It wasn't anything he could put a finger on-that made him wonder if he hadn't missed something…
After a while he put it forcibly out of his mind and went back to the several cases on hand when Walsh had first come in.
The day after that he happened to drop in at the same restaurant for lunch that Woods and Goldberg had picked. Federico's, where a good many of the headquarters officers habitually went, was closed for redecoration, and this was a hole-in-the-wall place which opened out unexpectedly into several large dining rooms. It wasn't fancy, but the food was good and not too expensive, and there were no jukeboxes or piped-in-music: you could eat in peace. Consequently it was crowded, and he wandered through the first two rooms into the third looking for a table. There, at the back, he ran into Goldberg and Woods just sitting down, and joined them principally because the only empty chair was at their table.
Lieutenant Goldberg of Burglary and Theft he knew, but Sergeant Woods he didn't. Woods was young for a sergeant, not more than twenty-eight; he looked more like an earnest postgraduate student of something like anthropology. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with a pale face under already thinning dark hair, a rich bass voice, and a very quiet manner.
Goldberg asked how life was treating Mendoza these days, and Mendoza said he couldn't complain. The waiter took their orders and went away, cigarettes were lit, and after a little desultory conversation Goldberg asked suddenly, "Say, what should you do for a cat that has fleas? Is the stuff for dogs too strong?"
"Fleas? Cats that are properly cared for don't have fleas. Where does she sleep-or he?"
"She, we've still got a kitten we couldn't find a home for. In the garage, at least I fixed a box with an old blanket, but half the time- ”
“ Entendido, there's your trouble, leaving her outside at night to roam all over. Keep her in-I know people think they're nocturnal animals, but when they live with us they keep our hours, you know."
"Well, I suppose I could bring the box into the service porch."
"You can, not that it'll do much good," said Mendoza. "She'll pick her own bed, and quite likely it'll be yours or one of the kids'. Let her. If you've been feeding her things out of cans, stop it, and get her fresh liver and beef. Wheatgerm oil twice a week, and lots of brushing with a good stiff brush."
"Look," said Goldberg, "I've got a living to earn, I can't spend all the time waiting on a cat, and my wife's got the house and the kids-neither can she. Do you know what beef liver's gone to now? Of course it's an academic question with you. All I asked was about flea powder."
"And I told you what to do. Let a vet de-flea her now. Fresh meat only, horsemeat'll do, and meanwhile brush half a can of talcum into her every day."
"Look," said Goldberg, "she's only a cat.”
Mendoza put out his cigarette as the waiter came up and said, "You shouldn't have a cat, Goldberg, you've got the wrong attitude entirely. Cat people say, ‘We're only human beings.' "
Woods uttered the deep rumbling laugh that sounded so surprising coming from his weedy-looking frame and said, "Reason I don't like cats around much-like a lot of people, I think-not that I don't like them exactly, but they make me feel so damned inferior."
"Isn't it the truth," agreed Mendoza. "Yes, if they'd only admit it, I'm convinced that's the reason some people say they can't stand cats. Now I'm an egotist myself, I admit it, but it certainly hasn't cured me. Right now I've got a cat that's crazy-in a devilish sort of way-and even he makes me feel inferior.”
"Is that so?" said Woods. "A crazy cat?"
"Possessed of the devil. I intended to keep one of the kittens, but I ended up with this El Se n or as well because nobody else would put up with him. He's got no sense at all except for planning deliberate mischief, and that he's very damned smart at. I call him El Se n or for convenience-sometimes it's Se n or Estupido, and sometimes Se n or Malicioso, and other things. I believe he must have been a witch's familiar in another incarnation. But even when he's being stupid, he can look down his nose at me as superior as the other two."
"Madame Cara," said Sergeant Woods, regarding his Beef Stroganov thoughtfully, "says that the highest point of animal reincarnation is represented by cats, and they're all of them superior human souls on the way-er-up the ladder again."
"And who in hell is Madame Cara?" Goldberg wanted to know. Woods grinned. "This thing I'm on now. That embezzlement. I suppose I should say ‘alleged,' like the papers-I've got no proof he did it, and as far as I can see I never will unless I catch up to him-and it looks as if maybe he borrowed one of their spells and made himself invisible.”
"Oh, that Temple of Mystic Truth thing," said Goldberg.
"What is mystic about the truth?" asked Mendoza.
"There you've got me, Lieutenant," said Woods. "All I know is what it says on the sign out front. Myself, I thought at first it ought to have been handed over to somebody in Rackets, but of course however the Kingmans came by the money it did belong to them-that is, to the-er-church, which is officially incorporated as a nonprofit organization-"
"Now there's what they call labored humor,” said Goldberg.
"-And this Twelvetrees hadn't any title to it just as their treasurer. Yes, I thought," said Woods, looking intellectually amused, "that I'd learned pretty thoroughly what damned fools people can be, but Madame Cara Kingman and her husband've given me another lesson. Twenty-three hundred bucks, if you'll believe me-one month's take."
"Good God," said Goldberg, "I'm in the wrong business. Just for telling fortunes?"
"Well, it's dressed up some. Quite fancy, in fact-fancy enough to attract people with money and-er-more sophistication than the kind who patronize the gypsy fortune teller at the amusement pier. But nine out of ten people are interested in that sort of thing, you know, it's just a matter of degrees of intelligence."
"Twelvetrees," said Mendoza meditatively. "He absconded with the take?"
"That he did, at least he's gone and the money's gone, and at the same time. Where I couldn't say. I've been looking for six days, and not a smell. Mr. Brooke Twelvetrees has pulled the slickest vanishing act since vaudeville died."
Mendoza laid down his fork. "Mr. Brooke Twelvetrees. Elegant-sounding name. Did it really belong to him, I wonder?"
"Your guess is as good as mine. Sounds almost too good to be true, doesn't it? And sort of gratifying in a way-you know, the biter bit and all that-the Kingmans seem to have trusted him absolutely. Yes, he's done a very nice flit, overnight-left a note for his landlady and not so much as a bag of dirty laundry to provide a clue, and disappeared into the blue."
“I suppose you've looked at his recent quarters, then-as well as elsewhere. Out on 267th Street."
Woods stared at him, also laid down his fork, and said, "How d'you come to know that, Lieutenant? I didn't know Homicide was interested in Twelvetrees. What-"
It ran a small finger up between Mendoza's shoulder blades, the feeling he'd waited for before in vain. "Woods-when did he go?" he asked softly.
The sergeant cocked his head at him curiously, and then, as if divining his urgency, answered, terse as an official report. "A week ago last night. Last seen four in the afternoon by the Kingmans. They came in Monday to lay a charge."
Mendoza said, " Donde menos se piensa solta le liebre -isn't it the truth, things happen unexpectedly… Indulge me a minute, Sergeant-he's just vanished, no sign at all of his leaving for anywhere, even in disguise?"