The Black Cat

by Martha Grimes

  “Well, now, I do have an album or two.”

  “Is it possible she went to school with either Mariah Cox—she who called herself Stacy Storm as a professional name—or Deirdre Small? They were all pretty close to each other in years.”

  “Kate attended several schools. I remember Roedean was one. If you’ll just wait a moment ...”

  “Roedean?” Wiggins was surprised. “But that’s one of our best schools.”

  Myra had risen and now looked down at him, still sitting with his slice of cake. “You think a girl working at what she did, being an escort, do you think she couldn’t have the brains for a school like Roedean?”

  “No, I wouldn’t have thought so.” It was always a source of delight to Jury that Wiggins was completely literal.

  Myra shook her head at such intransigence. “I don’t care what’s said, Kate Muldar was a smart girl, a first-rate student. I told you she liked that big bookshop in Piccadilly, Waterstone’s. She loved to go in there and get books and sit in their café and read. That was what she loved—not pubs, not going dancing or anything like that—just stopping in that bookshop.” Myra sighed. “I’ll get the photograph album.”

  49

  The mobile was charged, but Jury had just shut it off, not wanting any disturbance while talking to Harry Johnson.

  At the same time Wiggins was enjoying Myra Brewer’s seed cake, Jury was enjoying the view of Belgravia from the top of Harry’s steps, flanked by the two stone lions.

  The door was opened by little Mrs. Tobias, Mungo by her side (or under her feet). Of course she remembered Superintendent Jury, then took a moment to study Detective Inspector Jenkins’s warrant card.

  “I think he’s expecting us,” said Jury.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Come in, please.”

  She showed them into the living room, or, rather, Mungo did. He was in the lead.

  Harry rose from a settee on the other side of a silver coffee service and welcomed them heartily.

  Jury marveled that the scene in which he now found himself was an exact replica of the one in which he and DI Tom Dryer had turned up a month or so before to slap the cuffs on Harry. Metaphorically speaking, because the cuffs were never slapped on. It was uncanny, really, the similarity: the settee, the coffee, the Times, that silver cigarette box. In a moment, he would offer them coffee. And cigarettes.

  “Coffee, gentlemen?”

  They declined. Harry took a cigarette from the box and offered the box to DI Jenkins. He knew better than to offer it to Jury. “Please sit down.” He waved them into a couple of dark leather chairs. Jenkins took one; Jury didn’t. Jury remained in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb.

  Jenkins spoke: “Mr. Johnson, I’m investigating the case of a young woman who was murdered two nights ago in St. Paul’s churchyard.”

  “Ah, yes. I read about it.” Harry rattled the paper to indicate where.

  “Superintendent Jury here is under the impression you knew her. Deirdre Small, her name was.”

  Harry smiled one of his blinding smiles. “Superintendent Jury is under the impression I’ve known everyone murdered in London.”

  “And have you?” asked Jenkins in a wonderfully affable way before he sat back and crossed his legs.

  Jury would recommend him for a citation.

  Harry laughed. “No, not all.”

  “Including Miss Small? You didn’t know Deirdre Small?”

  Harry shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

  Mungo, who had left the room, now returned with Morris (sans blue collar, of course, which was in Chesham). Both were sitting at Jury’s feet, both staring upward, hard, in a breath-holding manner.

  Jenkins said, “You didn’t know her, then?”

  “Of course not. I’ve just said that.”

  “And the other two murdered women—Stacy Storm and Kate Banks?”

  “No, I didn’t know them, either. Look, am I a suspect in this triple murder?”

  But he said it with a smile, and not a nervous one, either. It was the smile of one who’s played an enormous joke on his pals.

  Which was, at least, how Jury took it. And just how it was, he was pretty sure.

  “Because if I am—I’m remarkably short on alibis.”

  “Why do you say that, sir?”

  “At the time of these murders, I was alone. No witnesses. I live alone, you see. I’m assuming the news”—he picked up the Times beside him—“was accurate in its reporting of the time of death? I was here by myself. That is, except in the case of the Small woman. That night, I was in Chesham.”

