Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 138, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 821 & 822, September/October 2011

Track of the One-Eyed Cat by Bernard Lynch

Bernard Lynch was born and educated in New York City, graduating from City University with a degree in history. Currently, he is living in Belford, New Jersey, where, he told EQMM, he is at work on a novel. His debut fiction is fanciful and fun, imbued with a spirit of adventure and told with suck zest that readers will, we think, readily suspend disbelief and embrace the tale’s more fantastic elements.　

Insurance investigator Mandy McHenry, standing in a secluded part of Central Park, couldn’t tell from the look on the man’s face whether he could be trusted or not. With her right hand she brushed the side of her leather jacket, warm and snug against the October chill, and felt the reassuring presence of her automatic in the holster underneath, on her hip. A small owlish-looking man with spectacles and a pious manner of clasping his little hands together while speaking, he seemed harmless enough. But still, it was the harmless-looking type that often turned out to be the most dangerous, and the more she thought about it now, the more she knew she wasn’t going to trust this little freak any further than she could kick him.

The little man smiled and peered up at her, the spectacles he wore catching the late afternoon light, and said: “You are the Huntress and he is the Hunted, but believe me when I tell you that without my help, you’ll never run this quarry to ground.” His voice had that singular nasal quality of a Parisian who spoke English only as a last resort. Mandy frowned. She was in no mood for melodrama — especially one that might require subtitles. Anxious to get this over with, she said: “Perhaps. So far, though, you haven’t told me anything about him that I don’t already know.”

And he hadn’t. Earlier, on the phone, he had introduced himself as Simon Ducroix or, “As some people call me, Brother Simon.” He told her that he was a retired INTERPOL agent and currently serving as a security consultant to a number of museums and art galleries in Paris, Rome, and London. He then told her it was greatly urgent for them to meet on a matter of mutual interest: the whereabouts of the infamous British jewel thief Jack Monsarrat, otherwise known as The One-Eyed Cat. Recently he had broken out of a Spanish prison and was rumored to be in a dozen different countries at once. Mandy had been an insurance investigator now for over ten years and whenever she spoke to someone over the phone about a lead or a tip it was always a matter of great urgency. Most of the time, it turned out to be anything but urgent; most of the time, it turned out to be nothing. But still, she had to go through the motions: It went with the job and the job was her life. Also, she had a special interest in The One-Eyed Cat — he had been responsible for the one failure in her career: the theft of the Sunburst Diamond.

Now the little man turned and pointed across the way toward a small outdoor cafe and said: “You see that beautiful woman who is sitting alone at the table there and sipping at her cappuccino? Her name is Dahlia Manning. And she just so happens to be the mistress of our Monsieur Monsarrat. Now there is something I will wager you did not know about him. Or am I being, how you say, presumptuous?”

“No, now you’ve got my attention, Mr. Ducroix.”

“Brother Simon. Please, I insist.”

“All right, Brother Simon.” And for a moment she was tempted to say, Call me Sister Mandy. But she resisted the impulse, instead saying: “That beautiful woman looks like she’s waiting for someone — someone special?”

“Yes, indeed, someone special. She is waiting for her husband, Anton Manning, who is also Monsieur Monsarrat’s best friend and partner in crime.”

At that Mandy allowed a flicker of a smile herself. “Now you’ve really got my attention.”

An angular man of medium height, pale, with thinning gray hair, dressed in a corduroy jacket, now joined Dahlia Manning at the table. His face was working and his hands were fluttering about like a couple of birds. She reached out and put her hand to his cheek with a caress, as though to calm him. Watching from across the way, Mandy said, “So, that’s the husband.” Brother Simon nodded, saying, “Yes, that’s Anton. Poor, weak, sad Anton: Always getting in over his head. You know, it was because of Anton that Monsieur Monsarrat ended up in that Spanish prison. Yes, he took the rap for him. You still say that — the rap?” Without waiting for an answer he continued: “He knew that his friend could never survive such an ordeal, so he went in his place. Rather an extraordinary gesture on his part, don’t you think?”

But Mandy was no longer listening to Brother Simon. She had turned her head at the sound of a commotion behind her. She looked over at the nearby riding path and saw the oddest sight: a man, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and riding goggles, on horseback with a second, rambunctious horse in tow. For a moment the man looked straight across at her and then raised his head, looking past her into the middle distance, before looking back over his shoulder then at the second, riderless horse who was acting so skittish. With a hard pull on the reins the man tried to settle the animal.

