Cat In A Topaz Tango

On the Topaz Trail

Since it is Miss Topaz’s hotel, as she puts it so firmly, I am forced to let her lead.

Ordinarily I resist a subservient position on principle, but I am not a fool.

Ordinarily an extraordinarily svelte and attractive lady of my species is not walking, tail high and swaying, directly ahead of me.

I am already checking out the surroundings for romantic rendezvous spots, but Topaz’s lively mind is on other matters.

“The moment I noticed the hotel security forces converging on the theater, I knew something fishy was up.”

“‘Converging’? ‘Something fishy was up’?” That is usually my line. Why has the lithe Miss Topaz started talking like an ungodly combo of Miss Lieutenant Molina and Sam Spade?

“The perp was gone,” she goes on, “and your mistress’s significant other required lifesaving treatment. However, I concluded his attacker must have been somewhat attacked in turn, or he would not have ceased to harass Mr. Matt, as you call him.”

“What do you call him?”

“Hot. Did you see that pasodoble he did? I trust we will still see his tango tonight.”

Oh, no. Females are so shallow. “The show must go on,” I say sourly.

She stops and turns. I find I have trailed her to the theater area, where yellow crime-scene tape warns off all comers.

Topaz walks under the streamers, tail high. I follow.

“No, Louie. ‘The Shoe Must Go On.’”

Yikes! Has she been talking to my Miss Temple lately? What is it with these females and fancy footwear?

I soon discover what. The area is deserted while the forensics people are back at the lab doing CSI: Las Vegas film montage tests and things to music. Who would ever imagine major network viewers would be seduced into watching science how-to films in the name of crime drama? Mr. Wizard would have been proud. Bill Nye, the PBS “science guy” would have been begging for cameo roles.

Miss Topaz trots through the empty audience seating and onto the wooden set floor, bold as old gold. She stops by the velvet curtains backing the stage above the set of four risers.

I can see where the curtain has been torn and dusted for prints. Blood runs down the velvet in an ugly dark snake of color to the floor, where it has dried to a carmine color.

I come from a hunter breed. Normally blood is no big deal, even though I have not had to eat live game in years. But when it is the blood of someone you know. . . .

“He could have bled to death.”

“I know,” Topaz says. “But it is lucky he bled here.”

I eye the many drops. I know the forensics people numbered and photographed each one. We should not be leaving pad prints on the scene of the crime. I am about to say so when Topaz darts to the side of the stage.

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.