If my hunch is right, I am on the trail of a twisted and complex plot combining revenge and larceny that has been hatched by a thoroughly despicable, twisted and complex person. If my hunch is not right, at least I can pick up a little Midnight snack later during my investigations.
I belly-crawl down the sandy space between the Tyler domicile and the neighboring house of holy repute in the approved U .S. Marine boot-camp manner. I am as silent as anyone whose delicate underbelly (and lots of it) is doing the equivalent of fire-walking over an emery board. Then I slip through the secret entry and work my way into the heart of the house.
Along the way, I find the usual buffet rest stops--Tin Pan Alley with hors d'oeuvres. Once I have dined, I reconnoiter the premises. I am happy to discover that the residents are in a restless state of mind. The uneasy witness is always more forthcoming.
Now the residents do not pooh-pooh my interest in the case, preferring to leave it to "the authorities," but bend my ears back with tales of things that go bump in the night. So many of them swirl around me, each with his own tale to tell--not to mention tails whipping past my kisser--that I do not know where to begin.
Settle down, I tell them. I did not bring a notebook. After I swear that their testimony is for my ears only, the conjunctive caterwauling begins:
Oh, whines a red tabby with a cream shirtfront, we have been unable to get a wink of sleep, with all the comings and goings, day and night.
That is what you have to expect in a house that has been visited by violent death, I reply.
But, purrs an attractive Russian Blue who has unfortunately been rendered sexless, that is the point. We have been visited repeatedly by someone who is obviously Up to No Good.
How, I ask, does she know?
She does not know, only has "a suspicion."
I harbor a strong suspicion that even when Miss Tyler's dependents are willing to talk, little of any worth will be forthcoming.
Who, I demand, has been in the house since last I visited?
That nice old lady from next door, volunteers a petite tiger stripe.
I ask for a description and get it: navy coat, silver head-markings, and a strange, translucent appliance sitting on the bridge of the nose.
Apparently these benighted feline fools are unaware that they are living cheek by cowl with a nunnery. This description could cover any one of the old dolls next door, none of whom are suspects in my book, pardon the nun pun. (Anyone who is familiar with the intricacies of my first case, the Wreck of the Remaindered Editor, is aware that such homophones as "none" and "nun" can be critical clues, but in this case, they are mere wordplay.)
A Great White cruises past me--all white, all muscle and, luckily, fully neutered--and informs me that Delicate Heels has also been back. This does not surprise me, though Miss Temple Barr's flagrant infidelity of late is getting harder and harder to take. First there is the black banshee camped in the middle of my pied-a-terre, who unknowingly claims an intimate connection to yours truly. Second, there are Miss Temple Barr's long absences while she cavorts by the pool and elsewhere with Mr. Matt Devine. I am not against some moderate, healthy exercise, but not at the neglect of family and friends. Then there is my little doll's skipping off to venues where dozens of my kind convene, such as the cat show, and last but not least, this entire house full of unclaimed cats panting for a new full-meal deal.
So pardon me if I am not enthralled by the praise heaped upon her from several dozen honeyed throats, all with an eye on a new home, sweet home. Mine. I almost snicker to imagine them encountering the current inhabitant. Let them match switchblades and repartee with the hard-as-snails Caviar and see how well they do!
I also hear tell of other visitors. "Birman Breath" is not highly regarded by the crew, most of whom are not pedigreed and are highly scornful of such pampered creatures and their personal pamperers. The description--grizzled-head female, portly and often leopard-spotted or tiger-striped--puts me in mind of Miss Temple Barr's hapless contact at the cat show, whose prizewinning entry was savaged by a dog clipper.
I perk up. I did not know that the cat with the new punk haircut was a Birman. I picture Karma shaved to the skin in a two-inch swath from eyebrow hairs to tail tip, and once around the middle.
The effect is both amusing and demystifying. The description of the most mysterious visitor proves to be the most provocative also. The particulars vary from witness to witness, perhaps gaining embellishment with repetition, but I think that at last I am on the trail of the villain who did such violence to Peter the convent cat.
As the residents tell it, this person is a monster indeed: dresses in my colors from head to toe to mitts, including soft soled shoes that do not smell of natural materials, such as leather. A faceless, hairless tan head. Sex undetermined.
I favor the male, and--given the black--either a burglar or a. . . priest.
This person has come and gone surreptitiously outside the house since before Miss Tyler's demise, a shy and elderly cream confides.
Since her death, the Great White puts in gruffly (this ex-he is evidently boss around here), this same person has become an intruder. He seems to be looking for something.
What of the night of her death? I ask.
Here there is a marked difference of opinion. Most of the witnesses were sleeping. It is only since their mistress's absence that they have become nervous by night and day, and notice more. Before, the only people around out of doors were repair persons and the like.
The quiet cream claims to have glimpsed the intruder's legs running down the stairs after Miss Tyler fell.
I ask why this news was not forthcoming on my last visit.
After an awkward silence, the cream confesses that the assembled residents "did not know whether to trust an outsider or not."
Just such an attitude, I remind them testily, has led to much grief for the great sleuths of history, from Sherlock Holmes up to my personal favorite, Seymour Katz, the Peoria P.I. whose exploits in Undercover Agent magazine I have followed since I was a kit.
Where, I ask them next, has the intruder been intruding about the house?
After an unclear chorus of replies, I get the gist: upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber.
I decide to investigate the same turf and so I trot upstairs first. Naturally, the crime scene is a mess. It has been tainted by Lieutenant Molina's scene-team, which has laid a trail of unnatural chemical substances over everything. Then a convention of handy helpers has been through, among whom I recognize the subtle scent of my own little doll, which is music to my nose, unless she happens to be confusing a crime scene, which she is.
I trot down the fatal stairs, observant for any telltale traces. I see nothing but the expected cat hair gathering into dust bunnies here and there.
Finally, on the first floor again, I am struck by something one of the witnesses said. "Downstairs," I repeat in a contemplative monotone. "Is this downstairs, or is there more below?"
The Great White finds this question too obvious to answer, but a half-grown black-and-white with a freckle on his pink nose steps forward to say that a further set of steps beckons beyond the kitchen.
There I go, to find a painted wooden door handily ajar.
They are not allowed down there, the cream cautions in a quivery voice. The Great White sneers and says that doesn't mean that some of them have not been down there plenty.
I am not fond of basements. They are dark, damp, spider webbed, crammed with old, forgotten junk, and usually escape proof. Luckily, they are rare in Las Vegas, except in the older houses, of which this is one.
It occurs to me that others may have overlooked the basement, too. If people are searching the house, whether honestly or clandestinely, it behooves me to do so as well. I growl a warning to the others to remain upstairs, no matter what happens, and I trot down the dark stairs.