Murder on Show (4 page)

‘Actually,' he went on, ‘you could probably let it go for two weeks – but we don't like to say so. It might come under extravagant claims and, cats varying, and the new Advertising Act being what it is ...' He trailed off and shrugged.

I nodded gravely. I was in no position to cast the first stone – we never could tell what our own next account might be. ‘And, is this –' I gestured to the rather strange greeny-beige pseudo-soil, about two feet of which was embedding the shrubs and plants – ‘your ... er ... product?'

He knew I hadn't been able to bring myself to say it, but he forgave me. ‘Pussy No-Poo,' he said unemphatically. ‘That's right. That's just what it is.' He gestured to it, too, then seemed to realize that he was still holding his gardening equipment – a small three-pronged claw in one hand, and a trowel in the other. He shrugged apologetically, and dropped them beside a shovel and pitchfork already lying on the turf.

‘They'll be bringing out a similar product for dogs in the near future. We should be able to introduce it in time for Cruft's.'

‘Have they named that one yet?'

‘The jury is still out, but it will probably be something equally nauseating,' he admitted.

‘You say it very well.'

‘Actually, there's a trick to it,' he said. ‘One simply stands in front of a mirror and repeats the words over and over again, until they lose all meaning. It becomes a mere collection of syllables.'

I had been right, what's-his-name, here,
would
bear watching. ‘Are you on duty for the whole Show?'

‘Every bloody day of it. Three entire days telling cat owners all they want to know about our glorious product. And you?'

‘I was thinking of signing on for the night shift right now, as a matter of fact.' I decided it was time to throw him a clue. ‘Perkins & Tate are ever on the job.'

‘Especially Perkins,' he grinned, catching it neatly. ‘At least Rutherland Advertising doesn't demand the last full measure of devotion from its minions,' he reciprocated. ‘So, it's home to a comfy bed for Dave Prendergast.'

‘I was on my way up to the Press Gallery to check the situation. It seems to me I noticed a couch up there the other day.'

‘Right you are. Come and have a drink first.'

It seemed like a good idea. A much better idea than going upstairs and trying to sleep. The more I thought that one over, the more insane it sounded. But I reminded myself of the fees a nice human-interest article about cat-lovers might bring from an American magazine and, by the third drink, it seemed like a good idea again.

We said good night after the barmaid called ‘Time,' and Dave hopped on a bus back to his flat, while I returned to the Exhibition Hall.

I sauntered along, in no hurry, enjoying the evening, and my eye was caught by a slogan scrawled in chalk on the side of the building, ‘CHAMP IS OURS.' I regarded it with mild interest. I could swear that it hadn't been there earlier. As graffiti, I had seen wittier; but there was the ring of genuine protest about it. I wondered if Champ was a colony – like so many, of whose existence I had been unaware – or whether it was the initials of some new Protest Group.

Musing over the possibilities of the initials, I entered the Hall, skirting around the aisles of empty pens the other cats would occupy when the Exhibition got under way.

I found the stairs to the Press Gallery and climbed them quietly. Perhaps, if I had been less lulled by the past pleasant hour in the pub, and the peacefulness of the scene below, I might have been more on guard. But who would have expected that sort of thing amongst a group of respectable animal lovers?

So, I did what I had been brought up never to do, and entered a room without knocking. Fortunately, I didn't snap on the light. Something warned me just in time – perhaps the fresh smell of pipe tobacco in a dark room which should have been empty for hours.

I heard the couch creak and saw the faint glow of a pipe and a cigarette in cosy proximity. It struck me as definitely a moment when discretion was the better part of valour. Certainly, it was no time to stand there in the doorway and blurt out an apology.

I backed out of the room hastily and closed the door behind me, then bolted down the stairs three at a time. I stood at the foot of the stairs, uncertain of my next move. If I walked out into the hall, I would be visible from above, and they would know who had stood in the doorway. The situation was embarrassing enough without that. Perhaps they would prefer to know who it had been, rather than look at every person they met and wonder if that was the one; but I would prefer not to be pinpointed as the intruder.

