The telephone shrilled again.
“Hello.”
“Is that you, Margaret?” Harry’s petulant voice came over the wire. She reached over and turned down the burner.
Who else would it be? Margaret felt her irritation rise. “Of course it’s me, Harry.”
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
“Out!” she answered shortly. “Is there anything wrong?”
“I have to go to Toronto tomorrow on the Harris case. I’ve got to catch the seven o’clock plane in the morning.”
“How nice for you!”
“You’ll need to pack a bag for me.”
“How long are you going for this time, Harry?”
“About five days.” Margaret did some mental arithmetic. No Harry until next Thursday. “I’ll be home around six,” he continued.
She started to put the phone down.
“And, Margaret . . .”
“Oh, sorry. I’ve got to go, Harry. My soup is boiling over.”
“It’s just that I’m sorry about Saturday night.”
“Saturday night?” she asked, puzzled.
“You know. The birthday dinner I promised you.”
“Oh, that. It’s all right, Harry. Another time.”
She poured the soup into a bowl, placed it on a tray, tucked The Province newspaper under her arm and carried the tray into the living room, where she sank into her favourite armchair to enjoy her lunch.
The telephone rang again.
“Now what does he want?”
She reached for the extension.
“Hello, Maggie? Nat Southby. Wanted to see if you got home safely after meeting our Violet.”
She took a deep breath. “Margaret,” she corrected him. “And I was going to call you about that woman.”
“Thought you would. Quite a character, isn’t she?”
“Mr. Southby, you employed me as office help. I do not consider calling on people like Mrs. Larkfield or Mr. Bradshaw office work.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “You sound upset.”
“Upset! I’ve never met two such objectionable people in my entire life!”
“You want to tell me what happened?” He sounded resigned.
Margaret explained in detail. “And all over a damned cat,” she finished up. “It was so ridiculous.” When she stopped speaking, she could hear an odd rumbling sound coming over the phone. She felt herself getting red in the face.
“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Southby?”
“I’m sorry, Maggie. I was just imagining your face when you saw all those damn cats.”
Margaret’s resolution to be stern crumbled, and she too started to laugh.
“Have a nice weekend.” He was still laughing when she replaced the receiver.
And she did have a nice weekend. She found herself singing while she cleaned house and got her clothes ready for the following week. Suddenly, she had a purpose in life, something that had been lacking for far too long.
Nat had a very busy weekend. Saturday morning found him in the vicinity of the Osprey Harbour Yacht Club, looking for one of his old school pals.
“Nat Southby! What you doing in this neck of the woods?”
Nat looked up at the sound of the familiar voice. “Cubby! Just the man I was coming to see.”
John Cuthbertson gave a final polish to the brass rails on the sleek mahogany-and-teak forty-five-foot cruiser and leaned toward Nat. “What can I do for you?”
“You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you?” the detective asked, jerking his head toward the boat. “Bit better than that old tub you used to call a yacht.”
“Business has been kind to me,” Cubby answered and winked. “Got time for a beer?” He picked up the half full bottle of beer that was waiting on the dock and waved it at Southby.
“Thanks, but I’ll take a rain check.”
“Well, here’s mud in your eye,” Cubby said, swallowing the rest of the contents of the bottle before coming up for air. “What are you doing here? Bought yourself a boat?”
“No such luck. My business doesn’t pay like yours.”
“What kind of business are you in? I know you chucked the force.”
“I thought you knew. I started my own investigation service about six years ago. Wouldn’t happen to know a character named Phillip Collins, would you?”
Cubby scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Can’t say I do offhand. Keeps a boat here, does he?”
“He did up to last week. A twenty-five-foot four-seater Chris-Craft. It’s gone missing.”
“Insurance scam?”
“Too early to tell at this stage. Do me a favour and listen around, will you? Let me know if you hear anything.” Nat handed him one of his business cards. “If I’m not there, my Girl Friday will take a message.”
