"Cat in the Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Murphy Shirley Rousseau)
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CROUCHING close together beneath a red convertible, the cats licked their whiskers at the delicious smells from Pander's, the aroma of roast lamb and wine-basted venison and, Dulcie thought, scallops simmered in a light sherry. But the elegant scents were the only hints of Pander's delights, for the building itself was not inviting. From the street it looked as stark as a slum-district police precinct.
The brick face of the plain, two-story structure rose directly from the sidewalk with no architectural grace, not even a window through which to glimpse the restaurant's elegantly clad diners. The closed door was painfully austere, with no potted tree or flower or vine beside it, in the usual Molena Point style, to break the severity. Only the expensive cars parked at the curb and the delicious aromas wafting out hinted at the pleasures of Pander's as the cats waited for Dora and Ralph Sleuder to appear.
Despite the gourmet allure, Joe would just as soon be home catching a nap as spying in that rarified environ, dodging the sharp eyes and hard shoes of unsympathetic waiters.
"What if we can't get in?" Dulcie said softly, studying the blank, closed facade.
"Should have phoned for a reservation. We'd like two cushions laid on a corner table, my good man. We'll have the venison-you can dispense with the silverware."
She just looked at him.
"We'll go over the roof," he said more gently. "Drop down onto the terrace." The second-floor dining terrace, at the back, boasted no outer access, only the stairs from within the main dining room.
"But, Joe, the minute we look over the edge of the roof and the terrace lights hit us, we're like ducks in a shooting gallery."
"Who's going to look up at the roof? They'll all be busy with their menus and drinks and impressing each other." He looked hard at her. "I still say it's a setup. I don't trust anything that lying alley cat tells us."
"He looked really worried. I think he truly wanted our help. Maybe his prediction of murder isn't all imagination, maybe Greeley is in danger, and we can find out why."
Joe shrugged. "Maybe Jergen found out that Greeley's stealing. Maybe he's going to hit Dora for blackmail-she forks over or he turns in her father."
"That sounds flimsy. How would he even know Greeley? For that matter, how does he know Dora and Ralph?" Her green eyes narrowed. "Why this dinner so soon after Dora and Ralph copied Mavity's financial statements?"
"As to that, what about Pearl Ann snooping into Jergen's computer? Is there some connection? And," he said, "need I point out again that there's been no crime committed? That this is all simply conjecture?"
She gave him that don't-be-stupid look, her eyes round and dark. "When people start prying into other people's business, copying their personal papers, accessing their computer files, either a crime's been committed or one's about to be.
The Sleuders had not yet made an appearance when Pander's door opened, a middle-aged couple came out, and the cats glimpsed, within, a tuxedoed maitre d' of such rigid stance that one had to assume, should he discover a trespassing cat, he would snatch it up by its tail and call the dog-catcher. They had been waiting for some time when they realized they were not the only observers lingering near Pander's closed door.
Across the street a man stood in the shadowed recess between two buildings, a thin, stooped man, pale and very still, watching Pander's: the Sleuders' mysterious friend and courier. The man who loitered, in the evenings, outside Clyde's apartment building.
"He gives me the shivers," Dulcie whispered. The cats watched him for a moment then slipped away beneath the line of cars and around the corner to the back alley.
They hoped to find the kitchen door propped open, a common practice among Molena Point restaurants during the summer to release the accumulated heat of the day and to let out the warm breath of the cookstove.
But the rear door was securely shut, the entire building sealed tighter than Max Harper's jail.
"Spotlights or not," Joe said, "let's hit the roof." And he took off for the end of the building, swarming up a bougainvillea vine through clusters of brick red flowers. With Dulcie close behind him, they padded across Pander's low, tarred roof toward the blinding light that flowed up from the terrace. Soft voices rose, too, and laughter, accompanied by the tinkling of crystal.
Crouching at the edge, their paws in the roof gutter and their eyes slitted against the glare, they peered down onto two rows of snowy-clothed tables and the heads of sleekly coiffed women in low-cut gowns and neatly tailored gentlemen; the tables were set with fine china and heavy silver, and the enticing aromas engulfed the cats in a cloud of gourmet nirvana. Only with effort did they resist the urge to drop onto the nearest table and grab a few bites, then run like hell.
But they hadn't come here to play, to create chaos in Pander's elegant retreat, as amusing as that might be.
Along the terrace wall, dark-leafed, potted trees stood judiciously placed to offer the diners a hint of privacy between their tables. The cats did not see Dora and Ralph. But a serving cart stood directly below them, and in a flash of tabby and gray they dropped down onto it then onto the terrace, slipping beneath the cart, finding their privacy in the shadows between its wheels.
