A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) (15 page)

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 excursion.

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 cash, 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.”

I turned on him in a fury. “What do you want, the ghost of Peter Dobrynin dancing across the room? Or do you want me shivering in a corner, waiting for the killer, knowing that my life and yours are at risk? Or maybe you want the police here backing me up! Just what
do
you want?”

“Calm down, will you? I was just pulling your leg a little!”

The phone rang. I held Tony back until the third ring. I closed
Madame Bovary
and told him, “Pick it up now, Tony. Remember, say exactly what I told you to.”

Tony answered the phone, following my instructions to the letter. When he hung up, he looked pale.

“Damn,” he said hoarsely. “You were right. She’s on her way over right now. With the money. Who would ever figure it. Five grand—for what? A nonexistent cat? Who
is
this cat?”

“Did you recognize the voice, Tony?”

“No. She had an accent. I never believed in a million years we would get any kind of call. Never.”

“You ought to trust your Aunt Alice,” I said, with no small touch of malice.

“Now what?” he asked. For the first time, he appeared to be a bit frightened. My observation made me realize that I, too, and also for the first time, was a bit frightened.

I picked up the unhappy Bushy and deposited him once more in the carrier. Then I placed the carrier on the bed.

“Okay, Tony. Here’s the next part of the plan. When your visitor enters, just show her the carrier. Say you’ve got A.P.S. inside there. Do
not
open the box until you’ve got the money in your hands. If it’s cash, count it. If it’s a check, make sure it’s made out the way I said. I’m going to be waiting in the bathroom. Understand all that?”

“Yes. Then what do I do?”

“Don’t worry about that. It’ll all work out.”

I walked into the bathroom and turned off the light. I left the door open just a crack. It was chilly in there.

My eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness; I could see the shiny white shower curtain. It was drawn across the tub as though someone were in there showering. I felt the urge to take a peek, but of course I knew no one was there.

The darkness and the waiting began to oppress me. I had the strangest sense that I was about to go onstage. It was the old actor’s nightmare: walking onstage totally unprepared . . . no idea what the play is . . . what your role is . . . who the other players are . . . no memory . . . struck dumb.

“Come in.”

It was Tony’s voice. I almost panicked. Why hadn’t I heard the knock on the door? Perhaps it had been too soft. But that had been Tony’s voice. I pressed my ear up to the slit of space between the door and the jamb. I heard movement in the outer room. I heard a voice that didn’t belong to Tony. I heard the words “Anna Pavlova Smith.”

Then I heard Basillio say distinctly, “Before we go any further, let me see the money.”

No sound. Then a burst of activity. Mumbled words. A shuffle of feet. I heard the rustle of paper. Was money being exchanged? Counted? I heard Tony’s footfalls heading over to the floor lamp. Maybe he was inspecting the check.

It was time for me to show myself. I had waited this long only because it was important for the money to have changed hands.

I strode out of the dark room and shut—no, slammed—the door behind me.

A small, handsome black woman stood near the bed. She stared at me with horrified eyes. “Why are
you
here?” she asked, but instead of waiting for an answer she ran for the door.

“Tony!” I screamed out.

He lurched toward the door, slamming into it and sending our visitor reeling to one side.

“Please,” I said, “just stay where you are! No one is going to hurt you!”

The woman was breathing hard, but she remained still.

I turned to Tony, who was waving the check at me. “I don’t think we were all properly introduced the last time,” I said, looking first at him and then at the woman. “Tony, do you remember Lucia Maury’s nurse?”

I walked to the bed and, as the saying goes, let the cat out of the bag. “This isn’t the one you were sent to fetch,” I said to the woman. Then I sat down on the bed, suddenly exhausted.

Tony sat beside me, the check still in his hand. “Are you ready to tell me what’s happening now?”

“It’s already happened,” I said wearily. “We’re just doing the cleaning up. Making sure everyone pays his own piper.