A muffled growl made me leap nearly out of my skin, until I realized it must be Pyramus, or perhaps Thisbe. I was standing next to their cage, which was beneath the overhanging Press Gallery. There, at least, was a move I could make without being observed from above.

I ducked under the guard rail, circled to the front of the cage, and stared in at them abstractedly. They were both asleep, tumbled together like the more domestic variety of cat. Evidently one had been having a dream which had evoked the growl. He, or she, was twitching spasmodically. They were a pretty, graceful sight – so long as one was on the outside looking in.

‘Aaah.' It was almost another growl. I leaped again, but it was a low voice at my elbow. ‘They are beautiful in slumber, are they not?'

I turned to face two tigerish eyes on a level with my own. ‘I can see that you have a soul.' The eyes bored into mine intensely, and I resisted a nervous impulse to deny everything – especially that I had a soul.

‘It is very important, I feel, for a veterinary surgeon to have a soul.'

‘I suppose it is,' I said, ‘but I happen to be the Public Relations Officer.'

‘Aaah?' Her eyes narrowed and there was a long silence while she assimilated this new information. She stared thoughtfully at her cats, leaving me free to stare at her.

Her jet black hair was a heavy coil at the base of her neck. The dark face, with its slanted tawny eyes, and odd planes, might have belonged to an ancient Aztec or Inca princess. Or, more likely, High Priestess.

There was quite a lot of the jungle about her, as well as about her cats. It was easy to imagine her gliding through a jungle with that silent, feline walk of hers, her colouring blending in with the foliage. In fact, she had. I began remembering newspaper stories from my childhood.

In the drab post-war austerity years, she'd brightened many a front page. A remote revolution, with a fiery Latin beauty rallying the front lines to the charge, seemed a lot more glamorous than the late unpleasantness. There'd been a lot said – both for and against her. But once she'd caught the bullet she'd seemed to be seeking, everything was forgiven her – even by her enemies.

Truce had been declared over her recumbent form and both sides had joined in fighting for her recovery. From a midnight operation in a guerrilla tent, she'd been flown to a private room in the best hospital in the capital city. Both factions met – fairly amicably – while visiting her.

Taking advantage of the fact that she was too weak to put up much resistance, her Old Guard family had arranged a marriage with an older suitor, whose brilliant record in the Diplomatic Corps proved him a man exceptionally gifted at dealing with potentially explosive situations. Since the revolution had petered out by the time she'd recovered, Carlotta had surrendered to the inevitable with a minimum of fireworks. A grateful Government had promptly bestowed several medals upon the intrepid Señor Montera and posted the happy couple to the fleshpots of European Embassies, where the flashpoint of local insurgents was considered beyond Carlotta's range. There had been periodic rumours, however, that she still kept trying.

‘These cats –' she turned to me abruptly – ‘you
believe
in them?'

I hesitated, unsure of what sort of revolution I was being invited to sign on for. ‘Well,' I said tentatively, opting for misunderstanding, ‘they're here, aren't they? I mean, it's not a question of belief or disbelief, they're definitely, corporeally,
here.
' I wondered if I'd be having this conversation if I hadn't spent so long in the pub with Dave.

‘Anyway,' I said, weakening my position still further, ‘I don't have to believe in them. All I have to do is get publicity for them.'

‘Aaah!' She stared at me, as though trying to my suitability as a pawn in whatever plot she was presently hatching. ‘Then, for you, the golden cat is the best.'

For someone so hung about with gold and jewels, she sounded pretty contemptuous about the precious metal. Her engraved necklet alone must have had a high intrinsic value and, I suspected, considerable value as an antiquity, as well. But that faint contempt wasn't surprising, really, considering the conditions of her native country. Although dictators and their supporters are often accused of using their wives as display cases for their wealth, the ladies are actually travelling bank vaults. The Monteras could have lived quite comfortably from the sale of Carlotta's jewels if revolution had cut off the revenue from the family holdings. A lady doesn't get sentimental about jewellery in those circumstances.