From this shelter, their view down the veranda was a forest of table and chair legs, slim ankles, pant cuffs, and gleaming oxfords. A waiter passed, inches from their noses, his hard black shoes creaking on the tiles. To their right, a pair of glass doors opened to the interior dining room. They knew from their housemates' descriptions that Pander's had four dining rooms, all richly appointed with fine antique furniture and crystal chandeliers, and the tables set with porcelain and sterling and rock crystal. Both Wilma and Clyde favored Pander's for special occasions, for a birthday or for the anniversary of Wilma's retirement. The staff was quiet and well-trained, none of the
When Wilma did dine at Pander's, she would bring home to Dulcie some small and delectable morsel saved from her plate, wrapped by her waiter in gold foil and tucked into a little gold carton printed with Panders' logo. Once she had brought a small portion of beef Wellington, another time a little serving of pheasant stuffed with quail. She had served these to Dulcie on the good china, too, making of the occasion a delightful party. Pander's was one of the human institutions about which Dulcie liked to weave daydreams, harmless little fantasies in which she was a human person dressed in silk and diamonds and perhaps a faux-leopard scarf, little imaginary dramas that delighted her and hurt no one.
But now she began to worry. "What if they didn't get a terrace table? If they're not here when the courthouse clock chimes eight, we'll have to try the dining rooms, slip along under the dessert cart when they wheel it in that direction."
"I'm not going through that routine again. Creeping around on our bellies between squeaking wheels. I had enough of that in the nursing home."
"At least you didn't have to worry about your tail getting under the wheels." She cut him an amused glance. "A docked tail does have its upside.
"And," she said, "your short tail makes you look incredibly handsome-even more macho. The drunk who stepped on your tail and broke it-he didn't know he was doing you such a big favor."
The terrace was filling up, several parties had entered; only two tables remained empty, and no sign of the Sleuders. The cats were crouched to make a dash for the inner door when they saw Dora and Ralph coming through.
"There they…" She stopped, staring.
Joe did a double take.
The Sleuders' host was not Winthrop Jergen.
Dora and Ralph's dinner companion, gently ushering them in behind the maitre d', was Bernine Sage, her red hair wound high with bands of gold, her orange-and-pink flowered suit summery and cool-making Dora and Ralph look so shabby that Dulcie felt embarrassed for them.
Dora had chosen a black dress, possibly to make herself appear thinner, but the black was rusty and faded, as if she had owned the dress for a very long time, and her black stockings were of the extra-support, elasticized variety. Ralph was dressed in a gray pinstripe suit with amazingly wide lapels, a shirt that should have been put through a tub of bleach, and a broad necktie with black-and-white dominoes printed across it. His socks were pale blue.
As the three were seated, the cats flashed across open space and beneath the table nearest to their cart. Slipping behind a potted tree to the next table, winding between silk-clad ankles and satin pumps and polished Bailey loafers, they were careful to avoid physical contact with the clientele, not to brush against someone's ankle and elicit startled screams and have waiters on them as thick as summer fleas.
Moving warily, their progress alternating between swift blurs and slinky paw-work, they gained the end of the terrace and slipped under the Sleuders' table, crouching beside Bernine's pink high heels and nude stockings, Dulcie tucking her tail under so not to tickle those slim ankles.
Dora's black shoes were a size too small. Her skin pooched over and her thick stockings wrinkled. Ralph was wearing, over his baby blue socks, black penny loafers with dimes in the slots. The threesome was seated so that the Sleuders could enjoy the view out over the village rooftops. Bernine's vantage commanded the terrace tables and their occupants; she could watch the room while seeming to give the preferred seating to her guests. Their conversation was hesitant, almost shy. Above the cats, a menu rattled. Dora shifted in her chair, rearranging her feet so Joe had to back away. She asked Bernine about Molena Point's weather in the winter, and Ralph inquired about the offshore fishing. The cats were starting to doze when a waiter came to take the drink orders. Dora ordered something called a white moose, Ralph liked his Jack Daniel's straight with no chaser, and Bernine favored a Perrier.
When the waiter had gone, Bernine said, "How is Mavity feeling-is she all right? She's working so hard. I worry about her. House cleaning is terribly heavy work for a woman of her years."
Dora's voice bristled. "Mavity has always worked hard."
"I know Charlie is short-handed," Bernine confided, "but Mavity isn't so young anymore."
"Hard work is the way she and Daddy grew up; they thrive on it. Both of them worked in the family grocery since they were in grammar school. It was right there on Valley Road when this part of Molena Point was mostly little farms," Dora told her. "Mavity and Daddy wouldn't know what to do without hard work. Daddy was the same on the farm, always working."
"Well, I suppose she does want the work just now, since she's investing every penny. She's so excited about increasing her savings."