“Okay,” Cubby said as he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.
“Where can I find the caretaker?”
“Over there,” Cuthbertson answered, pointing to a small office on the dock. “Name’s McNab. But I doubt you’ll find him this time of the day.”
“I’ll give it a try, anyway.” As he made his way toward McNab’s office, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of envy, seeing all the shining boats bobbing up and down on their moorings. Just look at all that money. Ah, well, someday, me boy, someday!
He found McNab sitting behind a battered oak desk, a weather-beaten man in his late sixties, puffing away at a smelly briar pipe. “And what can I do for ye, laddie?” he asked when Nat poked his head in the door.
Nat smoothed the edges of another of his grubby business cards and handed it over. “I’m making enquiries about Phillip Collins’ boat, Seagull”
“Are ye now?” McNab answered, not bothering to look at the card. “Sit ye doon.”
“You’ve heard that it’s disappeared?”
“Couldn’t help knowing about it,” McNab said, reaching for another match. “Yon chappie Collins came in here shouting fit to bust. Tried to tell him it’s nothing to do with me, but he wouldna’ listen.”
“Did he mention his suspicions regarding his brother-in-law?”
“Did mention something like that.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and puffed contentedly on his pipe.
“What did he say?” Nat tried to conceal his impatience, especially with the coming and going of the old man’s Scottish brogue.
McNab slowly opened his eyes. “Larry took it, of course. But as I told him, he should’ve padlocked it up in the first place.”
Nat stood up. “You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”
“Ay, I’ll do that right enough.” Nat had started for the door when McNab added, “But ye know, it’s not the first time.”
“What do you mean?” Nat turned abruptly. “What’s not the first time?”
“Not the first time that young punk took the Seagull. In fact, he takes it out quite regular.”
“They must have been on fairly good terms, then, if Collins has been letting him use it.”
“Don’t know about that. Matter of fact, I saw them having a good set-to.”
“When was that?”
“About a couple of days before the boat went missing.”
“Did you hear what it was about?”
“No. They shut up when they saw me. It was getting dark and I was making my rounds, see.”
“You didn’t hear anything they said?” Nat persisted.
“I thought I heard Collins saying something about risk, but I could’ve been mistaken. Like I told ye, laddie, they shut up right quick when they saw me.”
“Could I ask you a favour, Mr. McNab? Would you show me where the Seagull was berthed?”
McNab heaved himself from his seat with surprising agility. “Follow me then, laddie.” He led the way outside, down one of the slatted ramps and onto the float. “Over there,” said McNab. “Number twenty.” And leaving Nat standing, he walked back to his o
ffice.
Next to number twenty, a young woman was busy passing supplies from a wheelbarrow to a man on a boat. “Hi, there!” Nat called to them. “Seagull’s usually berthed here, isn’t it?” He indicated the empty space next to them.
“Yeah,” the man answered. He leaned over the side of the boat and took a box from his companion. “But she’s not here now. Gimme the gas cans next, Sylvia.”
“I can see that,” Nat answered. “How long she been gone?”
“Don’t know. Dammit, Sylvia!” He turned angrily to the woman, who was now struggling with a large gas can. “What the hell are you doing? You nearly dumped the bloody thing in the drink.”
“Oh, shut up and get on with it,” she answered as she handed the can over and bent to get another one from the wheelbarrow. Nat intercepted, took the can from her hands and swung it toward her partner.
“Can you remember when you last saw the Seagull?” he asked her.
“Must have been at least a week ago.” She stretched her back. “Wouldn’t you say, honey?”
“Yeah, I guess,” ‘Honey’ answered. “It was before we had that big blow, anyway.”
“That’s right.” Sylvia turned to Nat. “That was last Tuesday. We’d come down to see if Flying Fancy was okay, and Seagull was gone then.” She handed the last cartons up to her husband.
