Murder on Show Read Online Free PDF Page B

above.
    I ducked under the guard rail, circled to the front of the cage, and stared in at them abstractedly. They were both asleep, tumbled together like the more domestic variety of cat. Evidently one had been having a dream which had evoked the growl. He, or she, was twitching spasmodically. They were a pretty, graceful sight – so long as one was on the outside looking in.
    â€˜Aaah.’ It was almost another growl. I leaped again, but it was a low voice at my elbow. ‘They are beautiful in slumber, are they not?’
    I turned to face two tigerish eyes on a level with my own. ‘I can see that you have a soul.’ The eyes bored into mine intensely, and I resisted a nervous impulse to deny everything – especially that I had a soul.
    â€˜It is very important, I feel, for a veterinary surgeon to have a soul.’
    â€˜I suppose it is,’ I said, ‘but I happen to be the Public Relations Officer.’
    â€˜Aaah?’ Her eyes narrowed and there was a long silence while she assimilated this new information. She stared thoughtfully at her cats, leaving me free to stare at her.
    Her jet black hair was a heavy coil at the base of her neck. The dark face, with its slanted tawny eyes, and odd planes, might have belonged to an ancient Aztec or Inca princess. Or, more likely, High Priestess.
    There was quite a lot of the jungle about her, as well as about her cats. It was easy to imagine her gliding through a jungle with that silent, feline walk of hers, her colouring blending in with the foliage. In fact, she had. I began remembering newspaper stories from my childhood.
    In the drab post-war austerity years, she’d brightened many a front page. A remote revolution, with a fiery Latin beauty rallying the front lines to the charge, seemed a lot more glamorous than the late unpleasantness. There’d been a lot said – both for and against her. But once she’d caught the bullet she’d seemed to be seeking, everything was forgiven her – even by her enemies.
    Truce had been declared over her recumbent form and both sides had joined in fighting for her recovery. From a midnight operation in a guerrilla tent, she’d been flown to a private room in the best hospital in the capital city. Both factions met – fairly amicably – while visiting her.
    Taking advantage of the fact that she was too weak to put up much resistance, her Old Guard family had arranged a marriage with an older suitor, whose brilliant record in the Diplomatic Corps proved him a man exceptionally gifted at dealing with potentially explosive situations. Since the revolution had petered out by the time she’d recovered, Carlotta had surrendered to the inevitable with a minimum of fireworks. A grateful Government had promptly bestowed several medals upon the intrepid Señor Montera and posted the happy couple to the fleshpots of European Embassies, where the flashpoint of local insurgents was considered beyond Carlotta’s range. There had been periodic rumours, however, that she still kept trying.
    â€˜These cats –’ she turned to me abruptly – ‘you believe in them?’
    I hesitated, unsure of what sort of revolution I was being invited to sign on for. ‘Well,’ I said tentatively, opting for misunderstanding, ‘they’re here, aren’t they? I mean, it’s not a question of belief or disbelief, they’re definitely, corporeally, here. ’ I wondered if I’d be having this conversation if I hadn’t spent so long in the pub with Dave.
    â€˜Anyway,’ I said, weakening my position still further, ‘I don’t have to believe in them. All I have to do is get publicity for them.’
    â€˜Aaah!’ She stared at me, as though trying to my suitability as a pawn in whatever plot she was presently hatching. ‘Then, for you, the golden cat is the best.’
    For someone so hung about with gold and jewels, she sounded pretty