The Hour of the Cat by Peter Quinn Read Free Book Online

they’d been annexed by the peace the Allies imposed in 1919. He read aloud the accusations of Konrad Henlen, the leader of the Sudeten Germans—the Czechs labeled him a “a Nazi mouthpiece”—who denounced “the perfidy of the Czechs and the arrogance of the British, the world’s premier practitioners of imperial oppression.”
    â€œWell, he’s got that right,” Cassidy said. “Look at the way the Brits treated the Irish and what they did to America in the wars we fought, hangin’ our patriots, burnin’ the capitol and encouragin’ the Indians in their savagery. ‘Arrogant,’ for sure, that’s the way the Brits will always be. But if they think they’re gonna get us to pull their chestnuts outta the fire a second time, like we did in 1917, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”
    After a few more minutes of Cassidy’s commentary and a cup of his watery coffee, Dunne went next door to Rostoff’s Cafeteria for some bacon and eggs. Old Jules Rostoff was on the stool by the cash register, where he always was, scowling across the room. According to Cassidy, Rostoff had been a member of the original Bolshevik government in Russia but had gone sour on the Revolution and fled to New York, a conversion seemingly affirmed by the yellowed hand-made sign above the cash register:
    NO BUMS
NO CREDIT
NO LOITERING
    â€œRostoff’s Commandments” is how Cassidy described them. “They should be added to the original ten.” Dunne finished his eggs and smoked a cigarette. A patrol car pulled up outside. One of the patrolmen entered and looked around offhandedly, his casual saunter immediately giving away his mission. The counterman handed him a bag of coffee and doughnuts, and he left without paying.
    At the Turkish bath on 14th Street, the fez-wearing proprietor was slumped in an armchair, sucking a narghile. His wife handed out towels as the sons cleaned up the lockers. Dunne paid extra for a shave, which the proprietor administered in a slow, careful manner while his wife ironed Dunne’s shirt and pants for free.
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    The morning had already gone from warm to hot when Dunne exited the IRT at Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn. Yet after the rank, sweltering subway, the air was gentle and refreshing. Around the great arch in the center of the Plaza, a contingent of slow-moving WPA men in green-gray coveralls tended the flowerbeds. Above, on the monument, the patinated copper soldiers brandished sabers, swords, bayonets.
    The doorman let Dunne into the building without a question. If he’d connected the picture of Babcock in the papers with the lady in apartment 4C, he showed no sign of it. Expecting the elevator man might be more inquisitive, Dunne ducked into the staircase and walked the four flights. Miss Dee’s apartment was at the end of the hall. He waited to catch his breath before ringing her bell. Nothing. He rang again. The peephole stayed shut, but a voice came from behind the door: “Who is it?”
    â€œFriend of a friend, Miss Dee. Like a word with you.” Dunne turned his ear to the door and bent close. Suddenly, it swung open.
    â€œMy friends know better than to bother me unannounced.” She had the words out before Dunne could unbend from his eavesdropping.
    He straightened up and removed his hat. “Miss Dee?”
    â€œOnly two types would come here unannounced. Either a detective or a dimwit.”
    â€œI believe you know who I am, Miss Dee.”
    â€œLet me guess.” Her lips, full and pouty, were a deep carmine, the same color as her fingernails. “Too good looking to be a detective. You must be a dimwit.”
    â€œUnless you want your neighbors to hear, I’d suggest you invite me in.”
    â€œYou already invited yourself.” She led the way down a short hallway into a spacious living room that had the feel of a show-room in a suave department store, elegant but