Murder on Show (6 page)

‘What is going on here?' Rose Chesne-Malvern's high, clear voice cut through the hubbub. ‘What are you doing with my cat?'

‘I'm putting her back in her pen,' I said. Leaving no time to argue, I turned and marched back down the aisle with Pandora. Rose Chesne-Malvern came with us. The director, perhaps sensing the weakest link in our chain, followed us.

As I returned Pandora to her pen, he spoke to Rose Chesne-Malvern. ‘We only wanted to put the little cat in with the big ones – just for a couple of minutes. There was no danger, and,' he added craftily, ‘we'd see that you got double the fee.'

Something flickered in her eyes. I knew that, if the rest of us hadn't been surrounding her, registering varying degrees of horror and indignation, she would have succumbed to the lure.

‘Monstrous!' Marcus Opal muttered.

‘They can triple the fee,' Betty Lington said. ‘Silver Fir won't do it.'

‘I'm sorry,' Rose Chesne-Malvern weighed in reluctantly with the majority. ‘I'm afraid I can't allow that.'

‘It's totally unnecessary,' Kellington Dasczo said. ‘They can perfectly well take two shots and superimpose them.
Anyone
knows that.'

‘It's not the same,' the director said venomously. ‘
Anyone
ought to know that.'

I noticed that, across the aisle, Helena Keswick was looking decidedly worried. I went over to her. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘I don't know,' she said slowly. ‘All this seemed like quite a good idea when Rose first broached it, but now I'm not sure these Perfection people know what they're doing.'

They knew, they just didn't care. But I couldn't comfort her with that thought. ‘They seem reasonable enough,' I said. ‘At least they'll accept a firm veto. They can't force you into anything.'

‘I suppose not.' She was still dubious. ‘But I hope they don't want any trick poses of Mother Brown and the kittens. I won't have them frightened or upset.' She glanced at the pen, where Mother Brown sprawled, surrounded by rollicking kittens, twitching her tail for them to play with. ‘Really, Rose should have made more inquiries before she got us all into this.'

The Perfection Hosiery crew had withdrawn to Lady Purr-fect's stall for a consultation. Rose Chesne-Malvern had come over to us in time to hear Helena's last remark.

‘Are you questioning my judgment?' The two women stared at each other across the railing of the booth. I almost expected to hear a yowling challenge to a cat fight. It had been a long time since I had seen two women so openly dislike each other. They usually try to put a veneer of civility over their feelings – particularly in front of witnesses.

‘You
have
been known to have been wrong,' Helena said softly. ‘On certain occasions.'

Mother Brown gave an abrupt mewl of distress from the pen and Helena turned to her quickly. It was nothing serious, even I could see that. It was just that the kittens were not wholly aware that they had grown sharp needle-like teeth which could cause pain. Helena took Mother Brown out of the pen, cradling her in her arms, and soothed her gently.

Eyes narrowed dangerously, Rose Chesne-Malvern studied Helena Keswick's back for a moment. If she'd had a knife in her hand, I wouldn't have taken any bets on Helena's continued survival. As it was, she contented herself with the show of umbrage traditional to the affronted Englishwoman.

‘Well!' she said explosively, and marched away.

I watched her huff down the aisle and pause at Pandora's cage. She appeared to be doing something there. Casually, I strolled in that direction, hoping she was doing something to improve Pandora's morale. Any fool could see that the poor little beast was nervous and needed some reassurance.

She moved away from the cage before I reached it. Pandora was at the bars, staring wistfully after the retreating back. I saw something new had been added. A sign was attached to the cage. It read, ‘Please Do Not Touch The Exhibit.'

The Exhibit moved forward as I approached and rubbed her head invitingly against the bars. Glaring after the fast-disappearing Rose Chesne-Malvern, I defiantly scratched The Exhibit's head.

At the end of the aisle, Rose Chesne-Malvern faltered and slowed, turning to gaze at the draperies shrouding the Whittington Cat with more warmth and approval than I had ever noticed her expend on any living thing. Whether it was because the statue behind the draperies was by Hugo, or whether it was because it was of 18-carat gold, I couldn't say – and wouldn't like to guess.