“You see, a number of years ago, Lucia Maury fell in love with a great dancer. She knew she was just one in a long line of his lovers, but to her that didn’t matter. She loved him very much. In fact, the only thing she loved as much was her cat, a Maine coon named Splat.

“The dancer had a major drinking problem. And one of his eccentricities was to take animals and dress them outlandishly, then take them along with him on his drinking sprees. He thought it was cute. While he was carrying on the affair with Lucia, her cat became one of his companions. For some crazy reason of his own, he decided to call the cat “Anna Pavlova Smith”—even though Splat was a male. Lucia begged him not to take the cat out of her apartment, but he did it anyway. He did it and he kept doing it, maybe even without her knowledge sometimes. Then, the worst possible thing happened. On one of his pub crawls, he lost sight of Anna Pavlova Smith. The cat wandered off and entered the world of the lost and lonely. Lucia searched the streets, posted notices, offered rewards for the return of the cat. Dobrynin searched the shelters. But no, poor Splat was gone. And Lucia rightly blamed the dancer.

“She broke off the affair. And she told everyone that Splat had died from an illness. But she never believed he was dead. She continued to look for him. Years passed. Her hatred of Dobrynin grew. After he became a derelict—after, presumably, he’d had a series of breakdowns—he started contacting her again. This only reinforced her hatred of him, and soon that hatred became all-consuming.

“As for Dobrynin, by then calling himself ‘Lenny,’ he still recognized his guilt—even in his psychosis. And eventually his guilt became a part of the psychosis. He kept searching for the cat. He began to feed strays all over the city, hoping that Anna Pavlova Smith might be among them. For him, the missing cat had become an obsession. As his madness grew, the cat grew into a delusional monster who would someday pay him back for his crime.

“In fact, though, it was Lucia who paid him back . . . who lured him to Lincoln Center and shot him there on that balcony. And then, in an act of utter contempt for his art, for his dancing feet, removed his shoes and left him there to die barefoot, unprotected, as he had allowed Splat to vanish into the cold city.

“And then there was one final act of vengeance. She paid someone—very likely one of the homeless people who camp around Lincoln Center—to paint the name on the hearse that would carry Peter Dobrynin to his grave. As if Dobrynin would know the reason for his own funeral. There is no doubt in my mind that Lucia Maury is as mad as her lover ever was.”

“But what about Basil?” Tony interjected. “In his confession he said that Vol Teak planned the murder.”

“No, Tony. Not exactly. He said he knew nothing about the murder itself—only that Vol Teak had paid him to bring Lenny to the theater. But the point is, given the things Frank Brodsky had threatened him with, Basil would have said anything. He told us what we wanted to hear.”

By this time, the nurse had taken a seat and was listening to the wrap-up as closely as Tony was. He got up and poured water for each of us.

“When did you figure all this out? How long have you been sitting on it?”

“Not that long. It gathered its own momentum. But it was that nightmarish sketch of the cat made by Dobrynin that helped me put it all together—the specter of a monster cat tracking him, the feeding of the stray cats with Russian food, his bare feet.”

“I saw the cat picture in the hospital too,” Tony said. “I didn’t notice anything special about it, other than its complete craziness.”

“Neither did I, at first. But then I realized that Dobrynin had drawn his rendition of a Maine coon cat. And Lucia’s Splat was such a breed—the same as Bushy.”

Tony looked over at the silent nurse, who visibly tensed when he asked, “What are we going to do about. . . her?”

I sighed heavily. “I’m really sorry,” I said, addressing the nurse directly, “but we’re going to need you, when we take the check to the detective who arrested Lucia in the first place.” I turned back to Tony. “The one who was forced to release her, thanks to our brilliant work.”

“So much for genius,” he said.

Bushy was rubbing himself against the nurse’s legs, soliciting admiration. But he didn’t get any—the nurse seemed to have drifted off to some faraway place.