The Black Cat by Martha Grimes Read Free Book Online Page A

guess a kiss doesn’t taste right; it tastes of cigarettes.”
    Jury smiled. It sounded like a song by Cole Porter: Your lips taste of cigarettes… He said, “How romantic we once were about smoking. Remember Now, Voyager? Paul Henreid lighting up the two cigarettes? One for him, one for Bette Davis?” He looked at Cummins, assessing his age. “You probably weren’t born yet.”
    “I’m no kid; I’m thirty-seven. But I’ve seen that film all right. It’s great, except in the end. She could have had him; why didn’t she take him?”
    Jury thought but couldn’t remember. “Well, as I remember it had a pretty grandiose moral tone. Most films did back then. Probably it had to do with honor.”
    “Bugger honor,” said David with a grim smile.

10
    Fifteen minutes later, Jury was on the Metropolitan Line train bound for London and talking on his mobile to Wiggins.
    “Somebody’s been spending a lot of money on Mariah Cox,” said Jury. “There’s got to be a well-heeled man in this mix somewhere.” He hadn’t meant the pun. “I’ve just been introduced to a world of shoes, Wiggins. By DS Cummins’s wife, Chris.”
    “Shoes.” Wiggins said it contemplatively rather than with curiosity. “You mean the Jimmy Choos?”
    “His and others. I had no idea there were so many gorgeous women’s shoes.”
    “Some are rather extreme.”
    Jury heard the sound of metal on metal. Spoon on kettle? No, Wiggins had gone off spoons. “Extreme? Which designer are you thinking of?”
    Wiggins was silent for a few seconds. “Well, Jimmy Choo, for instance.”
    Slowly, Jury shook his head. “As I was saying, some man’s been very generous with Mariah Cox.” Too bad she hadn’t just stuck to Bobby Devlin, he thought. “Or men.”
    “A bit sexist of you, guv.” Before Jury could scathingly reply to that, Wiggins told him to hold on. “I’ll be back in a second.”
    The train lurched for a moment, forcing the whey-faced child across the aisle back in her seat. She was probably eleven or twelve, and her empty brown eyes fastened on Jury like leeches. She should have been wearing a sign round her neck: “Nobody home.” Jury stared back at her. He wasn’t in the mood. “Wiggins? You there?”
    No answer. The girl was chewing bubble gum and blew a big bubble right toward him, probably in lieu of sticking out her tongue.
    The train shuddered to a stop at Rickmansworth. Wiggins came back from whatever expedition he’d been on. “I’ve liaised with all the divisional people. Talked to vice in case she’s a pro-”
    “Bit sexist of you, isn’t it?” He smiled, and the smile accidentally took in the bubble-gum-blowing child, who stopped blowing and did stick out her tongue. “Anyway, I’m bound for London, going back to my flat. It’s gone seven, Wiggins; why are you still at the Yard? Go home.”
    “Right, guv. I’m off. And you be sure and check your messages.” There came a snuffling laugh.
    Ha-ha, thought Jury as the train finally pulled away, heading into the City.
     
    In the doorway of the small living room of Jury’s Islington flat, Carole-anne Palutski, upstairs neighbor, stood rubbing her eyes as if he’d just dragged her down here from a deep sleep. The fact that she was dressed not in pj’s and bathrobe but for a night on the tiles undercut the sleepy winsomeness. Her dress was a sapphire blue that matched her eyes; the neckline, low enough to sink a ship, was studded about with tiny bits of something flashy. In oilcloth and gum boots, Carole-anne would look sumptuous; the dress was gilding the lily. And in place of gum boots, she was wearing strappy sandals. They seemed to be the only thing on the streets these days.
    Jury had called her in.
    “Sit down, sweetheart. I want to read you something.”
    Daintily, she yawned and took her time arranging herself on his sofa. He thought of the gorgeous drift of hydrangeas in Bobby Devlin’s flower stall. Gorgeousness, however, was not about to get