Cat and Mouse Read Free

protest against the absurdity of his demanding a tie even for lunch (in California?) I put on a Mickey Mouse tie that one of my Little Leaguers had brought back for me after his visit to Disneyland.
    Pierre’s is in Montevista, a suburb of San Valdesto. I was about to pull into a parking space near the entrance when I saw an old gray two-door Plymouth sedan at the far end of the lot. I drove down and parked in the vacant space next to it.
    Neither rear fender was crumpled, but the left one could have been hammered out and repainted. The paint in one spot on it seemed to be newer. It was obviously smoother.
    The right side door was not locked. I opened it and reached into the car, opened the glove compartment, and took out the registration slip. I was reading it when a shrill voice from the other end of the lot called, “Get away from that car, you damned thief!”
    A pair of stout and middle-aged women were bearing down on me from the restaurant entrance. I replaced the slip, closed the car door, and put on my winningest smile.
    When they came within range, I said, “I apologize, ma’am. I thought it was my wife’s car. We’ve been…well, I don’t want to go into that. I assure you I am not a thief. I am meeting a police officer here for lunch. He will be glad to confirm what I told you.”
    She glared at me. “A likely story! We’re not waiting for anybody. Get out of here! Go back where you came from.”
    “Sorry,” I said with hauteur, “but I have a reservation for lunch, and my officer friend will soon be here to meet me.” I nodded a curt good-bye and walked away.
    Bernie was waiting for me under the canvas canopy in front of the restaurant door when I got there. He apparently had not witnessed the squalid scene and I didn’t see any reason to mention it. He looked at my tie, sadly shook his head, and said nothing.
    Pierre met us at the door, sadly shook his head and looked at Bernie. “Maybe a corner table where nobody will notice him?” Bernie suggested.
    “In which case,” I said, “Lieutenant Vogel will pick up the tab.”
    “This way, gentlemen,” Pierre said. He led us to a table where we had a view of the town below and the sea beyond it.
    Bernie ordered a dry martini, I a beaker of draft Einlicher.
    Pierre said, “I owe you a lot, Mr. Callahan, for introducing me to that beer. Today, I will instruct my chef to broil you the finest hamburger you have ever tasted.”
    “Thank you.” Ī said.
    “And don’t forget his ketchup,” Bernie said. “I’ll order later.”
    Pierre smiled and left. Bernie said, “What’s this about the cat on your lawn? McClune mentioned it.”
    I gave him the sordid story.
    “A kid, maybe?” he asked. “They’ve had a lot of juvenile burglaries in Montevista. And the ones they caught weren’t poor kids. But papa doesn’t give them a big enough allowance to pay for their dope.”
    “I doubt if this was a kid.” I told him about the man who had asked about me at Heinie’s.
    He frowned. “I don’t see the connection.”
    “Neither do I, yet.” I shrugged. “You know me. I work on instinct.”
    “Don’t downgrade it,” he told me. “I’ve seen it at work. Have you been threatened before by people you put away?”
    “A couple of times. Have you?”
    He nodded. “Oh, yes! And they included some vicious remarks about my heritage.”
    When we had finished our drinks, Bernie ordered something in French I can’t spell and the waiter assured me I was in for a delicious surprise, compliments of Pierre. Way down deep in his devious soul I have the feeling that Pierre likes me and forgives all big tippers.
    The hamburger the waiter brought me was large and pristine. He brought the ketchup along to make it less pristine. Bernie’s plate made me wonder if it was possible Pierre’s septic tank had overflown again. All sauce, no chow, French cuisine.
    I am not a complete lout. I tried the hamburger without the ketchup. Delicious! I made the thought