Cat and Mouse Read Free Page A

vocal.
    “It’s probably gourmet-grade chopped filet,” Bernie informed me. “You’re lucky it’s on the house.” He took a sip of his wine; I took a sip of my second Einlicher. He said, “I told McClune I would alert the patrol boys in town about that gray Plymouth. I’m sure no kid in your area is driving one of those unless it’s a classic.”
    “It isn’t.”
    “Now, about the poker. Is Saturday night at my house okay with you?”
    “I guess. Unless Jan has other plans. How much money should I bring?”
    “Whatever you can afford. I can arrange transportation for you if you need it.”
    “No, thanks. It will be worth the trip just to see Ellie again. What is she doing these days?”
    Ellie is his wife. He shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s saving the whales or fighting that oil company that wants to drill off Omega Beach or writing nasty letters to our governor. That woman—”
    “Is a citizen,” I finished for him. “That’s getting to be an archaic word, isn’t it?”
    “Could you define it for me?”
    “Yes. It is a voter who quite often votes against his or her own self-interest.”
    He smiled. “Could you name one?”
    “It would be immodest of me. What do you want for dessert?”
    “I’ve cost you enough already,” he said. “Only coffee for me.”
    “You have just become a citizen,” I told him.
    My good friend and occasional adversary, Bernie Vogel. We are different breeds of cat but I admire him. He could have retired five years ago on the property in town his father had left him. But I am sure he felt it was his citizen’s duty to put the bad guys where they belong (in the can or under the sod) and to maintain an orderly world. As a student of history he should have realized that there hadn’t been an orderly world since the dawn of civilization.
    There was still a lot of afternoon left. I drove back and forth in the lower Main Street district on the off chance I might spot an old gray Plymouth two-door sedan with a crumpled left rear fender. The area was loaded with old cars and crumpled fenders but not one of them was a gray Plymouth two-door sedan. I went home.
    Mrs. Casey had brought in the mail. It was on the table in the front hall: one letter, two bills, and nine pieces of junk mail. I opened the letter and read it.
    Then I phoned Bernie. “You can forget Saturday night,” I told him. “I’ll be staying at home for a while. I just got a letter.”
    “What kind of letter?”
    “Seven words—‘The cat was first. Who is second?’”
    “Take it to McClune,” he said. “They’ve got a better lab up there and a much faster computerized fingerprint file.”
    “I’m not leaving the house.”
    “Okay. I’ll phone him and have him send a deputy to pick it up. Sit tight, buddy.”
    I phoned Corey’s office and he was there. “Are you still available for night work?” I asked him.
    “Hell, yes. A store?”
    “No. Our house. Did you get your gun permit?”
    “Six months ago. What in hell is going on, Brock?”
    “I’ll tell you when you get here. Take a nap now and come around ten o’clock. Bring the gun.”
    “Right!”
    I still had the second-hand gun I bought in Los Angeles when I opened the office. I had carried it on only two cases there. It was an ancient .38-caliber Colt Police Special. The gun was still in working order but the ammunition for it had been discarded years ago. I could get more; guns and ammunition are easy to buy in this country, too easy.
    I was going over my files again when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Casey got there the same time I did.
    The deputy said, “I came for the letter.”
    I handed it to him and he left. Mrs. Casey asked, “What’s happening, Mr. Callahan? The Criders’ maid told me this afternoon that somebody threw a dead cat on our lawn. And now this!”
    “Patience,” I said. “I’ll explain it all when Jan comes home.”
    “I don’t like it,” she said.
    “I don’t either, Mrs. Casey. Let’s wait for