Nine Lives to Murder

by Marian Babson

  Don’t I know that voice? He pushed against the door, just enough to let him slide through with his burden.

  Rufus-was sitting behind his desk, a young woman was perched on the end of the desk, her back towards the door, her crossed leg swinging towards Rufus. They were both bending over some papers on the desk, their heads almost touching. Her gaze was intent on the papers but, since she was wearing a low-cut blouse, Rufus’s wasn’t.

  Jilly! Damn it, Jilly! What was she doing here. Rufus had been going to get rid of her, dismissing her with a lunch. That must have been some lunch! Rufus was a legend throughout theatreland for the unsuitability of his conquests—this time he had outdone himself.

  With one bound, the cat landed on the desktop between them. He dropped the mouse on top of the papers and gazed at Rufus proudly.

  ‘Eeeeek!’ Jilly recoiled, almost falling off the desk in her haste to get away. She caught her balance and retreated to the far corner of the room, making retching noises. ‘How revolting! Horrible! Throw it away!’

  ‘Good lad, Monty.’ Rufus reached out and patted the cat’s head enthusiastically. ‘I was afraid you’d deserted us for a softer berth, but you’re back and right on the job. Good lad!’

  ‘Get rid of it!’ Jilly demanded. It was not clear whether she was speaking of the dead mouse or the cat. Probably both.

  ‘Er, yes,’ Rufus agreed. He looked down at the small corpse with distaste, then had a happy thought. ‘There you go, Monty,’ he said jovially, picking up a corner of the paper and tilting the mouse towards the cat. ‘It’s all yours. You caught it fair and square. Take it away and enjoy it.’

  The cat twitched its whiskers at him; it might almost be laughing. It rubbed its head affectionately against Rufus’s hand and, leaving the mouse on top of the papers (having ascertained that they were of no interest), leaped back to the floor.

  ‘Get rid of it!’ Jilly’s tone was verging on the hysterical; she looked at Monty with loathing.

  ‘Can’t do that,’ Rufus said. ‘I’d hurt Monty’s feelings. It’s supposed to be the highest compliment a cat can pay you, to leave his kill for you. It means he recognizes you as the Top Cat and is bringing his contribution to feeding the family.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Jilly retched again.

  ‘Besides,’ Rufus said reasonably, ‘there are lots more mice around and we want him to catch them. It would be very bad psychology to do anything to discourage him.’

  ‘That cat,’ Jilly said vehemently, ‘is nothing but trouble!’

  Strange, that’s what people say about you. The cat fixed his gaze upon her and began advancing menacingly. It takes one to know one.

  ‘No!’ Jilly shrank away.

  ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry,’ Rufus placated. ‘I’ll fix it.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled briefly.

  ‘Oh, Tottie,’ he said. ‘Could you come up here for a minute?’

  29

  ‘Win, darling, concentrate—’ Miranda pleaded, fighting back irritation. He looked so right, so normal, it was hard to remember that his poor mind was still not quite what it had been. (Might never be again—she fought that thought. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.) He was stronger and more himself every day. There were still just these odd moments when he retreated into some place where she couldn’t follow and became a stranger to her. To everybody—perhaps even to himself.

  He gave her that sleepy blinking smile; as though willing, but unable to comprehend quite what she required of him. She could have wept.

  ‘Win, darling—’ She tried again. ‘Please, darling—’ She broke off as she met his placid unconcerned gaze. They weren’t connecting. Not at all. They might as well have been on different planets. Could she spend the rest of her life like this?

  If she had to, she would! She thrust away the disloyal thought. It must be even worse for Win. Did some part of his mind realize what he had lost? Every now and then he drifted off into a reverie when he just sat studying his hands, flexing his fingers and wriggling his thumbs. It was a new departure for him; the old Win had had his reveries in front of the mirror and practised facial expressions.

  He smiled at her, yawned and stretched luxuriously, then rose and walked purposefully towards the kitchen.

  Miranda followed, noting how much his coordination had improved since she had first brought him home. All other considerations apart, it had been the right thing to do.

  She followed, although she had little doubt where he was headed; it was the only destination he made for so enthusiastically: the refrigerator.

