Murder on Show by Marian Babson Page B

account for everyone. He must have gone looking in every earth tray, until he found it in Pandora’s.
    â€˜I’m glad you called, Dave,’ I said hastily. ‘I meant to leave you a note, but I hadn’t anything to write on – you know how it is. I’m afraid I owe you the price of a trial size packet –’
    â€˜Stop clowning, Doug,’ he said, ‘this is serious. You’d better get back here to the Exhibition fast.’
    â€˜What’s the matter?’ Already, I was beginning to know that I’d soon wish it had been the pilfering he was worried about.
    â€˜That Security Guard,’ he said. ‘They’ve found him. The ambulance has just taken him away.’
    â€˜Ambulance?’
    â€˜Concussion, they think it is. They found him underneath those iron spiral stairs leading up to the Press Gallery. He must have fallen, maybe landed on his head, or hit it on the way down. There’s no telling how long he was lying there. He didn’t look too good. You’d better get back here right away. The Press are arriving, too. And the Chesne-Malvern bitch has blood in her eye.’
    â€˜Thanks, Dave,’ I said. ‘I’ll grab a taxi and come right now. And, Dave – thanks again.’
    â€˜Forget it,’ he said. ‘Anything for a pal.’
    We hung up simultaneously, and I dived for the door. My luck was in and I caught a taxi cruising up from Charing Cross Underground, on its way to try for a fare at the Main Line station. He was mollified when I gave him my destination. It was far enough away to be worth his while, after all.
    He set me down outside the Exhibition Hall. Anxious though I was to get inside and face the worst, a stray breeze blew the aromas from a mobile hamburger stand across my path and a sudden convulsion from my stomach reminded me that it had been a long time since it had entertained any food – fourteen hours, at least.
    I detoured just long enough to collect a hamburger and took a bite of it, intending to finish it inside. One bite – that’s all.
    Munching that mouthful, savouring it fully, I strolled into the Exhibition Hall and down the centre aisle where the Special Exhibits (I already thought of them as my cats) were installed.
    The Perfection Hosiery crew seemed to have disappeared. I noticed Helena Keswick sitting calmly in the corner of her booth and it seemed only courtesy to halt and pay my respects to Mother Brown again.
    â€˜Everything all right?’ I hailed Helena Keswick.
    â€˜Just fine.’ She rose and came towards me. ‘They’ve taken all the shots they wanted of Mother Brown and the kittens – without taking them out of their pen. It was silly of me to worry, I suppose, but things seemed to be getting out of hand earlier.’
    â€˜Great!’ I leaned forward, both hands resting on the stall railing, to peer at the group in the miniature Empire bed. ‘I’m glad everything went well –’
    Mother Brown raised her head, nostrils twitching. She turned her head questingly, and zeroed in on the scent. She rose abruptly, tumbling protesting kittens in all directions, and stalked over to us.
    â€˜Hello, my beauty,’ I said, ‘how are you –?’
    A claw descended, hooking into the back of my hand. ‘Don’t move,’ Helena Keswick said quickly. ‘She doesn’t mean to hurt you. Cats don’t often scratch people. People scratch themselves. A cat’s claws are curved at the ends, so that they hook into their quarry. You scratch yourself when you pull away – the cat doesn’t scratch you. Just don’t struggle, and she’ll let go in a few seconds.’
    I froze. I had no choice but to take her word for it. Mother Brown glanced up at me quickly, sensing she had won without a fight. She brought her other front paw up and hooked the hamburger out of the bun in my nerveless grasp. Picking it up in her teeth,