Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (10 page)

“Val,” I continued, “we're not trying to solve the damned murder. We're looking for the diamonds, and we already know she doesn't have them and doesn't know where they are.”

“Shit!”

“Someday I'm going to have to teach you a new word,” I said.

He gave me an embarrassed grin. “I'm sorry.”

“Not a problem.” I checked my watch. “Okay, we'd better get back to work. I'll check with some more fences, you see if you can find out what names the Bolivians are using and where they're staying.”

“Doesn't seem like much,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Maybe,” I said. “
Someone
had to sell him ten million dollars' worth of diamonds, and given the size of a cat's collar, I figure that's ten diamonds, tops. There can't have been many diamonds that size up for sale, legit sale or under the counter, at one time. See if any of your people know about a sale that size.”

“Right,” he said. “Should be easy enough.”

“You think so?”

“Sure,” replied Sorrentino. “Why not?”

“What if he bought the diamonds seven years ago? Or on a European vacation? Or—?”

“Okay!” he half-shouted. “I get the picture!”

“Anyway,” I continued, “it's probably a dead end, but it's worth looking into.”

“I know,” he said. “Sorry I shouted. I just wasn't cut out to be a detective.”

“There's those who say the same about me,” I said.

He picked up the check where the waitress had dropped it, walked over to the cash register, handed the guy a twenty, and told him to keep the change. Then we both walked outside.

“I'm parked that way,” he said, pointing to the left. “You?”

I gestured to the right.

“Call me later and we'll meet for dinner,” he said, heading off.

I stood watching him for a minute, half expecting to see one or more Bolivians leap out from between buildings and take a few shots at him, but nothing happened, and finally I turned and went to my car, wondering for the hundredth time if the cat had been turned in to the shelter by an animal lover or a diamond lover.

9.

I drove home, woke Marlowe long enough to take him for a walk, which he resented like all hell, then drove downtown to my office to see if I'd accumulated any mail in the past few days. Twenty-seven ads, an electric bill, and a letter from a Mrs. Karbasso, who didn't care that the Communist threat was over everywhere else and
knew
there was a Communist living inside her walls watching her every move. She apologized for not having any money but offered to pay me with a lemon pie once I sent this foul fiend off to meet his ancestors.

I put my feet up on the desk, clasped my hands behind my head, leaned back, and considered what to do next. I found it difficult to think of it as a case, since no one was paying me, but since I didn't have any other cases pending and I still had most of Velma's fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer, I decided I could give it a couple of more days.

The problem was: a couple of days doing
what
?

I couldn't look for the diamonds, because first of all, I didn't know what they looked like; second, I didn't know if they were on or off the collar; and third, they were in a metropolitan area of well over a million.

I couldn't question the Bolivians. No one knew where they were or what names they were using. Besides, from what Sorrentino had told me, they were every bit as likely to shoot me as talk to me.

I couldn't question Velma. The second she saw me she'd call the cops and have me arrested for trespassing or harassment.

I could talk to Ziggy and the Goniff again, but I'd just spoken to them that morning. Same with Reuben.

I could make the rounds of the top jewelers, but I'd feel silly as hell asking them if they'd attached ten million dollars' worth of diamonds to a cat collar.

So what, I wondered, could I do that wasn't 100 percent useless or idiotic?

I thought about it for a few minutes and came up with a notion that was perhaps only 98 percent idiotic.

I swiveled the chair until it was facing my typewriter, stuck a sheet of paper in it, and began typing:

Will the party that found my mackerel tabby cat and turned it in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a gift for finding her
.

I closed by putting in my home phone number—just in case someone was being exceptionally careful, I didn't want them to figure out they were calling a detective. Then I stared at it for a couple of minutes and decided it lacked a little something.

Finally I folded the paper, stuck it in my lapel pocket, closed up the office, and drove home, which took all of fifteen minutes, and found that the mail wasn't any more interesting there than at the office.

“Why aren't you out tracking criminals?” said a familiar voice, and I turned to find myself facing Mrs. Cominsky.

I was about to give her a sarcastic answer when I suddenly realized that she might be just what I needed.

“How would you like to help me on a case, Mrs. Cominsky?” I said.

“Are you after a killer or a rapist?” she asked enthusiastically.

“I don't know,” I said.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I'm after either a killer or a good Samaritan.”

“Are you making fun of me?” she demanded suspiciously.

I shook my head. “Not at all. If I can prove it's a killer, then I'll turn it over to the cops. But I've got to talk to him or her first.”

“Well, come on in,” she said, suddenly businesslike. “No sense doing this in a freezing foyer.” I walked through the inner door to the staircase. “My place or yours?”

“Mine, I think,” I said. “We have your reputation to consider.”

I led the way up to the second-floor landing, unlocked my door, and stood aside while she entered first. Marlowe looked up, said,
Oh, it's you
, yawned, and went back to sleep.

“All right, Mr. Paxton,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“Someone turned a cat in to an animal shelter the other day,” I said. “And it's essential that I find him.”

She frowned. “That damned cat again?” she said. “Someone's really paying you to find it?” She shook her head, half in disbelief, half in contempt for my employer.

“It's
been
found,” I said.

“So what is all this about?” she demanded.

“I need to find who turned it in to the shelter.”

“Ah! The thief!”

“Maybe,” I said. “If it's the person who stole it, we could be looking at a murderer. But if it's just some guy who found it and brought it to the shelter, then like I said, it's a Samaritan.”

“Why some
guy
?” she asked in a way that implied that I was a male chauvinist pig, which I probably am from time to time. “Why not a woman?”