  He opened the door with a beaming smile for his own cleverness, then reached inside and helped himself to the smoked salmon.

  She watched as he dexterously rolled each slice into a cigar-shaped tube for easier nibbling. She had stopped offering lemon, fresh ground black pepper, buttered brown bread or any other refinement; he wasn’t interested. The first time he had stared at these offerings with blank incomprehensions; the second time, he had laughed aloud. But it was all of a piece; at mealtimes, he was almost childlike in his avoidance of vegetables—especially the leafy green ones. They had to be liberally dredged in gravy before he would touch them. And he seemed to have forgotten all his table manners; he was re-learning them, but with an air of doing it just to please her.

  Would they ever be able to go to a dinner-party again? Or give one?

  ‘Oh, Win,’ she sighed, leaning against him. ‘Oh, Win, what are we going to do?’

  He put one arm around her and lowered his head to rub his forehead against hers.

  ‘Uuurrr,’ he comforted. ‘Uuurrr …’

  Yes, it could be worse. It had been worse—when Win was lying there unconscious, hooked up to a machine, and they had been afraid they were going to lose him.

  He had made magnificent strides in the past couple of weeks; it was churlish to complain because he hadn’t bounced back instantly to being his old self.

  There were even compensations in this new Win; he was so much kinder and gentler. He listened, honestly listened, and tried so hard to understand. He hadn’t made rude remarks or insulted anyone since the accident. His intolerance had disappeared and his charm had increased. He—

  The doorbell rang. Reluctantly, Miranda slipped away from Win’s arm and went to answer it.

  ‘Miranda, darling!’ Dame Theodora, bearing a large sheaf of roses, stepped forward and gave Miranda a peck on the cheek, then turned away and waved dismissal to a limousine waiting at the kerb.

  ‘We finished filming today and had our little wrap parry. I decided I’d stop and see Win on the way home, so I asked them to drop me off here. They were most impressed.’

  ‘Which was just what you intended.’ Miranda closed the door behind her, smiling; she liked Thea.

  ‘It never does any harm to impress the Management,’ Dame Theodora agreed. ‘You never can tell when they’ll have another job going and it keeps you in mind. Not that this job was all that much. They called it a feature part; I’d call it a cameo. Everyone sends their love, by the way.’

  Miranda nodded. That was only to be expected. No one ever asked for ill-wishes to be conveyed—or, if they did, the message was suitably censored before delivery. Love from everyone. Yet there was someone out there who did not love Win, someone who wished him dead. Antoinette … Antoinette?

  ‘Thea,’ she said, as they settled themselves in the drawing-room. ‘You’ve known Win for a long time, haven’t you?’

  ‘I knew him long before you appeared on the scene.’ Dame Thea eyed her shrewdly. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? I even knew him before he met Antoinette. We go way back.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could tell me—’ Miranda hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’ Pointedly, Dame Theodora’s gaze strayed to the cluster of decanters on the corner table.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Miranda decided it would do no harm to take the hint. From her breath, Thea had fallen off the wagon at the wrap party and another drink or two wasn’t going to make much
difference at this stage. Besides, she had always had the suspicions that Thea didn’t drink as much as she allowed people to think she did. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Since you ask.’ Dame Theodora settled back more comfortably. ‘I’m on Bourbon at the moment—it was an American company, you know. If you haven’t any, Scotch will do.’

  ‘We have Bourbon.’ Miranda gave her a generous measure. On second thought, she poured one for herself. From the kitchen, she heard the snick of the refrigerator door opening and closing again. Good. It meant Win was fully occupied for a while.

  ‘Thea, do you remember that newspaper story? About Win’s … accident?’

  ‘The one written by that creature who was always skulking around? I remember. At least, she didn’t write any more like that. Just as well she never knew about the orange juice. What did you do, slam a writ on her?’

  ‘Rufus took care of it, I’m not sure how. What I was wondering was … I mean, you’ve known Win for a long time, from the very beginning of his career. Can you think of … anyone … way back then … who might have hated him enough to kill him?’

