She has zeroed in on the last tracked blood drop of Mr. Matt, no doubt on the perp’s Cuban heel, because it is moving toward the aisle to the exit.
“He stepped in Mr. Matt’s blood as he was leaving,” I say, shuddering.
“Now, Louie. I know you are emotionally involved, but we must keep a clear head.”
“‘We’ must keep a clear head? You were not in the heat of battle, rushing into the churning size-twelve footwork of two men fighting to the death. You did not take the body blows that I did, the kicks that spun me almost into the aisle. I am black and blue all over, except it does not show.”
“Poor Louie,” she purrs, polishing my indignantly heaving sides with her close-cropped satin coat.
Not bad.
“No doubt you are too distracted to notice the significant difference in this particular blood drop.”
I put my eyes to the floor. The light here is horrible. “The blood mark sinks in the middle.”
“It does not sink. The heel has a flaw. It marks the floor with a small depression, and the blood drop is uneven.”
I look again. Sure enough, the heel has left a small dent in the floor. I sit. And think. I lash my tail about for effect. Miss Topaz watches me, her vibrissae shivering with anticipation.
“Mr. Matt said he was drawn onto the stage by the stamp of flamenco heels that he took for Miss Tatyana in Spanish mode,” I finally say. “But the stamping sound was made by a man wearing Cuban heels. Those heels sound so sharp and loud because pounded-in nail heads pave the bottom surface. During his frenzied stomping, a nail must have been vibrated loose, and . . . bent back into the heel from the pressure of the next stomp, producing—”
“A lovely little dent that will follow him wherever he goes.”
“Yes. I take it you have explored that direction.”
“Down the aisle and out into the carpeted casino.”
“Carpeting.” I frown, fearful.
“A bent nail head leaves an indent there too, but we must hurry, Louie. Foot traffic is fierce out there and could erase the trail.”
“Would a Zorro in retreat not attract attention?” I ask.
“Yes. But you say he left the sword behind and likely took the hat and gloves away in a—”
I glance at the empty bandstand to the side. “An empty guitar case would do it.”
“Brilliant!” she coos. “Let us make our own tracks.”
So we do the feline hustle out of there and into the noisy casino, where we must dodge the constant kick of tourist shoes to follow the trail of the bent nail.
It is not so arduous as I supposed.
The man’s stride is about eighteen inches and the nail is snagging the carpet strands. In forty feet we have dodged around some deserted slot machines far from the central aisles where they are set “loose” to lure tourists.
A plain door in the wall is where they stop.
“What is this, a janitor’s closet?” I ask.
Topaz looks thoughtful, then solemn, which is not hard to do with those pieces-of-eight eyes.
“Better, Louie.”
I wait.
“It is an employee bathroom, opening only with a key, not usable by the public.”
The truth sinks in.
This was an inside job.
An Open and Shut Case
Somehow I did not expect my first date with Topaz to be staking out an employee rest room at the Oasis.
I was hoping for one of those storied Italian dinners behind the restaurant at the Venetian. Gondoliers poling tourists through the faux canals and singing “O Sole Mio,” which pays tribute to a variety of fish much prized in feline circles.
My green eyes meeting Topaz’s golden ones as we each chow down on the same long strand of angel-hair pasta until our vibrissae duel delightfully. . . .
Instead we are crouching under a pair of empty stools waiting for a croupier to need to take a leak.
Romantic, not!
Actually, it is a little waitress doll who unlocks the rest room door and allows us to shadow her inside. This is not good. She senses our soft furry sides on her hosed calves and looks down with a frown just as we dash out of sight into a cubicle. Euw. These floors are never cleaned to the demanding standards of those who have to put four unshod feet down on them.
Luckily, the waitress just wanted to repair her lipstick and quickly waltzes out again.
We return to the rest room’s main area and loft up on the countertop to wash our feet in moist sink bowls. I manage to put my weight on the flipper that lowers the paper towels and we soon are high, clean, and dry.
Topaz nods to a row of metal lockers on the entry wall. All boast combination locks. These must be assigned to key personnel. We sniff around the locked doors, but accomplish nothing but sneezes from all the scented products within.
“How are we going to get out?” Topaz asks.
I can tell she has never done a stakeout before. Before I can explain that we will get out as we got in, the key scrabbles in the door again. We whoosh back into the cubicle, undoing all our good footwork.
“Listen!” I hiss.
Our backs arch in unison as we hear the scrape of a shoe cleat on the plain tile floor. I duck my head under the door to peek. A pair of large, black, Cuban-heeled shoes stands before the locker. We hear the combination lock spinning and clicking, the door opened and shut.
Then the shoes and wide-bottomed black trousers head for the door.
I poke Topaz in the shoulder with a rude claw and whisk out to race through the door before it closes and locks automatically. The minute I am through, I throw all my weight against it to force it to a standstill.
Miss Topaz eases out at an unruffled pace while I huff and puff from my effort. “Quick!” she says, “he is wasting no time.”
All we have seen from our floor-bound rear viewpoint is that he is a tall white male with a loping stride. I was right! He is carrying a stolen guitar case, and his hands are gloved in black leather. The shirt, cape, and hat must be in the case.
We weave in and out of the forest of moving legs, leaving squeals and curses in our wake, rather like Moby Dick, only unlike the white whale, we are black. And not a marine mammal.
Black Legs leads us on a hard chase all through the casino and then the shops and then the meeting areas and then the service areas to the utter rear of the building. A last gray metal door opens at his push, a one-way exit. Before it shuts on his vanishing heels with the one bent nail we elect to eel through.
The heavy door slams shut, but we have split—literally—to either side and the shadows. He turns to check that no one is coming through the door behind him.
A Dumpster awaits; his goal all along. I hear the huge truck gears grinding a few blocks away. This one knows a fast trash pickup will swallow the evidence he deposits now in minutes.
He will leave his load and vanish. We need a way to ID him. My shivs are still throbbing from marking his rear pants. At least they were not denim, but something sleazier for dancing. I am betting he is not dumping those, because his blood is on the ass. Not enough to drip and leave evidence unfortunately.
“We must mark him,” Topaz’s hot breath wafts in my right ear. She has slipped into my shadow.
I explain I already have, and how.
“Something visible to humans,” she insists.
“I know. I suppose I could claw his face.”
“You are already bruised from fighting this man. He would smash you to the ground.”
I am not afraid of taking on this literal bruiser again, but claw marks would only mean something to someone who knew and believed in my crime-fighting nature, like Miss Temple.
The light from the dim security lamp in the distance catches on Topaz’s collar.
“Duck,” I tell her, nudging her behind me, with her amber crystal drops swinging like a lady’s earrings.