Page 107 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

small crowded room. A lady with a knife has to be respected; she
wouldn’t carry it if she were unwilling or unable to use it.
“All right. It’s not worth dying over, for God’s sake.”
She laughed, a harsh cackle. “I wonder if my late husband ever saw
it that way. Okay, put it down and keep your hands where I can see
them.”
I had retreated as far as I could go, into a corner of the room.
Stacks of books and magazines hemmed me in. I slowly bent forward
and laid the diskette in front of my feet. Triumph gleamed in her eyes
as she started forward to claim her prize.
It’s funny how in growing up you slowly adjust your movements to
the size of your body; adolescents are constantly banging into and
stumbling over things because their brains haven’t caught up to their
rapidly increasing height and shoe size. Adjusting to the current
fashion silhouette must be like going through a second adolescence
for women. What if bustles came back? How long would it take the
average female to relearn how to sit down on a bar stool?
Ruth Lesley had not taken into account the exaggerated contour of
her jacket’s shoulders, bolstered by bulging pads beneath, when she
went down into a crouch to snatch the precious platter of magnetic
manuscription. Her head was up, watching me, and both of her arms
were extended: she had no idea that her right shoulder, now
artificially protruding three inches beyond the end of her clavicle,
would clip the edge of a poorly-balanced six-foot tall pile of PC
magazines. The top half, about a two-year run of the advertising-
laden journal, came down on her noggin like a ton of bricks.
I saw my chance and I took it: grabbed the diskette and beat it out
of there. Mrs. Lesley? I had no idea what condition she was in.
Messing up her hair might have been a sufficient impediment to
pursuit, not to mention concussion. She had set the house alarms,
perhaps to let her know if I were trying to sneak out through the
garage, and I drove off to the accompaniment of my own screeching
tires and a very loud electronic siren. Old Mr. Knott’s was the last
face I saw on that street; he was out on the sidewalk, frustrated in an
attempt to cover his ears and shake his fists at the same time.
I stopped at the first phone booth and called the office. Fletcher
Mallard answered the phone himself. “I’ve got it!” I panted into the

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