The Company of Cats, page 5
“Obviously not.” Annabel looked around again with increasing dissatisfaction. She had become accustomed to the friendly furry presence overseeing her efforts. There was a distinct feeling of something … someone … missing.
“Perhaps I’ll just go and …” Annabel allowed the thought to trail off as she stepped out of the room and looked down the corridor, and looked at all the closed doors leading off it.
“Sally … ?” she called softly. “Sally … ?”
“Now what is it?” Not softly enough. The Broomstick erupted from her office, as though she had just been waiting for an excuse to complain.
“Shhhh!” Annabel held up her hand, realizing as she did so that she was fuelling the woman’s fury. But she thought she had heard something … a faint answering yowl.
“Don’t you shush me, you—you—” Incandescent with rage, Dora Stringer stepped forward to block her path.
“Sally…?” Annabel sidestepped her neatly and continued down the passage, no longer bothering to keep her voice low. “Sally?” she called, pausing at each door and listening.
The plaintive yowl sounded closer. Help, it seemed to be saying. Get me out of here.
“Hang on, Sally,” Annabel said, “I’m coming.”
“Wretched animal! Always nosing about where it has no business to be. No! It can’t be in there! That’s Mr. Arbuthnot’s office. The creature is never allowed in there.”
Nevertheless, the yowling was coming from behind that door. More in deference to Mr. Arbuthnot’s sensibilities than to the Broomstick’s, Annabel tapped lightly on the door and waited for a moment before opening it.
“Mr. Arbuthnot can’t be in there.” The Broomstick changed her tune, no longer able to deny the noises on the other side of the door. “That miserable cat sneaked in—and heaven knows how much damage it’s done to those sensitive machines.” There was a note of subdued glee in her voice. “Now maybe he’ll listen to me and get rid of it.”
Annabel pushed the door open cautiously. She could hear Sally complaining bitterly somewhere in the office.
“Here, Sally … Come, Sally …” she called.
Sally answered vociferously, but remained where she was.
“She’s got herself caught behind one of the machines! Mr. Arbuthnot will be furious!” Furious herself, Dora Stringer shoved Annabel to one side and barged through the door.
“Come out of there, you filthy little beast! Where are—?”
The scream was so piercing and sudden that Annabel recoiled. It seemed to ricochet from every surface, freezing her in her tracks, momentarily cutting off all coherent thought, almost deafening her. Annabel blinked and tried to pull herself together.
The scream went on and on, increasing in intensity. It was never going to stop. Sally’s yowl rose in sympathy. The noise was unbearable.
One deals with hysteria by slapping the hysteric’s face. Annabel fought with temptation and reluctantly won. She settled for pushing past Dora Stringer expecting, at the very least, to see total devastation, the precious computers a heap of smouldering wreckage. She was prepared to believe that Sally was relatively unhurt; no seriously injured animal could produce that amount of sound.
At first glance, everything seemed all right, the computers in place and undamaged, the work station in order.
“ARTHUR! ARTHUR!” The scream turned into a name. Dora Stringer hurled herself forward, falling on her knees beside a body lying on the carpet. “ARTHUR!”
How had Annabel ever got the impression that the apartment was deserted? Suddenly people were converging on the scene from all directions, in varying degrees of distress and shock.
“ARTHUR!” Tara appeared in the doorway to the study and rushed to kneel at his other side. “What’s happened? Speak to me! Someone call an ambulance!”
Something about the way the eyes seemed to be glazing under the partially lowered lids made Annabel suspect that it was far too late for an ambulance. However, the formalities must be observed. She looked around for a telephone, but the only one available was connected to several other contraptions and she felt it would be safer not to disturb it.
Having crowded into the room, the others stood there frozen. Wystan stared down at his wealthy nephew’s body in apparent amazement. Zenia moved closer to Neville, who abstractedly put an arm around her shoulders, although his speculative attention was centred on Tara.
