Cat Under Fire

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  He had recorded the addresses of the targeted houses, how many people lived in each, the times of normal departure for each individual, and whether they left the house walking or by car. The list might be messy and hard to read, but Stamps's information was admirably detailed. He noted the make and model of each car in each household, noted whether the car was kept in the garage or on the street. He recorded whether there were children to be gotten off to school, underlining the fact that the school bus stopped at the corner of Ridgeview and Valley, at five after eight. He identified any regular cleaning or gardening services, and what days they would appear, and he noted whether there were barking dogs in residence at each address. He had listed what kinds of door locks, what kinds of windows, and whether there was any indication of an alarm system.

  "Nice," Joe said. "Messy but very complete." He shook dust from his whiskers. "Too bad we can't take it with us."

  She got that stubborn look.

  "Dulcie, if he finds it missing, they'll scrap their plan or change it. We'll have to memorize it; we can each take half."

  "We really need a copy for Captain Harper, not just another anonymous phone call. Don't you get the feeling that telephone tips make Harper nervous?"

  "Of course they make him nervous. They drive him nuts. They have also supplied him with some very valuable information. And we don't have any choice. What're you going to do, type up a copy?"

  "Even better. We'll take it up to Frances's office, it's only a few blocks. Run it through her copier and return the original, put it back under the junk."

  "And of course Frances will invite us right on in to use her copier. After all, look at the comfort you've given Mama."

  She hissed at him and cuffed his ear. "You can distract her. Fall out of a tree or something. While she's busy watching you, I'll nip inside through the laundry window, it won't take a minute. Her copier's pretty much like Wilma's."

  "She's sure to have left the window open, thinking you'll be back."

  "Of course she's left the window open. Mama's probably fit to be tied, waiting for me. It's nearly noon, and I've been gone since ten-thirty. I'm always there for lunch, so she'll be nattering at Frances to make sure the window's open."

  He just looked at her. "Dulcie, sometimes…"

  She gave him a sweet smile and nuzzled his cheek. Nosing the list closed along its folds, she took it carefully in her teeth, leaped to the chair, and slid out through the partially open window. Joe followed, keeping an eye on the dog. They scorched past him as he bellowed and streaked away up the hill.

  "Maybe he'll hang himself on the chain."

  He glanced at her. "You're drooling on the list."

  She cut her eyes at him and sped faster. It was impossible, carrying the paper in her mouth, not to drool on it. She held her head up, sucked in her spit, but despite her efforts, by the time they neared the Blankenships' the paper was soaked. She was thankful Stamps had written in pencil and not water-soluble ink. The Blankenships' brown frame house stood above them plain and homely. They approached from the side yard, where the spreading fig tree sheltered the back porch.

  At the tree they parted, and, as Dulcie slipped around to the laundry room window, Joe swarmed up into the branches. Situating himself as high among the sticky fig leaves as he could, he looked down between them, straight into the kitchen window. He could see Mama sitting at the cluttered table, sipping coffee. Frances stood at the counter, and she seemed to be making lunch. He could smell canned vegetable soup. He could hear them talking, but their voices were just mumbles; he could not make out the thrust of the conversation. Clinging among the twiggy little branches, he took a deep breath.

  Filling his lungs so full of air he felt like a bagpipe, he let it out in a yowling bellow. His screams hit the quiet street loud as a siren. He hadn't sung like this since adolescence, when he fought over lady cats in the San Francisco alleys. He sang and squalled and warbled inventive improvisations. He was really belting it out, giving it his full range, when Frances burst out the kitchen door.

  She stared up at him, incredulous, and tried to shake the tree, then looked for something to throw. Joe yowled louder. She snatched up a clod of garden earth, heaved it straight at him. She had pretty good aim-the dirt spattered against the branch inches from him. He ducked but continued to scream. The next instant the back door swung open, and old Mrs. Blankenship pushed out, waddling down the steps in her robe.

  "Oh, poor kitty. My poor kitty, my kitty's up there. Oh, Frances, she…"

  When Mama saw that it wasn't her kitty, she sat down on the steps, made herself comfortable. As if prepared to watch a good show. She seemed highly entertained by Frances's rage, and it occurred to Joe that Frances might have reached her limit with stray cats.

