Cat on a Cold Tin Roof (26 page)

“That's a good story,” acknowledged Perin.

“It's the truth.”

“No, it's not,” said Perin. “You rang the doorbell or knocked on the door, Pepperidge let you in, you went up to his bedroom and asked for a loan, he probably said not until you paid back the last one, he'd been checking the storm and the stars when you arrived, and he went out to take another look. And that's when you shot him.”

“No!” shouted Delahunt. “I took the cat, yes—but I didn't shoot anyone.”

“Yes, you did,” said Perin. “Three shots, right between the shoulder blades.”

“No!”

“Yes,” persisted Perin. “Three quick shots, and it was all over, and given the weather no one had any windows open, so no one could hear either shot.”

“That's a lie!” yelled Delahunt as Grange tried to calm him down.

“Come on, Mr. Delahunt,” said Perin. “We've got all three bullets. Sooner or later we're going to find your gun, and ballistics is going to match them to it.”

“But I only shot him twice!” cried Delahunt, then realized what he'd said and buried his face in his hands.

Simmons turned to where he knew I was watching and gave me a thumbs-up.

Twenty minutes later we were back in his office.

“I told you Wayne was our best,” said Simmons happily.

“Tyler Grange is going to say you tricked it out of him.”

“We did,” answered Simmons. “But it's on record, and it's the truth. Besides, you know our Tyler. Guilty doesn't bother him, but broke and guilty does. I think he'll find some reason to drop the case any hour now.” He smiled. “This will be one time I'll be happy to treat you to dinner at the Precinct.”

“I'm glad we nailed him, and I'm glad it's over,” I said. “I haven't made a penny since Velma gave me that retainer to find the cat. It's time I got back to being a detective.” I paused, then added: “Well, a paid one.”

“Whatever became of the damned cat?”

“Don't ask,” I said.

30.

I stopped at the Covington morgue and made arrangements to ship Sorrentino's body home to Chicago. One phone call to his boss, and everything was paid for. I stopped by my office for the first time in a week, picked up the mail—mostly ads, a few bills, nothing else—and while I was there I called the insurance company. Simmons had already confirmed my claim before I made it, and a fee for four diamonds was earmarked for Sorrentino's daughters.

Then I drove home, parked the car, and entered the apartment building. Mrs. Cominsky was waiting for me.

“I'm afraid to go out on the street,” she said.

“I don't blame you,” I replied. “Stick to the sidewalks.”

“Damn it, you know what I mean. There are all these sex-mad creatures out there.” She paused for emphasis. “Of both sexes.”

“The mail has to be slowing down,” I said. “I mean, it's been about a week.”

She frowned. “Yes, it has.”

“That should make you happy.”

“You know what I think?” she said.

“Probably not,” I answered. “What
do
you think?”

“I think we should take out another ad.”

“Too late,” I said. “The case is closed.”

She shook her head. “I don't care about that case. There are so many perverts out there! We should make something up and ask for replies, and then, when we've received the worst of them, turn 'em over to the vice squad.”

“You don't need me for that,” I told her. “Just take out the ad, collect your perverts, and contact the cops.”

“Well, maybe not right away.”

“You don't want to take out the ad right away?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Oh, I'll take it out this week. I mean that I might not turn over the worst letters right away. I might give them innocent replies and see if they write again. Then we know we've got 'em.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, edging toward my apartment door. “And you might think of getting a post office box so no one knows your address.”

“I'm way ahead of you,” she said proudly. “I got one this morning.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wonder why no one else ever thought of this?”

“There just aren't that many original thinkers around,” I answered, and made it to my door. I slid the key in the lock and was inside before she could tell me anything more about her correspondents.

Marlowe was lying on one of the couch cushions. Sam was on the other. Each opened one eye, said,
Oh, it's you
and went back to sleep.

I stared at them for a moment. A week ago I thought I might be turning in ten million dollars' worth of diamonds for the reward. At the very least I thought I'd have enough to buy the Ford a new transmission. I'd been lied to, I'd been shot at, and all I had to show for it was a nondescript cat that was too bored by my homecoming to open both eyes.

I figured I might as well take Marlowe out for a walk before it got too much colder and barely made it outside before Mrs. Cominsky could tell me all about the perverts she was going to nail with her brilliant scheme.

As we walked, I wondered how Delahunt felt. Trapped, of course, and surely facing life, at the very least. But I wonder if he felt cheated, not that he'd been caught, but that he'd bought Palanto's lie about ten million, that he'd killed him for diamonds that were worth a million.

Then I remembered that it wasn't Delahunt who thought there was ten million on that collar. It was Sorrentino, and since he'd gone there just to make sure that his mob and its former financial advisor were still friends, why the hell would he lie?

Well, he wouldn't, of course. But how the hell could he be so wrong about what they were worth? I had the damned collar at home in a drawer. I could see that there was only room for ten diamonds on it. Mela hadn't lied, and Mela and Monroe had both agreed on the value.

I shrugged. It was something I'd never know the answer to. The only answer that mattered was that I didn't get a penny for finding the diamonds. At least Sorrentino's kids would benefit, maybe get into a nice college, maybe someday forget what their father did for a living.

Marlowe got cold and started dragging me back to the apartment. When we got there, I'd swear Sam hadn't moved a muscle. I checked the kitchen. She'd eaten half the sardines, so I left them out in case she was inclined to grab a late-night snack. I noticed that she'd used the litter box too. I'd have cleaned it out, but I didn't know where to dump it, so I decided to wait a day or two while I considered the problem.

It was Cary Grant night on TCM, and I forced my way between Marlowe and Sam, and half-watched and half-snoozed through
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
and
The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer
. Marlowe started growling when
Father Goose
came on, which was either a critical response or just a serious distaste for color on the TV. AMC had something in color, too, so I turned the set off, walked him one last time, and went to bed.