Mandy was wondering what in the world this bird was up to when all at once Brother Simon began speaking excitedly in French and tugging at her sleeve. Turning, and looking with him across the way, she saw the reason for his alarm: Anton Manning flying backwards out of his chair and down onto the cafe’s tiled floor while another man, dressed in a hooded sweatshirt and riding goggles, stood there firing a silent gun into him.

The few other patrons of the cafe now throwing back their chairs, dashing away from their tables in all directions — the sound of their screams filling the air. The beautiful Mrs. Manning, though, not moving or making a sound, just watching, with poised stillness...

Mandy unholstered her gun and took aim and fired: Three bullets found their target just above the hooded assassin’s heart. He fell to the ground not far from the body of his victim. Mandy bit her lip and felt a sudden coldness about her. She knew that she had just done the right thing, but still, she had never killed anyone before.

She had no time to brood about it, though, for in the next moment she heard the sound of a threatening male voice and spun around to see the other hooded man now pointing a gun at her from atop the horse. “Drop it, vitch,” the voice demanded in a heavy accent.

But before she could respond, the horse suddenly reared up on hind legs and she saw the hooded rider holding on for dear life. The gun in his hand fell to the ground. And in the next instant she saw Brother Simon standing on the path behind the upright horse and rider with a switch in his hand. Mandy let out a breath. How the little man had gotten back there she didn’t know. But she was certainly glad he had.

Now the horse came down on all fours again and, turning, took off down the path with galloping hooves. Instinctively, Mandy sighted the hooded rider, but Brother Simon called out to her: “No, mademoiselle, we want him alive.”

She lowered her gun and watched with astonishment as the little man rushed over to the second horse, who had been acting so skittish in tow, and took hold of the reins. With the air of an experienced rider, he unstrapped the saddle — which apparently had been too tight for the animal — and let it fall to the ground, then, quickly leaping up onto the horse’s bare back like a pint-size cowboy, charged headlong down the path in hot pursuit as she stood by motionless, still with the gun in her hand, listening for sirens.

THE NEXT DAY

Mandy heard the sound of something buzzing around her ear — a small, insignificant insect coming out of nowhere and surprising her. Brushing it away, she said: “Oh!” Her boss, Chip Parker, looked up and across his desk at her. “You all right?”

It was just past noon, and the two of them were having a meeting in his office in the building that housed the Manhattan headquarters of the company they worked for — the Dodge Insurance Company.

Mandy nodded, crossing her shapely legs and pushing dark-brown hair back from her face. She pointed at the report she had written, which was lying on top of his desk. A moment ago he had been reading quietly to himself: his lips, she had noted, hardly moving at all; a vast improvement from when she had first met him. Back when the two of them were starting out as trainee investigators in the company.

“So what do you think?” she said.

Chip, tapping his chubby ring finger on top of the report, said: “I think that if there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of getting the Sunburst Diamond back we’ve got to go for it.”

“In that case, Monsarrat is our guy. All our information to date is that the diamond was never broken up, or fenced on any known market, after being stolen from the Harrington Collection. My guess is that Monsarrat has been sitting on it — like a nest egg — for the past five years.”

“Yeah, a six-million-dollar nest egg. That’s what the policy it was insured for was worth.” The phone on the desk rang. “Hello. Oh, it’s you. What — as a matter of fact I’m talking to her right now.” Chip paused, putting his hand over the mouthpiece, and looked across his desk at her to whisper, “Legal.” Then, speaking back into the phone: “What — yeah, I saw the paper.”

Mandy sighed; she’d seen the paper, too. And the newscasts: Brother Simon had become an overnight media sensation. Video of him on horseback jumping over picnic tables in the park and charging through street traffic in relentless pursuit of the hooded rider could also be seen now on YouTube. The most downloaded video, though, was of Brother Simon leaping from his steed and grabbing hold of the fleeing man, causing both riders to go down onto the pavement right in front of Mickey Mantle, where Brother Simon sat on the other as a couple of mounted policemen arrived on the scene.

However, for her part in it all there was no publicity. As an investigator who often went undercover, she made it her business to keep a low profile. And the police seemed satisfied that her use of deadly force was justifiable. She would, of course, have to attend a hearing on the matter — perhaps that’s what Legal was now bending Chip’s ear with. “Well, I’ll get back to you on that.”

Mandy heard the tinny voice at the other end say: “Just straighten that girl out.”

She pursed her lips and looked across the desk at Chip finishing his call.

“I guess you heard that,” Chip said when he’d hung up.