  ‘Practically everyone he ever worked with. He was a pushy little swine.’ Dame Theodora took a long drink. ‘But that’s the nature of The Profession. Lots of fights, lots of feuds, lots of jockeying for position—and then it’s all over and forgotten and we’re all off on to other jobs. If you’re asking me whether Win ever did anything bad enough to make a mortal enemy who’d come back at him all these years later and try to kill him, the answer has to be no. Not that I know of.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘As sure as one can be. Despite some of the melodramas they write for us, real life isn’t quite like that.’ Dame Theodora regarded her glass contemplatively. ‘If it were, my nephew, Oliver, would be a far better candidate in that respect, but no one’s ever tried to kill him. Damn it!’

  Miranda could only echo any nasty wish about Oliver Crump, but it didn’t seem particularly tactful to do so. A close relative was allowed to make complaints that would be considered intrusive, and perhaps offensive, coming from an outsider.

  ‘He’s very fond of you,’ she offered weakly.

  ‘He knows which side his bread is buttered on,’ Dame Theodora snorted. ‘And spread with jam—as anyone can tell by looking at the size of him.’

  One does feel that he had found his true métier as a restaurant critic,’ Miranda murmured, adding wistfully, ‘I suppose he wouldn’t go back to being one?’

  ‘Not with his sense of self-preservation.’ Dame Theodora stared broodingly into her glass. ‘There are too many chefs with sharpened cleavers waiting for him—and he knows it.’

  ‘That’s it, you see.’ Miranda threw tactfulness to the winds. ‘I can quite understand anyone’s wanting to murder Oliver—but I don’t know why anyone should want to murder Win.’

  ‘Mmm …’ Dame Theodora shot her an oblique glance. ‘From the way you were tiptoeing around it earlier, I thought you had a good idea why one person, at least, might want to murder Win. And I wouldn’t be so sure you’re wrong.’

  ‘You think … Antoinette? Then you do know something!’

  ‘Only that the woman is unstable. Perhaps dangerously so. That’s not to say she’d kill … deliberately. But they were all accidents, weren’t they?’

  ‘Not all of them,’ Miranda said. ‘The acid in the orange juice had to be premeditated. And Peter Farley was bludgeoned almost to death.’

  ‘What?’ Dame Theodora gasped. ‘I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘They’re trying to keep it quiet. He was in Win’s dressing-room when he was attacked from the back—and he was wearing Win’s costume.’

  ‘That’s it, then.’ Dame Theodora sighed deeply. ‘I’ve known leading ladies who were no more stable than Antoinette—but they channelled it into their work and went on to win awards. But—’ she met Miranda’s eyes—‘I’m afraid it’s time they got the butterfly-net over Antoinette.’

  30

  ‘Just because you caught it,’ Tottie said severely, ‘you needn’t think I’m going to let you eat it.’

  Perish the thought! He shuddered delicately. And yet … A strange, not unpleasant fragrance called to him from the tissue-shrouded corpse in Tottie’s hand. His nose twitched and he thrust it nearer …

  ‘No!’ Tottie thrust it away again. ‘It’s probably full of germs and terrible for your digestion. You only think you’re interested. You come with Tottie and I’ll open a nice tin of chicken-and-liver for you. You’ll like that a lot better.’

  Yes. Yes, he would. At least … part of him would; the other part salivated for the forbidden. No! Still battling with Monty’s instincts—really, there were lines that had to be drawn—he followed Tottie along the corridor and forced his body into an indifferent attitude as he watched her throw her parcel into the waste basket.

  ‘Just the same,’ Tottie said thoughtfully. ‘I’d like to know what that woman was doing in Rufus’s office.’

  So would he. He realized with irritation that he’d allowed himself to be sidetracked, to be picked up and carried out of the office as easily as the dead mouse. His tail lashed angrily. Even as a cat, he was being outmanoeuvred by Rufus.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry.’ Again Tottie misunderstood. ‘You’re not having it and that’s final.’ She picked up the A-K of the telephone directory and used it as a makeshift lid for the waste basket. ‘You can just forget about it.’

  He considered tipping the waste basket over and knocking the directory off the top, just to show her, but decided against it. She meant well and he didn’t really want the mouse anyway—No, he didn’t! He was far more interested in what was going on between Jilly and Rufus in the office.

