Cat On The Scent

23

With no corpse, no motive, and no witnesses, Rick Shaw was in an unenviable position regarding the disappearance of Tommy Van Allen. By contrast he had 30,000 witnesses to the shooting of Sir H. Vane-Tempest—30,003 if he counted Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tee Tucker.

He looked into Mrs. Murphy's green eyes, which stared right back into his own. “Sure of yourself, aren't you?” he whispered to the cat. Then he turned to Herb. “She shows up in the damnedest places. They both do.” He stroked Pewter.

Herb was holding Lucy Fur, more to comfort himself than anything.

“Now, Herb, who used this truck last?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“A week ago.” He sheepishly continued. “I've been meaning to fix the flat but it's always one thing or another.”

Cynthia Cooper pulled up to join them. Rick held out the bomber jacket. He wore gloves. “T.V.A.” Coop read aloud the initials embroidered on the inside map pocket.

“So the truck has been in the garage for one week,” Rick went on. He turned back to Herb. “Have you checked it? You know, come on out to get something from the glove compartment? Anything?”

“No.”

“How many people—” Rick stopped himself. Everyone knew where the garage was. In fact, everyone knew everything—almost.

“Do you have any idea why this jacket is in your truck?”

“Sheriff, that's the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” Herb betrayed his age when he used that phrase.

“Maybe Tommy put it in there himself.” Lucy Fur posited her idea.

“No.” Mrs. Murphy concentrated fiercely on the jacket.

“You know, when H. Vane was hauled away in the ambulance, I established the range for muzzle-loaders. About one hundred yards. That meant anyone in either of the two companies could have fired on him. I met the doctor the second she walked out of surgery. I did everything by the book. Three bullet wounds can't be an accident but I have no complaint filed by the victim. Isn't that odd?”

“Yes.” Herb crossed his arms over his chest.

“And I have a missing person I am treating as, shall we say, an unfriendly disappearance. We find the airplane. Nothing, except it's covered with pussycat paw prints.” He cast an eye at Mrs. Murphy, even though he didn't realize those were her prints. “I've combed through Tommy's house and his office with his housekeeper. Nothing has been taken. The only things missing are what he was wearing—the clothes on his back, a signet ring, and his forty-five-thousand-dollar Schauffenhausen watch.”

Herb whistled at the price.

“We've alerted pawnshops across the country. We've sent out photographs to every law-enforcement agency. Not a trace. What I'm driving at is—things are just too damned curious.” Rick slapped his thigh in disgust. “I'll check this for prints, fibers, you name it.” He sighed audibly. “But I can't put it together.”

“Nobody can, boss.” Coop brightened. “At least we've got another clue.”

“There is that.” He smiled.

“Do you think the killer is trying to implicate me?” Herb reached for his rod as though the touch of it would make everything all right.

“No, I don't.” Rick smiled. “And I have a suspicious mind. There are so many places to dispose of a jacket. . . . Whoever put it here is in effect giving us the finger—begging your pardon, Reverend.”

“Van Allen was probably wearing this jacket when he disappeared,” Cynthia said. “Herb, if you don't mind, leave the truck here for a day. We need to check it for prints.”

“We've got a portable compressor. I'll fill your tire. Once we're finished tomorrow you can take it down to the garage.”

“Thanks, that would be a big help.”

Lucy Fur rubbed his leg. “Don't worry, Poppy. Everything will be all right.”

“Tommy Van Allen was wearing a trench coat, collar turned up, when I saw him at Tally Urquhart's.”

“You saw him?” Lucy Fur stopped midrub.

“I couldn't see his face but how many six-foot-five men are there? I was far away, it was getting foggy with a hard rain. But he wasn't wearing that bomber jacket.”

“Maybe he left it in his car and grabbed the trench coat because it was raining?” Pewter said.

“It doesn't matter whether he was wearing it, left it in a car, or whether this jacket was in someone else's car or someone else's house. That's really irrelevant at this point.” Murphy's words were clipped.

Pewter disagreed. “I think it's relevant. The killer or accomplice wanted to get rid of evidence. Maybe he forgot this jacket was in his car or trunk or something?”

“No way.” The tiger stood up. “He's putting down bad scent.”

“Deliberately misleading us?” Lucy Fur sat on Herb's sturdy walking shoe.

“You'd better believe it—and enjoying himself in the bargain.” Mrs. Murphy felt the whole complexion of the events had changed, like a lighting-change during a play. The mood shifts with the light. It can suddenly become treacherous.