“But—But—” Luther was shaking his head in denial. “He had his annual medical checkup only a couple of weeks ago. There was nothing wrong with his heart. The doctor said he was in tip-top condition. For his age.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time the quacks got it wrong,” Wystan said. “I remember when old Buffy keeled over. Same thing—had got a clean bill of health only—”
“Wystan!” His wife glared at him. “Shut up!”
Everyone shut up except Sally. Her wail rose and fell, as though she were mourning the man who had been her best friend. She hovered over one out stretched hand, nuzzling it and howling afresh when it did not move to pat her.
“Get away, you stupid beast!” Dora Stringer snatched at Sally, caught her around the midriff and hurled her across the room.
“You wouldn’t dare do that if Arthur were still—” Tara broke off her protest, looking horrified at herself. She had nearly put the unthinkable into words and made it real.
“Do something!” Zenia demanded. “Don’t just stand there! Doesn’t anyone know the kiss of life?”
They looked at each other blankly. Luther’s face creased with distaste and he stepped back. Annabel was riven with guilt and inadequacy: why hadn’t she taken that first aid course she had promised herself last summer?
“I’ll try.” Kelda pushed forward and knelt by Arthur Arbuthnot’s side, her body blocking their view of what she was doing. Several hearty thumps suggested that she was attempting heart massage.
“For God’s sake, get a doctor!” Zenia snapped. “Call an ambulance!”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Wystan started forward, then halted, staring uneasily at the complicated telephone. He extended his hand, then drew it back, looking down anxiously at Arthur Arbuthnot, as though the fallen tycoon might suddenly rise up and smite him for his temerity. “Er … any ambulance?”
“Quite right—for once—Wystan.” Zenia was recovering from her initial shock. She stared at her supine nephew with a cold, calculating gaze. “Ring Hopewell International Medications. They can be depended upon to do their utmost for… a majority shareholder.”
For the owner of their company. Annabel made the translation effortlessly. The Hopewell chain of private hospitals and even more private nursing homes was well known to anyone on the fringes of the gossip trade. Their discretion—some might say secrecy—was legendary. Whenever an aged relative, neurotic spouse, stressed-out (whether from drink or drugs) celebrity needed to disappear for a time, one could be fairly certain that the doors of one of the HIM establishments had closed behind them and would not be opened until they were back on their feet and presentable to the public once again.
“Erm, yes.” Wystan still looked unhappy. “Erm, what’s their telephone number?”
“Never mind, I’ll call them myself. From downstairs.” Zenia started from the room. “I’ll want to have a word with them, in any case.” Wystan trailed after her, his face clearing now that someone else had taken the initiative. He did not look back.
Annabel desperately wanted to get to a telephone herself. It had just occurred to her that this was a first-class story for Xanthippe’s Diary, possibly one that would wind up on the front page—and bring a tidy bonus.
“Go away!” Sally had begun creeping forward again, trying to reach her beloved master. “Away!” Dora Stringer stamped her foot and looked ready to kick out.
“I’ll take her out of the way.” Annabel gathered up Sally, her excuse for getting out of there and to a telephone. “I’ll shut her in the study.”
Not being privy to her thoughts, no one moved to stop her.
“Come along,” Annabel whispered to Sally. “You’ll be safer with me.”
“How bad?” Xanthippe was all agog. “Do you think he’s dead?”
“Seriously ill, anyway. Perhaps in a coma,” Annabel qualified. “See here, I can’t talk now—they’re all around me. I’ll ring you from home tonight.”
“Find out everything you can,” Xanthippe directed. “Meanwhile, I’ll send a team over to doorstep. Don’t worry, they won’t know who the tip-off came from.”
“They’d better not!” Annabel replaced the receiver, then lingered, strangely unwilling to return to the crowded room where Arthur Arbuthnot lay. She glanced uneasily around the study, half afraid someone might have been lurking to overhear her telephone conversation.
But there was only Sally, prowling restlessly, obviously distressed and unhappy. What would become of her now, Annabel wondered. Apart from Mr. Arbuthnot, there did not seem to be many cat lovers around this place.