“What do they want to straighten me out about this time? Taking down a stone-cold killer or bringing back a hot lead on the Sunburst Diamond? Which is it?”

“Take it easy. You know how it is with these people. I’ll handle them.” He paused then, shifting gears. “And what about this Brother Simon — you trust him?”

“No. Although he did have my back yesterday. I’ll say that much for him.”

The phone rang again. “Oh, really? Okay.” Chip put the phone down and raised his eyebrows. “Speak of the devil. It’s your boyfriend. He’s downstairs in the lobby and wants to see you — says it’s urgent.”

“History is made at night,” Brother Simon said, speaking to Mandy while holding a hot dog in one hand and signing his name to a napkin with the other. They were standing in front of a hot-dog vendor on the sidewalk outside the building where she worked. The vendor had recognized Brother Simon and asked for an autograph. Brother Simon was happy to oblige. Clearly, he was enjoying his new status as a celebrity: When she had come out of the elevator she’d found him in the lobby with a number of people crowded around him, taking his picture with camera phones. As she ushered him out onto the sidewalk, he’d filled her in on a brief conversation he’d had with the hooded rider. “His name is Ivan Woronov. And he is connected to the Russian mob. They too are after the Sunburst Diamond. Although Ivan swore to me that he didn’t know there was to be any killing; he thought it was going to be a simple holdup.”

Mandy wasn’t buying any of it. “That was a hit.”

“Well, if it was, I don’t believe Ivan knew anything about it. I looked into his eyes and I could see he was not a bad soul, just a misguided one.”

“I’d like to take a look into the eyes of Dahlia Manning: She didn’t seem very upset by the sight of her husband getting shot to death. She took it pretty cool.”

Brother Simon shrugged. “She is the Ice Queen.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about these people.”

“Ah. You want to know how I knew they were going to be at the park yesterday.”

“Yes, I have been wondering about that.”

“I have my sources, mademoiselle, just as you, no doubt, have yours.” He had paused then, looking over at the hot-dog vendor on the corner, and smiled: “My treat.”

While they’d walked over to the stand, the afternoon breeze carrying the smell of hot dogs in the crisp October air, he’d continued: “We could, of course, pool our resources, but before that could happen there would have to be trust. And while I have every confidence in you, mademoiselle, I am well aware that you don’t trust me.”

He held up a hand to prevent her from protesting this remark. Mandy, though, had no intention of registering any such dissent. After he had ordered their hot dogs, Brother Simon said: “Trust, unlike love, is rarely unconditional — it has to be earned. And I hope that by the end of tonight I will have earned that trust.”

“Tonight? What exactly is so special about tonight?”

The vendor looked at the autographed napkin and grinned happily. Brother Simon smiled graciously in return. Mandy tossed the remains of her half-uneaten hot dog in the wastebasket and gave Brother Simon a look of mild reproach as she tried to resume their conversation: “You were saying?”

Moving discreetly away from the vendor, Brother Simon, still munching on his hot dog, reached with his free hand into the pocket of his suit, brought out a card, and handed it to Mandy. She looked at it: It was an invitation to the social event of the season — Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.

She blinked. Toot Monroe was the celebrated Southern author and Social Register gadfly, well known for giving lavish — and exclusive — parties. She said: “How in the world did you wangle this? You know there are people in this town who’d sell their grandmother for one of these.”

Brother Simon said: “It is for both of us, of course. I hope you won’t mind too much my being your escort for the evening.”

Mandy looked closer at the invitation and indeed found her name on it. She said, “I don’t understand.”

“Tonight the hunt for The One-Eyed Cat will come to its inevitable — and I pray successful — conclusion.”

The moon over the rooftop of Toot Monroe’s Fifth Avenue penthouse hung low and wide: a hunter’s moon. Down below, at street level, a caravan of limousines lined the curb and an army of chauffeurs and doormen, working in tandem with police and private security agents, were busy escorting a glittering array of international society — along with a token number of film and music industry types — past the paparazzi and into the towering high-rise where Toot Monroe held court in his luxurious penthouse.

Sitting in the back of a spacious black limousine, Mandy looked over at her diminutive tuxedo-clad companion, who was presently sipping a glass of champagne, and said: “I can’t help but think that this whole thing is nothing more than a wild-goose chase.”

Brother Simon stopped sipping his champagne and looked at her. “Perhaps, perhaps not; we shall see. But if nothing else, at least you will be able to say that you were in attendance at Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.”

“Yes — and I had a big three hours to run out and buy a dress and shoes, and get my hair and nails done.”