Then she frowned abruptly, as though recalling herself to duty, wheeled about and marched firmly on her way. Which reminded me that
I
had work to do. Automatically, I latched the door of Pandora's cage. The Exhibit blinked at me in complacent amusement.

‘Be a sport,' I said. ‘Stay put, like a normal animal. I've got to go shower and shave. I won't be long.' Suddenly, I
heard
myself – carrying on a conversation with a cat. I glanced about me guiltily before I remembered where I was. None of
these
nuts would think there was anything at all unusual in that. It was the rule, rather than the exception. Without even trying, I tuned in to conversations up and down the aisle.

‘Pretty girl,' Betty Lington was crooning. ‘Her's the prettiest girl in the Show, and she has a new contract, and she'll get liver for din-dins ...'

My eyes met Pandora's and we exchanged a mutual glance of revulsion. But it was hardly any better directly across the aisle.

‘You can lick any cat in the place,' Kellington was assuring his moody tom, ‘with three paws tied behind your back. And you wouldn't stoop to bothering with any of these tabbies – nothing but a pack of overbred snobs. Just like perfumed, brainless debutantes.'

That one amused us. But Pandora's ears flicked and her tail twitched uneasily, as another fragment drifted to us.

‘Eat it up, my Precious. For Daddy's sake. It's good for you. You must eat ...' Precious Black Jade laid back his ears and snarled.

‘Look,' I said, ‘this is all very fascinating, but I must go. You just relax and –'

Suddenly, a great challenging roar sounded from the cage at the head of the aisle. Either Pyramus or Thisbe was feeling his or her oats. I'd like to
see
Pearlie King tangle with one of those, I thought, even without three paws tied behind him. Then I changed my mind. I wouldn't like to see it. I wouldn't like to see it at all.

But, once again, I noticed that the jungle cats had performed their usual trick – they had stopped the show. There was a moment of utter silence in the hall. The eyes of both owners and pets had turned towards the big cage, with varying degrees of wariness.

Pandora, I was glad to see, was the first to recover from the spell. She flicked her ears, blinked her eyes, then settled down on her haunches and seemed prepared to snatch a cat nap.

‘Good girl,' I told her. ‘I'll be seeing you.' She closed her eyes, and didn't bother to answer.

Outside, there was a fine drizzling mist. As usual, the few taxis were either engaged, or driven by men too busy brooding over their own problems to spare a thought for a rapidly dampening pedestrian. I walked along the front of the Exhibition Hall wing of the hotel, thinking I might trap one when it stopped for the lights. After all, it was a technique that worked for hold-up men.

Scanning the street as I walked along, I nearly tripped over the sprawling object on the pavement. A pair of beat-up wellingtons were protecting the lower legs from the rain, the stuffed torso was propped up against the building, as were the kids, trying to keep well back from the weather.

‘Penny for the Guy, mister?' one of the kids said, as I stopped to stare. ‘Penny for the Cat-Guy?'

I pulled out a handful of change and glanced through it, while they eyed me hopefully. ‘That's a pretty good idea.' I nodded to their Guy. ‘In keeping with the Show, too.'

‘He's supposed to be.' They glowed with pride, anxious to let me know it hadn't happened by accident.

‘Very good.' It was, too. They'd done an unmistakable Puss-in-Boots. The usual old jeans and tattered sweater sufficed for the body, but the head was a stroke of genius. A black fake-fur cushion had been resewn, so that the corners became ears, and someone – probably the little girl – had embroidered slanting yellow eyes, and pink nose and mouth. Broom straws stuck out for whiskers.

Of course, some mother was shortly going to be missing her black acrilan-fur throw cushion, and there might be some short sharp demands for an explanation when they returned home. But, right now, they were happy and contented.

That was more than I could say. The more I looked at the dummy cat, the uneasier I felt. There was something ... reminiscent about it. Something about that black, furry face ...

Ah, the hell with it! I shrugged off the mood. After last night, I could truly say I had been eating, drinking and sleeping cats for the past twenty-four hours. It was no wonder the sight of even a stuffed one was making my nerves quiver. It was still a very good Guy – somewhere at the back of my mind, the idea lurked that I might be able to do something with it. A couple of Press photos, perhaps. Or, possibly, invite the kids to take up a stand in the Hall itself, to add more colour to the scene.

