“No, I didn’t know them, either. Look, am I a suspect in this triple murder?”
But he said it with a smile, and not a nervous one, either. It was the smile of one who’s played an enormous joke on his pals.
Which was, at least, how Jury took it. And just how it was, he was pretty sure.
“Because if I am-I’m remarkably short on alibis.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
“At the time of these murders, I was alone. No witnesses. I live alone, you see. I’m assuming the news”-he picked up the Times beside him-“was accurate in its reporting of the time of death? I was here by myself. That is, except in the case of the Small woman. That night, I was in Chesham.”
“In Chesham?” said Jenkins.
“That’s right.”
There was a pause. Then Jenkins said, “If you stopped anyplace in or around Chesham, someone probably saw you and would remember.”
“I don’t think so.” He smiled. Harry was eating it up, his exposure to guilt, enjoying being a suspect as most people would enjoy not being one.
“Why did you go to Chesham, Mr. Johnson?”
“Because of the cat.”
Jenkins turned halfway round to regard the cat sitting like a statue at Jury’s feet.
“No,” said Harry. “Not that one. That’s my cat. I’m talking about another black cat.” His glance shifted to Jury. “You can ask Superintendent Jury.” Harry’s smile was all over the place. “I’m sure he’s worked it out that I went to Chesham because of the cat.”
Jenkins turned to Jury, eyebrows raised, looking for some sort of corroboration.
“What cat?” said Jury.
50
It was the first time Jury had ever seen Harry Johnson flummoxed.
Harry said to Jenkins, “It was a joke, Inspector. And Superintendent Jury’s in on it.”
Jury had mastered many looks in his time, but the one of puzzlement he now pasted on his face he knew might be the best. “Joke? I’ve been a little busy with three murders; there’s hardly been time for jokes.” God, how he’d love a cigarette. To light up while he went on holding up this door frame, that would be the image of unbeaten, unbeatable cop. If Trevor had appeared at his elbow with a bottle of Montrachet, Jury’d have drained it dry.
Mungo and Morris looked almost as if they were joining in this celebration, their paws dancing. At least, that’s how Jury preferred to see them.
“Very funny indeed, Superintendent,” said Harry. To Jenkins, he said, “It’s a long story, Inspector.”
“I’m good with long stories, Mr. Johnson. If you’d accompany us to the station, I’d appreciate being told it.”
Harry got to his feet, uttering imprecations under his breath. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir, not at all. You’d just be helping us with our inquiries.”
Harry sighed. “You know this is ridiculous. All because of the damned cat.”
Outside, Jury remembered to switch on his mobile and saw he had a half-dozen missed messages. They were all from Wiggins. He told Jenkins he had to make a call.
“I’ve a photo here to show you, boss. It’s important.”
Wiggins didn’t tell him why, refusing to give up that information in the interest of suspense, apparently. No, Jury had got to look at it because Wiggins wasn’t sure.
“As soon as I get through with Harry Johnson, Wiggins.” He looked around for Plant’s car. There was one sitting across the street, an old model Bentley. A hand ventured out of the driver’s side window, and two fingers formed a V. Jury rolled his eyes. Was he supposed to do that back? At least he didn’t have to cross the street and give a secret handshake.
Jury got in the car beside Jenkins.
Melrose waited until the car with the three men pulled away from the curb before reaching into the backseat for the cat carrier and the True Friends cap.
He tilted the rearview mirror to check how he looked. He looked idiotic. The cap looked like a little boat sailing on the pale waves of-Oh, for God’s sake! It was ridiculous enough without waxing poetic about it!
Melrose pushed back the visor. Yes, he had to wear it. There were many things he didn’t look like, and an animal rescuer was right up there at the head of the list, right after Niels Bohr. That impersonation had also been done so that Jury could get into Harry’s house. Were they to spend their lives trying to get into Harry’s house? Harry had gotten a big kick out of the Niels Bohr act.
His silk wool suit was a bit upmarket for the pittance of a salary he must’ve been getting from an animal shelter. He exchanged the suit jacket for an ancient canvas one that looked starched enough to stand up to several attack dogs. With that on, and the hat, he got out of the car, pulling the carrier after him.
Had Jury said that Wiggins just got himself a hamster? That sounded unlikely.
Melrose walked up the stone steps. It was a handsome brick edifice with white steps that looked just scrubbed, and stone lions that managed to complement the house without being pretentious.
He rang the bell, waited, hoped no one was there-wrong, here was someone opening the door: a very small woman, looking puzzled, who he assumed was the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Tobias? My name is Melrose Pierce.” He must have been thinking of Mildred. “I’ve come for Mr. Johnson’s cat?”
Mrs. Tobias went from puzzled to suspicious. “F’r his cat? What? Come for Schrödinger? What on earth for? Don’t tell me-” She flapped her hand at him. “Take her and good riddance. There she sits. I’ve got my pies in the oven.”
Melrose stared after her. That was it? That was all? Pies in the oven? And he’d been prepared to be extremely clever. Well, he hadn’t needed his hat after all. He could have forced his way in with a mask and a gun and she’d still have said, “Take the silver; I’ve got my pies in the oven.”
There she sat: Morris, looking black and blameless.
And beside her a dog that surely must be the incomparable Mungo. “It’s an honor,” said Melrose, bowing.
Do I know you? thought Mungo. This one did look a little familiar. He was wearing a funny hat with a bill, like a duckbill. And why was he putting Morris in that carrier? Why didn’t Mrs. Tobias object? But then Mrs. Tobias thought the cat was Schrödinger. Now he was closing the flaps and all Mungo could see was Morris’s eye. And now this Daffy Duck was carrying Morris to the door.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. The Duckbill opened the door and went out, with Mungo right behind him before the door closed. Mungo was right on the Duck’s heels. Down the steps, stealthily. How stealthy could you be in bright sunlight on marble steps? But the Duck didn’t notice.
The driver’s side of the car was against the curb. The Duck opened the door, started to slide in the box, changed his mind, opened the rear door, and leaned in with the box-
Mungo was in the front seat in a split second.
– back out the rear door, into the front door.
Mungo was over the front seat into the back just as the Duck slid himself into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and started the car.
Were they all completely blind, these people? A whole animal sanctuary, a whole Noah’s Ark of animals, could have followed the Duck down those steps and he’d never have seen them. Are humans all so self-entranced they just don’t see what’s going on around them?
Although this diatribe was not aimed at Morris, Morris answered: Yes.
Mungo was up now on the backseat beside the box, looking at Morris’s eye. Even though he couldn’t see the rest of her through the holes, he knew Morris was sitting with her paws clapped to her chest.
Am I being kidnapped again? Wasn’t once enough? asked Morris.
You’d think so.
But maybe we’re going home.
Home. Mungo mused. If Hansel and Gretel had been forced to depend on humans to get them home, they’d have had to drop ordnance maps all over the woods.