  Frances heaved another clod. "Shut up, you stupid beast. Shut up, or I'm getting Varnie's shotgun."

  "He's frightened, Frances. The poor thing can't get down."

  "Mama, the cat can get down when it wants down."

  "Then why would he be crying like that? He's terrified."

  Joe tried to look frightened, warbling another chorus of off-key wails but watching Frances warily. Come on, Dulcie, get on with it. I'll have to skin out of here damn fast if Frances goes for a gun. In order to hold her attention, he pretended to lose his balance. When he nearly fell the old woman yelped. But Frances smiled, and threw another clod.

  The moment Joe began to yowl, Dulcie leaped in through the laundry window. Streaking down the hall for Frances's office, she sailed to the top of the file cabinet and hit the on switch of the copier.

  She hoped it wasn't out of paper, she didn't think she could manage a ream of paper. She was greatly cheered when the machine's sweet hum filled the room and no panic lights came on. How long did it take to warm up? Seemed like the ready light would never turn green.

  But at last the little bulb flashed. She lifted the lid, laid the list inside, and smoothed it with her paw.

  Lowering the lid, she pressed the copy button and prayed a beseeching cat prayer.

  The machine hummed louder. The copy light ran along under the lid. In a moment the fresh copy eased out into the bin, and she slid it out with a careful paw. Joe was still singing, his cries muffled by the house walls. She thought she heard Frances shout.

  Stamps's handwriting looked better on the copy than in the original. The oily stains and the wrinkles had not reproduced. She retrieved his own list from inside the machine and managed to fold the clean sheet of paper with it, using teeth and claws.

  Joe's cries rose higher, bold and reassuring. She patted the little packet flat, gripped it firmly between her teeth, and switched off the machine.

  Trotting back down the hall, she was almost to the laundry when she heard footsteps hit the back porch and the door open. She started to swerve into the bathroom, but there would be no way out. That window was seldom opened. She bolted down the hall for the laundry as Frances's footsteps crossed the kitchen.

  Frances loomed in the doorway, saw her. "The cat… What's it got?" She ran, tried to grab Dulcie. "Something in its mouth…" The look on her face was incredulous.

  Dulcie sailed to the sill and out.

  "Damn cat's taken something…"

  She dropped to the side yard, crunching dry leaves as Frances shouted and banged down the window. Scorching away from the house, Dulcie prayed Joe would see her and follow, but as she hit the curb and dived beneath a neighbor's parked car, he was still yowling.

  16

  Late-afternoon sun slanted into the Damen backyard, warming the chaise lounge, and warming Joe where he slept sprawled across its soft cushions. He did not feel the gentle breeze that caressed his fur. He was so deep under that the term catnap could not apply-he slept like the dead, limp as a child's stuffed toy. He didn't hear the leaves blowing in the oak trees, didn't hear the occasional car passing along the street out in front. Didn't hear the raucous screaming above him where, atop the fence, six cow birds danced, trying to taunt hi
m. Had he been lightly napping, he would have jerked awake at the first arrogant squawk and leaped up in pointless attack simply for the fun of seeing the stupid birds scatter. But his adventures of the morning, breaking into Stamps's room and his creative concert in the Blankenship fig tree, had left him wrung out. Only if one were to lean close and hear his soft snores, would one detect any sign of life.

  He had parted from Dulcie at Ocean Avenue, had stood in the shade of the grassy median watching her trot brightly away toward the courthouse, carrying the photocopy of Stamps's list, the white paper clutched in her teeth as if she were some dotty mother cat carrying a prize kitten; and she'd headed straight for the Molena Point Police Station.

  He had to trust she'd get the list to Harper without being seen. When he questioned her, she hadn't been specific.

  "There are cops all over, Dulcie. How are you going to do that?"

  "Play it by ear," she'd mumbled, smiling around the paper, and trotted away.

