A far sliver of light tells us where Mr. Rafi Nadir has gone.
We race to that point, pause, and then Louise sticks her nose into the light. (She is very good at sticking her nose where it does not belong.) It widens to whisker width. The light comes from a lit lamp. In its intense circle, we spot Mr. Rafi bending over a desk and chair. I notice some fresh four-tracks on his upper arms, but he is too busy to pay much attention to a few wounds.
I realize where we are: on the wrong side of the crime scene tape, and so is he.
This does not seem to bother him as he moves around the room, examining this and that.
“This is Miss Marjory Klein’s office,” Louise hisses in my ear.
I flatten my offended appendage. Her hisses are sharper than a biker’s switchblade.
We push against the wall as Mr. Rafi comes back into the passage, shuts the door disguised as a wall on the other side, and moves farther along it.
Last I had heard of the pursuing Persian girls was some muffled thumps on the surprise staircase and some choice curses in Farsi.
Amazing how one reverts to one’s roots in times of stress, even natural blondes like the Divine Yvette.
Yet I dare not rush to her assistance and give away that we are not alone.
Rafi is sure giving the place the once-over. We follow him left and follow him right, and then follow him right into another office.
This is Ms. Beth Marble’s office, and once again we are all on the wrong side of the crime scene tape.
Miss Louise is the first nose through the hidden door, of course, and she reports to me in short little pants.
“He is examining her drawers.”
In other situations, this would not be rated family fare, but since Miss Beth Marble’s mortal remains are long gone, I am sure that everything is above board.
Besides, it is clear to me that Mr. Rafi is tracing the passage’s access to the crime scenes. Certainly it is clear how a body might be transported from Mr. Dexter Manship’s office to this one without being observed.
In fact, I turn us around and, using my instinctive feline radar, lead Louise to a site that Mr. Rafi has not discovered yet.
There I instruct her to jump up at a certain spot until the apparent wall turns into a door.
I sit back on my haunches and enjoy the exercise, since it is not mine. Eventually she hits the sweet spot that opens the concealed entrance.
No light this time, as no one bearing a flashlight is in our party, but I bound inside, whisker my way to the desk, and leap up to punch the lamp’s switch.
Light blinds me for a few seconds, but, sure enough, I am inside Mr. Dexter Manship’s office. No doubt cameras are recording my presence. I recall too late the strange snipping noise that preceded Mr. Rafi into the offices he visited. He had cut the camera cords, which were no doubt placed too high for me to reach anyway.
Ah, well. I am very telegenic and will be dismissed as harmless vermin, as usual.
Miss Louise has skittered in at floor level and is sniffing deeply under the desk.
“Mr. Manship is indeed another bubblegum shoe suspect,” she confirms my previous conclusion with satisfaction. “A pity everybody tiptoed through the exercise mats during the shaving cream graffiti episode. We need the film of that time to check who got close enough to infect their shoes.”
“Yes, yes. Proof is fine, but right now I need suspects. Ours is not to make the case, ours is to point out the possibilities.”
“How? We are hardly legitimate consultants.”
“About your own suspected origins you may speak for yourself, Louise. I know my sire and dam.”
“Braggart!”
I inhale deeply the atrocious tutti-frutti scent deposited under Mr. Dexter Manship’s desk. It is particularly strong and there are even a few stringy remnants of the source. Let us hope his shoes are so endowed tomorrow, during the Teen Queen finals.
I have an urge to unmask a murderer, and cannot think of a more deserving candidate.
Miss Louise carps about our worthless expedition on our way back to the mirrored door.
I make no defense, and not only let her precede me back into Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s domain, but show her the hall door with all due courtesy.
“I am going to inspect Miss Savannah’s shoes,” I tellher. “No sense being sexist and omitting a female suspect. You may want to do the same with Miss Sulah Savage’s closet. After all, she does use a pseudonym.”
Off the little chit goes, dreaming of Manolos, as in Blahniks.
Personally, I do not think Miss Kit indulges in status symbols as blatant as Blahniks. So I wait by the mirror, checking the state of my best bib and tucker and licking it into submission.
On the room’s king-size bed, Miss Savannah Ashleigh snores softly, no doubt the result of a Beverly Hills nose bob.
In a few moments, the unlatched door pushes open and girls silver and golden slide through. They are looking a bit mussed about the muzzle and decidedly annoyed.
“Louie!” Miss Yvette is in fine fettle, good mettle, and superb Ma Kettle mode. “You led us on zee wild goose chase. And affair we had done zee hokey-pokey on the intruder’s epidermis.”
(When stressed, the Divine Yvette resorts to B-movie French.)
“Poor fellow,” I say. “But I gathered lots of good intelligence.”
“Somezing new pour vous, I tink.”
Yvette is really, really mad. She is starting to sound like a voyageur. Wrong continent, wrong period.
“Those stairs were very sudden,” her sister Solange rebukes.
And I am duly chastised. “But you both have the impeccable French nose for strong cheeses and rank fruit. Did you trace the raspberry/strawberry scent through the tunnels?”
“And banana,” Solange adds.
“Banana?” I think she is making a value judgment. But non. I mean, no.
“There was a distinct undertone of banana. I ought to know. Our mistress uses a banana-scented sun screen.”
Banana! Of course!
The scent that leads from the mall to here is not that of a mere ice cream treat; it is that of a healthful fruit smoothie!
Now I have nailed the full spectrum of ingredients that will lead to a murderer. Brought down by a high-protein health-food shake.
Somehow it is poetic justice.
I would boast of my breakthrough, but the Divine Yvette has lofted onto Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s bed and wrapped herself around her percussive head.
Not only dogs are devoted.
Solange sees me to the door. “Was it something I said, Louie?”
I allow her to polish my sides with her softest, foxiest furs.
“Exactly. What a rare and subtle nose.” (The French love these kind of compliments.) “Brilliant! Now I must prepare for the takedown tomorrow.”
She wafts her fulsome plume under my own nose. “I am sorry Yvette is being such a pill. Perhaps you will come to tell me the outcome.”
Perhaps I will. I chuck her under the chin with my most flexible member.
“Wish me luck, sweetheart.”
“Bonne chance, Louie!”
Having restored international relations with our allies of old, I push out into the ordinary hall, walking on air and the inescapable scent of a spilled fruit smoothie that will trip up a murderer.
Chapter 54
No Glimpse
of Stocking
Max’s watch read five past midnight when he climbed the Circle Ritz’s conveniently stepped black marble facing up to the second-floor balcony of his and Temple’s unit.
He was still officially half-owner. That’s how he could make this clandestine expedition, knowing she was gone, with a semiclear conscience. No, nothing was clear about this intrusion except the night sky, spangled with stars.
He’d told enough necessary lies in his undercover work to recognize a story that was stapled together. Temple was gone, all right. Not to Minnesota though, and not to tend an ill father she hadn’t even mentioned to Electra Lark. No, she’d just asked the landlady to look after the cat.