She turned and regarded the new black cat. “That’s not Morris either.”
Tossing down his paper, Melrose thought, This is where I came in.
The Cat Came Back
43
He would have left, too, had Richard Jury not that moment walked into the pub.
Sally Hawkins chose the same moment to appear behind the bar. She waved, then called to Dora, who ignored her.
“I have the strange feeling that everything’s happening all over again,” he said as Jury put his hand on Dora’s shoulder, smiled, and sat down.
“Meaning?” said Jury.
“There’s yet another black cat, and Dora here says it’s not Morris, either. I can’t stand it. The black cat cosmos is made up of a zillion cats who aren’t any of them Morris. It’s got to be Morris.”
“Don’t you think Dora”-she by now having shoved in next to Jury-“knows her own cat?”
“No,” said Melrose, in a tone that didn’t leave it open to question.
Dora said, “He told me you couldn’t find Morris because cats are too hard to find.”
“Really? It’s always been my experience they were pretty easy. Could you go over and ask Sally to do me a pint of something?”
Immediately, Dora ran over to the bar and was conveying the message. Sally nodded, raised a circled thumb and forefinger, as if having a pint of something were a victory for them both.
“So where’s this new cat?”
“He just dashed by; didn’t you see him? Now he’s gone into that niche by the fireplace.”
Jury looked round. It was just about the size of a drawer. He turned that over.
Dora was returning slowly with Jury’s beer.
“They really shouldn’t let you do that,” said Melrose. “A seven-year-old purveyor of beer.”
Dora, sitting down again, took up the cat cudgel. “Well, he said”-she darted a look at Melrose-“Scotland Yard policemen weren’t any good at finding cats.”
“A misquote! I didn’t say-”
“You did too!” Dora stood up in her seat, hands mashed on hips.
“Never mind,” said Jury. “I found Morris.”
Both of them stared, mouths open in equal astonishment.
Dora’s closed first. “But-” She looked around the room. “Where is she?”
“In London. Don’t worry. She’s okay.”
Melrose’s tone was icy, suggesting no congratulations were in order, “Then why didn’t you bring her?”
“Because I need her in London for a little while.”
“What?”
“What?”
Their “whats” bumped into each other. At their twinned expressions, Jury wanted to laugh. They seemed to have changed selves, Melrose looking seven and Dora forty-seven, with her little creased forehead and startled eyes. “Now, this new cat: just when did it turn up?” asked Jury, who already knew.
“Today… no, last night. It’s always rushing around except when it goes over and sits in that hollow place. We don’t know why it’s kind of crazy. And it has a mean temper. Sally thinks it must belong to someone because it was wearing a collar. But it came off.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Why?” said Melrose.
“Evidence.”
“Oh, please.” Melrose rolled his eyes as Dora slid out again and ran to the bar.
Jury raised his voice and turned toward the fireplace. “Schrödinger!” The others, the old man and racing lady, looked at him as if he’d gone mad. So did Schrödinger, who left her cubbyhole and rushed over to the table, sniffed at his shoe, and rushed off again.
Dora was back with the collar.
The blue collar was the same one the other black cat had been wearing when she’d appeared with Mungo in the Old Wine Shades. Smiling, Jury stared out the window. How in hell had they done it? How? They just had.
“Schrödinger?” said Melrose. “Now, I could be crazy-”
Jury nodded. “You’re getting warm.”
“Funny. But the last I heard, Schrödinger was Harry Johnson’s cat.”
Dora said, “That’s a funny name.”
“The owner is a funny guy.”
“But I want Morris,” Dora said before Sally Hawkins called her away.
If not Morris, then Joey. Or someone. Jury looked down, studied his pint.
“Are you saying this is Harry Johnson’s cat?”
Jury nodded and drank his beer.
“What is it doing here?”
“I expect Harry brought her here.”
Melrose dropped his head in his hands. “Why? Why? Why? Do I want to hear the answer?”
“Probably not. ‘The cat came back.’ It’s Harry having his little joke. Don’t you remember he sucked me into his story about the Gaults with that enigmatic comment ‘The dog came back’?”
“This was a joke?”
“Um-hm. There’s a murder in Chesham and I’m stuck with it. Harry knows it. So he’s just getting his mite of revenge because I’m still on his case.”
“He’s crazy. Why would he bring his cat here?”
“Well, he didn’t know it was his, did he? He thought he was bringing Morris back.”
“So he couldn’t tell his own cat?”
“Not him. Not without the collar. He put a collar on Morris in order to tell them apart. Now, the real mystery is how Morris got the collar off and onto Schrödinger. I suspect Mungo managed that little trick. Easy enough to get it off; it’s just a Velcro closure. Well, we’ll never know.”
“You’re just leaving Schrödinger here and Morris with Harry?”
“No, of course not. You’re going to get Morris back.”
Melrose stared, not at Jury but at some impossible image in his head. Then he collected his cigarettes and lighter, stuffed them into his pockets, drank off his beer, and said, “That’s it.”
When he got up, Jury pulled him down by his sleeve. “It’s perfectly simple. You’ll go to Harry’s. I have a dog, I mean cat, carrier in the car-”
“Why? What would you have a carrier for?” Melrose had sat down again.
“It’s… Wiggins’s. He got a hamster. We’ll put the carrier in your car. You’ll be staying at Boring’s.” Pleased, Jury drank his beer.
“Is there any part of my life you don’t have plans for? Why will I be staying at Boring’s?”
“Because you’re going to London.”
“I have no plans to go to London.”
“You do now. That’s the second thing: Have you ever used an escort service?”
Melrose sat back and regarded Jury through narrowed and suspicious eyes. “No, and I don’t plan to in the future.”
“Here’s a change in your future plans: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road Companions. You choose.”
“Oh, thanks very much. None of the above. I don’t fancy sex I have to pay for.”
“Who said you had to?”
“Pay for it?”
“No, have it.”
“Well, that’s what those escort places are for.”
“Not necessarily. You can have an escort for a lot of things. Just take her to dinner or a show or for a walk in Green Park or to the Royal Albert Hall or to the Vic-”
“Can you see me taking a woman of that sort to the Victoria and Albert?”
“Christ, but you’re a snob. I never knew you were a snob.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Well, but you’re not. Look at all your canoodling with the Crippses. Anyone who can hang around White Elite and Ash the Flash by definition is not a snob. Not to mention Piddlin’ Pete.” Jury gave a brief but beery laugh. “And what about Bea? Yes, Bea. You didn’t waste any time taking her to the National Gallery. She’s a lot more EC3 than SW1.”
“Bea’s an artist.”
“I know. But her accent’s Brixton. So go ahead, choose: Smart Set, Valentine’s, King’s Road.”