  And Stamps would never know the list had left his room. What were a few little dents in the paper? Who would imagine toothmarks? Certainly by the time Stamps got home from work the list would be dry, Dulcie's spit evaporated.

  And once Dulcie had delivered Stamps's game plan to the authorities, she'd be off for a delightful day of court proceedings.

  For himself, a nap had seemed far more inviting. Arriving home famished, he had pushed into the kitchen, waking the assorted pets, had knocked the box of cat kibble from the cupboard, and wolfed the contents. He'd gone out again through the front-there was no cat door from the kitchen; Clyde controlled the other cats' access to the outdoors. Two of the cats were ancient and ought to be kept inside. And the young white female was too cowardly to fend for herself.

  And in the backyard, moderately fortified with his dry snack, he had slept until 4 P.M.

  He'd awakened hungry again, starved. Slipping back into the house, he had phoned Jolly's. When, twenty minutes later, Jolly's delivery van pulled up in front, he allowed time for the boy to set his order on the porch as he had directed and to drive away. There was no problem about paying-he had put it on Clyde's charge. When the coast was clear he slipped out, checked for nosy neighbors, then dragged the white paper bag around the side yard to the back and up onto the chaise.

  Feasting royally, he had left the wrappers scattered around the chaise and gone back to sleep, his stomach distended, his belch loud and satisfied.

  But now, suddenly, he was rudely awakened by someone poking him.

  He jerked up, startled, then subsided.

  Through slitted eyes he took in pant legs, Clyde's reaching hand. He turned over and squeezed his eyes closed.

  Clyde poked again, harder. Joe opened one eye, growling softly. Around them, the shadows were lengthening, the sunlight had softened, its long patches of brilliance lower and gender. The cool breeze that rustled the trees above him smelled of evening. Joe observed his housemate irritably.

  Clyde was not only home from work, he had showered and changed. He was wearing a new, soft blue jogging suit. A velvet jogging suit. And brand-new Nikes. Joe opened both eyes, studying him with interest.

  Clyde poked again, a real jab. Joe snatched the offending fingers and bit down hard.

  Clyde jerked his hand, which was a mistake. "Christ, Joe! Let go of me! I was only petting. What's the matter with you?"

  He dropped the offending fingers. "You weren't petting, you were prodding."

  "I was only trying to see if you're all right. You were totally limp. You looked dead, like some old fur piece rejected by the Goodwill."

  Joe glared.

  "I merely wanted to know if you'd like some salmon for dinner." He examined his fingers. "When was your last rabies shot?"

  "How the hell should I know? It's your job to keep track of that stuff. Of course I want salmon for dinner."

  Clyde studied his wounded appendages, searching for blood.

  "I hardly broke the skin. I could have taken the damned fingers off if I'd wanted."

  Clyde sighed.

  "You jerked me out of an extremely deep sleep. A healing, restful sleep. A much-needed sleep." He slurped on his paw and massaged his violated belly. "In case you've forgotten, cats need more sleep than humans, cats need a higher-quality sleep. Cats…"

  "Can it, Joe. I said I was sorry. I didn't come out here for a lecture." Clyde's gaze wandered to the deli wrappers scattered beneath the chaise. He knelt and picked up several and sniffed them. "I see you won't want the salmon, that you've already had dinner."

  "A midafternoon snack. I said yes, I want salmon."

  Clyde sat down on the end of the chaise, nearly tipping it though Joe occupied three-fourths of the pad. "This was a midafternoon snack? I wonder, Joe, if you've glanced, recently, at my deli bill."

  Joe stared at him, his yellow eyes wide.

  "Ever since you learned how to use the phone, my bill at Jolly's has been unbelievable. It takes a large part of my personal earnings just to… "

  "Come on, Clyde. A little roast beef once in a while, a few crackers."

  Clyde picked up a wrapper. "What is this black smear? Could this be caviar?" He raised his eyes to Joe. "Imported caviar? The beluga, maybe?" He examined a second crumpled sheet of paper. "And these little flecks of pink. These wouldn't be the salmon-Jolly's best smoked Canadian salmon?"

  "They were having a special." Joe licked his whiskers. "You really ought to try the smoked salmon; Jolly just got it in from Seattle."