  “In Chesham?” said Jenkins.

  “That’s right.”

  There was a pause. Then Jenkins said, “If you stopped anyplace in or around Chesham, someone probably saw you and would remember.”

  “I don’t think so.” He smiled. Harry was eating it up, his exposure to guilt, enjoying being a suspect as most people would enjoy not being one.

  “Why did you go to Chesham, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Because of the cat.”

  Jenkins turned halfway round to regard the cat sitting like a statue at Jury’s feet.

  “No,” said Harry. “Not that one. That’s my cat. I’m talking about another black cat.” His glance shifted to Jury. “You can ask Superintendent Jury.” Harry’s smile was all over the place. “I’m sure he’s worked it out that I went to Chesham because of the cat.”

  Jenkins turned to Jury, eyebrows raised, looking for some sort of corroboration.

  “What cat?” said Jury.

  50

  It was the first time Jury had ever seen Harry Johnson flummoxed.

  Harry said to Jenkins, “It was a joke, Inspector. And Superintendent Jury’s in on it.”

  Jury had mastered many looks in his time, but the one of puzzlement he now pasted on his face he knew might be the best. “Joke? I’ve been a little busy with three murders; there’s hardly been time for jokes.” God, how he’d love a cigarette. To light up while he went on holding up this door frame, that would be the image of unbeaten, unbeatable cop. If Trevor had appeared at his elbow with a bottle of Montrachet, Jury’d have drained it dry.

  Mungo and Morris looked almost as if they were joining in this celebration, their paws dancing. At least, that’s how Jury preferred to see them.

  “Very funny indeed, Superintendent,” said Harry. To Jenkins, he said, “It’s a long story, Inspector.”

  “I’m good with long stories, Mr. Johnson. If you’d accompany us to the station, I’d appreciate being told it.”

  Harry got to his feet, uttering imprecations under his breath. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, sir, not at all. You’d just be helping us with our inquiries.”

  Harry sighed. “You know this is ridiculous. All because of the damned cat.”

  Outside, Jury remembered to switch on his mobile and saw he had a half-dozen missed messages. They were all from Wiggins. He told Jenkins he had to make a call.

  “I’ve a photo here to show you, boss. It’s important.”

  Wiggins didn’t tell him why, refusing to give up that information in the interest of suspense, apparently. No, Jury had got to look at it because Wiggins wasn’t sure.

  “As soon as I get through with Harry Johnson, Wiggins.” He looked around for Plant’s car. There was one sitting across the street, an old model Bentley. A hand ventured out of the driver’s side window, and two fingers formed a V. Jury rolled his eyes. Was he supposed to do that back? At least he didn’t have to cross the street and give a secret handshake.

  Jury got in the car beside Jenkins.

  Melrose waited until the car with the three men pulled away from the curb before reaching into the backseat for the cat carrier and the True Friends cap.

  He tilted the rearview mirror to check how he looked. He looked idiotic. The cap looked like a little boat sailing on the pale waves of—Oh, for God’s sake! It was ridiculous enough without waxing poetic about it!

  Melrose pushed
back the visor. Yes, he had to wear it. There were many things he didn’t look like, and an animal rescuer was right up there at the head of the list, right after Niels Bohr. That impersonation had also been done so that Jury could get into Harry’s house. Were they to spend their lives trying to get into Harry’s house? Harry had gotten a big kick out of the Niels Bohr act.

  His silk wool suit was a bit upmarket for the pittance of a salary he must’ve been getting from an animal shelter. He exchanged the suit jacket for an ancient canvas one that looked starched enough to stand up to several attack dogs. With that on, and the hat, he got out of the car, pulling the carrier after him.

  Had Jury said that Wiggins just got himself a hamster? That sounded unlikely.

  Melrose walked up the stone steps. It was a handsome brick edifice with white steps that looked just scrubbed, and stone lions that managed to complement the house without being pretentious.

