sad name, isn’t it? It’s so false. It’s so falsely like a film star, isn’t it? My Mariah.”

  Understandable that she’d settled on the name instead of the whole charade. Denial, he supposed, our last refuge. “Why do you think Mariah went to such trouble to appear, well, plain, when she was clearly so striking?”

  Or was the striking one, the escort, the real Mariah?

  Was either identity real? Neither?

  Edna Cox shook her head. “She was prettier as a child; she seemed to grow into plainness somehow. Even then, she was fairly quiet and uncomplaining, not a lot of energy. This other self of hers—I don’t know where that came from.”

  “You’d have had no reason to think it, but is it possible she was suffering a mental illness, what’s thought of as a personality dissociation? You know—where the sick person splits into one or more other selves?”

  The aunt frowned. “Oh, no. At least there’s no history at all of that kind of thing in the family.”

  Jury nodded. If it were some sort of personality split, what would it mean to this case? It was certainly not one of Mariah’s selves that had killed the other two women. Mariah had been the first one to die.

  Jury rose, thanked Edna Cox, and offered to do for her anything he could, which, they both knew, was nothing. Still, the offer. “I’ll be going back to London. You have my card? You know where to reach me. Please do, if you need me.”

  She took some comfort in this and said good-bye.

  45

  Dr. Phyllis Nancy peeled off the skin-thin green gloves and dropped them into the gutter of the table where Deirdre Small lay, shrunken in death, hollowed out, deflated.

  “I wanted another look at the bullet wounds, the trajectory of the bullet. Your suspect, the client she was meeting—if he is a suspect ...” Phyllis looked at her notes.

  Jury nodded. “Nicholas Maze. DI Jenkins doesn’t think he did it.”

  “Then Jenkins is probably right. Maze, I believe, is very tall; the victim was quite short. The trajectory would have been different—”

  “Even at close range?”

  She nodded. “It would still make a difference.”

  Jury looked at the face of Deirdre Small, wiped clean of all expression, and knew the expressions that had once played over it: it would have been a game face, a face put on to meet the demands of her world. Because of her background, her job, her small structure, she must have conceded a lot. More, he bet, than the intelligent and beautiful Kate Banks or the ambiguous Mariah Cox.

  Three of you, he thought. Dead for no reason, died for nothing, killed because you were an inconvenience in some way, murdered because of someone’s greed, or rage, or fear, or guilt. How do you connect? How were you alike?

  He looked up, nodded back to the body of Deirdre Small. “What did she tell you, Phyllis?”

  “Not nearly as much,” said Dr. Nancy with a little smile, “as she told you. Dinner?”

  He nodded. She took off her apron, went to collect her things, and they left the morgue.

  “The neurologists,” said Phyllis, “aren’t very hopeful. But I expect that comes as no surprise.”

  Jury studied his crispy fish, something Wiggins liked to order, but not he. It looked like a puzzle.

  Phyllis was studying him. Did he himself look like a puzzle? He was stalling for a reply to the neurologists’ prognoses. He could think of nothing.

  “You’re at a loss.” She tilted her head. “There was never anything you could do, Richard. There’s nothing now.”

  He shook his head. “I know. It’s not so much what I could do as what I could feel. Should feel.” He looked up from his fish, then back again. He wasn’t very hungry.

  “Ambivalence is—”

  “It’s more than that. Or less than.” Jury leaned back and took in the room, crowded as always. Here the crowding didn’t bother him; the customers, perfect strangers, seemed familiar. In the familiar din and chatter, there was privacy. He caught sight of Danny Wu, bending over a table, being solicitous of the couple there. Danny could work a room as well as any politician. He smiled. “This place is comforting.”

  “It is, yes. It’s one of those home places, a place that’s a stand-in for home, whatever that might mean. For me, there’s a chemist’s near my
flat. It’s a little sort of run-down place, but I like to go in it. There’s even an armchair. I sit in it and read labels.”

  “Phyllis—” He laughed, more delighted than surprised. This woman was so accomplished. Also beautiful, also rich. The source of her money was a mystery to him.

  “For some people it’s a certain kind of shop, for some, book-stores—it doesn’t have to be a place, anyway—what we think of as home. For an artist it might be paint; for a writer, words.” She sighed and cut off a bite of fish.

  “I was at the hospital this morning,” she continued. “One of her doctors is a good friend and he told me. It’s still possible she’ll come out of it, Richard. This makes it difficult to decide—well, Lu’s uncle was there.”

  Jury waited.

  “He’s the closest relation she has or, at least, according to him.”

  “You saw him?”

  She nodded. “Yes, he was there with Dr. McEvoy. My friend.”

  “Lu told me a little about him, the uncle. She was very fond of him. Other than that, she never talked about her life.” He picked up the chopsticks, moved them awkwardly. “Now, what’s left of it?”

  “I’m really sorry, Richard.”

  She was, too.

  It wasn’t, thought Jury, one of Phyllis’s “home places,” the hospital, but he thought the nursing staff made an effort to keep it from being absolutely foreign.

  A grandmotherly looking nurse, small and rotund, whose uniform badge gave her name as Mae Whittey, came round from behind the nurses’ station to tell him Ms. Aguilar had been moved earlier that day and that she would take him to her room. He did not want to know to what section, for he was afraid of the answer. It might be the Hopeless Ward.

  Nurse Mae Whittey’s crepe-soled shoes made gasping little sucks at the floor as she walked. She told him that one of the rooms they passed was being “refurbished,” hence the thick plastic across the doorless doorway. The heavy plastic put Jury in mind of one of those temporary tents thrown up at an archaeological dig.

  “Mind those tools,” she said, indicating a bucket and equipment left lying against the wall. Her role seemed less nurse and more guide through an excavation, seeing to it that Jury didn’t put a foot wrong.