  Casually, he got up and strolled to the door.

  ‘Oh no, not again. You’ve just come in.’

  But not willingly. Pointedly, he looked up at the door and then at Tottie.

  ‘Oh, all right.’ She opened the door and left it open. He’d come back when he felt like it. Meanwhile, she could keep an ear out for any trouble he might run into if he encountered Woody again.

  As he stalked down the corridor, he found that Monty’s senses were on full alert. This was where he had found the mouse—and where there was one mouse, there might be another. A nest of them in the woodwork under the stairs.

  Silently and in slow motion, he glided up to the spot and crouched there, listening for the faintest squeak or rustle. There were more of them around, he knew it.

  Voices from above impinged, distracting him. Tottie must have left the office door ajar and Monty’s preternatural hearing had no difficulty in picking up the conversation.

  ‘… what’s going to happen now,’ Rufus was saying. ‘Win was all set to take over the Chesterton, but I’m afraid it would be too much for him, the condition he’s in—’

  ‘I thought he was recovering!’ Jilly pounced on the admission. ‘You mean, he’s not? He won’t be coming back into the show?’

  ‘The show is one thing, managing a theatre is quite another. A lot more responsibility, decisions …’ Rufus’s voice grew wary. ‘This is all off the record, you understand?’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Jilly said throatily. ‘I wouldn’t dream of using anything that might be detrimental to Win … or to you.’

  Not much. He recognized that tone. The two-faced little cow could hardly wait to get back to her word-processor and start writing the story.

  ‘The thing is this—’ Perhaps Rufus recognized that, too, and felt some sort of incentive was needed to keep Jilly in line. ‘I was hoping to move on to television. Let Win take over the Chesterton and I’d be free to take the proceeds and link up with some friends who are starting a new production company making films for television. We might even get our own Channel in time.’

  ‘Television …’ Jilly breathed. It was the Holy Grail to media types; they all fancied themselves standing in front of the cameras, reading fluently from the teleprompter, smil
ing out at the unseen audience, the centre of attention, influencing public opinion, the new Movers and Shakers. ‘Oh, Rufus, how wonderful!’

  ‘Of course—’ Rufus hinted delicately at the bribe—‘we’ll also be doing magazine-type programmes and we’ll need presenters. People who are photogenic and can think on their feet … young, intelligent, ambitious …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jilly said eagerly. ‘You’re so right. New blood …’

  ‘Someone rather like you, Jilly,’ Rufus said with surprise, as though he had just noticed that she fitted the description he had been outlining. ‘I don’t suppose you’d consider … No, no, of course not. You’re probably all tied up in contracts to your newspaper. Forget I mentioned it. Pity … I really do think you’d be just right for the job …’

  The rat! The clever rat! He began creeping up the stairs, all lesser rodents forgotten. They were both rats. They deserved each other.

  ‘I’d love to work in television,’ Jilly confessed. ‘I’m sure I could come to some arrangement with the Record …’

  ‘Of course, it’s all still in the early stages,’ Rufus said. ‘If word were to get out that there might be some difficulty with the Chesterton deal, my prospective colleagues might look around for another partner.’

  ‘They won’t learn anything from me,’ Jilly assured him. ‘My lips are sealed.’

  ‘Are they?’ Rufus shifted mood. ‘Pity, I’d rather hoped …’

  There were sounds of playful scuffling. There was a squeal and a thud. Jilly began making encouraging noises.

  How well he knew those encouraging noises. Poor Jilly really worked at it with her ageing Lotharios. What a shame that so few young men were in a position to provide her with the jobs and luxuries she desired. A young man would make a nice change for her.

  He paused outside the door and peeked in. How nice, they were down on his level. Jilly was lying on her back, busily removing Rufus’s necktie and unbuttoning his shirt, while Rufus nuzzled away.

  What a shame he had nothing to contribute to the floor show. Perhaps he could leap on Rufus’s back? Perhaps he could walk up and spit in Jilly’s eye? Something at the back of his mind alerted him and spun him around before he was aware of moving.