There was a pause as their drinks arrived, the waiter's hard black shoes moving around the table, the sound of ice tinkling, the sharp scent of alcohol tickling the cats' noses. "But I do wonder," Bernine said, "about these investments of hers. Mavity is thrilled with the money, but this Winthrop Jergen…" Another long pause. Dora began to wiggle her left toe. Ralph's feet became very still. Bernine said tentatively, "I wonder sometimes if Mr. Jergen is-quite to be trusted."
No one responded. Under the table, Ralph tapped his foot softly. Dora shifted position, pressed one foot tightly against the other.
Bernine said, "The kind of money Mavity's making seems- well, nearly too good to be true.
"Though I don't see how Mr. Jergen could cheat her," she hastened. "After all, she must get a regular monthly statement. And she told me herself, she drew two hundred dollars from her profits just last week to do a few things to the house, buy some new dishes."
Dora made a strange little sound. "Oh, the dishes are lovely. Real Franciscan pottery, just like Mama had. Well, she didn't have to do that, just because we were coming. Didn't have to do anything for us."
"She wanted to," Bernine said. "And I guess she can afford it, all right. I'd love to invest with Mr. Jergen, but I-I don't know. Investments make me so nervous."
"Investing with that Je…" Ralph began. Under the table, Dora kicked him.
"Still," Bernine went on smoothly, "if Mavity can make that kind of money… Well, maybe I
Ralph cleared his throat. "I-I wouldn't do that." Dora kicked him again, barely missing Joe, and the cats backed away against the terrace wall. There was another pause, as if Bernine might have looked at Ralph with surprise.
"Do-do you have any-special reluctance?" she asked. "I know so very little about investments."
Dulcie cut her eyes at Joe, amused. This was hugely entertaining. Whatever Bernine was playing at, she must seem, to Dora and Ralph, the height of sophistication-it must be a heady experience for Ralph to find Bernine Sage asking his advice.
Ralph leaned closer to Bernine's chair. "I would be careful about investing with Jergen." And Dora's heel pressed hard against his ankle.
"Oh?" Bernine said softly. "You're not telling me there's something wrong?"
The waiter approached and they heard the tinkle of fresh drinks. There was a long interval concerned with ordering, with crab mornay, with a salad of baby lettuces, cuts of rare fillet, and a broiled lobster-a discussion that left the cats sniffing around under the table for any leftovers from previous diners.
"I can't believe…" Bernine began when the waiter had gone, "I can't dream that Mavity's Mr. Jergen… Are you saying that Mr. Jergen…?" She paused delicately, her hand beneath the table seeming to accidentally brush Ralph's hand. The cats watched, fascinated, as Ralph tentatively stroked Bernine's fingers. Dulcie could picture Bernine giving him a steamy gaze from beneath her mascara-heavy lashes.
Ralph cleared his throat and shifted his hand guiltily as if he thought Dora might have noticed his preoccupation. "I would not invest with Mr. Jergen," he said bluntly.
"Ralph…" Dora said.
"We-Dora and I-we are very worried about Mavity."
"But she's made such wonderful money," Bernine said. "She told me her profits have been…"
Dora sighed, pressing one toe against the other as if to relieve her tension. "I don't think we should be talking about this, Ralph. After all, we…"
"Dora, be reasonable. Do you want this poor girl to… Do you want the same thing to happen to Bernine?"
Bernine leaned forward, tucking her sandaled toe behind her ankle in a little spurt of elation. As if she had whispered to herself,
"All right," Dora said reluctantly. "If you want to do this, Ralph, all right. But we have been far too trusting in the past, and I…"
"Dora, this is different. Can't you see this is different?"
Dora sighed.
Ralph leaned close to Bernine, clutching her hand earnestly beneath the table, as if in a spasm of heart-to-heart communication. "Winthrop Jergen-it's hard to tell you this, my dear. But Winthrop Jergen is a-professional confidence artist."
Bernine caught her breath.
"We have the proof," Ralph said. "All the court proceedings are available, back in Georgia."
"You mean he's-been to jail?"
"Jergen wasn't convicted," Ralph told her, "but he's guilty as sin."
"We only hope," Dora said, "that we can convince Mavity of this. That she will accept the truth. We haven't told her yet. We wanted…"
This time it was Ralph's turn to kick, his black loafer thumping Dora's ankle.
"We only hope that she can pull out of this in time," Ralph said. "Before Jergen gets away with her money. She doesn't…"
The waiter returned with their salads. In the island of silence as he served, the cats curled down more comfortably against the wall. When he had gone Ralph leaned, again, toward Bernine.
"Winthrop Jergen, my dear, robbed us of nearly all our life savings."
"Oh. Oh, don't tell me that. Oh, how terrible for you. I can't believe this." Bernine's toe wiggled with excitement.