Sally halted beside the window and sniffed at the side panel that Arthur Arbuthnot had swept aside to reveal his hidden hoard of cash. The panel appeared to be ajar.
Annabel moved closer, staring avidly at the panel. Sally stretched out a tentative paw and dabbed at it. What a good idea! Pawprints wouldn’t show up the way fingerprints would and, even if they did, what could anyone do about it?
“Good girl, Sally,” she encouraged. “Go ahead. See what’s in there. It might be a mouse.” She caught her breath as Sally attacked the protruding edge of the panel with determination—and success. The panel swung open, revealing the contents of the cupboard it concealed.
Rather, the lack of contents. The cupboard was bare—or as good as—compared to the way it had been crammed full the last time Annabel had glimpsed it.
The thick stacks of currency had vanished. The dollars, pounds, Deutschmarks and francs were gone. The safe had been cleared out. Only a few meagre bills of mongrel devalued currencies remained.
Had Arthur Arbuthnot emptied it himself, perhaps distributing the money to all those strange characters who had been visiting him lately? Or … Tara had entered his office through the door from this study. Had she improved the shining hour herself?
If so, did that mean that Tara had known Arthur Arbuthnot was dead, or otherwise incapacitated? Had she, perhaps, discovered the body first and decided to help herself to all that nice untraceable cash?
Sally sniffed at the nearly empty shelves, lost interest and backed away. Voices rose in the other room as more people came out of shock and began arguing about what should be done next. In other minute, someone might decide to come into the study and see what was going on here.
Annabel nudged the panel with her foot, trying to edge it back to its original position. To her consternation, it sprang forward and snapped shut with a sharp little click. She had used too much force. And now there was no way to prove that it had ever been opened and left ajar.
But why should she need proof? It was not her problem. Presumably, whoever was inheriting might be understandably miffed to think that a large portion of cash had disappeared from the estate, but it had nothing whatever to do with her.
“What are you doing there?” a voice from the doorway demanded sharply.
Annabel stooped and swept up the obliging Sally before straightening up and turning to face Neville and Tara. And that was another interesting question: where had Neville been in those moments before Dora Stringer began screaming? In here with Tara? They were both looking beyond her—to the concealed safe. Was it her imagination that they seemed to relax as they saw that the panel was firmly closed?
“I’m keeping the cat out of everyone’s way,” Annabel said coldly. “Just as I said I’d do.”
“Sorry,” Tara apologized half-heatedly. “I didn’t mean to sound—We’re so on edge. The shock. I still can’t believe—”
In the distance a siren wailed. “Ambulance,” Neville said tautly. “I hope it’s ours.”
From the office where Kelda worked over Arthur Arbuthnot, a muffled sobbing began. Somehow, it was unthinkable to connect it with Zenia. And Tara, Annabel noticed, was dry-eyed. Was the Broomstick the only one to mourn Arthur? Or was she possibly just mourning the loss of what must have been quite a good job?
A soft plaintive cry from the furry bundle in her arms made Annabel revise her opinion. No, Dora Stringer was not the only mourner.
Nor the only one worried about her job, Annabel suddenly realized. If Arthur Arbuthnot died—assuming he was not already dead—what was going to happen about the redecoration? Her only contract was verbal—and with Arbuthnot himself. Would that be binding on the heirs? On the other hand, it was only too likely that the heirs would have so many other more immediate problems that it would take them some time to notice that she was still around. Annabel made a quick decision to adopt a low profile and continue with business as usual.
“They’re here!” Tara looked around helplessly as the doorbell pealed sharply. The ambulance siren had cut off directly under the window just moments ago.
“Are they?” Neville seemed equally at a loss.
“I’ll get it.” Annabel started for the door, still cuddling Sally, who had begun trembling. She hoped the cat wasn’t coming down with some illness.
“What’s the matter? What are they doing here?” Mark blocked the doorway with his wheelchair, the paramedics immediately behind him.