‘The gold cat is just a gimmick,' I said. ‘I don't think much of it. The living cats
are
the Show. They're what the Public will come to see. Any one of them is worth more than the gold cat.' I spoke with conviction, realizing I meant it, although I hadn't consciously considered the issue at all.

‘You are right!' She sounded almost surprised about it. ‘All living cats are greatly important. But
my
cats are even more
importante
than these others – they have intelligence, personality, fire!'

I was prepared to believe the last one. I nodded. Which was foolish of me, it encouraged her.

‘Come.' She took my hand and drew me nearer the cage. ‘Come and make friends with them. We will go inside and I will introduce you.'

‘No, thanks,' I said. ‘Perhaps some other time.' She wasn't getting me into that cage while I was still alive and kicking. Although her book had insisted, in the teeth (and claws) of all the evidence, that the orphaned cubs she had rescued from an unfeeling English Zoo were as tame as kittens, I didn't believe it. There were too many photographs of loyal Latin servants, wearing strained smiles and bandages, to add real credence to her claim.

‘You are afraid!' she challenged.

‘Terrified,' I agreed, leaving the gauntlet where she had flung it.

She didn't like that. In her native country, men had plunged impetuously to their deaths for her, rather than admit to a healthy normal nervousness. Certainly, if they were forced into the admission, they weren't cheerful about it. She resorted to the goad.

‘You are a coward!'

‘Craven.' I tried an old joke. ‘In fact, it's my religion. I'm a devout coward.'

I might have known she wouldn't smile. These things weren't to be joked about in jolly old Latin wherever-it-was. Once you lived South enough of the Border, you packed your sense of humour away in mothballs, and took out the duelling pistols.

She smouldered at me, baffled. She never had learned to ignite the damp squib of Anglo-Saxon temperament. It was stalemate, and neither of us could quite be the first to break away, although she obviously wanted nothing more to do with me. And it was mutual. I now had every sympathy for her native country. Although, libel laws being what they were, a word like ‘exile' had never been mentioned in connection with the Monteras, I quite saw why they'd never been stationed in any Latin countries, nor invited home for many visits.

‘Doug.' Someone had come up behind us. I whirled around and was relieved to discover Kellington Dasczo.

‘Kellington!' I greeted him with a warmth he was not accustomed to. ‘I didn't realize you were still up.'

‘It's not even midnight,' he said defensively. ‘I'm not used to such early hours. I began to think I was the only person left awake – left alive – in the entire world.'

‘At least, in the Cat World,' I said. ‘I thought cats were nocturnal animals. I never expected to find them going to bed with the chickens.'

‘Left to themselves, they're fairly nocturnal,' he said. ‘These are pampered pets, corrupted specimens. Tame as their owners – and as dull. Pearlie King can't sleep, either,' he added.

‘Nor can I,' Carlotta said. ‘I shall return to my apartment. There is still much to be done this night.' Her brooding eyes swept from the tigers to us and back again. ‘Much.'

The night was young, and there was still time for a bit of rifle practice before dawn, I presumed.

‘Don't let us keep you,' Kellington said.

‘Do not stay here longer,' she commanded us. ‘I will not have my cats disturbed. They must be fresh for the photographers in the morning. '

Lucky photographers. We nodded and watched her stalk down the aisle, back to her own lair. She was having no nonsense about moving into a strange hotel room in order to keep watch over
her
cats, and I saw her point. No one in their right mind would ever try to nobble, or make off with, one of them.

‘There probably isn't a word of truth –' Kellington turned to me – ‘in the rumour that she feeds her
ex-lovers
to them.'

‘I wouldn't like to bet on it,' I said.

‘Like calls to like.' He surveyed Pyramus and Thisbe moodily. ‘No wonder she chose a couple of man-eaters for her pets.'

I had been thinking something of the sort myself, but was getting too tired to sit down and have the kind of gossip Kellington regarded as analysing a situation critically.

‘I'd thought I might stay the night,' I said, ‘but the hotel is booked out and even the Press Gallery appears to be occupied. Perhaps I ought to be getting along ...'