The kids were still waiting hopefully. No point explaining to them that my reflexes were slowed by a bad night. I pulled out a couple of tenpence pieces and gave them to the kid nearest me. What the hell, I could put it on the Expense Account.

Just then, as though to prove the Lord loveth a cheerful giver, an empty taxi pulled up at the lights. I dived into it while the kids were still shouting thanks after me for my largesse.

The office-flat near the top of the building in Villiers Street was deserted when I reached it. I was just as pleased. Gerry is apt to be a bit too buoyant and talkative in the morning. I just wanted a bit of silence and the opportunity to clear my mind of cats and cat-lovers.

I made a good start with a hot shower. The place ran to a few such luxuries now, thanks to a generous – and, I might say, well-earned – bonus from our last job. I had shaved, dressed, and was browsing through a moderately well-stocked cupboard trying to decide what I fancied for breakfast when the telephone rang.

Like a trusting fool, I ambled over and answered it. Some people never learn.

‘Hello, Doug?' The urgency in the voice alerted me. I wasn't going to like what followed.

‘Douglas Perkins, here,' I admitted, waiting for the bad news.

‘Thank heavens! Look, Doug, it's Dave Prendergast here –'

I felt an immediate rush of guilt. He'd discovered I'd filched that trial packet of Pussy No-Poo. Maybe the Agency had them counted and he had to account for everyone. He must have gone looking in every earth tray, until he found it in Pandora's.

‘I'm glad you called, Dave,' I said hastily. ‘I meant to leave you a note, but I hadn't anything to write on – you know how it is. I'm afraid I owe you the price of a trial size packet –'

‘Stop clowning, Doug,' he said, ‘this is serious. You'd better get back here to the Exhibition fast.'

‘What's the matter?' Already, I was beginning to know that I'd soon wish it
had
been the pilfering he was worried about.

‘That Security Guard,' he said. ‘They've found him. The ambulance has just taken him away.'

‘Ambulance?'

‘Concussion, they think it is. They found him underneath those iron spiral stairs leading up to the Press Gallery. He must have fallen, maybe landed on his head, or hit it on the way down. There's no telling how long he was lying there. He didn't look too good. You'd better get back here right away. The Press are arriving, too. And the Chesne-Malvern bitch has blood in her eye.'

‘Thanks, Dave,' I said. ‘I'll grab a taxi and come right now. And, Dave – thanks again.'

‘Forget it,' he said. ‘Anything for a pal.'

We hung up simultaneously, and I dived for the door. My luck was in and I caught a taxi cruising up from Charing Cross Underground, on its way to try for a fare at the Main Line station. He was mollified when I gave him my destination. It was far enough away to be worth his while, after all.

He set me down outside the Exhibition Hall. Anxious though I was to get inside and face the worst, a stray breeze blew the aromas from a mobile hamburger stand across my path and a sudden convulsion from my stomach reminded me that it had been a long time since it had entertained any food – fourteen hours, at least.

I detoured just long enough to collect a hamburger and took a bite of it, intending to finish it inside. One bite – that's all.

Munching that mouthful, savouring it fully, I strolled into the Exhibition Hall and down the centre aisle where the Special Exhibits (I already thought of them as
my
cats) were installed.

The Perfection Hosiery crew seemed to have disappeared. I noticed Helena Keswick sitting calmly in the corner of her booth and it seemed only courtesy to halt and pay my respects to Mother Brown again.

‘Everything all right?' I hailed Helena Keswick.

‘Just fine.' She rose and came towards me. ‘They've taken all the shots they wanted of Mother Brown and the kittens – without taking them out of their pen. It was silly of me to worry, I suppose, but things seemed to be getting out of hand earlier.'

‘Great!' I leaned forward, both hands resting on the stall railing, to peer at the group in the miniature Empire bed. ‘I'm glad everything went well –'

Mother Brown raised her head, nostrils twitching. She turned her head questingly, and zeroed in on the scent. She rose abruptly, tumbling protesting kittens in all directions, and stalked over to us.

‘Hello, my beauty,' I said, ‘how are
you
–?'