“Mr. Arbuthnot has had some sort of attack. In the office.” Annabel stepped back to let him roll past.
“Heart? Stroke?” Mark locked eyes with her momentarily before he moved. “How serious is it?”
“Very, I’m afraid.” There was no point in denying it; he would see for himself soon enough.
He cursed briefly and spun past her. The paramedics surged after him. Annabel followed more slowly, not anxious to return to the scene, even with reinforcements.
“Stand back!” Annabel heard a new, authoritative voice order as she approached. “Please, give us room to work. Give him room to breathe!”
To breathe? Was he still alive? Annabel reached the doorway just as Luther—the one most likely to respond to an order—began leading the reluctant exodus.
She stood aside to allow them to pass, then slipped into the office. Was Arthur really still alive? Perhaps that “give him air” routine was one the medics used to clear away onlookers so that they could get on with their jobs.
Certainly, it hadn’t worked with everybody. Kelda was still hunched over the body, continuing her first aid.
“That’s all right, miss.” One of the medics gently lifted her away. “You’ve done fine. We’ll take over now.”
Seeming dazed, Kelda swayed on her feet. Was she going to faint? Annabel started towards her.
“So you got away!” Mark had wheeled his chair to Arthur Arbuthnot’s side and was staring down at him, his face impassive but his fists clenched. “You got away before I could—”
“All right!” Kelda snapped back to life. She darted forward, grasped the back of his wheelchair and whirled it around. “They want us out of here—and they’re right. If anything can be done, they’re the ones to do it.”
But was there anything to be done, except carry the body away? Annabel felt Sally tense in her arms as the wheelchair swept past them and Kelda met her eyes with a commanding glance.
Like Lot’s wife, Annabel could not resist a backward look as she followed Kelda and the wheelchair from the room.
The paramedics had begun working in silent unison, not allowing themselves to consider the possibility of failure. More heart massage, oxygen mask, IV feed attached; they began doing other more complicated things Annabel could not even identify.
So intent were they on their task that they did not notice what was immediately apparent to Annabel as they gently moved the still form in the course of their ministrations.
There was a small dark-red stain on the carpet in approximately the centre of the spot where Arthur Arbuthnot’s shoulder blades had rested.
6
Instinctively, Annabel closed the door on the scene behind her.
“Don’t ever do that again!” Ahead of her, Mark twisted round in his chair and glared up at Kelda. He caught at the wheels, trying to halt their progress. But Kelda was stronger than she looked and continued to propel the chair ruthlessly along the hall.
Until she had to stop, her way blocked by the others in front of her who had gradually slowed their steps until they stood motionless in a huddled group, abruptly aware that they did not know where they wanted to go or what they wanted to do. Caught in a fresh wave of delayed shock, they might have been clockwork figures, losing momentum and faltering into suspended animation as their mainsprings wound down. Worse, their mainspring lay broken, perhaps beyond repair, with no power ever to activate them again.
The doorbell shrilled abruptly and proved that they could move, after all. They swung to face the door, then froze again, as though afraid of what might be on the other side.
“I’ll get it.” Dora Stringer moved forward, the familiar task seeming to give her a rush of confidence. She turned the knob and pulled the door open wide.
A flashbulb exploded in her face. She shrieked. Another flash, then another, the flashes forcing her back as the man behind the camera advanced into the hallway. Dora shrieked again and Tara added a yelp of her own, more the dismayed protest of a woman who realizes she has been caught not looking her best than a genuine sound of indignation.
“Stop that!” It was left to Zenia to explode with honest outrage. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get out!”
The man swivelled and the flashbulb exploded in her face.
“Wystan! Throw them out!”
“Erm, Luther—” Wystan immediately looked for reinforcements.
Sally wrenched herself from Annabel’s arms, leaped to the floor and skittered down the hallway, racing for sanctuary from all the flashing lights and the shouting.
“And hurry!” Zenia snapped. The urgency in her voice reminded them that the door at the far end of the corridor might open at any moment to disclose the paramedics carrying out their grim burden.
