Murder in Black Letter by Poul Anderson

Author:Poul Anderson [Anderson, Poul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Project Gutenberg
Published: 2019-04-26T05:00:00+00:00

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12

Corinna had an apartment on a quiet street not far from Golden Gate Park. Kintyre had been told by Bruce that she worked on the staff of a small art museum, belonged to a little theater group, owned a light target rifle, and made most of her own clothes. He had seen for himself that she spoke Italian. That was all. He felt ridiculously like a schoolboy on his first date.

She opened her door and smiled him in. High heels put her almost on a level with him. She wore black, which set off her pale hair, but the sleeves flared and the skirt swirled: it was not mourning.

“I’m nearly ready, Dr. Kintyre. Won’t you sit down? Watch out for the cat, she bites.”

Kintyre enjoyed cats; he would have kept one himself if he had wanted to assume obligations. This was that loveliest of the tribe, a blue-point Siamese, white as new snow and markings like twilight. She flowed up toward his extended fist as he settled in a chair. “What’s the name?” he asked.

“Taffimai Metallumai,” said Corinna, returning to her bedroom. “If you remember your Kipling, that means Small-Person-Without-Any-Manners-Who-Ought-To-Be-Spanked. But she lives under the name of Tipsy. Gold letters over her door, and so on.”

He looked around. This room was individualistically decorated, she must have done it herself, in reds and blues and a couple of delicate Chinese paintings. Her books ran toward poetry, drama, and art; but one shelf held the popular works of Gamow, Russell, Ley, and company. There was a medium-fi and a lot of good records.

Taffimai Metallumai levitated up onto his lap, gave him a sleepy turquoise look, and ordered him to scratch her beneath the chin. She was pure hard muscle under the virginal fur; she must weigh twice as much as any peasant cat her size.

Kintyre took his attention from the corner where a small worktable held an unfinished papier-maché mask. Corinna was coming back in. “That was quick,” he said, rising.

“Oh, don’t! You’re catted! Oh, dear!”

He looked at his gashed thumb. Tipsy told him in a few well chosen words that he had no business upsetting her without warning.

Corinna’s eyes were green distress. “People never do believe my warning,” she said, “and then Snow Leopard j.g. makes a lunch off them and—Can I tell you how sorry I am?”

“Occupational hazard if you like cats,” Kintyre answered. “And I do. We might put on some stickum, just for appearances.”

She regarded him closely. “I believe you mean that,” she said. “Thank you.” She led him to the bathroom. The route gave him a glimpse of her kitchen and a crammed shelf of herbs and spices.

“Instead of going out,” he said as he repaired the damage, “I could probably get a better dinner here.”

“Why, I hadn’t prepared anything, but—”

“Nonsense. Maybe you’ll give me a rain check. Let’s go.”

Tipsy assured him that she bore no hard feelings, and he stroked her with real pleasure. It occurred to him that there was something pathetic about Margery’s little caged parakeet, set beside this beautiful killing engine.

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