A scope unit reported, “Fourteen in. Informant parked under shrub.”
Following the movement of the white-tipped tail, Zeke paced slowly down the sidewalk and came to a halt some fifty feet from D.C. who hovered under a rosebush, his eyes bright in the reflection of a street light. Zeke lit a cigarette and glanced about anxiously. He knew from experience that if he stopped too long in one spot someone would notice him and think he was a prowler. There was always somebody looking out of a window a little boy who had been put to bed for the night, a nice old lady whose eyesight was too weak for reading or television, a weary laborer sipping a can of beer in a dark room.
Zeke resumed walking when a young couple approached, and then turned back to retrace his steps. He never took his eyes from” the white tail that was so still, indicating that D.C. was at peace with the world. At the briefing session, the SAC had said, “According to the best information we have, a cat moves its tail when it is disturbed or angered. Hence, watch the informant’s tail carefully, and if there is excessive gesticulation, attempt to determine the cause, such as a dog, and remove the cause quickly so the informant will feel free to continue on his round of calls.”
The tail moved and unexpectedly became a streak, weaving in and out of the shrubbery. Alarmed, Zeke spoke rapidly into the mike, “Informant continuing due west at accelerated speed. Unit seventeen, attempt a fix.”
He hurried, half running, continuing to follow the flick of white, and then suddenly he stopped to reconnoiter, straining to see far ahead into the darkness that was deeper at the shrubbery line. He listened intently for a bell sound, but there was none. “All units, all units. Have lost informant. Come in if you get him.”
His heartbeat quickened. He had never lost a subject on a surveillance. He was proud of his record, and so were his Bureau superiors who had written him several letters of commendation. And now, if this big, fat lummox ruined it
“Fourteen in. We’ve got him on scope. Continuing due west at fast clip.”
“Eleven in. Just picked him up on sound. Moving rapidly.”
And then, a few minutes later, seventeen reported in.
Seventeen was a radio car, parked in the darkness of a huge tree, manned by two agents who spotted D.C. moving surreptitiously up to a front door. “Informant scratching at front door of eight two six Randolph . Door opening. We sight woman in robe, brunette, possibly in thirties. Informant entering, door closing. Will hold surveillance from here. Suggest twelve take over rear door. That’s all. Out.”
Over every radio came instructions from Operations Center : “All units stand by for informant to leave. Residents of eight two six already checked out. All okay. Units fourteen and sixteen move to next position. Z will join seventeen in front-door surveillance.”
Zeke approached car seventeen and leaned against the driver’s door. The strain was beginning to tell. “Well, so far, so good.”
The agent behind the wheel nodded. “Never saw anything like it in my nineteen years with the Bureau.”
The other agent said, “When I tell my wife well, she never believes me anyway. Thinks I’m out tailing something looks like Jayne Mansfield every night.” He shook his head sadly, “Keep telling her, wish I were.”
In the police car a mile away, Officer Tracy shook his head. ‘There’s that same informant under the shrubbery.”
“Drunk again.”
“But scratching on a door. Scratching, Al. What’ve they got, a monster?”
26
Inside 826 Randolph a woman of about thirty and her husband the same age, both high school teachers, welcomed D.C. He was an old, mysterious friend who dropped in frequently. Sometimes he would spend a couple hours with them, curling up in a chair and sleeping. Other times he came by merely for a perfunctory social visit, and once having satisfied the amenities, and licked up a handout, would indicate he had an extremely busy schedule and leave.
As an old friend, he was accustomed to making himself at home, and, after greeting them with a few soft meows, would make straight for the gleaming, huge white box in the kitchen from whence came all the good things of this world.
The woman, Anne Gilbert, who thought D.C. was about the sweetest thing on four paws, was putting down a small serving of salmon when the telephone rang. Her husband, Jimmy, a high school math instructor, took the call. She heard his voice raised to an exclamation mark, and, being curious, stepped into the living room.
He put his hand over the receiver. “The FBI.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know.” He said into the phone, “A cat?
Yes, a cat came in here a couple minutes ago
. Well, he’s licking up some fish right now
. Wait a minute, is this some kind of a joke?
Well, how do I know you’re the FBI? You call up and ask about a cat
. Yeah, yeah, I guess so. Hold on a minute, please.”
He covered the speaker again and said to Anne, “They know the cat came in, and they offer as proof they’re the FBI the fact they know he has a white tail which they say they painted.”
“The FBI painted a cat’s tail?”
“Well, his tail is white tonight. You remarked about it yourself when he came in.”
“But the FBI, catching a cat and painting his tail. Why?”
He said into the phone, “What did you paint his tail for?
Yes, yes, I understand. Just a minute, please.”
He shook his head with disbelief as he turned to Anne. ‘They say this concerns an important case and they can’t tell us anything now but they would appreciate it greatly if we would co-operate with them, and when the case is over they’ll send an agent by to thank us and explain everything.”
“What do they want?”
“That we put him out the front door as soon as he has eaten.”
“It’s some youngster. Somebody in one of our classes and this is going to be all over school tomorrow.”
He nodded, and said into the telephone, “I don’t know who you are but you should enroll in dramatics if you haven’t al ready. You’re too good an actor to be wasting all that talent. And we both think it’s a great gag, and we’ll go along with it. Good night.”
Nine minutes later, at ten-seventeen, the front door of 826 Randolph opened, and D.C. cautiously pushed his head out on the end of a stretched-out neck, and took a radar bearing. Though he had come this way a thousand times, and never been ambushed, he behaved like an old trapper deep in Indian country.
Parking himself under a bush, he proceeded to wash his face with loving care. He liked fish but not the after-taste. His tail swished a few times. He was a little put out because the woman, who always slobbered over him, had picked him up bodily, when he had done nothing whatsoever, and ejected him. He couldn’t tolerate females who rubbed their faces against him, which she always did. He liked sentiment as much as the next cat but too much was nauseating.
His facial finished, he strolled two houses down the street, hugging the shadows, and turned into an alley, one of the few in Sherman Oaks.
Keeping a distance of a hundred feet, Zeke followed him. “Informant proceeding to South Street . Suggest all units shift one block over but maintain same pattern.”
As Zeke slipped silently along, hugging the shadows himself, he listened to reports from the units. D.C. passed off one scope and onto another. A sound cone unit turned him over to another. And radio cars rolled along streets parallel to the alley.
At the alley’s end, D.C. crossed the street and passed a couple locked in embrace in a car. They remained unaware of Zeke walking by them.
D.C. took a footpath that bisected a vacant yard. He walked boldly under a lighted window, through which could be heard a man and woman quarreling. He reached another alley, flanked with the ugly rear ends of decrepit apartment houses. The cry of a baby unhappy with his new world floated from a nearby window.