"We've gotten none of our money back," Ralph told her. "All gone. Police couldn't find a trace, not a bank account, nothing."
Dora uncrossed her ankles, setting her feet solidly. "Jergen arranged his little scheme so his partner went to prison. Jergen got off free-went totally free."
"But where did this all happen? And when?" Bernine asked, puzzled.
"In Georgia, and not many months ago," Dora told her. "Not long before Christmas-it was a terrible Christmas for us. Terrible."
"But what brought him here? How did you know he was here? Did Mavity…?"
"Mavity told us about her wonderful investments," Ralph said. "She hoped we might be able to make back some of our losses."
"And," Dora said, "when she described Jergen, we began to suspect that this might be Warren Cumming-that's his real name."
"Seemed impossible it could be the same man," Ralph said. "But when we checked Cumming's phone in Georgia, it had been disconnected. And when we went to his office, it was empty; he'd moved out. Mavity's description of Jergen sounded so much like Cumming that we decided to find out. So when we told…"
Dora kicked again. Poor Ralph was going to have a black-and-blue ankle.
"When we told our Georgia friends we were coming out here," Ralph mumbled, "they wished us luck. You have to understand how angry we were, that Jergen got off free."
"Scot-free," Dora said. "Looks like he came right on out here, took a new name, started right up again, cheating people-cheating my own aunt."
"But…" Bernine began.
"I suppose he got a new driver's license," Dora said. "Got all those fake cards like you read about, social security, who knows what else?"
Ralph shifted his feet. "All we can do, now, is try to convince poor Mavity of the truth. She thinks that man hung the moon. But with some proof…"
"Now," Dora said loudly, pressing her knee against his, "now all we can do is help Mavity cope with this. That's all we can ever do."
As their entrees were served, the conversation deteriorated to a replay of everyone's concerns for Mavity, punctuated by the sounds of cutlery on china and occasional smacking from Ralph. The cats had nearly dozed off again when the main course was concluded and their waiter took the plates and brought coffee and the dessert cart. Bernine declined dessert. Dora chose a pecan and caramel torte with whipped cream. Ralph selected a double cream puff with chocolate sauce. Dulcie was partial to the small custard tart on the bottom shelf. Lifting it gently from its pleated white doily, she and Joe indulged. Above them, the conversation turned to Molena Point's tourist attractions, then back to Mavity, to how shocked Bernine was and how worried they all were for Mavity's well-being. When again the dessert cart passed their table, the cats went away beneath it, licking cream from their whiskers.
As the waiter parked the cart at the end of the terrace and turned away, the cats sprang to its top shelf skillfully missing cakes and pies and tortes. Leaping to the roof, they dislodged one small piece of cherry pie, sent it skidding across the terrace. They heard it hit and didn't look back, sped racing across the roof and didn't stop until they reached the end of the block.
Pausing beside a warm heat vent, they had a leisurely and calming wash to settle their nerves. "What's that hussy up to?" Joe said, licking his paws.
"Don't forget, she worked for years as a secretary for the San Francisco probation office. That's where Wilma first knew her."
"So?"
"She must know a lot of probation officers and law enforcement people. And those guys, when they retire, sometimes start private investigative services. Wilma knows several P.O.s who…"
"You think she's
"She would for money-she'd do anything for money."
"And what about the watcher?" He peered over the roof to see if the man was still there, but he had gone-or had moved to a new vantage. "He appears to have masterminded the copying of Mavity's financial statements," Joe said.
He began to pace the roof, across the warm, tarry surface. "And what about Pearl Ann, snooping on Jergen?" He looked at Dulcie intently. "Who's the cop, here? And who's the rip-off artist?"
As they discussed the puzzle, thirty feet below them the sidewalk was busy with tourists, the after-dinner crowd heading home, lingering at the shop windows, and late diners coming from art exhibits or leaving the local theater, heading for various village restaurants. They saw, scattered among the crowd, two women and an elderly man carrying library cat petitions, stopping each tourist to show newspaper clippings with Dulcie's picture.
"Who's checking those signatures," Joe said, amused. "These people aren't village residents."
"They use the library, though," she said defensively. "Lots of visitors do. Wilma makes out temporary cards all the time."
Directly below them a couple in jeans stood arguing about whether to drive on to San Francisco or stay in Molena Point, and up at the corner three college-age girls flirted with their male escort, each angling prettily for his attention. Ordinarily the cats enjoyed watching tourists, they liked hanging over the roof making fun of people, but tonight their attention returned quickly to Bernine and the Sleuders, worrying at the tangle as intently as they would worry at an illusive mouse.
But, as it turned out, they had little time to circle the quarry before Azrael's prediction came true. Before there was, indeed, a murder. An event that sucked in Joe and Dulcie like flies into a spider web.
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