“Be careful,” he said.

“Careful?”

“Well, I’ve got these women on my mind, I guess. Some man did for them.”

She brushed back her hair. “Well, it wasn’t Monty. Anyway, what makes you so sure it was a man? I know girls that’d kill for a pair of Christian Louboutins. ’Night.”

And she was out of his flat and clicking those four-inch heels down the steps while he was still pondering that last statement.

55

By the time Melrose got to Belgravia, day was night, or nearly. He sat-they sat, Melrose and the two cats-in his car, watching Harry Johnson’s house on the other side of the square. He had let one out of the carrier so they wouldn’t kill each other. What he wanted to do was simply take the one in the carrier around in back and shove her through a doggie door, if there was one.

Well, he could do the animal shelter bit again, but not if Harry Johnson was in the house.

Melrose pulled out his mobile and, fingering the scrap of paper from his wallet on which he’d scribbled it, punched in the number.

When the housekeeper answered-it must be she, for it sounded like the woman who’d opened the door before-he asked for Mr. Johnson. Oh, too bad, he wasn’t at home.

“No,” said Melrose, “no message. I’ll just ring him again. Thank you.” He flipped the mobile shut and turned around to have a look at Schrödinger, if it was. The second cat, looking equally annoyed, had stuffed herself under the seat. Mean eyes peered out.

The first cat, on whom he was betting his 50 percent chance of success, was not at all happy to see him. Every time he looked at her, she hissed. She despised him, which irritated Melrose to death, considering he was making this effort on her behalf.

He got out and opened the rear door and reached across the backseat for the carrier. This was done to the tune of numerous hisses. He put on his True Friends cap and dragged out the carrier. The cat hissed mightily.

“Put a sock in it,” he said, and slammed the door.

“Mrs… Toby, isn’t it?” Melrose raised his cap.

“Tobias, sir.” She looked down at the carrier. “Well, I’m happy to see Schrödinger’s not come to grief.”

No she wasn’t. She was frowning all over her face. Melrose said, “I feel rather awful about this mix-up.”

“Mix-up? I don’t understand.” Her arms crossed over her bosom, she was scratching at her elbows.

“I got the wrong address, the wrong Johnson. It was not Mr. Harry Johnson’s animal I was to collect, but a Mr. Howard Johnson’s. And he lives in Cadogan Square, not Belgravia. It’s so stupid; I was given the wrong information. At any rate, here’s your cat back. Now, can you assure me it is your cat?” If not, I’ve got another one in the car.

Mrs. Tobias bent down and got a hiss for her trouble. “Oh, that’s Schrödinger”-it came out “Shunger”-“nasty-tempered thing.”

“Yes, I’d have to agree with you there.” Melrose opened the carrier and the cat made straight for the bureau in the room across the hall.

“I guess she did miss them kittens.” Mrs. Tobias sighed.

Relieved of the one cat, he said, “I do apologize again.”

“Oh, never mind, sir. ’Long as the cat’s back before Mr. Johnson.” She opened the door for him and, after he passed through it, looked out and around. “But I do wonder… you didn’t happen to see a little dog about, did you?”

“Dog?”

This would come to tears, he just knew it.

56

Cigar was a West End club so cool and laid-back, you could walk right past it and never know it was there.

Which was what Jury did. He wondered if that wasn’t a great metaphor for most of what passed for life. Most of the time you could walk right past it.

Its brick facade, its small brass plaque (that no one would be able to see from more than three feet away), its little wrought-iron fence, and its un-uniformed doorman-unless the black turtleneck sweater, black wool jacket, black jeans, all of the black pretensions, were to be taken as a uniform-all of this made the place look helplessly hip.

The black-garbed gatekeeper didn’t do anything except smile slightly and nod. He wasn’t there to check credentials; he was only there to assure customers that this was Mayfair, WI, and Cigar was exclusive.

Inside, he thought about checking his coat with the blonde in the small gated enclosure but decided to keep it in case of the need for a quick getaway. He was a few minutes late, so unless Rosie Moss decided to keep him waiting, she’d be here.

The room put him in mind of last century’s London before the coal fires were damped down and the city was called “the Smoke.” The club meant its name. Through vistas of smoke, he looked the wide room over: the gorgeous brunette sitting at the bar, eyeing him; a tawny-haired woman at one of the roulette tables, where a villainous-looking croupier whipped the wheel around; two blondes, like paper cutouts, sitting close together, dripping a lot of jewelry.

His eye traveled back; he had missed her just as he had missed the club itself-but why wouldn’t he? She turned out to be the gorgeous brunette at the bar, smiling at him. The hair was all curls, no bunches; the candy stripes exchanged for a long black skirt, slit to the knee; black halter top; black fringed shawl; and jade green Christian Louboutin shoes on her feet, one of which she was swinging so that the shoe hung precariously from her toe. So this was Rosie Moss: Dark hair. Black dress. Red soles.

Killer looks.

“You didn’t recognize me.”

“You could say that.”

“I don’t always look twelve years old.”

“I can see that.”

Red-soled shoe now firmly on her foot, she pushed out the stool next door. “Here. Saved it for you. I had to turn a few guys away.”

“Half the male population of London, more likely.”

The barman was there in a blood red suede waistcoat. Jury looked at Rosie’s glass, questioning. She raised a fairly fresh martini. He ordered whiskey, then when the fellow waited, he realized he’d have to name it. This wasn’t Trevor, after all.

“Macallan?”

The barman nodded and drifted off to whatever crypt they aged the whiskey in.

Jury said, “Do you transform yourself this easily and often?”

She was plucking a cigarette from an ebony case and offering him the case. He refused for the thousandth heartbreaking time in three years.

“Who says it’s easy?”

“All right. I was merely observing your chameleonlike qualities.”

“I have other, even better qualities.”

Oh, hell, it was to be a night of double entendres. He wasn’t up to it. “Do you mind if I call you Rosie, instead of Adele?”

She shrugged, obviously disappointed that he couldn’t come up with a better question.

“How did you get into this work?”

“Took my clothes off.”

The barman was back with his whiskey. This, he could use. He drank off half of it. “And saw your future.”

“Pretty much.” Her smile was unpleasant, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. She sipped her martini. It was a strange color, probably one of those boutique martini mutants that were popular among drinkers who didn’t like martinis.

Jury took a chance. “You didn’t like her, did you?”

An artfully arched eyebrow went up. “You mean Stacy? I didn’t mind her; I hardly knew her. Why? I should be unconsolable now she’s dead? I should wrap myself in sackcloth and ashes? Throw myself into the Thames? Jump from the top of Nelson’s Column?”

Jury laughed. “No, but you seem to have given some thought to it.”

The pale look, the whiteness that had suddenly touched her cheekbones, now was swept away as if it were snow in the wind. It was a rather dramatic turn. Her next move was another.

Rose leaned into him, her hand on his wrist, the hand then traveling slowly up his arm. “This is supposed to be a bit of time together, a few drinks, a few laughs, a meal, and then who knows?”