“I apologize for the short notice, but it couldn’t be helped. However, if you don’t mind my saying so, you do look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you,” Mandy said, taking a sip from her own glass of champagne and lowering her eyes. She hoped the little freak wasn’t getting any funny ideas. Probably not, but just to be on the safe side she brought the conversation right back to business. “Let’s go over this once more: You believe that Monsarrat is going to show up at this little wing-ding.”

Brother Simon peered owlishly over his champagne glass at her. “Wing-ding?”

“The ball.”

“Yes, my source tells me that he will be there. Though his purpose in going tonight will not be to steal anything.”

Mandy wondered if something was getting lost in translation. “Not steal anything,” she repeated for the sake of clarity. Brother Simon nodded. “His plan is to, how you say, fence the merchandise.”

“The merchandise being the Sunburst Diamond.”

Brother Simon nodded again and took another sip of champagne.

“So, let me get this straight: The One-Eyed Cat is going to fence the Sunburst Diamond right in the middle of Toot Monroe’s Black and White Ball.”

“Exactly, mademoiselle, exactly.”

“But, of all places, why here — on a night like this?” Mandy whispered to Brother Simon as the two of them hung back from the other guests who were now waiting in the palatial marble and mirrored lobby for the next elevator up to the penthouse. “I mean, look around, there are cops and security people everywhere — we just went through a metal detector, for God’s sake. He’d have to be crazy to show up here tonight.”

Brother Simon stood on his tiptoes and whispered back into her ear: “No, mademoiselle, not crazy — inspired. This ball is the safest place in all of New York City tonight. There will be no danger of repeating what happened in the park yesterday. No Russian mob assassins will be lurking behind the caviar tray. You can be sure of that.”

But Mandy remained unconvinced: It all seemed so fantastic.

While they were going up in the elevator she whispered to Brother Simon: “Have you ever met Monsarrat?”

“No, he’s always managed to stay one step ahead of me. The last time I saw him, or rather glimpsed him, he was going over the railing of a hotel suite’s balcony in Paris, with his pockets full of Lady Jerland’s jewels.”

Mandy looked at him. “But you’ll still be able to recognize him — I mean, pick him out of the crowd tonight.”

Brother Simon smiled. “Ah, all cats look alike at night, but remember, this one wears an eyepatch.”

“Yes, I saw those mug shots of him from the Spanish prison: a rather ordinary-looking man, with dark thinning hair and a grubby little moustache. Sort of disappointing. Not exactly the picture of the dashing English gentleman thief that I would have imagined. Aside from the eyepatch, there wasn’t really much to look at.”

Now Brother Simon gave her a wink and said: “Ce n’est pas ce que vous regardez, mais ce que vous voyez.”

“Translation?”

“Mademoiselle, it’s not what you look at, but what you see.”

The elevator came to a stop and everyone piled out and followed a waiting servant down a long red-carpeted hallway leading to the main ballroom. Mandy could hear music playing as the guests before her began to pass through the wide-open, illuminated doorway.

Half to herself she whispered: “What’s the name of that song?” She remembered it from her childhood; her grandmother used to play it on the piano. But now she couldn’t remember the title. Brother Simon slid his arm through hers, making an odd couple approaching the threshold of the doorway, and said: “Cole Porter — ‘Anything Goes’!”

As they passed into the ballroom, the lights from the overhead chandeliers reflecting on the gold silk that lined the walls momentarily dazzled Mandy and she blinked as though she had just come in from the dark. All at once she felt someone take her hand and put something in it. Mandy stared down at what was in her hand with astonishment: It was a white silk eyepatch, complete with an elastic band to go around the head. She looked at Brother Simon, standing next to her, and saw a servant handing him a black silk eyepatch. “Mon Dieu,” he said, speaking to the servant. “What is this?”

“An eyepatch, sir. All of the guests will be wearing them. In honor of Mr. Monroe and the publication of his new book, An Eye for an Eye.” Mandy and Brother Simon looked at each other, then around the ballroom, and saw that indeed all of the guests, both men and women, were sporting the same eyewear. Mandy shook her head. “They’ve got to be kidding.”

The bespectacled Brother Simon now fumbled with his eyepatch and said with a sigh: “When in Rome, mademoiselle...”

