Free Murder on Show by Marian Babson

will you get the hell to your room and make yourself presentable. You’re on in fifteen minutes.’
    â€˜Fifteen minutes!’ he squawked. ‘Of course, Douglas, of course. Just hold the fort for me, will you, please?’ He snatched up a few essentials and bolted for his room.
    Outside the shrouded stall opposite, the crowd was growing thicker by the minute. Hot, bright lights centred on the satin draperies.
    Pandora was right next door. I hoped it wasn’t disturbing her too much. Looking over, I found her uneasy, but fairly relaxed. She was watching me intently. I realized that she was not going to get too upset about anything as long as I was in view.
    Pearlie King seemed to be all right, so I moved over to Pandora. ‘Easy, pet,’ I said, scratching her head. She purred softly, thrusting her head into my hand. It seemed we had buried the hatchet.
    Hugo Verrier, preened to the nth degree, appeared in the next-door stall. Rose Chesne-Malvern, looking rather the peahen to his peacock, stood beside him. A few cameras flashed.
    Then Kellington Dasczo dashed down the aisle, looking at his watch. I glanced at my own. 12.30 on the button. Why had I worried? Kellington Dasczo, whatever anyone might think of him, was professional to his fingertips.
    He took up his stance in front of the curtained statue. He bowed to Rose Chesne-Malvern, he mentioned Hugo Verrier approvingly, he spoke of each cat in the Special Exhibits by name, citing a few salient facts and giving the television cameras time to pan down the aisle.
    He swooped across the aisle and collected Pearlie King. Holding him close, best profiles turned to the cameras, he finished the expected, witty, urbane little speech.
    With a flourish, he turned and pulled the cord. The satin draperies parted, the cameras zoomed in for a close-up.
    Rose Chesne-Malvern screamed and fainted into Hugo Verrier’s nerveless arms. He let her fall to the floor as he stood staring and using a few choice words which should never go out over the co-axial cable, even in this Permissive Society.
    Kellington Dasczo stood speechless, but Pearlie King yowled as the arms tightened convulsively around him.
    I didn’t know whether to curse, faint, or yowl myself, as I stared at the empty pedestal.
    The gold Whittington Cat with the emerald eyes was missing. Lost, strayed, or – more probably – stolen.

CHAPTER VI
    I don’t even want to remember the next couple of hours. Especially the moment when Rose Chesne-Malvern threatened to sue Perkins & Tate for malpractice.
    By the time Gerry (I had hastily telephoned for reinforcements) and I had convinced her that it wasn’t a publicity stunt we had thought up, we had to start from the beginning again and try to convince the police of it, too. They took an especially dim view of the fact that I had stayed all night. Gerry came in for his lumps when they found out he had been taking photographs of the golden cat and was the last person, besides the sculptor, to have seen it before the curtains went round it.
    â€˜I wish we had thought of it,’ Gerry said. ‘What a publicity stunt! We hit every media of communication – and the Wire Services are humming. Reuters, UP – all of them will be at the Show tomorrow. And Penny’s been lining up interviews for all the weeklies and monthlies. If only it was a fake,’ he mourned, ‘we’d have made PR history.’
    I wished we’d done it, too, but for different reasons. It would give me a nice secure feeling to know just where that gold statue was lurking and to be able to produce it when I wanted to. Instead of which, I was sitting around wondering if it had already been melted down, and whether Hugo Verrier really could bring damages against the Exhibition for loss of his irreplaceable work of art.
    â€˜You know,’ Dave Prendergast said thoughtfully, (we were all having a late lunch in the pub across from the Exhibition Hall,