He rang the bell, waited, hoped no one was there-wrong, here was someone opening the door: a very small woman, looking puzzled, who he assumed was the housekeeper.

“Mrs. Tobias? My name is Melrose Pierce.” He must have been thinking of Mildred. “I’ve come for Mr. Johnson’s cat?”

Mrs. Tobias went from puzzled to suspicious. “F’r his cat? What? Come for Schrödinger? What on earth for? Don’t tell me-” She flapped her hand at him. “Take her and good riddance. There she sits. I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

Melrose stared after her. That was it? That was all? Pies in the oven? And he’d been prepared to be extremely clever. Well, he hadn’t needed his hat after all. He could have forced his way in with a mask and a gun and she’d still have said, “Take the silver; I’ve got my pies in the oven.”

There she sat: Morris, looking black and blameless.

And beside her a dog that surely must be the incomparable Mungo. “It’s an honor,” said Melrose, bowing.

Do I know you? thought Mungo. This one did look a little familiar. He was wearing a funny hat with a bill, like a duckbill. And why was he putting Morris in that carrier? Why didn’t Mrs. Tobias object? But then Mrs. Tobias thought the cat was Schrödinger. Now he was closing the flaps and all Mungo could see was Morris’s eye. And now this Daffy Duck was carrying Morris to the door.

Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. The Duckbill opened the door and went out, with Mungo right behind him before the door closed. Mungo was right on the Duck’s heels. Down the steps, stealthily. How stealthy could you be in bright sunlight on marble steps? But the Duck didn’t notice.

The driver’s side of the car was against the curb. The Duck opened the door, started to slide in the box, changed his mind, opened the rear door, and leaned in with the box-

Mungo was in the front seat in a split second.

– back out the rear door, into the front door.

Mungo was over the front seat into the back just as the Duck slid himself into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and started the car.

Were they all completely blind, these people? A whole animal sanctuary, a whole Noah’s Ark of animals, could have followed the Duck down those steps and he’d never have seen them. Are humans all so self-entranced they just don’t see what’s going on around them?

Although this diatribe was not aimed at Morris, Morris answered: Yes.

Mungo was up now on the backseat beside the box, looking at Morris’s eye. Even though he couldn’t see the rest of her through the holes, he knew Morris was sitting with her paws clapped to her chest.

Am I being kidnapped again? Wasn’t once enough? asked Morris.

You’d think so.

But maybe we’re going home.

Home. Mungo mused. If Hansel and Gretel had been forced to depend on humans to get them home, they’d have had to drop ordnance maps all over the woods.

Mungo raised up and looked out the window. He thought he saw Westminster. They were still in London.

He lay down. Morris’s eye wasn’t there anymore at the hole. Morris was asleep.

Mungo sighed. All of these people, all over the place. Why’s it always down to me?

51

Languidly, Harry smoked. No, he didn’t want his solicitor. He hadn’t done anything except borrow a cat for a few days.

“To be precise,” said Jenkins, sitting across the table from him, “the word is ‘kidnapped.’ Or ‘stolen.’ That’s pretty much the way we look at it, and it’s illegal, sir. That dog of yours, Ringo? How would you like it-”

Ringo. Jury laughed silently.

“Mun-go,” said Harry. “How would I like it if somebody kidnapped Mungo? Nobody could. Mungo’s too smart. I wouldn’t have a dog around who wasn’t.”

Jury raised his eyes heavenward. He was leaning against the wall, letting Jenkins take care of Harry.

“If we could go back to the Monday night, Mr. Johnson. You were in Chesham? But you’ve no one to substantiate that story?”

“That’s right. And this is repetitious. That certainly isn’t enough to charge me. You have no evidence that I even knew this woman, Debra whatever-”

“Deirdre Small.”

“-so you’d hardly have any evidence to show I killed her.”

“Let’s go back to the first victim, Mariah Cox, or Stacy Storm, as she called herself. She was also on her way to that party at the Rexroths’. The one you attended.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “And?”

“A coincidence, is that?”

“Well, it must be, since I never met this Storm woman. Never even saw her.”

Jury shoved himself away from the wall and moved over to the table. He sat down on one corner. “You know what bothers me about this, Harry?”

Harry checked the lit end of his cigar, blew on it softly. “What?”

“You don’t go to parties.”

Harry looked completely surprised.

Jury smiled.

“Are you trying to say that I wasn’t there?”

“Oh, you were there all right. What I’m wondering is why you were there. Do you know a man named Simon Santos?”

“Never heard of him.”

“He was Stacy’s date for that evening.”

Harry looked from Jury to Jenkins and back again. “Then why in hell have you dragged me in for questioning? It would seem he’s the one you want.”

“Unless, of course, you thought Stacy was your personal property and you didn’t much like her meeting Mr. Santos.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” said Harry. “You know me better than that.”

“I do?” said Jury, looking genuinely puzzled.

Jenkins said, “You didn’t know either one of these women?”

“Of course not.”

“You went to Chesham to return a cat-the one you’d taken. Why would you do that? Why not just keep it or get rid of it some way? Take it to a shelter.”

Jury thought Jenkins didn’t realize he was using reason to try to explain completely unreasonable behavior.

“Because I wanted the cat to reappear, to come back. I’ve told you, it was a joke. A joke on Superintendent Jury.”

“Yet Superintendent Jury doesn’t get it.”

“Oh, he gets it all right. He seems to be returning the favor.” Harry turned partway in his chair, not far enough that he could actually see Jury, just enough to let Jury know he was aware he was there.

Jury smiled, saying nothing.

“All right,” said Jenkins in a tone that suggested it was not “all right,” that it was indeed idiotic. “Perhaps someone did see you. A man with a cat carrier might be noticed.”

“No one saw me, Inspector. I took pains that no one would.”

Mention of the carrier reminded Jury to check his watch. It was by now nearly five, almost an hour since they’d left Harry’s house. Plant would be well away by now. Halfway to Chesham.

“Let’s talk about the second victim. Kate Banks. On the night she was murdered, you were at home?”

“Yes, again.”

“You were alone.”

Harry nodded. “Yes, as I said.”

“Are you familiar with the King’s Road Companions escort service? Or Smart Set or Valentine’s?”

Harry’s expression was contemptuous. “Inspector, I’ve never used an escort service in my life. Highly paid and well-organized prostitution.”

“Perhaps not all of them. King’s Road Companions claims to work just that way. Companionship, either alone or at social functions. No sex.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“I’m inclined to after talking with several of the women who work for it. It’s different from the escort services.”

Jury wondered if the difference was significant. Poor Kate. Her death moved him in a way the others’ hadn’t. Perhaps because she seemed such a good person.

Fifteen minutes later, he left Snow Hill after Jenkins said to him, “You know we can’t hold him much longer.”

“Try.” Jury thanked him and left.

Jury didn’t take off his coat so much as cast it off, aiming it in the general direction of the office coatrack. “Is it getting cold or am I getting old? You don’t really have to think about it, Wiggins. So where’s this photo?”