Read The Hour of the Cat for Free Online Page A

special rate, Emile. I don’t think she’ll be back.” Dunne put on his hat and stepped into the hallway. When he reached the lobby, he stood beside the revolving door and studied the street. The voice from behind the glass partition called out, “Better call that cop ’cause I won’t lie for any of the momsers inhabit this dump. I don’t get paid enough.”
    â€œAsk for a raise.”
    In the luncheonette across the street, back to the counter, an elbow to support him, Dunne sucked a chocolate egg cream through a straw. The racks next to the window were filled with magazines, an entire shelf devoted to detective and mystery pulp. He picked up Real Detective: Secrets of the World’s Most Thrilling Profession . The cover had a nighttime scene, the moon barely visible, a blonde in a low-cut red dress clinging to a man in a gray trench coat holding a flashlight. They were on a beach. Just beyond the reach of the torch’s beam, two menacing figures approached from a boat they’d dragged ashore. Thrills galore. Like trying to pay the rent after a client blows several holes in her husband and puts you in a hole of your own.
    A coupe pulled up outside. The two men in it eyed the door of the Hackett Building. They might as well mount an on-duty sign on the car roof. Dunne left the luncheonette and passed them on the passenger side. He didn’t recognize either one, but Brannigan discarded detectives like Kleenex. Don’t do it his way, you’re gone before he’s finished blowing his nose.
    The afternoon had become a rehearsal for high summer, hot and still, a taste of worse to come. BEAT THE HEAT read the top line of the marquee on the second-run movie house next to the corner. ALL NEW AIR CONDITIONING! Beneath, in smaller letters were the features, a double bill, Charlie Chan’s Secret and Charlie Chan at the Opera . Dunne glanced back at the detectives as he bought a ticket. Still studying the front of the Hackett Building, they practiced one of the less well kept secrets of the world’s most thrilling profession: spending all afternoon cooped up in a stuffy automobile waiting for a mark who’d already flown.
    Â 
    Â 
    It was as hot in the theater as out. The few patrons, most asleep, didn’t seem to notice. Dunne stayed awake through the newsreels: A grinning Mr. Chamberlain, the British Prime Minister, comes out of 10 Downing Street. He bears a strong resemblance to the Professor, same ostrich neck and drooping mustache. Legions of German troops march past Adolf Hitler who returns their straight-armed salute. By the time the young heir had been murdered in the first movie, Dunne was asleep. No need to worry about Charlie, no long, empty days for him, clients who take matters into their own hands, a chief of homicide looking for an excuse to rub his nose in the dirt. Chan always gets his man.
    The usher poked Dunne with a flashlight. “Bub, wake up, you’re snoring.” The newsreel was on again, Chamberlain smiling, Hitler saluting. It was almost dark when Dunne went outside, cooler than before. The coupe was gone. No use going home. Be staked out, at least for the night. Dunne took the train to 23rd Street and walked the rest of the way to Cassidy’s Bar & Grill. Cassidy kept the backroom as a flop for his buddies from the regiment. Four cots, first come, first served. A lifesaver for those laying low on account of bill collectors, wives, girlfriends, bookies, cops. Dunne had a drink with Cassidy and rehashed the Babcock murder. He didn’t mention he’d been sitting on a bench in Brooklyn when Mrs. Babcock shot her husband five times in a Manhattan hotel room. A dick’s got his reputation to uphold.
    Cassidy laid the evening papers on the bar. Dunne had already seen the headline on the newsstand next to the subway: Society Hubby Shot Dead. Cops Have Wife In Custody. Beneath the fold was the picture of Mrs. Babcock being led out