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D.C. couldn’t have cared less. He was above such things. He started work on the other ear. Cleanliness. That was what was important.

3

Zeke Kelso took the call. He was tall and lanky, and had a soft, pleasant, wind-swept Nevada drawl.

“You say your cat brought the watch home?”

“Someone had fastened it around his neck.”

“Like a collar?”

“Yes, Mr. Kelso. And D.C. had – “

“What do you call him?”

“D.C.” She hesitated a second. “It stands for Darn Cat. You see, father – “

“Would you spell that, please?”

“It’s just what you think it is. D-a-r-n.”

“D-a-r-n.” Unconsciously he raised his voice. “Darn Cat?”

A stenographer taking dictation at the next desk glanced up, and he dropped to a whisper. The Bureau would disap­prove of the use of such a word before the stenos.

He asked, “Are you in a bar somewhere, Miss Randall?”

He heard her shout to someone. “Mike, for heaven’s sake, turn that radio off.” She returned to him. “No, I’m not in a bar. I’m at home – and his name is Darn Cat – and I can’t help it – and you insisted on knowing – and – “

“Is someone with you, Miss Randall?”

“Yes, my brother, Mike. He’s twelve – and my sister, In-grid, she’s sixteen. Our parents are in Europe . My father, George Randall, works for Lockheed

.”

He scribbled the names as fast as she spoke them, listing them on a yellow, legal-size scratch pad. “Miss Randall, would you please open the watch and see if there’s anything scratched inside the back cover?”

As he waited, he drummed his fingers quietly on the desk. He needed another cup of coffee badly. He thought he was becoming an addict. He had been up since five, and at the office since six, drafting a lengthy report on a case involving unlawful flight to avoid prosecution for murder. Recently, the work load had been heavy. Seventy-two hours last week.

What was taking her so long?

She came back on the line. “I can’t get the back off.”

“Try a paring knife.”

“I’m afraid I’ll ruin the watch.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

After another minute, she said, “Looks like a Y followed by some numbers. They’re so small I can’t make them out.”

He came alive. There was no question this was the vic­tim’s watch. They had learned at the outset of the investiga­tion from Helen Jenkins’ father that she had had her watch repaired in June 1960, at the House of Neuwirth, 6081 Sunset Boulevard, Hollywood , and at that time the repairman had scratched in the identifying Y mark.

As of last night, then, Miss Jenkins had been alive. For seven days they had searched with growing desperation for trace of her and her two captors. Zeke himself had concluded she was dead. The pattern in most of these cases was the same: the hold-up men either freed or killed the hostage within a few hours. Seldom did they want to be burdened with one in flight.

He asked quickly, “Where had he been? I mean, where does your cat usually go – or do you know?”

She laughed softly. “I can see you don’t know much about cats, Mr. Kelso. He goes everyplace. He likes people. Thinks he’s one of us. And he likes to visit. He waits until dark when the mockingbirds can’t see him, because they give him a bad time, and then goes scratching around on doors. If the people are nice to him, he goes back. I think he’s got a regular route worked out.”

Zeke toyed with a pencil. From the way she talked, not only does the cat think he is “one of us,” but she thinks so, too. The long-hoped-for break binged not only on a dame who sounded zany but a cat equally zany. He detested cats; they were barbarians – the entire breed – devouring birds, fighting to the death with all vocal stops pulled out, howling like a bunch of banshees as they made love, purring one min­ute around you, clawing and spitting the next, and then deliv­ering that final insult, the turn of the rear on you with the tail held high.

He caught his thoughts in mid-air. He must be careful not to betray how he felt. The Bureau would tolerate no prejudice. The Bureau believed firmly in the brotherhood of man. The Bureau wanted the objective approach.

He continued with his questions. “Do you know when your cat came in, Miss Randall?”

“Twelve-thirty exactly. I’d had a phone call.”

“Might I ask who called you?”

“Well, I didn’t get to the phone in time. It was under the bed – I mean, it’d quit ringing, but the party came over to the house shortly afterwards. One of the neighbors from across the street.”

“What’s her name?”

“It wasn’t a her.” She paused and, in doing so, knew she had aroused suspicion. “It was a young attorney. Greg Balter. B-a-1-t-e-r.”

“Why did he come over?”

She hesitated again, then came out with. it. “D.C. had broken into his house and stolen a duck.”

“He’d stolen what?”

“A duck. A mallard duck.”

“Oh.” He thought about that for a moment “You say he’d broken in – are we still talking about your cat, Miss Randall?”

“Yes, Mr. Kelso, he’s very clever. He’ll take a paw and if the door is barely ajar he’ll open it. Sometimes on a screen door he can jiggle the latch loose.”