“Brother Simon and Ms. Mandy McHenry,” the announcer’s voice boomed as the two of them approached the receiving line, which was headed up by the man of the hour, Toot Monroe. He was an imposing figure: a tall white-haired bird who looked like a double for the old movie actor Burt Lancaster. That is, if Burt Lancaster had worn an eyepatch. Toot Monroe liked to tell people that he’d lost his eye and his virginity at the same time, at the age of sixteen, in a bawdy house in Baton Rouge, to a three-hundred-pound woman by the name of Miss Petula — who was famous for, among many other things, having very long, sharp nails.

Next to Toot Monroe stood his current wife, Rusty, thirty years his junior, a petite but top-heavy girl with abundant red hair. And next to her stood, surprisingly (or at least to Mandy it was a surprise), none other than Dahlia Manning.

After exchanging brief pleasantries with Toot Monroe and Rusty, Mandy shuffled over a step and faced Dahlia Manning and looked at her now eye to eye and patch to patch. If Dahlia had any idea that Mandy was the one who had shot and killed the man responsible for her husband’s death, a little over twenty-four hours ago, she showed no sign of it. Instead, she simply nodded and smiled and said something in a voice so low only dolphins could have heard it.

Mandy, moving on, glanced over her shoulder as Brother Simon went down the line to be greeted, in his turn, by Dahlia Manning. She reached out and took Brother Simon’s hand in hers while leaning down and saying something in his ear. Brother Simon smiled, as he said something in return, then kissed her hand. Watching this unfold, Mandy began to wonder just how well those two really knew each other and what exactly was going on here.

The steady flow of guests arriving had pushed Mandy down through the ballroom toward a large buffet table, where Brother Simon caught up with her. “You and Dahlia Manning seem awfully chummy,” she said.

Brother Simon looked at her. “Why not? We’ve known each other for many years. As a matter of fact, I knew her father, the late Sir Monte Willingham. He was a well-known, highly respected financier and philanthropist — also, he was a confidence man, and a very good one at that.”

“Not exactly the grieving widow, is she? Although she is wearing black.”

“La dolce vita, mademoiselle, la dolce vita—”

Brother Simon suddenly fell silent and threw his head back. In a low hoarse whisper, he said: “He is here.” Mandy looked at him questioningly as he rushed past her over to the buffet table. There he stood, seemingly immobilized, looking down at one of the large food trays. Mandy followed his gaze down to a white and yellow mountain of gourmet egg salad that had at its peak, planted like a flag, an extinguished cigarette.

“Yuck,” Mandy said. “Who in the world would put their cigarette out in the egg salad?”

“Monsarrat.”

“What makes you think he did it?”

Brother Simon reached over and plucked the offending butt out of the egg salad and said: “Because, mademoiselle, he hates eggs — with a deep and abiding passion, he hates eggs.”

For a moment Mandy thought he was joking, but then she realized the little man was quite serious. As if to drive home the point, after closely examining the remains of the cigarette in his hand, he added: “And this, of course, is his brand, very rare. Turkish.”

A number of guests were approaching the buffet table and Brother Simon and Mandy moved cautiously away. The party was in full swing now, with the orchestra playing disco music as couples, all eyepatched and dressed in black and white, gyrated about the dance floor, while other guests stood around and watched with determined enthusiasm. Trays carrying glasses of champagne disappeared as quickly as they appeared. Voices were growing louder, the laughter more raucous-sounding. The temperature inside the ballroom was definitely going up.

Mandy, elbowing her way through the crowd, saw Brother Simon moving ahead of her past the edge of the dance floor. She believed, after the incident with the cigarette, that The One-Eyed Cat was indeed at the ball — which meant, reasonably enough, that one of the otherwise respectable-looking guests had to be the fence. She hurried to keep up with the little man, his legs moving him fast across the spacious ballroom over to the French doors that led out to a garden terrace. A small hanging sign that read No Admittance, he quickly got rid of. Just as quickly, he jimmied the door’s lock open. Over his shoulder Brother Simon then said: “Are you ready, mademoiselle?”

Mandy looked at him and at that moment she could feel her heart beating faster. Suddenly, she could see herself marching into Chip’s office with the Sunburst Diamond and plunking it right down on his desk. Suddenly, she could see herself getting a promotion and a bonus, with old man Dodge himself shaking her hand and congratulating her. Suddenly, she could see herself going up to the boys in Legal and telling them to go suck an egg. Drawing in a breath at all that, Mandy nodded.

Brother Simon pushed open the French doors and moved quickly out onto the garden terrace. Mandy followed and was greeted by the October night air sending a chill right down her spine — her face and bare shoulders hot and moist from the crowded ballroom.

