“Please forgive me, officers—I’m leaving for my up-country estate tomorrow and I need to wind my clocks. How long will this take?”
“No more than a few minutes,” Lap assured him. “But we come with grave tidings, Mr. Reynard, I regret to say. Mr. Corky Farr-Fetch, the well-known marketing manager, has just been viciously murdered.”
“Who?” Reynard hadn’t even turned from his clocks.
“Corky Farr-Fetch—I assumed you knew him.”
“Why would I?”
“He worked for Chump’s Incorporated, which has an intimate relationship with the Reynard Media Network. And both companies are principal sponsors of the Glory of the Pharaohs Exhibition, where Mr. Farr-Fetch was killed earlier this evening.”
“Such sponsorships have little to do with me personally.” Reynard was still working the winding mechanisms. “Nor do marketing managers from companies in which I have no financial stake.”
“So his death doesn’t trouble you at all?”
“Of course it does. I’ll have a wreath of dogwood sent to the widow.”
“So you do know him after all?”
“What do you mean?”
“I never mentioned he was married.”
“I assumed, of course.” Reynard turned briefly, with a cunning smile. “And in truth something came back to me as we’ve been talking. A vague image of his features. A retriever, was he not? With a startled look on his face?”
“You could say that.”
“Yes, I remember him.” Twisting his clocks again. “I do hope he didn’t suffer.”
“Only he can know that for sure. But would you not care to know how he died?”
“I have a delicate stomach.”
“He was torn into several pieces—murdered, we believe, by the same culprit responsible for the earlier killings in Fly’s Picnic and Chitterling.”
“Truly? How terrible.”
“And we’d like to seek your cooperation, if we may.”
“How so?”
Lap cleared his throat. “What I’m about to say is highly confidential, Mr. Reynard, and extremely explosive.” He actually shifted on his feet. “But there is a high probability that the murderer in all three cases is a cat.”
“A cat?” Reynard glanced at us with ginger eyebrows arched. “A cat is responsible for murders like that? Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“So you didn’t already know about all this? The news hasn’t leaked out?”
“Of course not.”
“And yet you knew of the other murders—the details?”
“I read my newspapers.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll agree that this makes for a very volatile situation? A cat murdering dogs in the Kennels? With an election imminent? And a possible call to arms? Not to mention the sheer panic and antipathy such a crime would arouse at the very best of times?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then we were wondering if you’d be willing to suppress the coverage of the incident in your newspapers, at least until we feel closer to apprehending the killer.”
Reynard was already shaking his head. “I approve of the sentiment in principle, of course, but in reality it’s my editors that make all decisions relating to newspaper content.”
“You’re saying you have no direct editorial control?”
Reynard gave a sad smile. “Such heavy-handed influences exist only in media mythology, I’m afraid. It’s not the fox that controls the hounds.”
Lap nodded. “Then to whom do we owe the exceptional discretion displayed this morning?”
“Discretion?”
“The first murder—two nights ago—occupied the front pages of the Growl, the Dog Whistle, and featured prominently in the Scratching Post and the Caterwaul Street Journal. The second murder—when it became clear we were looking for a cat killer—occupied just one column on page seven of both the Growl and the Whistle. Though it retained some prominence in the Post, which is not officially distributed in the Kennels.”
Reynard turned back to his clocks. “Perfectly understandable,” he said. Twist twist twist. “There was an important sporting contest in town tonight. To focus on such a newsworthy event in the dogsheets, at the expense of an unpalatable crime, is simply to acknowledge the dominant interest of our readership.”
“So a contrived clash between a dog and a cat is of greater interest than a murderous one on our streets?”
“I’m not the master of our culture,” Reynard said. “And in any case I don’t recall seventy thousand attending the crime.” Twist twist twist. “Besides, I was rather unhappy with the report of the first murder. I detected an unacceptable degree of hypothesis in it. The sort of speculation that should never have been allowed.”
“So you do exert some control?”
Reynard glanced at Lap with narrowed eyes. “Did I say that? I was merely informed of a rather reckless report. By a rather reckless reporter. Sweeney, I believe his name was.”
“Nipper Sweeney?” I said.
Reynard looked at me. “A friend of yours?”
“Maybe.”
Reynard sniffed. “Then perhaps he’ll be calling upon you soon for scraps. I had him fired this afternoon.”
I started to reply, but Lap cut me off:
“Or perhaps he fired himself? Since you, of course, exert no direct editorial control?”
Reynard pocketed his little winder and turned with a mocking snort. “You’re a very interesting agent—what did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Lap, Cassius Lap.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that name. You know, I had a very productive relationship with Special Agent Humphrey MacFluff. A very shrewd and pragmatic cat. I must say I’m surprised he’s not been assigned to this case already.”
“He may yet be.”
“Then I hope he finds your preliminary work satisfactory. And you, Officer”—he turned to me—“may I ask your name?”
Lap answered for me: “His name is McNash, Max McNash. Also known as Crusher.”
“Of course. The strong, silent dog. My wife is very fond of such types. But I’m sure you’ve already guessed that.”
“You’ll be pleased to hear we make no hypotheses.”