  Clyde picked up yet another wrapper and sniffed the faint, creamy smears. "And is this that Brie from France?"

  "George Jolly does keep a very nice Brie. Smear it on a soft French bread, it's perfection. They say Brie is good with fresh fruit, but I prefer…"

  Clyde looked at Joe intently. "Doesn't Jolly's deliveryman wonder, when he brings this stuff and no one answers the door? What do you tell him when you call?"

  "I tell him to leave it on the porch. What else would I tell him? To shove it through the cat door? I can manage that myself. Though this evening I carried it around here, it's so nice and sunny. I had a delightful snack."

  "That, as far as I'm concerned, was your supper."

  "You might call it high tea."

  "And where's Dulcie? How come you didn't share with her? She loves smoked salmon and Brie."

  "She planned to spend the afternoon at the courthouse. She said she was going home afterward, for some quality time with Wilma. Dulcie is a very dutiful cat."

  Clyde wadded up the deli wrappers. "You were taking a nap pretty early in the day, so I presume you're planning a big night."

  Joe shrugged. "Maybe an early hunt, nothing elaborate." He had no intention of sharing his plans for the evening. This proposed break-and-enter into the Aronson Gallery was none of Clyde's business. It would only upset him. He looked Clyde over with interest. "And what about you? Looks like you have big plans. Is that a new jogging suit? And new Nikes? They have to be, they're still clean. And you just had a haircut. What gives? You going walking with Charleston?"

  Clyde stared.

  Joe bent this head and licked his hind paw. "Simple deduction," he said modestly. "I know that Charlie likes to walk; Dulcie says she's learning the lay of the village, learning the names of the streets. And you told me yourself, she doesn't like fancy restaurants and doesn't hang out in bars. And a movie date is so juvenile. Ergo, you're going walking, and then for dinner either to the Fish Market or the Bakery."

  "I don't know why I bother to plan anything about my life. I could just ask you what I'm going to do for the day. It would be so much easier."

  Joe lifted a white paw, extended his claws, and began to clean between them.

  Clyde glanced at his watch and rose. In a few minutes Joe could hear him in the kitchen opening cans, could hear the two old dogs' nails scrabbling on the kitchen floor in Pavlovian response to the growl of the can opener, and the three cats begin to mewl. Annoyed by the fuss, Joe rose, leaped to the top of the fence and
up into the eucalyptus tree. There he tucked down into a favorite hollow formed by three converging branches and tried to go back to sleep.

  But within minutes of his getting settled and drifting off, the back door burst open and a tangle of dogs and cats poured out into the falling evening. The dumb beasts began to play, driven by inane, friendly barking and snarls and an occasional feline hiss. Joe climbed higher.

  He wasn't to meet Dulcie until eight-thirty, but he needed to be fresh. It would take some quick maneuvering to slip into the gallery unseen just before it closed, find an adequate hiding place, and remain concealed until Sicily locked up and went home. He had a bad feeling about tonight. But Dulcie wasn't going to rest until they took that gallery apart looking for Janet's paintings.

  He supposed if they didn't find them, she'd want to search Sicily's apartment next, and who knew where else.

  What they should do, of course, was inform the police. Let Captain Harper know about the missing paintings-make one simple, anonymous phone call so Harper could start looking for them.

  But try to tell Dulcie that. She'd got her claws into this and was determined to do it her way, to come up with the killer unaided, like some ego-driven movie detective.

  Yet he knew he was being unfair. The excitement of the hunt stirred his own blood. And he knew Dulcie was driven not so much by ego, as by her powerful hunting instincts and an overwhelming feline curiosity. Her tenacity in tracking the killer was as natural to her as stalking an elusive rabbit.

  But now, of course, one crime wasn't enough, now she'd honed in, as well, on Stamps's early-morning burglary scheme.

  Harper should be delighted. Why pay all those cops, when he has us?

  But, to be honest, his own curiosity nudged him just as sharply. And what the hell? Breaking into Stamps's place had been a gas. He liked nosing around other folks' turf.