"Someone richer," I guessed.
"What? I'm supposed to apologise for having self-worth?" She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "This country, really! The only time you see
ambition
is on a Scrabble board."
Simply walking out on Lim was, apparently, not an option. "The man is possessive. A fat old milksop of a cat finder like you, no offence intended, Charlie, could not even begin to visualise what I mean when I say that he is possessive."
"Slightly lumpy," I said. "Not fat." I might have objected to milk-sop, too, but I wasn't a hundred percent sure what it meant, and I didn't want to make a fool of myself by objecting to a compliment.
"I knew I had to shake Lim off good and proper, but I couldn't think of a way. Then I saw your stupid advert on a postcard in a launderette window."
"Can you remember which launderette? It'd be a great help for my marketing strategy."
"I convinced Lim that we shouldn't move the cat to the new flat yet, in case we were seen. And then I hired you. You thought I was crazy, didn't you? See, that's what I wanted you to think— I didn't want you taking the job too seriously."
"Yes, Marie," I said. "You give great crazy."
Her entire plan might have served as evidence of her craziness— except that it worked. She assumed that I would stake out the new flat, since it was the only address I had. She assumed this because she assumed that I was cheap, lazy, dishonest, unimaginative, and slightly lumpy, and not a proper detective. That annoyed me: I have never
claimed
to be a proper detective.
Due to my incompetence, Lim would be sure to spot me (he was over there several times a week, making sure the love nest didn't fall to squatters) and assume that I was either a cop or a private eye. Why would he assume that?
She laughed out a cough of smoke. "Let's just say that dear Lim has had his ups and downs in life. He might look like Mr. Clean—"
"He doesn't," I said.
"Well, even if he did, it would be an inaccurate image. Believe me, I know this: If he sees a cop, real or imaginary, he runs." She looked me up and down, ran her tongue over her big teeth awhile, and laughed again. "Bet he's the first person ever to run from a cat finder, though."
"From what you say, isn't he the type to come looking for you, when he thinks it's safe to return?"
"Probably. But I'd be gone."
I sat for a moment, thinking it through. "And the reason you gave me the address of the new flat, instead of this place, was you didn't want to risk me actually finding the cat. You were still planning to go ahead with the ransom, minus the inconvenience of your ex-partner."
"Well— right," she said, and I could see from her amused eyes that there was something else there, some game yet unfinished. She saw that I knew and spoke quickly to cover the moment. "I hadn't counted on you tailing me. For God's sake, you're lousy at banter, I made sure of that, and I assumed you'd be lousy at all the other detective skills, too. I mean, finding cats— how hard can that be?"
Bloody cheek! "I'd like to see you do it," I said.
"Oh, please! I went to school— finding cats, that's a career for someone who was raised by chimps."
I was still wondering what it was that she wasn't telling me. "You don't look all that happy, Marie. Seeing as you're free of Lim, which was the whole point."
She sighed. "Yeah, I got rid of Lim, all right. But the other guy…"
"Ah," I said. "He went back to his wife."
"Still," said Marie, suddenly all business, "you are right— you did what I hired you to do, even if it wasn't quite how I planned, and even if you didn't know you were doing it. So I owe you for your time. My money's in the car. I'll just go get it. Okay?"
She stood up, but she couldn't easily get to the door without me moving my outstretched legs. Our eyes met, and I found myself thinking,
Well, we all make mistakes
, so I decided to make one of my own.
"Sure," I said, folding my legs up. "You go and get the money. I'll wait here."
Marie nodded, smiled a little bit, and slipped away. She drove off quietly— almost like a mark of respect.
* * *
I'm no vet, but Venus Arisen didn't seem to have suffered much from his imprisonment. His white fur was white, his eyes were bright, his yowling was louder than a chain saw, and he gave me a few decent scratches as I bundled him into a carrying case.
I leant against the car, with the cat box in one hand and my mobile phone in the other, and dialled the number from Venus's identity collar. Venus carried on yowling.
"
Whitey?
Whitey— is that you?"
An elderly woman, with a posh voice, threadbare clothes, and milky eyes came tottering out of the bungalow next to Marie's. She looked in my direction but didn't seem to see me, so I walked towards her.
"You've found my cat! Oh, God bless you, you've brought my Whitey back! Please— can you bring him in? My phone's ringing."
I switched off the mobile.
"Oh," said the old woman as she reached her front door. "It seems to have stopped."
I put the mobile in my pocket, thinking:
Whitey?
I followed the woman into her house, thinking:
Next door
. They stole the cat from their next-door neighbour. That was the bit Marie hadn't told me. That was her final game. That and the damn stupid name.
I closed the door behind me, put the cat box down, and opened it. Whitey disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
His owner started asking me who I was, and how, and why, and where, so I gave her one of my cards. She stared at it for a while and then said, "What does it say, young man? I'm afraid my eyes… cataracts, you know."
For a brief mad moment, it struck me that I could tell her anything I liked. "The bearer of this card is the Prince of Wales. Please give him all your silver and a large chocolate cake."
Instead, I said, "My name's Charlie. I find lost cats."
"Charlie? Charlie WFYC? But I was going to call you! I was, my niece saw your advertisement in a newsagent's window. She wrote down the number for me, but—"
"But your eyes," I guessed. "Cataracts."
"I
didn't
hire you, did I?" she said, squinting up at me.
"No," I sighed.
"Oh dear. I can't very well pay you for bringing him back then, can I? If you weren't working for me."
"No," I sighed.
"Still, it wouldn't be right to let you go empty-handed. Wait there, please, young man."