In the morning I had to get out from under a pile of animals. I shaved, decided it was past time to shower, put on some clean clothes to prove to myself that I was ready to be a paid detective again, and put a leash on Marlowe.

It was a chilly morning. We walked briskly to Mrs. Garabaldi's, watered the grave of her dead petunias (which would bloom again in spring, provided he didn't drown them), and made it home just as a light snow began falling.

When I got to my door I ran into Mrs. Cominsky, who was on her way down for the mail. She was at least an hour early, but I imagined her just standing there eagerly awaiting the next pile of letters from the mailman—and as I unlocked and opened my door, Sam darted out into the hallway. I grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, tossed her back inside, and slammed the door.

“A cat?” said Mrs. Cominsky furiously. “You've got a cat now?”

“Temporarily,” I said. Then: “This is the one our ruse was about.”

“She's part of our case?” she replied, her face brightening. “That's okay then.” She paused thoughtfully. “You know, you really ought to get her a license. One of these days she could sneak out past you, and there goes our case—poof! Up the river.”

“She's already got a license,” I said. “I'll put it on her when I get inside.”

“Good idea,” she said.

Marlowe looked up at Mrs. Cominsky, barked once, and wagged his tail.

“Ugly little brute,” she said, and continued down to the mailboxes.

I went inside, took Marlowe's leash off, made the bed for the first time all week, and went over to the drawer where I'd put Sam's collar.

I pulled it out, looked at the tag, and frowned. If she actually did sneak out, anyone who found her would check the number on the collar with the animal warden or SPCA or whoever the hell gave out cat licenses, and return her to Velma, which was a fate no cat or person should have to undergo.

I pulled down the phone book. I couldn't find animal wardens listed, but there was a big boxed listing for the SPCA.

“Yes?” said a woman's voice at the other end.

“Hello,” I said. “I've just been given a cat as a present.”

“How very nice for you both,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said. “Anyway, I would never want to do anything that wasn't in accordance with the law, so I want to know how much a cat license costs and where I can pick one up.”

And thirty seconds later I shocked the dear woman by yelling, “
Shit!
” as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

31.

I walked into Jim Simmons's office and sat down across his desk from him.

“Whatever you did,” he said, “you look pretty damned proud of yourself.”

“I think I've solved it, but I need verification.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Eli?”

“The missing money in the Palanto case,” I said.

“What missing money?” he shot back with a puzzled expression. “We've got four of the diamonds, and we're tracing the other six.”

“Peanuts,” I said.

“I'll say it again,” replied Simmons. “What are you talking about?”

“Val Sorrentino was here to make sure that Palanto was loyal to his former employers, that he wasn't going to testify against them in their upcoming trial in Chicago.”

“I know.”

“He paid a visit to Palanto, and Palanto gave him the assurances he wanted.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Palanto left Chicago with a clean sheet and the mob's blessing. He made them rich and never stole a penny from them. He came here, changed his name, and lived like a retired millionaire. But he
wasn't
retired. He did some work for the Bolivian cartel.”

“I know all this.”

“And he skimmed ten million from them. That's what he told Sorrentino.”

“Eli, we've searched every account, every safe deposit box, every mutual fund, everything he had. There's a million dollars in diamonds, but he bought them legitimately. There just isn't any missing ten million.”

I grinned at him.

“What the hell do you think you know?”

“Velma knew he had ten million too,” I said. “She just didn't know where it was.” I paused. “Neither did I.” I gave him another grin. “Until today.”

“I hope to hell you're enjoying this,” he said irritably.

“I am,” I said.

“So where is it?”

“I've been sitting on it for three days.”

“I'm tired of asking,” said Simmons.

“Okay,” I said. “Mela gave me the cat's collar, with all the diamonds missing. Nothing on it but the license. Velma gave me the cat. Damned near threw it at me. So I took it home until I could figure out what to do with it.”

“Okay, so you've got a cat.”

“This morning it tried to sneak out of the apartment, and my landlady suggested that I get a license for it in case it ever makes it past the front door. I already
had
a license on its collar, but I figured if someone found it they'd check the license and return it to Velma, who would probably cook it for supper. So I called the SPCA to find out where to get a new license for it.”

I paused and gave him one last grin.

“Okay,” said Simmons. “What's the punch line?”

“Jim, Ohio doesn't issue license tags for cats, just for dogs!”

He stared at me. “You're sure about this?”

“I just got it from the SPCA, and then I double-checked with the animal shelter where I found the cat.” I pulled the collar out of my pocket and tossed it on his desk. “I don't know what the hell the numbers on the plate mean, but I'll bet you dollars to donuts they lead to ten million bucks!”

“Jesus!” he said, picking it up and staring at the tag.

“Mean anything to you?”

He read it aloud. “39ZK30126. Nope, makes no sense to me. But
someone
in the building will know.”

And an hour later, Deborah Oakes of the Bank Fraud Division
did
know.

“Very clever,” she said, when she invited us to her office. “The 39 identifies the account holder as an American, the ZK stands for Zürcher Kantonalbank, one of Switzerland's largest banks, and the 30126 is his account number.”

“What has he got in the account?” I asked.

She turned to Simmons questioningly, and he nodded his approval.

“As of this morning,” she replied, “he has nine million, six hundred, and forty-three thousand, two hundred, and eleven dollars and nine cents. That's based on today's exchange rates, of course.”

“Son of a bitch!” I said. “I
knew
that had to be it!”

“Thank you, Deborah,” said Simmons. He took the collar and tag back from her, and then he and I returned to his office.

“The press is going to call you brilliant, Eli,” he said. “We won't tell them it was dumb luck and a wandering cat.”