Reynard surveyed the two of us critically. “You know,” he said, “this might sound strange, but I’m convinced I’ve seen you two together somewhere.”
“Did you happen to watch this evening’s prizefight?”
“Such barbaric spectacles are not to my personal taste—why?”
“My partner and I were featured in the crowd.”
“You were at Solidarity Stadium? You don’t say? Well, then, you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble—and considerable expense—by watching it at home on RCN. Single-round knockouts offer such little value for money, do they not?”
“I suspect there’s more value than meets the eye in most single-round knockouts,” said Lap. “But I take it you did overcome your distaste for barbaric spectacles, at least for tonight?”
“I was informed about the outcome, if that’s what you mean.”
“Or perhaps your confidence in the outcome meant you didn’t need to be informed?”
Reynard smirked. “Clairvoyance is not a weapon in my arsenal, Mr. Lap, though you can be certain my arsenal is rather well stocked.” He stifled a foxy yawn. “Will that be all, or should I fluff the spare beds?”
“That will certainly be all. But can we take it you’re willing to cooperate, at least for the present?”
“To instruct my papers to be discreet about the attacks? I’ll do everything I can.”
“Then we thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Reynard. We hope your trip to the up-country estate is restful, and your sleep productive.”
Reynard’s eyes slitted and twinkled at the same time. “A fox counts chickens in his dreams, Mr. Lap,” he said, and just then his clocks struck midnight and a hundred spring-loaded roosters popped out and cock-a-doodle-
dooed—a deafening chorus of windup chickens.
And that was the way we left the old magnate—as sly as a fox in a henhouse.
DRIVING BACK TO the cophouse I was so angry I almost took a bite out of the steering wheel.
“I can still smell him,” I said. “That weedy fox scent. I still got it in my nostrils.”
“That’s your imagination,” said Lap.
“How would you know?”
“Reynard had his scent glands surgically removed several years ago. He uses cat shampoo. He bathes in bottled cat saliva. All this to neutralize his natural vulpine odor.”
“Know a lot about him, don’t you, Deuteronomy?”
“I know a thing or two.”
“Sure.” I twisted the tooter around a corner. “Pity you didn’t have the heart for a catfight, though, ain’t it?”
“I’m not certain I understand.”
“The fox was lying. It was as plain as the leg on a ham. If it’d been up to me, I would’ve shaken him like a Ragdoll.”
“Aggression is rarely the most productive option.”
“Better than pussyfooting.”
“And besides, I believe I was too aggressive to start with.”
“Call that aggression do you, Simba?”
“Intemperate, perhaps. I made some rash claims. He was rightfully insulted.”
“Rightfully? You had him pinned against the fence—he didn’t know which way to run.”
“If he appeared evasive it was because he can’t help appearing evasive. He’s a fox after all. But I believe he was speaking the truth. And I don’t believe he has anything significant to offer us. You might say we were—what’s the expression?—barking up the wrong tree.”
I snorted, barely believing it. “Seems to me we’ve been barking up the wrong tree from the start. This don’t look good. For my reputation.”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“I had more trust in Humphrey MacFluff,” I snapped, and for the rest of the trip I drove with my bobble out the window, not even listening to him.
But when we reached Duty Street he tapped me on my shoulder. I pulled my head in. “What now?”
“I’d like you to stop here.”
“Why?”
“Because I have something important to say to you.”
“Say it now.”
“Stop,” he said. “Now.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but somehow his tone worked on me like a whip snap. So I pulled obediently to the curb. I followed him into Pedro’s. It was like I was in a daze.
The ’wower behind the bar looked pleased to recognize us. “We got soy milk now, señor.”
“Excellent,” said Lap. “Half a glass with a sprinkle of chives, if you please.”
“And two half glasses for me,” I said. “With chili.”
At the back of the room we squeezed into the same booth as before. “Flap your licker,” I said. “I’m starting to get snappy.”
“First of all,” said Lap evenly, “I want you to disregard everything I just said in the vehicle.”
“I don’t get you.”
“Phineas Reynard knows a lot more than he is willing to divulge. Just what that is still needs to be ascertained. But it’s safe to assume he knows the identity of our killer, and wishes to conceal it.”
“What?” I snorted. “But that’s exactly what I said in the tooter. And you turned up your little cat nose.”
“I disagreed, Detective, because your car is bugged.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Because it’s only logical.”
“I didn’t smell anything.”
“Your vehicle was empty and idle at the jetty for over thirty minutes. Reynard had plenty of time to give the order. And he would certainly be curious about our response to the interview.”
I was getting more and more ruffled. “Listen, doughnut, I’m getting mighty sick of your ways. You’re holding out on me, and I don’t got a lot of patience. So why don’t you just open up for a change, or I might make a little sharp with the fangs.”
Lap sighed. “May I ask if there’s anyone at the station you trust implicitly?”
“There’s a lot of mutts I trust at the station.”
“Who?”
“Bud Borzoi…Chesty White.”
“Chief Kessler?”
“Maybe.”
“Why ‘maybe’?”
“He’s always giving me lip.”
“That sounds like a reason to trust him more than anything—your own inexhaustible snipes are one of the reasons I trust you. It’s important, in any case, that we identify someone with whom we can liaise with complete confidence.”