“Because the lady at the shelter told me it was a guy,” I answered.

“Okay, some guy gave the cat to the shelter, and maybe he's a killer, and maybe he's just a good Christian,” said Mrs. Cominsky. “What does that have to do with me?”

“I wrote an ad as if I was the owner, hoping he'd make contact with me. But I think it could be a little better, or at least a little more
sincere
. I was hoping that if I show it to you that you might make a suggestion or two.”

“Ah!” she said happily, now that we were getting down to business. “Let me see it!”

I pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and handed it to her. She studied it for a moment, a frown of either concentration or disapproval written large across her face.

“Well?” I asked when she looked up.

“First of all, the cat needs a name.”

“Fluffy,” I told her.

She took a pencil out of a pocket and scribbled the name down on the paper.

“And she's not your mackerel tabby,” she said. “She's your
beloved
mackerel tabby.”

“Okay,” I said, as she wrote it down. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” she said. “He turned
her
in, not
it
. Beloved cats are never its.” She scribbled again. “Also, he didn't
find
her; he saved her. And maybe a heartfelt gift, rather than just a gift. You don't want to say a valuable gift or you'll get three hundred jerks calling and pretending they turned the cat in.”

She finished writing and handed it back to me:

Will the party who found my beloved mackerel tabby cat Fluffy and turned her in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a heartfelt gift for saving her
.

“Well?” she asked.

“Better,” I said. “Let's hope it works.”

“Now that we're partners,” she said, “who was killed and what does the cat have to do with it?”

“The police have asked me not to divulge the name of the deceased to anyone,” I lied. “And the cat may have nothing at all to do with it.”

She frowned again. “Why would a killer take a victim's cat with him? It's not as if the damned thing could testify to what it saw.”

I shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe it scratched him, maybe he got some DNA on it.”

She shook her head. “Then why turn it in to a shelter?”

“If I had all the answers I'd know who he was and he'd be in jail or totally off the hook,” I said.

“Let's put our heads together and see what we can reason out.”

“Not this second,” I said apologetically. “I can tell Marlowe needs a walk. Can't have him messing the rug,” I said as I grabbed his leash and put it on him.

“The carpet, damn it!” she snapped.

“Back soon,” I said as I opened the door and tugged Marlowe, who was still nine-tenths asleep, down the stairs and out the door.

It was still light out, and I walked Marlowe almost two blocks past Mrs. Garabaldi's petunias in the hope that Mrs. Cominsky would get tired of waiting for me, but she'd had an evangelistic look about her face as I left that said,
You're Nick, I'm Nora, that's Asta, and we're going to solve a murder that's stumped the police
.

Even Marlowe, who never feels anything, was getting uncomfortably cold, and finally I began walking him back to the apartment. I became aware that a car was following us very slowly the final half block. I figured it was just because of some icy patches on the street, but then I remembered I'd just driven on the same street maybe half an hour ago, and the traction was fine, so I stopped and turned to look at it.

It was a BMW, and the driver had coal-black hair, dark eyes, a black mustache, and a deep tan, either natural or from the sun.

Suddenly he smiled, pointed his finger at me, and fired an imaginary shot between my eyes.

“Marlowe,” I said as he raced off, “I think I've just seen my first Bolivian.”

10.

“Now
this
is a
real
dinner!” enthused Sorrentino as we were eating at Carrabba's. “Reminds me of the old country!”

“Come on, Val,” I said. “When were you in the old country?”

“Three, four years ago,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, their shrimp scampi doesn't compare to this.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don't know why all Italians talk about the old country. If it was so damned good, we wouldn't have come here, would we?”

“I don't know where the hell the Paxtons came from,” I said. “If they didn't change the name at Ellis Island, I suspect we were British peasants.”

“How many generations ago?”

“Beats the hell out of me,” I replied.

“You never asked?” he said, surprised.

I shook my head. “It never interested me. Wherever we came from a century or two ago, I'm not going back.”

“A man's gotta know where he came from,” said Sorrentino.

“I'm more concerned with where I'm going.” I took a swallow of my beer. “And who's trying to stop me.”

He stared at me and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm pretty sure I saw one of the Bolivians a couple of hours ago, when I was walking my dog.”

“What was he doing?”

“Just driving his car, at maybe five miles an hour, pacing me as I walked.”

“Could have been anyone,” said Sorrentino.

“Could have,” I said.

“But you don't think so?”

“No.”

“Okay, why?”

I aimed my finger at him and fired an imaginary shot.

“He did that?” asked Sorrentino.

“Right,” I said.

He frowned. “Doesn't make sense.”

“It made perfect sense to me,” I said. “He's warning me off the case.”

He shook his head vigorously. “If he knows where you live, he knows you're private, and that means you're not after the killer, you're after the money. Why the hell would he warn you off? He ought to be explaining to you that he'll ride shotgun while you hunt for it and let you keep one-third of it. Of course, if you agreed and found it, he'd kill you, but why threaten you
before
you find it?”

“I think he was just letting me know he's here, and that he and his friends are going to be mighty pissed off if I find the money and don't offer to share with them, maybe ninety-ten in their favor.”

“Maybe,” he said, unconvinced. “But if he's keeping an eye on you, why didn't he follow you to the restaurant?”

“There are three of them. Maybe one of the others did. All I was looking for in my rearview was his BMW.”

“Makes sense,” he said.

I finished my veal parmesan, washed it down with the rest of the beer, considered having my first smoke of the day, couldn't see an ashtray anywhere in the place, suddenly remembered that you can't smoke in restaurants in Cincinnati, and settled for watching Sorrentino finish his shrimp.