Read Online The Black Cat by Martha Grimes - Free Book Online

Sally-keep your eyes and ears open, will you? The way you’re positioned here, I mean in the pub, you might hear something. You know the way people talk after they’ve had a few.” He took a card from his pocket and placed it in front of her. “Anytime, don’t hesitate to call.”
    This increase in intimacy was not lost on Sally Hawkins. She ran her hand over her hair and smiled at him.
    Jury returned the smile, patted her arm, and went back to the table where Melrose was talking to Dora, or rather arguing with her, given the frown on her face. She looked relieved when he sat down.
    “You’ll find her, won’t you?” said Dora, her two fingers pleating the arm of Jury’s jacket.
    “Morris? We’ll do our best.”
    That didn’t sound like top-notch investigation to Dora, who reluctantly left their sides at Sally’s insistence.
    Melrose said, “I can tell you right now what happened: A woman’s been murdered right on Dora’s doorstep, so to speak, and young Dora, unable to accept this awful event, substitutes her cat as the victim. She can handle the thing that way; she sublimates the actual killing because it’s too frightening to be believed. It’s called displacement. You take something out of its usual context and put it down in another context. In this case: Morris. Morris takes on all of the dread that would have been felt for the murdered woman.” Melrose was rather proud of this theory. “So what do you think?”
    “About Morris? Morris was either kidnapped or murdered.” Jury drank his beer.

13
    They took both cars, and Melrose insisted that Jury follow him.
    “Why?”
    “In case my car breaks down.”
    “Your car is a Rolls-Royce. My car is a Vauxhall of questionable provenance with a million miles clocked. Now, which car is more likely to break down?”
    “Mine.” Melrose turned on the engine. It thrummed like Yo-Yo Ma’s cello.
    “Oh, my, yes. The rattle and clang’s enough to deafen you.”
    “I’ll wait for you,” called Melrose to Jury’s departing back. And again: “Don’t forget we’re stopping if we see a Little Chef.”
    Twenty miles on, well past Leighton Buzzard, they came to one, and Melrose pulled off the road and into the car park.
    The Little Chef was crisp and bright as if the whole place had just been polished. It looked pleased with its black-checkered self.
    Melrose studied the menu.
    Jury didn’t bother. “I can tell you what’s on it; I’ve seen it often enough.”
    “I like looking.”
    “While you’re doing that, let me tell you about the Rexroths’ party, where, I’m pretty sure, the murdered woman was going.” Jury did so, including the guest list.
    “You’re kidding. Harry Johnson was at that party?”
    “He was on the list. Whether he was actually there is in question.”
    “The house isn’t far from the Black Cat?”
    “I’m not jumping to the conclusion that he knew her.”
    “No, you’re merely jumping to the conclusion that he murdered her.”
    “Don’t be daft.”
    “Daft? You’re absolutely delighted you have some reason to go after Harry Johnson again. Ah, here’s our waitress.”
    The waitress, whose name tag said “Sonia,” came over on squeaky rubber soles and with a huge, not-meaning-it smile. “Ready, are we?”
    “No.”
    “Yes.” Jury pointed to the paint-bright picture of the plate he wanted.
    Melrose said, “I’ll have pancakes with sausages.” The waitress left and he said, “As you are now confronted with a murder and a vanished, perhaps murdered, cat, why are we going to Bletchley Park?”
    “Because of Sir Oswald Maples.”
    “He asked you to go?”
    “No. Because the mysterious workings of code breaking in World War Two interest me, and he’s an expert on the subject, and I’d just like to be able to talk about it.”
    Jury watched a family of at least a dozen people enter and secure three tables pushed together. They were all fat. “If you didn’t want to see Bletchley Park, why did you