  He rang the bell, waited, hoped no one was there—wrong, here was someone opening the door: a very small woman, looking puzzled, who he assumed was the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Tobias? My name is Melrose Pierce.” He must have been thinking of Mildred. “I’ve come for Mr. Johnson’s cat?”

  Mrs. Tobias went from puzzled to suspicious. “F’r his cat? What? Come for Schrödinger? What on earth for? Don’t tell me—” She flapped her hand at him. “Take her and good riddance. There she sits. I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

  Melrose stared after her. That was it? That was all? Pies in the oven? And he’d been prepared to be extremely clever. Well, he hadn’t needed his hat after all. He could have forced his way in with a mask and a gun and she’d still have said, “Take the silver; I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

  There she sat: Morris, looking black and blameless.

  And beside her a dog that surely must be the incomparable Mungo. “It’s an honor,” said Melrose, bowing.

  Do I know you? thought Mungo. This one did look a little familiar. He was wearing a funny hat with a bill, like a duckbill. And why was he putting Morris in that carrier? Why didn’t Mrs. Tobias object? But then Mrs. Tobias thought the cat was Schrödinger. Now he was closing the flaps and all Mungo could see was Morris’s eye. And now this Daffy Duck was carrying Morris to the door.

  Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. The Duckbill opened the door and went out, with Mungo right behind him before the door closed. Mungo was right on the Duck’s heels. Down the steps, stealthily. How stealthy could you be in bright sunlight on marble steps? But the Duck didn’t notice.

  The driver’s side of the car was against the curb. The Duck opened the door, started to slide in the box, changed his mind, opened the rear door, and leaned in with the box—

  Mungo was in the front seat in a split second.

  —back out the rear door, into the front door.

  Mungo was over the front seat into the back just as the Duck slid himself into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and started the car.

  Were they all completely blind, these people? A whole animal sanctuary, a whole Noah’s Ark of animals, could have followed the Duck down those steps and he’d never have seen them. Are humans all so self-entranced they just don’t see what’s going on around them?

  Although this diatribe was not aimed at Morris, Morris answered: Yes.

  Mungo was up now on the backseat beside the box, looking at Morris’s eye. Even though he couldn’t see the rest of her through the holes, he knew Morris was sitting with her paws clapped to her chest.

  Am I being kidnapped again? Wasn’t once enough? asked Morris.

  You’d think so.

  But maybe we’re going home.

  Home. Mungo mused. If Hansel and Gretel had been forced to depend on humans to get them home, they’d have had to drop ordnance maps all over the woods.

  Mungo raised up and looked out the window. He thought he saw Westminster. They were still in London.

  He lay down. Morris’s eye wasn’t there anymore at the hole. Morris was asleep.

  Mungo sighed. All of these people, all over the place. Why’s it always down to me?

  51

  Languidly, Harry smoked. No, he didn’t want his solicitor. He hadn’t done anything except borrow a cat for a few days.

  “To be precise,” said Jenkins, sitting across the table from him, “the word is ‘kidnapped.’ Or ‘stolen.’ That’s pretty much the way we look at it, and it’s illegal, sir. That dog of yours, Ringo? How would you like it—”

  Ringo. Jury laughed silently.

  “Mun-go,” said Harry. “How would I like it if somebody kidnapped Mungo? Nobody could. Mungo’s too smart. I wouldn’t have a dog around who wasn’t.”

  Jury raised his eyes heavenward. He was leaning against the wall, letting Jenkins take care of Harry.

  “If we could go back to the Monday night, Mr. Johnson. You were in Chesham? But you’ve no one to substantiate that story?”

  “That’s right. And this is repetitious. That certainly isn’t enough to charge me. You have no evidence that I even knew this woman, Debra whatever—”

  “Deirdre Small.”

  “—so you’d hardly have any evidence to show I killed her.”

  “Let’s go back to the first victim, Mariah Cox, or Stacy Storm, as she called herself. She was also on her way to that party at the Rexroths’. The one you attended.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “A coincidence, is that?”

