Read Online A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) by Lydia Adamson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lydia Adamson
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haven’t you ever heard of second-acting? Why, I thought you were a sophisticated New Yorker.”
I told her that I was neither sophisticated nor a New Yorker. “But,” I said, “I do know what second-acting is. It’s how students with no money get into the Broadway shows. At the end of the first act, everyone goes out onto the street for a cigarette. When the bell sounds for Act Two, they just walk right in with the crowd. It’s an old gimmick. But Dobrynin was murdered during the first part of the ballet, before there was an intermission.”
“But what I actually meant,” she explained, “is that there is a way to get into the ballet—as at the theater. A lot of starstruck kids sneak into the State Theater through the maze of underground garages beneath Lincoln Center. From what I understand it’s impossible to get into the Met that way, but the State Theater and Avery Fisher hall are no problem for the initiated.”
“And if a starstruck kid can do it, why not a canny derelict who knew the place like the palm of his hand?” I wondered aloud.
I talked with Betty Ann for another forty-five minutes—until all the hard information she had on our hero had been exhausted and her fond reminiscences took over again. I found all of it instructive.
I rode down to street level in the creaky elevator, mulling over all I’d learned. I liked Betty Ann. I found her forthrightness charming. I hoped she hadn’t killed Peter Dobrynin.
Chapter 12
This is where it had all begun.
I was alone in Mrs. Timmerman’s apartment. I wasn’t sure where the family had gone. I hadn’t been paying very close attention when she phoned to ask me to come. And of course I wasn’t totally alone. There with me was the object of my visit—Belle.
Belle is a white manx. And as she hippity-hopped around the place, I couldn’t help believing in the lunatic theory that somewhere, deep in the primeval past—very deep—there was a biological connection between Manx cats and rabbits.
“It’s all your fault, you beauty,” I scolded her as I prepared her meal in the kitchen. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have boasted that I could get tickets to that blasted ballet.”
But she was accepting none of the blame. Nor was she concerned with eating just then. Instead, she let me know that her interest lay in playing her favorite game: kamikaze-leaping off the kitchen table and snagging Aunt Alice’s stockings in the process.
Despite the occasional strafing, I liked Belle a great deal. Even if, in her attitude toward me, she vacillated between extreme friendliness and extreme enmity. But then, that could have been due to a misconception on Belle’s part; perhaps she thought I was one of the Timmerman children grown up.
“Okay, Belle,” I announced, sidestepping her claws. “If you’re not going to eat, I’m not going to keep you company in here.”
I started out of the kitchen. Then I caught a glimpse of Belle on the table, positioning herself for another jump. For the first time I realized that she was a “stumpie” and not a “rumpie.” That is, she wasn’t completely tailless. She had the slightest stump of a tail, but a tail it was.
“Some day I’ll have to introduce you to Bushy,” I said. “He’s got the rest of your tail, you know.”
On my way out of the apartment, I stopped to look at a framed photograph that seemed to dominate all the others atop the piano. It showed the Timmermans as newlyweds, arms linked, both dressed in summer white in front of a little stucco guest house at some unnamed beach resort. I was unaccountably touched by the sweetness of their young faces. Then I thought of the hungry strength I’d seen in the face of Dobrynin. The juxtaposition suddenly wearied me. I sat down on the flocked sofa and placed one of the small throw pillows on my lap.
I knew that I would soon have to report to Lucia’s attorney on the progress of my investigation. There was precious little I could tell
I told her that I was neither sophisticated nor a New Yorker. “But,” I said, “I do know what second-acting is. It’s how students with no money get into the Broadway shows. At the end of the first act, everyone goes out onto the street for a cigarette. When the bell sounds for Act Two, they just walk right in with the crowd. It’s an old gimmick. But Dobrynin was murdered during the first part of the ballet, before there was an intermission.”
“But what I actually meant,” she explained, “is that there is a way to get into the ballet—as at the theater. A lot of starstruck kids sneak into the State Theater through the maze of underground garages beneath Lincoln Center. From what I understand it’s impossible to get into the Met that way, but the State Theater and Avery Fisher hall are no problem for the initiated.”
“And if a starstruck kid can do it, why not a canny derelict who knew the place like the palm of his hand?” I wondered aloud.
I talked with Betty Ann for another forty-five minutes—until all the hard information she had on our hero had been exhausted and her fond reminiscences took over again. I found all of it instructive.
I rode down to street level in the creaky elevator, mulling over all I’d learned. I liked Betty Ann. I found her forthrightness charming. I hoped she hadn’t killed Peter Dobrynin.
Chapter 12
This is where it had all begun.
I was alone in Mrs. Timmerman’s apartment. I wasn’t sure where the family had gone. I hadn’t been paying very close attention when she phoned to ask me to come. And of course I wasn’t totally alone. There with me was the object of my visit—Belle.
Belle is a white manx. And as she hippity-hopped around the place, I couldn’t help believing in the lunatic theory that somewhere, deep in the primeval past—very deep—there was a biological connection between Manx cats and rabbits.
“It’s all your fault, you beauty,” I scolded her as I prepared her meal in the kitchen. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have boasted that I could get tickets to that blasted ballet.”
But she was accepting none of the blame. Nor was she concerned with eating just then. Instead, she let me know that her interest lay in playing her favorite game: kamikaze-leaping off the kitchen table and snagging Aunt Alice’s stockings in the process.
Despite the occasional strafing, I liked Belle a great deal. Even if, in her attitude toward me, she vacillated between extreme friendliness and extreme enmity. But then, that could have been due to a misconception on Belle’s part; perhaps she thought I was one of the Timmerman children grown up.
“Okay, Belle,” I announced, sidestepping her claws. “If you’re not going to eat, I’m not going to keep you company in here.”
I started out of the kitchen. Then I caught a glimpse of Belle on the table, positioning herself for another jump. For the first time I realized that she was a “stumpie” and not a “rumpie.” That is, she wasn’t completely tailless. She had the slightest stump of a tail, but a tail it was.
“Some day I’ll have to introduce you to Bushy,” I said. “He’s got the rest of your tail, you know.”
On my way out of the apartment, I stopped to look at a framed photograph that seemed to dominate all the others atop the piano. It showed the Timmermans as newlyweds, arms linked, both dressed in summer white in front of a little stucco guest house at some unnamed beach resort. I was unaccountably touched by the sweetness of their young faces. Then I thought of the hungry strength I’d seen in the face of Dobrynin. The juxtaposition suddenly wearied me. I sat down on the flocked sofa and placed one of the small throw pillows on my lap.
I knew that I would soon have to report to Lucia’s attorney on the progress of my investigation. There was precious little I could tell
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