“He said that’s what they were saying around the tracks. That Russ Donnelly…”
“That’s all he said? There wasn’t anything in the papers about it?”
“Only, thank God, the usual bit about the police are following several leads. But Rafe, they were saying such things around the tracks. The grooms at the stable told me, and they were upset.”
“Hmmm. What else did Caps ask you?”
“Ask me? About what?”
“About how you found your father, and what the police wanted to know.”
“You think Caps was pumping me? You know, that’s odd. He did seem more interested in what questions the police were asking me. But honestly, Rafe, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“No, of course you weren’t, dear heart. Tell me, though, was Galvano questioned by the police?”
“Oh, yes, he said he was, but he’d been in Tijuana at the time.”
“So he says.”
“What are you driving at, Rafe?”
“I’m not quite sure, Nialla.” And he’d risen to pace back and forth in front of the sofa, swatting one hand into the other.
“You can’t possibly imagine Caps Galvano murdered my father? Why, Dad was half a head taller and a good thirty pounds heavier. That little slimy man…”
“Yes, I know, Nialla.” Rafe sighed, shoving his hair back impatiently. “I guess it’s silly to try to relate the two things-your father’s death and this spate of accidents. Blackmail is Galvano’s line, and he found a quick buck in your situation and took it. He spotted you at Sunbury while he was trying to catch up with Louis Marchmount, and couldn’t resist the chance to pick up some spare money. Not knowing, of course, that you hadn’t collected your father’s insurance.”
“Or the money I was supposed to get from Marchmount.” The brandy was reaching me, because I began to giggle. “I guess blackmailers have to eat and pay rent somewhere. Even dead men, because he certainly couldn’t go make book at Belmont or Aqueduct without having his alibi exploded.”
“If that goddamned operator hadn’t been such a shit-head, we’d’ve at least known the general area he was in,” Rafe said, pausing to look down at me. “Drink that
brandy.”
“I’m getting tight, Rafe.”
“I know. That’s my plan.” And he sat down beside me, filling the snifter. “I want you to sleep tonight, Mrs. Clery, and I won’t keep barbiturates in the house, so it’s drunk I’m getting you, dear heart.”
“If you get me drunk, I won’t know what’s going on.”
He gave me an odd sideways look. “Nothing’s going to go on, dear heart.”
I groaned, because I usually get more amorous when I drink.
“That’s a girl.”
In his artful way I think he coaxed half the decanter down my throat before he carried me up to bed. But by then I wasn’t seeing very straight. I remember getting into bed, and I remember his chuckle in my ear. I also remember being told to stop twitching, but I was warm and comfortable, and that was all I remember.
The barking of the dogs woke me to bright daylight. Woke me and Rafe. We both listened tensely, but their calls weren’t alarms; more like canine conversation, and soon stopped.
“Probably arguing over who gets which bowl.” Rafe rose and stretched leisurely. “How’s your head?”
“Fine! I never get hangovers.”
“I’ll remember that.”
And our second day started much as the first. When we got down to breakfast, though, Jerry MacCrate was propping up a cabinet, a mug of coffee in one hand. He was bleary-eyed and rumpled, but when we entered, he grinned broadly at me.
“Morning! You know what that cat of yours has done, Mrs. Clery?”
“I’d never’ve believed it myself,” Mrs. Garrison said, her smile widening into a chuckle that set her comfortable bosom bouncing. “What do you do to animals, Miss Nialla?”
“What’s more to the point, what has Dice done?” asked Rafe.
“Cowed those shepherds,” replied Jerry, relishing the effect.
“Cowed the shepherds?” Rafe was startled.
“Yessir. I always feed ‘em in the morning, you know. So I put down their food, turned around, and that damned-pardon me-cat came sauntering in as if he’d had an invitation. He walked up to Dame’s pan, took his own sweet time settling himself, and ate a little while she sat on her haunches and whined.”
It was so exactly the sort of trick that Dice had pulled on the Poiriers’ watchdog that I started laughing.
“And then,” Jerry continued, waiting until I had subsided a little, “and then, he went over to Demon’s pan and sampled that.”
“And then”-Mrs. Garrison took up the tale-”he came here and finished off a huge dish of scraps just as if he were starving to death and hadn’t been fed in a month of Sundays.”
“The big bowl was too hot, and the medium bowl was too cold, and…” Rafe began in a singsong voice, his eyes dancing.
“… And the enormous bowl was just right!” I capped it between spurts of laughter.
“Well, he’s like no cat I ever saw, boss,” Jerry said. “God, if I’d a dime for every cat those shepherds have chased off the farm, I’d retire.”
“The shepherds recognize class when they see it, Jerry,” I said as soberly as I could, for I could picture the actual scene clearly.
“And another thing, boss,” Jerry went on, equally serious, “d’you know, he was following me during the night? Every time I made the rounds, I’d catch a glimpse of them big eyes of his in the trees, or lurking in the underbrush. Damned near scared me silly the first time, and I almost let him have a blast. Only he meowed and came right up to me.”
“He’s the guy who watches the watchman,” I said.
“Your loyalest legionnaire,” Rafe supplied.
“It’s just that I worry about him if he’s got the dogs bamboozled,” Jerry said, shaking his head.
“I think you’ll find that the cat and the dogs have worked out some sort of an arrangement, Jerry,” I told him. “He used to patrol at the Poiriers’ farm in Pennsylvania. And their watchdog always let Dice sample his dish. He’d been on guard, too, after all.”
“I’ve heard everything.” Jerry did not believe everything, however. “Not that I doubt you, Mrs. Clery…”
“He’s a special breed of cat,” Rafe added. “A Maine coon cat, bred and trained to hunt raccoons.”
“Well…” And Jerry appeared able to accept that explanation.
“He’s used to hunting. He’s also far more intelligent than the common shorthair cat,” I went on. “But if it bothers you to have him prowling about, we can always shut him up in Orfeo’s box. He’s the one he’s supposed to watch, not you.”
“Oh, no, don’t lock the beast up,” Jerry told me, and I wondered from the look in his eye if he thought Dice might blame him for it. “Well, I’d better get some shut-eye.”
“Nothing to report?”
Jerry shrugged. “Not even much noise up at the big house. Nothing around all night, but that cat.”
Rafe nodded and thanked Jerry, who said he’d be back late this afternoon, and left.
We had a very pleasant breakfast, chatted with Mrs. Garrison. She hadn’t anything to report on odd types trying to see Mr. Marchmount, but evidently Madam was some exercised over something. Mrs. Garrison’s attempt at tactfulness only made her omission the more obvious. She might just as well have said that Wendy Madison was furious over Rate’s unexpected remarriage.