Murder on Show by Marian Babson Page A

answer.
    Outside, there was a fine drizzling mist. As usual, the few taxis were either engaged, or driven by men too busy brooding over their own problems to spare a thought for a rapidly dampening pedestrian. I walked along the front of the Exhibition Hall wing of the hotel, thinking I might trap one when it stopped for the lights. After all, it was a technique that worked for hold-up men.
    Scanning the street as I walked along, I nearly tripped over the sprawling object on the pavement. A pair of beat-up wellingtons were protecting the lower legs from the rain, the stuffed torso was propped up against the building, as were the kids, trying to keep well back from the weather.
    â€˜Penny for the Guy, mister?’ one of the kids said, as I stopped to stare. ‘Penny for the Cat-Guy?’
    I pulled out a handful of change and glanced through it, while they eyed me hopefully. ‘That’s a pretty good idea.’ I nodded to their Guy. ‘In keeping with the Show, too.’
    â€˜He’s supposed to be.’ They glowed with pride, anxious to let me know it hadn’t happened by accident.
    â€˜Very good.’ It was, too. They’d done an unmistakable Puss-in-Boots. The usual old jeans and tattered sweater sufficed for the body, but the head was a stroke of genius. A black fake-fur cushion had been resewn, so that the corners became ears, and someone – probably the little girl – had embroidered slanting yellow eyes, and pink nose and mouth. Broom straws stuck out for whiskers.
    Of course, some mother was shortly going to be missing her black acrilan-fur throw cushion, and there might be some short sharp demands for an explanation when they returned home. But, right now, they were happy and contented.
    That was more than I could say. The more I looked at the dummy cat, the uneasier I felt. There was something ... reminiscent about it. Something about that black, furry face ...
    Ah, the hell with it! I shrugged off the mood. After last night, I could truly say I had been eating, drinking and sleeping cats for the past twenty-four hours. It was no wonder the sight of even a stuffed one was making my nerves quiver. It was still a very good Guy – somewhere at the back of my mind, the idea lurked that I might be able to do something with it. A couple of Press photos, perhaps. Or, possibly, invite the kids to take up a stand in the Hall itself, to add more colour to the scene.
    The kids were still waiting hopefully. No point explaining to them that my reflexes were slowed by a bad night. I pulled out a couple of tenpence pieces and gave them to the kid nearest me. What the hell, I could put it on the Expense Account.
    Just then, as though to prove the Lord loveth a cheerful giver, an empty taxi pulled up at the lights. I dived into it while the kids were still shouting thanks after me for my largesse.

CHAPTER V
    The office-flat near the top of the building in Villiers Street was deserted when I reached it. I was just as pleased. Gerry is apt to be a bit too buoyant and talkative in the morning. I just wanted a bit of silence and the opportunity to clear my mind of cats and cat-lovers.
    I made a good start with a hot shower. The place ran to a few such luxuries now, thanks to a generous – and, I might say, well-earned – bonus from our last job. I had shaved, dressed, and was browsing through a moderately well-stocked cupboard trying to decide what I fancied for breakfast when the telephone rang.
    Like a trusting fool, I ambled over and answered it. Some people never learn.
    â€˜Hello, Doug?’ The urgency in the voice alerted me. I wasn’t going to like what followed.
    â€˜Douglas Perkins, here,’ I admitted, waiting for the bad news.
    â€˜Thank heavens! Look, Doug, it’s Dave Prendergast here –’
    I felt an immediate rush of guilt. He’d discovered I’d filched that trial packet of Pussy No-Poo. Maybe the Agency had them counted and he had to