The clasp was devilishly hard to open. Digging at it with stubborn claws, at last he sprang it.
He found within only socks, underwear, a shaving kit, and a pair of wrinkled pajamas. The shaving kit, which was unzipped, had an inner pocket. Pawing this open, thinking Greeley might have stashed some of the money there, he narrowly missed cutting his pad on Greeley's used razor blades. Why would anyone save old razor blades?
Nosing into the suitcase under the false bottom, which was meant to keep the bag rigid, he found nothing but a small notebook containing some foreign addresses and Greeley's plane ticket. Sliding the ticket from its envelope, he saw that Greeley had not yet made his return reservation. Pushing everything back in order, he turned away. Listening to the lonely wind buffet the cottage, he headed for the bedroom.
Long before Joe entered Mavity's cottage, across the village on the dark rooftops where the sea wind scudded and danced, Dulcie slunk along a roofs edge watching the street below. Around her, the dark trees hushed and rattled, and the moon's fitful light jumped and fled; above her, telephone lines swung in an erratic dance, and in an open dormer window white curtains whipped like frantic ghosts. By the strike of the courthouse clock she had been on the rooftops since three, and it was now nearly six. She had not seen Azrael. She was beginning to worry that he had not left Mavity's cottage or had returned to it, surprising Joe in his search.
Had she not marked her trail clearly enough, on her way from the marsh? Or had she marked it too clearly? Rubbing her whiskers on every surface and leaving little damp messages, had she made Azrael suspicious? She prayed that he hadn't guessed their plan, that he was lying in wait for Joe. She longed to turn back to Mavity's, but she might only lead him there. She could do nothing but keep on searching, casually marking her trail across the rooftops.
Then suddenly, in the shadows of the alley, was that the tomcat? Quickly she dropped down to an oak branch and crossed the six-foot chasm to the roof of the Swiss Cafe.
Stretching out along the rain gutter, she watched the dark montage of shadows that she thought had moved.
Now all was still. No sign of Azrael.
At last she slipped to the corner where she could see the street. She waited there, watching, until the glow of the street lamps began to fade and the sky grew to the color of pewter beneath dark, scudding clouds. The courthouse clock struck six-thirty. Maybe the tomcat had returned to Mavity's and at this moment he and Joe were locked in terrible battle.
A lone car hushed along Ocean as an early riser headed for work. A shopkeeper set a box of trash at the curb then began to water his curbside garden of ferns and geraniums. Dulcie was about to turn away, to seek Azrael along other streets when from beneath a parked truck the black torn swaggered out, nose to the gusting wind. Pausing just below her, he licked his paw and washed his whiskers. He seemed restless, kept glancing away in the direction of the marsh. Was he aware of her? Did some sixth sense nudge him? When he started away, Dulcie followed quickly along the roof's edge.
But then he paused at the Red Skillet Cafe, stood peering into the patio, sniffing deeply the scents from last night's grilled salmon and halibut. As Dulcie hunched on the rooftop, he padded through the wrought-iron gate to wind among the tables. Immediately a mockingbird, snatching up crumbs, attacked him- and exploded in a storm of feathers, with a naked backside. The black torn smiled, licked his whiskers, and prowled among the tables, gulping bits of charred fish like some half-starved stray- but still he seemed edgy and unsettled, glancing away again and again in the direction of Mavity's cottage.
Quickly Dulcie, her heart pounding half with fear, half with excitement, dropped to the pavement and hurried after him.
Beyond the iron gate, Azrael was turned away. But his ears flicked. His tail lashed. His body stiffened as he sensed a presence behind him. As she slipped in through the bars, he whirled to face her.
She paused, her paw softly lifted.
His gaze narrowed to a sly caress.
They stared at each other in silence. Azrael flattened his whiskers, offered subtle body talk meant to set the stage for mating.
Dulcie gave him a slow smile. This wasn't going to be easy, to delay him yet avoid the snuggling games. She felt like a lady cop playing street hustler.
"Where is your friend, my dear? Your little gray friend? Does he know you're out alone?"
She wound among the chair legs, her tail high, her stroll sultry, her heart pounding so hard she could hear it. Azrael trotted close to her, his amber eyes deep and golden; when he bowed his neck, towering over her, she felt small suddenly, and frail.
Dora and Ralph Sleuder slept deeply, their even breathing unchanged as Joe prowled the dim bedroom. Pawing through a suitcase that lay open on the floor, he dug into its pockets and searched under the clothes, taking considerable trouble to push everything back in the same jumble as he'd found it.
He was nosing into a big duffle bag when the bedsprings creaked and Ralph stirred and sneezed. Fleeing to the kitchen, Joe leaped on the table and shot to the top of the refrigerator. Crouching behind a metal canister and a bag of potato chips, he watched Ralph swing to the floor and pad away toward the bathroom, nattily attired in striped green boxer shorts that dropped beneath his bare belly.
Making himself comfortable behind the chips, he was careful not to brush its crinkly cellophane or against the package of cookies. Amazing what a person could cram atop a refrigerator. Clyde favored beer, and an assortment of cat and dog kibble-all the essentials readily at hand.
The bedsprings squeaked again, and Dora rose, her ample curves voluminous in a pink-and-green flowered nightie. Not bothering to wash or comb her hair, she padded into the kitchen, looked out the window, and glanced into the living room.
Returning to the bedroom, she began to open the drawers in the tall dresser, carefully examining the contents of each, her movements quick and watchful.
From the bathroom, the toilet flushed, and Ralph returned to start on the other dresser, pawing through Mavity's personal belongings.
"Nothing," Dora said at last, closing the bottom drawer. "She must have a lot of time on her hands, to keep her drawers so neated up."
Ralph slammed a drawer closed. "Maybe in the living room."
"Start on the desk. I'll look in the bookcase. Daddy'll have dropped her at work by now, so she won't come charging back forgetting her lunch or whatever. That gave me the cold sweats yesterday when she did that."
"What about your daddy? How soon will he be back?"
"Depends. If he decided to drive over to Monterey-haircuts are cheaper over there-he'll be a while."
Watching Dora go through the bookcase, pulling romance novels from the shelves to look behind then shoving them back, watching Ralph finger through the contents of Mavity's desk, Joe grew so interested that he backed into the cookies. The brittle crunch brought both Dora and Ralph swinging around to stare toward the kitchen. He remained frozen behind the canister, as still as one of those plaster amusement park cats-a gray plaster cat with white markings.
"Heat," Ralph said, seeing no one in the kitchen. "Thought it was that stinking Azrael coming through the window, but it was just heat-them chip bags pop in the heat. Makes 'em rancid, too."
Joe watched, puzzled, as the two pudgy people resumed their investigation. If they were looking for Greeley's stolen money, why had they searched Mavity's bedroom? Why not go directly to Greeley's suitcase, as he himself had done?
But maybe they'd already searched there. Or did they think that Mavity had hidden the money? Did they think she was Greeley's accomplice?