The garden was large and elaborate, in the style of a Tudor garden, with its archways and darkened corners. She watched as Brother Simon, just ahead of her, paused and looked up at the moon hanging low and wide along a horizon of buildings and bridges and blinking lights. And she too looked up at it — for in all of her thirty-four years she had never seen such a moon. It was as though you could reach out and touch it; it seemed that close.

Then something happened to her. While looking up at that moon, in the stillness and chilled air of the garden oasis, with the sweet scent of flowers and earth all round, Mandy had a kind of frozen moment: She suddenly felt herself transfixed, or moonstruck, by an exquisite sense of wonder — a feeling of rapture that totally eclipsed all thoughts about the Sunburst Diamond and promotions and handshakes and the boys in Legal.

And in the next instant, still looking rapturously up at that moon, she could think of only one thing: She wished she were in love.

“The moon’s an arrant thief, and her pale fire she snatches from the sun.”

The Bard’s words, coming from behind, spoken in a posh British male voice, startled her. She turned and saw the tall figure of a man in a tuxedo who was standing with his face in the shadow of an archway. “I’m sorry,” he said, coming forward now into the moonlight and holding two glasses of champagne. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, you didn’t startle me,” she lied. She spoke softly, for her heart was in her throat.

The tall man smiled as he handed her one of the glasses of champagne and she looked at him closely now in the moonlight: He was the very picture of the dashing English gentleman thief, right down to the rakish moustache and dimple in his chin; his dark hair appeared thick and full and, of course, there was the eye-patch. Truly, she thought, that Spanish prison mug shot had not done him justice. And with that thought, she remembered Brother Simon.

She turned and saw him gazing at the two of them with a melancholy look on his owlish little face, as if for a moment he was an unwanted intruder upon an attractive couple’s moonlight assignation. But then, with an abrupt squaring of his little shoulders, he moved closer and, looking straight up into the good eye of the tall man, said: “Monsieur Monsarrat — finally we meet.” There was a moment of silence while the tall man stood tensely poised with the glass of champagne in his hand, the rim of the glass glinting in the moonlight as he raised it to his lips and took a long sip, perhaps deliberating if he should deny the truth of his identity or brazenly own up to it.

He was saved from answering, however, by a booming voice saying: “What the hell is going on out here? In case you folks didn’t all know, the party is inside!”

Mandy turned her head and saw Toot Monroe approaching. In his hand he was carrying a medium-size duffel bag. “I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but the garden is strictly off limits tonight. I’m in the process of having some work done out here and I don’t want anybody to see it until it’s finished. You know how it is with us artistic types,” he said, smiling at Mandy and Brother Simon. “Now why don’t you mosey on back inside and enjoy the party?”

Brother Simon looked at Toot Monroe. “Tell me, will Monsieur Monsarrat be rejoining the party with us, or do you and he have other plans?”

“Oh, you mean this fella right here? His name isn’t Monsarrat, it’s Jack Allen. He’s my gardening expert...”

“No, he is Jack Monsarrat. The One-Eyed Cat. And in his possession he holds the Sunburst Diamond.” Brother Simon paused and looked pointedly at the duffel bag Toot Monroe had in his hand, then said: “And apparently you are the one who plans on buying it.”

The smile on Toot Monroe’s face had vanished. “So what are you, a cop? You’re an awfully little fellow to be a cop. Hell, boy, you ain’t no bigger than Toulouse-Lautrec.”

“No, monsieur, I am not a cop. Or Toulouse-Lautrec. All I am is the proverbial flea in your ear — telling you that the receiving of stolen goods is a serious crime, and not something for the dilettante to indulge in. Consider what you are doing. It is not too late to walk away.”

Toot Monroe reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a gun.

“I never walked away from anything in my life, boy, and I’m not about to start now.”

Monsarrat tossed his now empty champagne glass over his shoulder, and said sharply: “Don’t be an ass. Put that away before somebody gets hurt.”

“I don’t need any advice from you, slick — all I need from you is that diamond. Hand it over.” For a moment, there was a heavy silence between the two men. During that silence Mandy brushed the side of her thigh with her right hand and felt, under her dress, the tiny, nonmetallic aerosol of mace that she had secured in her garter. And while its presence wasn’t as reassuring as that of an automatic, she still took solace knowing it was there.

Now Toot Monroe said: “I told you to hand over the diamond. I’m not going to say it again.”

“I don’t like people pointing guns at me. That’s not the way I do business.”

“Would you prefer a bullet in the head?”

“In front of two witnesses?”

“There’s plenty of bullets in the gun.”