  “Well, it must be, since I never met this Storm woman. Never even saw her.”

  Jury shoved himself away from the wall and moved over to the table. He sat down on one corner. “You know what bothers me about this, Harry?”

  Harry checked the lit end of his cigar, blew on it softly. “What?”

  “You don’t go to parties.”

  Harry looked completely surprised.

  Jury smiled.

  “Are you trying to say that I wasn’t there?”

  “Oh, you were there all right. What I’m wondering is why you were there. Do you know a man named Simon Santos?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was Stacy’s date for that evening.”

  Harry looked from Jury to Jenkins and back again. “Then why in hell have you dragged me in for questioning? It would seem he’s the one you want.”

  “Unless, of course, you thought Stacy was your personal property and you didn’t much like her meeting Mr. Santos.”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” said Harry. “You know me better than that.”

  “I do?” said Jury, looking genuinely puzzled.

  Jenkins said, “You didn’t know either one of these women?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You went to Chesham to return a cat—the one you’d taken. Why would you do that? Why not just keep it or get rid of it some way? Take it to a shelter.”

  Jury thought Jenkins didn’t realize he was using reason to try to explain completely unreasonable behavior.

  “Because I wanted the cat to reappear, to come back. I’ve told you, it was a joke. A joke on Superintendent Jury.”

  “Yet Superintendent Jury doesn’t get it.”

  “Oh, he gets it all right. He seems to be returning the favor.” Harry turned partway in his chair, not far enough that he could actually see Jury, just enough to let Jury know he was aware he was there.

  Jury smiled, saying nothing.

  “All right,” said Jenkins in a tone that suggested it was not “all right,” that it was indeed idiotic. “Perhaps someone did see you. A man with a cat carrier might be noticed.”

  “No one saw me, Inspector. I took pains that no one would.”

  Mention of the carrier reminded Jury to check his watch. It was by now nearly five, almost an hour since they’d left Harry’s house. Plant would be well away by now. Halfway to Chesham.

  “Let’s talk about the second victim. Kate Banks. On the night she was murdered, you were at home?”

  “Yes, again.”

  “You we
re alone.”

  Harry nodded. “Yes, as I said.”

  “Are you familiar with the King’s Road Companions escort service? Or Smart Set or Valentine’s?”

  Harry’s expression was contemptuous. “Inspector, I’ve never used an escort service in my life. Highly paid and well-organized prostitution.”

  “Perhaps not all of them. King’s Road Companions claims to work just that way. Companionship, either alone or at social functions. No sex.”

  “You believe that, do you?”

  “I’m inclined to after talking with several of the women who work for it. It’s different from the escort services.”

  Jury wondered if the difference was significant. Poor Kate. Her death moved him in a way the others’ hadn’t. Perhaps because she seemed such a good person.

  Fifteen minutes later, he left Snow Hill after Jenkins said to him, “You know we can’t hold him much longer.”

  “Try.” Jury thanked him and left.

  Jury didn’t take off his coat so much as cast it off, aiming it in the general direction of the office coatrack. “Is it getting cold or am I getting old? You don’t really have to think about it, Wiggins. So where’s this photo?”

  Holding the picture, Wiggins slapped it down on Jury’s desk. “It’s from Myra Brewer’s album. Taken on Brighton pier. Prepare to be surprised, boss. The girls are friends of Kate Banks.”

  Jury glanced at the line of girls. “I don’t see Deirdre Small or Mariah Cox here.”

  “I didn’t say they were. Look again.”

  Jury did so. His glance stopped on the face of the unsmiling girl—aggressively unsmiling, if there were such an expression. As if she hated the person holding the camera.

  “Bloody hell. Christine Cummins.”

  “Her name’s not Christine, sir. It’s Crystal, Crystal North back then. Which is probably why we missed any connection to Mrs. Cummins when we were checking these women’s backgrounds. Not that we’d’ve come up with every single friend or acquaintance.... But what do you think, guv?”

  Jury sat staring at the photo. “I don’t. I don’t have one bloody idea, Wiggins.”