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CHAPTER III
    People were beginning to settle their cats down for the night now. My watch said ten o’clock. Small blankets had appeared from suitcases and were being spread in the Exhibition pens. I counted three hot water bottles being carried to rooms to be filled from hot water taps. These were then placed under the blankets in the pens, even though the hotel boasted about its central heating.
    On the whole, the arrangements for the animals looked quite comfortable, not to say luxurious. But this was England, and such a state of affairs was only to be expected. Remarks from passing tourists in the lobby had given me an idea, though. An American magazine might just go for an article about it, if I shamelessly slanted it so that it might come into the Quaint Olde Englande category.
    I remembered seeing a not-too-uncomfortable-appearing couch in the Press Gallery overhanging the auditorium. It occurred to me that I might spend the night here myself. At best, I could get that extra freelance story out of it; at worst, Rose Chesne-Malvern would think that I was being a really zealous PRO. At least, that was what I thought then. Like a fool, I had no idea of what ‘the worst’ could really mean.
    I decided to reconnoitre the territory once more and make sure the couch was as free from lumps as it had seemed. (Not having an animal’s comfort to worry about, I was damned well going to be concerned about my own.) At a stall opposite the staircase, I was halted in my tracks by a vaguely familiar face peering out through the branches of an unidentifiable shrub.
    â€˜Hello, there,’ I said automatically. ‘Nice to see you again.’
    â€˜I say –’ the face broke into a broad public-relations smile and advanced a bit farther out of the bushes – ‘how truly spiffing to see you here!’
    Since he hadn’t thrown it at me in the first sentence, I gathered he couldn’t remember my name, either.
    â€˜I didn’t realize you were handling this Show.’ A body, on hands and knees, began to emerge behind the beaming face.
    â€˜That’s right.’ At least, he knew my occupation, so he was one ahead in the game, although I had a hazy notion he was probably in advertising. ‘This your stand?’
    â€˜It certainly is. Best new product on the market.’ He stood up and let me have it straight between the eyes. ‘Pussy No-Poo. The new, antiseptic, and guaranteed completely odourless once-a-week change for your litter box.’
    I’ll give him that, he said it with a straight face and without the trace of a wince or a smirk. I began to realize that this might be a boy to remember – if I could ever find out his name.
    â€˜Actually,’ he went on, ‘you could probably let it go for two weeks – but we don’t like to say so. It might come under extravagant claims and, cats varying, and the new Advertising Act being what it is ...’ He trailed off and shrugged.
    I nodded gravely. I was in no position to cast the first stone – we never could tell what our own next account might be. ‘And, is this –’ I gestured to the rather strange greeny-beige pseudo-soil, about two feet of which was embedding the shrubs and plants – ‘your ... er ... product?’
    He knew I hadn’t been able to bring myself to say it, but he forgave me. ‘Pussy No-Poo,’ he said unemphatically. ‘That’s right. That’s just what it is.’ He gestured to it, too, then seemed to realize that he was still holding his gardening equipment – a small three-pronged claw in one hand, and a trowel in the other. He shrugged apologetically, and dropped them beside a shovel and pitchfork already lying on the turf.
    â€˜They’ll be bringing out a similar product for dogs in the near future. We should be able to introduce it in time for Cruft’s.’
    â€˜Have they named that one yet?’
    â€˜The