“Steady on, mate, don’t go mental on me.”

Monsarrat gestured pointedly with his hand before reaching under his tuxedo jacket into his shirt pocket and drawing out a small black box. Then, arching an eyebrow, he opened it: An object, about the size of a silver dollar but more in the shape of a teardrop, flashed sharply in the moonlight. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” he said to Mandy and Brother Simon. “Originally, in India, over a century ago, it was known as ‘The Teardrop of the Sun,’ but through the years the name morphed into what we now call it: the Sunburst Diamond.”

Mandy and Brother Simon didn’t say anything. They just watched while Toot Monroe let the duffel bag fall to the ground by his side and reached out with a greedy hand.

“Gimme,” he said, taking hold of the box with its glittering prize. “Call it whatever you want — it’s mine now.” And those words were no sooner out of his mouth than suddenly he went down on the ground and stayed there, unconscious, his head and shoulders covered with earth and clay and flowers. Mandy and Brother Simon exchanged surprised looks: A flower pot had come hurtling, like a meteorite, out of the night and landed squarely on Toot Monroe’s head.

Monsarrat bent down and retrieved the glittering stone, closing the lid of the box and, at the same time, looking up and meeting Mandy’s watching eyes with a sardonic grin as he slipped the box back into his shirt pocket. Then he picked up the gun and the duffel bag from the ground and straightened himself, his gaze now meeting Brother Simon’s. For a moment the two men looked at each other measuredly, until both turned their heads at the sound of footsteps coming out of the darkness. High-heeled footsteps, sounding distinct on the garden terrace’s granite floor.

From behind a wall lined with redwood tubs and planters, Dahlia Manning appeared, brushing off her hands, as though she had just finished doing a bit of gardening.

She came forward and Monsarrat greeted her with a ceremonious kiss on each cheek. Then he dutifully handed the duffel bag over to her. In return, she gave him a big hug, and said something to him that neither Mandy nor Brother Simon could overhear, even though both of them were straining their ears to listen. Finally, after trilling her fingers in general farewell, she turned and disappeared back behind the wall with the sound of her high-heeled footsteps fading into the darkness.

Monsarrat looked over at Mandy and Brother Simon. “Well, I guess the time has come.” He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and glanced at his watch. “My ride should be along any moment.” Acting on her own initiative, Mandy strode up to Monsarrat and gave him a long slow look. Returning her gaze, he said: “Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.”

She smiled. All she had to do now was reach down and pull out the mace and spray him. Simple. Instead, she leaned into him and raised her chin, saying: “I couldn’t agree more.” She felt his lips on hers and she kissed him — really kissed him. And she was, for a brief moment, all moonlight and sensation. In the next instant, though, like a true daughter of the game, she composed herself and gently slipped her hand inside his tuxedo jacket and slowly drew the small black box out of his shirt pocket and palmed it.

What happened next, happened quickly: Mandy felt herself being seized around the neck from behind as a hot breath torched her ear with a menacing Southern drawl: “Don’t you move, honey. I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”

Ignoring the threat, Mandy pushed backwards and, simultaneously, firmly brought her high-heel down on her assailant’s foot. Now the voice at her ear let out a loud yell and she felt the grip around her neck loosen: She broke free and spun around with the mace in her other hand and gave Toot Monroe three quick sprays right in his big face. The big man dropped down to the ground again, as surely as if he’d been hit by yet another flower pot.

“Well done. You’re not only beautiful but dangerous,” Monsarrat said. “And that’s an irresistible combination. Now, we don’t have much time, so please listen and consider what I’m going to say—”

As he spoke, a roaring sound came from above. Mandy looked up at the clear, moonlit night sky and saw a helicopter approaching. Over the noise, he shouted to her: “Come fly with me.” Mandy, though surprised by this new turn of events, said nothing — for in the midst of all this excitement, she suddenly realized that Brother Simon was nowhere to be seen and she didn’t know what to think: Had he gone after Dahlia? Could they have been working together? Was she the source of his information?

The helicopter was hovering right over them now, with a blur of rotating blades and the wind from those blades whipping up fallen leaves and petals off the terrace floor and blowing them through the moonlit night sky like so much confetti. Mandy put her hand up to her hair ruffling away in the wind and caught sight of a rope ladder being dropped down from the helicopter. She watched as Monsarrat reached out for the ladder — stepping over Toot Monroe’s prostrate form — and took hold of it with both hands and steadied it. Then, looking over at her, he shouted through the noise of the helicopter:

“It’s a beautiful, exciting world out there: Come see it with me.”

