The Whiskered Spy (12 page)

A
rriving at the theater
, I immediately proceeded to the back entrance, hoping to slip in through some crack, grate or open window. And I was just giving the building a once-over, trying to pinpoint its entrance possibilities, when my eyes met an uplifting sight: Dana came tripping down the alley in my direction, a worried expression on her face.

I gave an inward cheer. My mental projection, or whatever it was, had clearly worked. Then a loud bark came from behind her, and I saw that she wasn’t alone: Frank had joined her and now came trotting up, looking a lot more cheerful than he had the last time we’d met. I didn’t have to read his mind to come to the conclusion that Dana had told him the good news.

“What’s going on?” said Dana, slightly out of breath. I now realized she was in fact a pretty pretty cat. Stomping on the thought—she was, after all, with Frank now—I quickly filled the both of them in on the state of affairs.

“Zack?” exclaimed Dana. “But that’s impossible. We caught the killer.”

“Bart locked up Norbert McIlroy this afternoon,” grunted Frank. “Though he denies all charges.”

“There’s one other thing,” I said. “This Peterbald I met said he works for the FSA.”

Dana hesitated, then inclined her head. “He does. From your description it must be Dollo Rosso. He’s the head of Internal Affairs.”

“Internal Affairs?” I said, marveling at the intel. For one thing, I’d almost dismissed the FSA as a hoax of some kind, and now the organization turned out to have an Internal Affairs division. From my extensive research into Hollywood movies and TV shows I knew such a division mainly existed to subject its own members to extensive scrutiny, sniffing out any malfeasance on their part. I swallowed.

“They’re investigating… me?” I said.

Dana shook her head. “No. They are not, at this time, investigating anyone in particular. IA branch reports directly to the FSA Director, who likes to keep a close eye on all of the organization’s operations. For some reason this particular mission must have attracted his attention so he sent in Dollo Rosso and his crew.”

“But how can they think Zack would ever…” I didn’t finish the sentence, still thinking it beyond ludicrous they’d see a murderer in my human.

Dana had no answer to that. “All I know is that the Director’s sources are impeccable, so there must be some truth to the matter.”

The notion of hypnosis suddenly sprang to mind. The fact that Norbert, an upstanding citizen and father of two, denied all charges against his person indicated something fishy was going on. Perhaps someone had induced McIlroy to act the part of the murderer?

There have been cases of people committing an act of such atrocity the public cries foul, but later it turns out the perpetrator of such a crime was him-or herself an innocent victim of a third party, using mental or chemical stimulants to force the killer’s hand. Could something like that be the case here? It certainly started to look like it.

I suggested this explanation to Dana and Frank, and they both agreed there might be something in it.

“But, if that’s the case, then Norbert really
is
innocent,” I said, “and the real killer is still on the loose.”

“And now he’s trying to do the same thing to Zack,” said Frank.

“Whatever the explanation,” said Dana, “we have to get in there, and stop your human from…” She swallowed. “…murdering my human.”

In my consternation, I’d totally forgotten the predicament Barbara Vale was in. If Dollo Rosso was right, not one but two cats would lose their humans tonight. It was imperative we get inside and stop this drama from unfolding.

The three of us looked up at the back entrance to the theater. For a moment, I didn’t see a way in. The entire building was painted black, probably out of some artistic consideration, and for a moment gave me the impression of one of those impregnable fortresses of old.

On the ground floor there was one entrance, marked Stage Door, and it featured a gangly youth standing watch. Then there was a garage of sorts, where I guess trucks with costumes and decors could back into, but that was closed now. On the first floor I noticed a window standing ajar, but there was no convenient drainpipe leading up to it and no other way of reaching it, so that was also a bust.

“We have got to get through that door,” said Frank, pointing to the gangly kid. He looked about sixteen, with a dreadlocked goatee, an Evil Dead T-shirt, and iPod buds in his ears. His head was swaying to the rhythm of some beat, and he looked positively goofy to me. I had a feeling I’d seen him somewhere before, and then I remembered. He was one of Terrell McCrady’s younger brothers.

“Isn’t that Terris McCrady?” I said. I can never remember who is who in the McCrady household. There’s four brothers—Terrell, Terrill, Terris and Terrence—and one girl—Terry—and they all look alike to me.

Frank nodded. “That’s Terris all right. And I know just the thing to distract him.” He coughed. “Better not watch this. It’s not gonna be pretty.”

I started. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?”

Frank grimaced. “Better turn away, Tom. You, too, Dana. Sensitive viewers, beware.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. I liked Terris. He’d once come to babysit me when Zack was away in England on some mission. I didn’t like his choice of music—trance if I’m not mistaken—but no kid should be condemned for having bad taste. I averted my gaze as Frank moved in. The next moment horrible sounds echoed through the alley, and inadvertently I took a peek.

Frank the Poodle was lying on his back, four legs in the air, his tongue lolling, and producing puppy sounds, as Terris was tickling his belly.

“Now!” said Dana, and the both of us scooted out from our hiding place behind a dumpster, and raced to the stage door, which was now unguarded.