“For God’s sake,” the man said irritably, “go get the rest of the stuff from the truck. We’ll never get out at this rate.”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” she answered, and picking up the handles of the wheelbarrow, she trundled back up the walkway. Nat quickly caught up to her.
“Thanks for your help,” he said as he walked behind her.
“That’s okay,” she answered over her shoulder. “Sorry we couldn’t be of more help. We’re only weekenders ourselves, you know.”
That ties in with Collins’ statement, Nat thought after he’d left the woman. He said the boat had been missing five days.
“Hey, laddie.”
Nat turned at the sound of McNab’s voice.
“I’ve been waiting for ye to come back.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. McNab?”
“It’s what I can do for ye, laddie. Come on in a wee while.” He led the way back into his snug office. “Sit ye down. I was just on the phone to me pal down at the harbour police station,” he said, “to see if he knew anything about your missing boat.”
“And did he?”
“No. He was right mad, too. Said he should have been notified straightaway. Especially if someone was on-board at the time.”
“That was up to Collins.” Nat reached into his pocket for a cigarette. “I’ve only just been brought in on the case.”
“Stevens—the harbour police chappie—asked for you to get in touch with him. He wants a full report.”
Nat got up. “You can tell him that I’ll get in touch if and when I get something definite.”
“Well, good luck to ye, laddie.” McNab gave a hoarse chuckle. “I’ve got a feeling you’re going to need it, dealing with those two.”
“You’re probably right,” Nat muttered to himself as he made his way from McNab’s office up to the lot where he had parked his car.
CHAPTER FOUR
Around eight o’clock that evening, it started to rain heavily. Shivering in the cold wind, Ernie Bradshaw clutched his wet overcoat closer as he probed the bushes on either side of the gate with his walking stick.
“Emily!” he whispered. “Where are you?” Tentatively, he pushed the gate open, the squeak from its rusty hinges making him pause, but after waiting for a couple of minutes, he shuffled through and into the garden. Fumbling in his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a flashlight and started up the stone-flagged path. He shone the weak beam back and forth across the wet bushes and shrubs, hissing his cat’s name repeatedly as he went.
As he rounded the corner of the house, he saw light pouring from one of the main-floor windows and quickly switched off the flashlight, sidling toward the window only to realize that it was too high off the ground for him to see inside the room. Cautiously, using his flashlight again, he looked for something to stand on, but all he could find was a large clay pot containing a dead chrysanthemum. Emptying the contents onto a nearby flowerbed, Ernie placed the pot upside down below the window and gingerly climbed onto it.
“I told you! I want one thousand dollars each,” Violet’s voice came to him through the glass, “or I’m out.”
“Calm down. You’ll get the rest when the goods are delivered.”
Ernie didn’t recognize the man’s voice, so he strained on tiptoe to see into the room. “I knew she was up to no good,” he whispered to himself. The flowerpot wobbled. He grabbed at the wooden windowsill to steady himself, but felt the pot sliding under his feet, and the next moment he was falling heavily onto his knees. Shuffling to his feet, he flattened himself against the house and prayed they hadn’t heard the noise, but the window was suddenly flung open.
“Who’s there?” Violet demanded.
Ernie’s old heart thumped, and it took all of his willpower to hold his breath and remain still.
“Must have been one of your ruddy cats,” the unknown man cackled. “Don’t be so nervous.”
The window slammed shut.
The old man waited until he had stopped shaking before groping his way to the back of the house. A large garage with a shingle-roofed annex loomed up in the dark, and he debated using his light again. Gently, he turned the knob of the annex door. To his surprise, it was unlocked, and he took a tentative step inside. “Emily?” he called under his breath. The beam from the flashlight made no impression on the blackness within the building, but he thought he heard a movement. Taking another cautious step, his shaking hand making the feeble light dance on the walls, he called again. “Emily! Is that you?”
Hearing a whimpering sound from the back of the shed, he stepped in further. To his amazement, the beam of his flashlight caught, not his missing cat, but a young girl lying on a camp bed, a look of terror on her face. “Have you seen my Em . . . ?”