“What about Dahlia?”

“That’s over. It’s been over for a while.”

“Then why did she have her husband killed?”

“You’re sharp — but this time you’re a little off. She didn’t order the hit. Anton himself ordered it. You see, he was dying of cancer and Parkinson’s disease and he couldn’t face it. Poor Anton. Perhaps, God willing, he’s finally found some peace.”

From above, a voice piped out: “Hey, we don’t have all night here. On or off?”

Monsarrat looked up at the helicopter and signaled with his hand. Then, to Mandy, he spoke loudly: “Every now and then in life you meet a person and you know how great it could be with them — just like that, you know it.”

“That duffel bag was filled with money. Why did you let Dahlia take it?”

“A gift to say goodbye. And besides, as it turns out, I still have the diamond.”

But a startled look crossed his face when he reached his hand beneath his jacket and felt inside his shirt pocket. And then, that look turning into an appreciative grin: “Oh, you are sharp.”

Mandy returned his grin and offered up a view of the little black box in the outstretched palm of her hand. Now the voice from above piped out — “Last call” — and the rope ladder began to rise upwards. Monsarrat climbed on just in time and rose off the terrace and up into the confetti-filled air. Looking down, he called out: “Another time, luv, another time.” Once he was safely on board, the helicopter climbed quickly higher up into the night sky, then it veered off, transiting the moon.

Left alone with the fallen Toot Monroe, as the windblown leaves and petals settled about on the terrace floor, Mandy couldn’t help but wonder what would’ve happened if for once in her life she had followed her heart instead of her head...

“You made the right decision, mademoiselle.”

She looked around and saw Brother Simon standing behind her like a shadow.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that you made the right decision — even if at the moment, perhaps, it doesn’t feel that way.”

Ignoring that, Mandy said: “Where exactly did you disappear to?”

“You seemed to have the situation under control, so I took a moment to go alert the authorities. And to have a few parting words with Dahlia.”

“What about? That bag full of money?”

“Partly. But unfortunately for Dahlia, there’s more torn-up newspaper in that bag than money.”

“So Monroe was double-crossing them.”

“Yes, or at least he was trying. Such an amateur.” Brother Simon paused, looking down at the still-inert figure of the man in question. “He should stick to his books.”

Mandy held out the little black box in her hand and removed the glittering stone from within. “What about this?”

“Of course, you must now realize that’s a fake.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured it was a little too easy, but still, for a moment there I had hoped...”

“Most professionals have copies made up of whatever it is they’re going to fence or sell just in case they find themselves in an awkward position, be it with the police or an unscrupulous buyer. It’s an old trick.”

“So when Monroe pulled out the gun, Monsarrat pulled out the fake diamond.”

“Exactly, mademoiselle, exactly.”

“Which means he also had the real Sunburst Diamond on him.”

“Yes, I would think so.”

“You mean we were that close to it—” Mandy felt something brushing her knee; she looked down and saw Toot Monroe pushing himself up into a sitting position, looking around groggily, and then fixing his gaze on the glittering stone in her hand. “Hey, that’s mine. I want it.”

Mandy put the stone back in the box and dropped the thing down into the big man’s lap. “Enjoy,” she said. Looking back at Brother Simon, she noticed that he had removed his eyepatch. She quickly did the same. He smiled at her. “Perhaps, mademoiselle, I was wrong: It’s not just what you see, but how you see it.”

She paused a moment, rubbing her eye as it grew accustomed to the light. Then she glanced up at the moon, which appeared smaller and farther away now than before... far, far out of reach.

Yes, Mandy thought, but was that all there was to it: a matter of perspective? She sighed dreamily: “I thought tonight history was to be made.”

“Ah, you are disappointed in me.”

“No, I’m disappointed in myself. I should have maced him — Monsarrat — when I had the chance. What was I thinking?”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. He does have a certain quality that is quite disarming. I’m just glad that you didn’t...” His voice trailed off and the two of them looked at each other in the moonlight. Then he added: “The authorities will be covering all of the heliports in the area.”

“What if he doesn’t land at a heliport?”

Brother Simon drew in a breath. “Well, then the hunt continues—”

“Not for me — at least not tonight. This huntress is going home.”

“But of course; the hour is late,” he said, with a chivalrous bow. “You will permit me to see you home, mademoiselle?”

Mandy smiled and touched the little man’s shoulder, brushing away a phantom piece of lint, and said, “Why not? After all, it’s not like I don’t trust you.”