I looked back at Frank as I disappeared through the door. He caught my eye and I saluted him for the brave soldier that he was, laying his dignity on the line for the good of the mission.

We were in, and that was all that mattered.

“
F
rank really is a courageous soul
,” I remarked, as Dana and I darted deeper into the building.

“He is,” sighed Dana, and once again I detected that love light in her eyes.

“We have to find Zack,” I said, as I studied our surroundings. We were in a red-carpeted corridor, royally decorated with pictures of stars of the stage and screen. People were running in and out of the dozen or so rooms giving out into the corridor. Judging from their appearance—all of them were in diverse states of undress—they were the artists starring in Father Sam’s play. And all of them displayed those typical pre-premiere jitters not uncommon with stage artists.

There was a gentleman wearing a tuxedo, a monocle pressed firmly under his left eyebrow, who seemed in excellent spirits, humming a gay tune and smiling a pleasant smile at anyone who cared to look in his direction. He disappeared into a dressing room and I slipped in after him, wondering if perhaps here was where I would find my human. The room was humming with the hustle and bustle of opening night, several extras looking equally spruce in tux and monocle, and all of them talking too loudly and laughing too hard for no reason at all. Conspicuous in his absence, though, was Zack.

I slipped out again. Dana, meanwhile, had checked one of the other dressing rooms and gave me a thumbs down—yes, cats have thumbs. No, they’re not opposable ones, but yes, we do have them.

It was at this moment that disaster struck. From a room marked with a golden star—one of the dressing rooms for the stars of the show, I gathered—Barbara Vale suddenly emerged and, seeing Dana, swooped down on her, and scooped her up in her arms. Barbara was a big, motherly woman, with Nana Mouskouri glasses, and a wide, endearing smile that made her cheeks dimple.

“Dana, my pet! What are you doing here?” she squeaked, and before I could intervene, Barbara had disappeared back inside her dressing room, taking Dana along with her. I caught a desperate glance from Dana, and then she was gone. One more soldier was down, and I now faced the enemy alone.

The incident had given me pause, though. If Barbara had her own gold-star dressing room, wouldn’t it stand to reason that Zack, too, would be holed up in one? I checked the corridor: only five gold-star rooms left. I sighed. How was I going to get inside? Then I remembered one of the FSA tricks I’d picked up: all I had to do was get inside a human’s head and ‘nudge’ him into action.

I decided to get inside Zack's head and induce him to open his door for me. Closing my eyes and focusing on my human, I willed him to open his door. Opening my eyes, I saw that nothing had happened, apart from a slight headache thrumming behind my left eye. Dang, I still hadn’t mastered this particular technique.

Then, remembering Stevie was more proficient at this than me, I started wondering where my fellow agent and trusted partner could be. Dana and Frank had come running when I’d sent out my distress signal earlier, but Stevie was a no-show, and so was Brutus. That Brutus hadn’t heeded my call, I could understand. The cat was, after all, not an FSA agent. But why hadn’t Stevie showed up?

I sighed. I only saw one avenue left open for me to pursue, so I pursued it. I ambled over to the first door and gave it a hearty buffet. The door swung open and a red-faced Mayor McCrady popped out. It didn’t occur to the chairman of the Brookridge Theatrical Society to look down at little old me, so after scowling down the corridor for a moment, trying to pinpoint the joker who’d played this fool’s trick on him and cursing under his breath, he slammed the door closed with a bang that made me jump.

One door down, four more to go. And it was as I’d pounded on door number three, that my luck finally turned. A familiar face popped out of the door and I gave a shriek of elation. I’d found my Zack. Directing his gaze downward, he seemed equally thrilled to see me, for he stooped down and gave me a cuddle, then carried me inside his dressing room. He didn’t even seem surprised to see me, but then I could sense that his thoughts were not really with me but with the play.

Attila the Hun could have showed up on his doorstep and he would have bade him entrance, no questions asked, so occupied were his thoughts with the part he was about to play.

Dropping me onto a couch that was conveniently placed against one wall, he started pacing the floor, half-crumpled script pages in his left hand while gesturing wildly with his right.

“Nuts about you!” he vociferated, just a little too loudly. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that little weasel get in the way of our future happiness. Either he goes, or I go!”

With a jolt I recognized the scene I’d seen play out under my elm tree that fateful night, and I knew what would follow. I sat watching, enthralled.

“Either
he
goes, or
I
go,” repeated Zack, his arms wide. Typical overacting, I thought.

“Either he
goes
, or I
go
,” he said once more, impressing the line upon his memory. He then mumbled something to himself and flipped to another part of the script. “Oh, my darling. My love, love, love.” He coughed, closed his eyes and puckered his lips, then made as if to kiss. He grimaced, and I could tell he was thinking about Barbara Vale. He then grabbed a huge knife from his dressing table and started wielding it with uncommon fervor.

“Take that,” he cried, as he slashed the air, his face suddenly contorted in rage. “And that, and that, and that!”

Oh, boy. This wasn’t good. No, sir. This wasn’t good at all.