“You liaise with me,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“You don’t seem to understand. Certain processes have been set in motion. Certain parties are shifting behind the scenes. And the bottom line is we have at most twenty-four hours before we are reassigned. More likely it’s much less. If I personally have been protected thus far it’s only thanks to my commanding officer at the FBI, along with his opposite number in the Cat Intelligence Agency—two cats of peerless integrity. But even so, we have a limited amount of time to poke around a fiercely guarded rockpool and stir up some very big fish. And you, Detective, have a very important decision to make. You must decide if you’re willing to see it through. Or if you’d prefer to bow out gracefully.”
“Giving orders again, are you, Lionheart?”
“I’m saying it might well get very dangerous. And we’ll need to trust each other unconditionally. But I’m not asking you to deny your instincts. It’s completely up to you.”
The waiter arrived with our drinks. I picked up the first glass and tossed it down my gutchute like a shot of drain water. But I got a taste of it on the way down anyway—there wasn’t a trace of animal product in it—and I coughed and spluttered.
“You drink this stuff?” I said, wiping my snapper with the back of my paw.
“I’m lactose-intolerant, Detective, if you must know. And yes, my markings are cinnamon. And yes, I can trace my lineage back to the lords of the jungle. And yes, I wear pajamas. And yes, I comb my whiskers.” He stiffened. “I floss nightly, I play the harp, I practice tai chi, I read novels by French philosophers, I sleep in a cot, I have quarterly flea injections, I eat free-range fish, and I decorate my rooms with indigenous paw paintings. But no,” he said, “I don’t make love in alleyways, I don’t sit on fences, I don’t consort with witches, I don’t sing in Broadway musicals, and if you touch me”—he looked at me steadily—“you’ll never understand what happiness is.”
He drained his soy milk—one gulp, most uncatlike—and licked his chops.
“That’s all there is to know about me. And now it’s up to you to look into my eyes and decide if you’re willing to trust me.”
I tried to look into those sea-blue peepers—by Our Lord and Master I tried—but all I saw was a couple of marbles I wanted to rip out and roll down the gutter.
WHEN I PUSHED open the front door of my flopdown the answering machine was woofing aggressively. Four woofs—four messages.
I was meant to hit the rugs. I desperately needed a snooze. I’d left Lap at the station still talking to everyone—the beat cops first to the museum murder scene, the forensics team who’d analyzed the DNA in the Katsopoulos hair (similar but not the same as the killer), the audio mutt who’d had done a check on the cassette tape (no hidden frequencies), and the flushing dogs who’d gone into the Katacombs (nothing down there but squeakers). He wanted beefed-up patrols. He wanted armed cops in the alleyways. Sighthounds and pointers at high-vantage points. Snifferdogs on every corner. He wanted a hotline so he could get constant updates. And he wanted the feral alive—he’d made that plain.
“Under no circumstances is that cat to be killed,” he’d said. “I don’t care where the order comes from. Any dog that shoots him will be answerable to me.”
I’ll give him this much: He had
nerve, staring down a pack of San Bernardo’s finest—any one of whom could’ve chomped him for breakfast—and never letting a tremble into his creamy cat voice. And I’ll give him this much, too: He’d done his homework on the Kennels, and was happy to prove it.
“The locations of the murders so far,” he said, pointing at a survey map like a military commander, “indicate that the killer is gravitating in a southwesterly direction at approximately three and a half sprints a day, possibly heading toward the wilds at the western end of San Bernardo. By now, if my estimates are correct, he is most likely somewhere between Barkley Park and the east end of Pugkeepsie. To be even more specific, here”—he pointed—“in a fifteen-block radius between Yield Street and Blissful Way. I believe he will soon pass through the Flatear District, here, which is riddled with abandoned tenements, but he might pause here, at Lake Docile, to replenish himself on water, or here, near the Felicity Street Dump, to feed on the resident rodents. But there are no guarantees.”
There were no guarantees, all right, just like there were no guarantees I wouldn’t go frothy from frustration, or take a bite out of something, if we didn’t get back on the trail. My bobble was throbbing.
“Detective.” Lap took me aside and peeled open a can. “Non-prescription stimulants, perfectly legal, straight from Kathattan’s finest veterinarian. Please take one—it will keep you on your feet.”
“I don’t eat pills.”
“I can use a pill gun, if you wish.”
“Keep your guns away from me, Tex. I don’t need any cat medicine. When I get wound up I buzz all night like a mosquito.”
But the truth was I was legless. My brainpot was steaming. My eyelids felt like bricks. So I took the first chance I could find to cut loose. Flasha Lightning, the worthless scrumlicker who’d been held in custody for supplying misleading evidence, had squeezed between the bars of his cell (I’d told them a million times, whippets need to be chained) and wormed his stringbean frame through a ventilation duct. I said I had an idea where he might be hiding. I said I’d bring him back.
If Lap didn’t believe me, he didn’t let on.
So here I was, back home, pressing the button on my answering machine. And ignoring a strange feeling in my gutsack that I’d regret it.
The Unscratchables Page 10