Cat In An Indigo Mood

Chapter 63

Witness for the Prosecution

Busting out of motorcycle stir is not easy.

Miss Midnight Louise and I tumble to the asphalt finally, serving as a landing zone for our

"third wheel."

"I do not know, Pop," Miss Louise says. "This one is pretty dazed. We might have been better off with one of the Beanie Babies. You know, we could have made like puppet-masters and talked for it."

"Just being here will make the difference. Come on. You hoist up one side, and I will hoist up the other. Now we have to break into the building, great!"

"A glass door," she notes as we arrive. "Terrific. Do you know much these things weigh?"

"At least they weigh less than l, according to certain sources,"

I say pointedly. "Opening it ought to be a cinch for a buff babe like you."

Miss Louise snorts in a most unladylike way. "Then l am for your usual modus operandi when you wish to get into someplace."

"What is that?"

"In this case, a ghostly wail ought to do it, especially in triplicate."

"I am too pooped to wail."

A razor-sharp claw reminds me of the power of the feline voice.

So we set up an ungodly caterwauling.

In time, of course, the door opens. It always does.

The doorman, a tall, portly guy with a surprised expression, stands aside as we stride in three abreast: the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Miss Midnight Louise and I swagger forward (all right; we are still a bit wobbly on our pins thanks to that motorcycle ride, so it is more like a stagger). Between us is our secret weapon: Wilfrid Orth, recovered from his coma, and fresh from several days' private nursing duty at the vigilant paws of Miss Midnight Louise.

His tiger coat looks more like a tortie's; not a stripe is straight.

And he tilts a bit to the left like a bum pinball machine. But he walks inexorably into the open space made by the circled chairs and the seated men in them.

Miss Louise and l hang back. This is Wilf's big moment.

He looks around at the first human faces he has seen since being given a would-be fatal blow by one of them.

He is not a four-pound pooch. He cannot be trained to lift a leg and linger a perp on command. He does not have a perky little topknot and long fluffy ears. And at the moment, he is a mess.

But he is still a cat, and he possesses the infallible feline instinct for the human in the room least likely to welcome his presence. He reacts with the swift skill of a seasoned predator.

He takes a couple of running steps and launches himself at the lap of a white-haired man dead ahead.

It is not his fault that his target, at first frozen immobile like he has seen a ghost, stands up and backs away screaming as Wilfrid's ragged form comes bounding at him.

The chair tips over, but Wilfrid is already airborne.

It is not his fault that the object of his attentions has moved and removed the lap that was his original target. Wilfrid lands at chest-level, and, having nothing to catch onto, hangs eight (as the surfers describe their toe-clinging technique) onto the guilty man's shirt.

There is a quite a ripping and tearing sound as Wilfrid slides slowly to the ground.

The man is screaming and babbling as the other men rush to attend--or is it detain?--him.

Mr. Matt Devine, being a sensible person of our acquaintance, ignores the human hullabaloo and rushes to us as we rush to attend Wilfrid. He has obviously lost a lot of nail sheaths.

"Louie? Louise?" He seems otherwise speechless, and we certainly cannot comment, other than with a serious expression.

Luckily, the cavalry comes in at this point: Lieutenant C. R. Molina and a Mutt and Jeff pair of detectives. Mr. and Miss Detective go to the aid and custody of the killer.

Lieutenant Molina, being a seasoned veteran, comes to where the action is.

"Did you get enough on tape?" he asks her.

"Plenty, especially at the surprise climax. Did you hear what he was screaming? 'You're dead.' Proves he was on the crime scene."

"I do not see why, and how did these cats get here?"

"Hitched a ride in your saddlebags. We saw them disembark from outside."

"And just let them come in and disrupt things? Why?"

She points at poor Wilfrid, who is sitting ignored and dejected at the center of the empty circle. "That is the missing and presumed dead cat of Monica Orth. Apparently the killer swatted him during the attack and left him for dead. A neighbor lady found the cat and called animal control, but by the time the van came out the next day, the corpse was gone. We found signs of digging in the back yard, and presumed, ah, someone had buried the cat.

But when we excavated, there was nothing beneath the disturbed ground but insects."

"So . . ." Mr. Matt looks a bit drained as well. "The cat came here and freaked out---"

"Lieutenant?" A personage as petite as my Miss Temple is standing behind the group, looking like a schoolgirl who just got all As on her report card. "The suspect not only has an awesome set of fresh cat-scratches on his torso, he has scabs and inflammation from a set of old cat scratches."

"Awesome," the lieutenant agrees. "Alch can take him in. Call a squad and have these animals taken to the Circle Ritz apartment, care of either resident Temple Barr, or landlady Electra Lark."

The young woman frowns. "The uniforms will not like it."

"Tell them they are conducting a material witness." She glances at Wilfrid, who is licking traces of blood from his wispy foot hairs. "A very material witness."

"It is all right," Mr. Matt puts in. "l will get there on my motorcycle first and can take delivery."

"No, you will not." Lieutenant Molina's voice means business.

"I have a date with my daughter in"--she checks one of the ugliest wristwatches l have ever seen, it does not sparkle or have loose little rhinestones or do any tricks whatsoever but tell time-"twenty minutes and I am not breaking it. You can come along."

She has turned to supervise the detectives and uniformed officers who are taking their man away.

Before Mr. Matt can object to her plan. he is surrounded by the other men, who are clamoring to know what happened. Mr. Matt mentions the operative word: murder.

"Not Damien," they say. "Not one of us."

That is what they always say, and I do not have much chance to hear more, as Wilfrid, Louise, and I are scooped up and held fast against chests clad in beige shirts and lots of metal and leather accouterments of a sinister sort, not to mention buzzing, shoulder walkie-talkies.

We know enough to be utterly docile in custody; besides. Louise and I are anxious to return to the Circle Ritz. Wilfrid, he could not care less where he goes; he has seen his duty and done it royally.

So the cops, who are fretting aloud about not having facilities for our transportation in the squad car, are pleasantly surprised to find that we sit like three little statues in a row in the back seat for the entire ride, and make not a peep the entire way to the Ritz.

"Beats hauling dogs every time," one comments when we arrive.

Higher praise I have never heard.

***************

Our triumphal return to the Circle Ritz finds Miss Temple Barr and Miss Electra Lark in residence, although a bit surprised at our uniformed honor guard.

"Gee, I do not know why," one officer answers when questioned about the details of our arrival. "The lieutenant says deliver these cats here, we deliver these cats here. She does say one is a material witness."

Naturally this causes great cooing between the ladies. There is nothing like a little notoriety for stirring up the ladies.

Anyway. I am received back into Miss Temple's arms, and an officer is drafted to convey Miss Midnight Louise upstairs in our quarters. Apparently I will have to share the place for the moment. An imperfect end to a perfect master plan.

Miss Electra Lark takes one look at the bedraggled Wilfrid and sweeps him into the muumuu-bower of hydrangeas decking her person.

"You poor abused thing!" she cries. "I will take you right up-stairs where it is soothing and dark and quiet."

And filled with Karma, I think to myself. Me, l would not want to mess with Karma in a weakened state, but perhaps Miss Electra believes that some psychic surgery is just what Wilfrid's much-abused brain needs.

Me, I have had such an exhausting evening, especially in the knapsack affixed to Hesky, that I am even ready to nibble some Free To Be Feline before I lay me down to sleep in my own home, sweet home.