A tip, I thought. Well, that went with the posh voice— paying tips instead of wages.
She scuttled off to the kitchen and came back a minute or so later carrying a jar of homemade gooseberry jam. I knew it was homemade, and gooseberry, because it said so on the label. "Homemade Gooseberry Jam, 1991." The cellophane cover had come loose and there was grey mould around the edge of the jar.
"There," she said, pressing it into my hands reverently. "Fair exchange is no robbery, isn't that right?"
"No," I sighed. "Or yes. Or whatever." I saw myself out.
On a lamppost next to my car there hung a rubbish bin. I put the jam into it and got into my car. As I fiddled with my seat belt, I saw in my wing mirror a flash of white fur scooting across the road and up and over a tall fence. Through the open driver's window, I heard a posh voice calling, "Oh no, he's got out again! Oh please, young man, I say— I say, don't go! Young man, could you possibly…"
I decided I had cataracts of the ears, closed the window, and drove home.
It was all rather sad, really, because I like jam, and I like money, and on this job I'd got no money— twice— and the only jam I'd been offered was inedible.
Life versus Charlie: three-nil to Life. I demand a rematch.
Jan Burke
The Man in the Civil Suit
JAN BURKE'S
Irene Kelly novels are among the most critically and commercially blessed of our time. And with each book, their audience grows. There's a breathless, thrillerlike pace to Jan's books that make most mysteries seem sluggish by comparison— a quality that makes them perfect for today's thrill-seeking book buyers. Not that Jan isn't a wily observer of this particular historical moment. Each of her novels is filled with crackling observations about our little particular spin through the galaxy. "The Man in the Civil Suit," first published in
Malice Domestic 9
, shows her up to her usual high standards.
The Man in the Civil Suit
Jan Burke
I
have a bone to pick with the Museum of Natural History. Yes, the very museum in which the peerless Professor Pythagoras Peabody so recently met his sad, if rather spectacular, demise. I understand they are still working on restoring the mastodon. But my grievance does not pertain to prehistoric pachyderms.
If the administrators of said museum are quoted accurately in the newspapers, they have behaved in a rather unseemly manner in regard to the late Peabody. How speedily they pointed out that he was on the premises in violation of a restraining order! How hastily they added that he had similar orders placed upon him by a number of institutions, including the art museum, the zoo, and Ye Olde Medieval Restaurant & Go-Cart Track! When asked if he was the man named in the civil suit they filed three days ago, how rapidly the administrators proclaimed that Professor Peabody was no professor at all!
Oh, how quickly they forget! They behave as if the Case of the Carillean Carbuncle never occurred. A balanced account of recent events must be given, and as one who knew the man in the civil suit better than any other— save, perhaps, his sister Persephone— I have taken on the burden of seeing justice done where Pythagoras Peabody is concerned.
Although Pythag, as his closest friends— well, as I called him, because frankly, few others could tolerate his particular style of genius at close range— although Pythag never taught at a university or other institution, it is widely known that the affectionate name "Professor Peabody" was bestowed upon him by a grateful police force at the close of the Case of the Carillean Carbuncle, or as Pythag liked to call it, 300. (Some of you may need assistance understanding why— I certainly did. Pythag explained that the first letters of Case, Carillean, and Carbuncle are
C
s. Three
C
s, taken together, form a Roman numeral. I'm certain I need not hint you on from there, but I will say this was typical of his cleverness.
Need I remind the museum administrators of the details of 300? This most unusual garnet was on display in their own Gems and Mineralogy Department when it was stolen by a heartless villain. True, the museum guards were in pursuit long before the ten-year-old boy left the grounds, and after several hours of chasing him through the halls, exhibits, and displays— including a dinosaur diorama, the planetarium, and the newly opened "Arctic and Antarctica: Poles Apart" exhibit— while conducting what amounted to an elaborate game of hide-and-seek, they caught their thief.
Unfortunately, the Carillean Carbuncle was no longer on his person, and he refused to give any clue as to its location. This was, apparently, a way of continuing the jollification he had enjoyed with these fellows. Not amused, the museum called the police. The boy called in his own reinforcements, and his parents, in the time-honored tradition of raisers of rogues, defended their son unequivocally and threatened all sorts of nastiness if he were not released immediately. The boy went home, and the Carillean Carbuncle remained missing.
Enter Peabody. Actually, he had already entered. It was Pythag's habit to be the first guest to walk through the museum doors in the morning, and the last to leave at closing. He made himself at home in the Natural History Museum, just as he once had in the art museum, and in the zoo. (The trouble at Ye Olde Medieval Restaurant & Go-Cart Track occurred before we were acquainted, but Pythag once hinted that it had something to do with giving the waiters' lances to the young drivers and encouraging them to "joust.")
I have said I will give a fair accounting, and I will. Pythag was a man who knew no boundaries. His was a genius, he often reminded me, that could not be confined to the paths that others were pleased to follow. I know some stiff-rumped bureaucrats will not agree, but if he were here to defend himself, Pythag would undoubtedly say, "If you don't want a gentleman born with an enviable amount of curiosity to climb into an elephants' compound, for goodness sakes, rely on more than a waist-high fence and a silly excuse for a moat to keep him out."
Likewise, he would tell you that if your art museum docent becomes rattled when a gentleman with a carrying voice follows along with a second group of unsuspecting art lovers, telling them a thing or two the docent failed to mention to his own group, well then, the docent stands in need of better training. Pythag enjoyed himself immensely on these "tour" occasions, tapping on glass cases and reading aloud from wall plaques to begin his speeches.