They were the last words that Ernie uttered. An iron crowbar cut him off in mid-sentence, smashing his fragile skull as easily as if it had been an egg. Ernie collapsed without making another sound, falling into a heap on the floor. As he lay in the pool of blood that now gushed from his head, carrying with it the last of his miserable life, a white cat walked over to him and rubbed against his still-twitching outstretched hand, and then, arching its back and lifting its tail high, it walked out into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monday morning began cloudy, dull and grey, but to Margaret, walking from the parking lot she had discovered just a block from the office, it seemed, to the contrary, to herald the start of another exciting day. She slipped her key into the lock but found the door already open. Her boss was ahead of her.
“Hi,” Southby said. “Don’t take your coat off.”
“Why not?”
“We’re going to visit your favourite client.” He zippered up his windbreaker.
“Are you, by any chance, talking about Ernie Bradshaw?” she retorted and continued taking her coat off. “If so, you don’t need me.”
“Well, he left an odd message with my answering service.” He took the coat from her and then held it out again.
“What do you mean odd?”
“He said he’s got some information—worth money, as he put it.”
“Couldn’t you just call him?”
“Tried that several times. No answer.”
“Why do you need me? Perhaps he’s just away for the weekend,” she said, reluctantly slipping her arms back into the coat.
“Old Ernie? He never goes away.” He held the door open for her. “Come on.”
“Hasn’t he got any relatives, children or something?” she asked over her shoulder as she led the way down the stairs.
“He’s got one daughter that I am aware of, a Mrs. Read, but she
lives over on Vancouver Island someplace.”
“Then perhaps he’s gone there.”
“Nah. He wouldn’t spend the money for the ferry or leave his precious cat. He opened the outside door. “Here, we’ll take my car.”
Maggie slid into the passenger seat of the battered old Chevy. “You still haven’t explained why you want me along.”
“I just know how much you like Ernie,” he laughed as he caught the expression on her face. “And since you started The Case of the Missing Cat, it’s only right you should be in on the end of it.”
Ernie’s house looked even dingier in the dull morning light. Emily, fluffy tail flying high, walked down the path to greet them.
“Hello, Emily old girl.” She bent down and stroked the cat’s wet coat. “Been locked out?” Emily, purring ingratiatingly, stood on her hind legs and reached up to cling to Maggie’s leg. “Down you go; your feet are wet.” Gently, she pushed the cat off and followed her boss to the front door.
He knocked loudly on the door. “Come on, Bradshaw, open up.” He tried the handle but the door wouldn’t budge. He banged again, to no avail. “I’m going to look around the back, Maggie.”
She followed him around the side of the house, and the cat followed her.
The detective stretched up to see through the window, but the dirty net curtains did their job well. “There seems to be a light on in there.” He tapped on the window. “Ernie?”
Maggie tried the back door. “Here, Mr. Southby. It’s open.” She pushed it a bit wider and the cat slipped between her feet into the utility room. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she called. She turned to her boss. “Do you think he’s sick?”
“We’d better take a look.”
Emily was sitting outside the closed kitchen door, waiting for someone to open it for her. Maggie scooped the cat up and turned the handle. The place was a shambles—table, chairs, crockery all smashed or overturned—and amidst the mess lay Ernie Bradshaw, face down.
“Mr. Southby,” she cried out in horror. “It’s Mr. Bradshaw!” Nat Southby pushed past her and knelt beside Ernie to feel for a pulse. “Is he . . . is he dead?”
“Afraid so.” He stood up, pulling his frightened assistant toward him. “The skin’s cold. He’s been dead for some time.” One of the old man’s arms was stretched out above him, the stiff claw-like fingers seeming to be reaching for some unknown object. The back of his head was completely caved in, and although the wound was crusted with blood, the detective immediately noted that there was none on the floor. “Curious!” he muttered.
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