Page 95 - Labelle Gramercy, Detective

Cat’s Paw

picked me: indefatigability, single-mindedness, a terrier-like
indomitable spirit. Not bad for a rationalization, eh? Fact was, it was
a dirty job and I hated it. Ruth could have volunteered to help; I
mean, if I did find the damned thing she would share in the putative
profits from it, or at least Mr. Mallard had led her to believe as much.
I would get nothing more than a pat on the head—good doggy!—
and go back in the kennel waiting for a bone to be tossed my way.
And so my brain kept batting the situation back and forth between
self-admiration and the growing suspicion that I had been sent on a
fool’s errand.
“I’ve got to run some errands,” said Ruth, suddenly at my elbow.
Her perfume was suffocating in that cramped passage. “Can you
come back later?”
“I guess so. Gosh, it’s almost noon. Time really flies when you’re
on a treasure hunt.”
“Very funny. I can give you an hour or so at five o’clock this
afternoon.”
“Hmm. That’s kind of late...”
“Or you can wait until next week. I won’t be able to make it back
here until then.”
I could see Fletcher Mallard’s face when I told him no progress
could be made until God knows when. “Okay, okay. Five o’clock
sharp.” I found my jacket and walked out into the noonday sun, Ruth
locking up and setting alarms behind me. Lunch seemed like a good
idea, so I drove back downtown via my favorite Mexican restaurant
for a bubbling plate of refried beans, rice and tamales. Following this
excellent repast, I sat back and picked my teeth, an esoteric
meditation technique I had mastered at an early age. Cornish Rock
Insurance and its interest in the affairs of Art Lesley returned to my
placid consciousness for further ruminative mastication. Why would
a policyholder be writing a polite refusal to a highly-placed executive?
Were they trying to finesse him out of his life insurance? That made
no sense.
Then I had a moment of blazing self-enlightenment: a good-sized
dollop of salsa had slipped off a tortilla chip onto my shirt. I dipped a
paper napkin into the dregs of my ice water and dabbed in vain at the
prominent splotch. No help at all. How could I show up at the
office—or even back at the Lesley Memorial Rubbish Heap—in a

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