J
ust then the
stage bell rang, and Zack looked up, as if surprised, the knife temporarily held high above his head. Then he sheathed the monstrosity in a hidden pocket of his coat, abruptly turned a pretty Nile green and, quickly grabbing a wastepaper basket, vomited.

So much for the glory and glamour of the stage artist’s life, I thought.

Dabbing at his blue-tinged lips with a cleansing wipe, Zack checked his look in the mirror one last time, then blinked ten times in rapid succession, and vomited again.

Now was this the image of a cold-blooded murderer? I think not. I wracked my brain to figure out what to do next. The best thing would be for Zack not to appear in the play at all. He was an understudy’s understudy, so was it so hard to imagine Father Sam had provided for an understudy’s understudy’s understudy?

Just as I was thinking up ways and means of sabotaging Zack's participation in the play, Father Sam himself suddenly popped his head in the door. He was dressed in some sort of penguin suit, and I remembered he was playing the butler.

“All ready?” Sam said cheerily.

Zack burped. “All ready,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.

“Great,” said Sam, beaming. “Just remember, Zack. When Barbara says, ‘No, Jack. Don’t go,’ that’s your cue to bring out the knife.”

“I’ll remember,” said Zack, licking his lips and fingering the small sword in his pocket.

“Good man. All right. Break a leg.”

“Huh?”

Sam laughed. “Just something we theater folk like to say before going on stage.”

“Oh, right,” said Zack. “Well, break a leg, too, I guess.”

“Thanks,” said Sam earnestly, and popped out again.

I was still trying to figure out a way to stop Zack from making a huge mistake, but time was running out, so I simply hopped onto his dressing table, stared into his eyes, and mentally projected the intention he refrain from leaving this room.

For a moment I caught his eye. Then he smiled weakly, patted my head absentmindedly, and abruptly did an about-face and left the room.

I groaned. Total mission failure. And the worst thing was: Zack had closed the door on his way out.

Frantically looking for an escape route, I suddenly noticed an air vent located near the ceiling, its grate dangling from a single screw. A cupboard had been placed underneath, stocked with boxes of theater paraphernalia. There was a box marked ‘wigs’, another offering ‘beards & mustaches’ and a third promising all manner of make-up.

I hopped onto the top of the cupboard, where a nice collection of dust and cobwebs were awaiting me, and from there it was but a single leap to the grate. Hanging on with my claws, I scrabbled up and away into the air duct. Agent Tom had done it again! Now if only this would lead someplace.

I squeezed myself through the duct, which was not built for a cat my size, I might add, and soon found myself facing the tunnel explorer’s perennial dilemma: arriving at a crossing, I had the option of going left, right, up, or down. Mh. Difficult decision. I would have preferred to keep going straight, for I had the distinct impression the stage was somewhere ahead of me, but, following my feline intuition, I opted to take a right turn. Unfortunately, my usually unerring intuition had led me astray, for this part of the ventilation system proved a dead end. I now faced what looked like the end of the line for about a yard of dust and one dead rat.

I sneezed and would have scratched my head in bemused puzzlement, if not for the fact that I couldn’t move my paws. No wiggle room. With no way of turning round, I had no option but to backpedal. Now, I don’t know if any of you have a working knowledge of catdom, but we felines don’t come equipped with reverse gears. It was starting to feel really cramped in there, but I suppressed a rising feeling of panic and claustrowhatchamacallit, and willed my limbs to move in the opposite direction.

Oddly enough, they flatly refused. Failure to comply to a direct order, or in other words: mutiny. I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of being stuck there for the rest of my, extremely reduced, life. Oh, and that old wives’ tale about the nine lives? Hokum, brother. If this was the end, this was the end. Period.

In frustration I tried wiggling, then jiggling, then wobbling, and finally shimmying. But all to no avail. I was stuck. In desperation, I decided to plunk down on my belly to have a much-needed rest, so I simply retracted my limbs and dropped my bulk onto the ‘floor’.

As my belly hit the piping, there was a loud groan, like the death rattle of an expiring piece of equipment, then a clank and a clang, a rending sound, and suddenly the floor gave way and disappeared from under me. The next moment I was hurtling through space, and when I landed, I found myself straddling something soft and hairy. A carpet, or so I thought.

I directed my eyes heavenward and murmured a few choice words of thanks to that great, big Cat in the sky for saving my furry butt. Then I noticed it wasn’t a carpet that had broken my fall, but the head of Mayor McCrady. And he didn’t seem too well pleased that I’d dug my claws into his skull—what can I say? It’s a reflex. The Mayor screamed bloody murder, and lifted both me and his hair—who would have thought the Mayor was wearing a toupee!—into the air, and slung the both of us far and away. Well, at least as far as the stage wings.

I deftly landed on all fours—something that couldn’t be said for the toupee—and thanked my lucky stars: the air duct, I now discovered, had been located directly over the prompter’s box with the Mayor, who liked to be hands-on when a play was being performed by ‘his’ Theatrical Society, taking up the role of prompter.

Then, suddenly remembering Zack's big ‘murder scene’ takes place in the first act, my heart skipped a beat. Was I too late?