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rang, Wiggins came to attention and grabbed the receiver. “Wiggins, here.” He relaxed. “Oh, it’s you . . . what? . . . but he’s got to be around somewhere.”
    Even from this distance, Jury could hear the wire throb from hysterics. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed to Wiggins.
    “Yes, yes, yes! We’ll be there in a tic.” He hung up. “Fiona can’t find Cyril.”
    Jury was out of his chair. “Let’s go. But I’m not walking through the halls of the Yard with somebody who’s got rue up his nose.”
     • • • 
    Fiona, a towel pinned to hold back her hair, was tossing things about, looking in the waste bin, opening drawers. “He’s gone, I shoulda known what was happening.”
    Wiggins handed her the holy icon—his handkerchief—with which she wiped away the tears.
    “He’s probably just sleeping somewhere.”
    Fiona wiped the back of her hand across her cheek and sniffled. “He could be now he’s had his tuna. He gets awful sluggish. . . .” More tears fell.
    “You know the way he likes to make himself invisible. Remember when he managed to get on the window-washer’s scaffold that time? And all of those daredevil stunts like squeezing himself out on the ledge and mashing his face against the window with Racer looking every damn place he thought Cyril could be—”
    All of this remembering only brought a fresh onslaught of tears from Fiona.
    Jury himself felt his throat tighten up, whereupon he turned and went into Racer’s office to check up: he looked into the umbrella stand—an urn that Cyril was fond of as long as the umbrellas weren’t wet; he bent over and opened the drinks cabinet; and he pulled out Racer’s desk chair. Cyril was a master of hiding in plain sight.
    Fiona was calling to him impatiently: “Don’t you think I’ve already looked in there?” Back in the outer office Fiona was snuffling and talking to Wiggins. “. . . when he brought in that box, something was wrong. But he’s always carrying things around. So somehow, the Super got Cyril into it!”
    “Okay: assuming he took Cyril, where would he take him?” He was really talking to himself, but Fiona wailed an answer.
    “Dropped him in Blackheath and the poor cat don’t know where he is!”
    Wiggins tried to soothe Fiona by bringing up a film he’d seen yearsago: “Incredible Journey that was about a cat and two dogs that somehow got lost when the family was moving and traveled a hundred miles, Fiona, and found their family.”
    “But they all wanted those ones back.” She blew into the handkerchief.
    Again Jury said, “Where would Racer have taken a cat?” He was scanning the yellow pages. He found what he wanted in the telephone book, tore the page out and then in three pieces across, gave one to Wiggins, and one to Fiona. “Let’s start calling.”
    “RSPCA? Animal shelters, sir?” He frowned. “Superintendent Racer doesn’t strike me as the man who would see to it an animal was taken care of. He’s much more the shove-’em-in-a-sack, toss-’em-in-the-Thames—” Wiggins stopped midsentence when Fiona wailed again.
    “Stop talking and start calling. I’ll use Racer’s phone.”
    They were all talking at the same time and saying almost the very same things.
    “. . . copper coat and he’s very agile.”
    “. . . kind of orangey. With white paws. Brought in probably this morning . . .”
    “. . . beautiful cat, intelligent . . . probably last night? No? All right, then, thanks.” Wiggins rang off.
    “Stubborn? Hunger strike? Got the door of his cage open?” Jury was getting out of the chair while saying. “That’s him. My name’s Richard Jury. That’s J-U-R-Y. We’ll be right over to collect him.”
    Jury went to Fiona’s office and smiled brilliantly. “Got him, Fiona.” She banged down the receiver. Her smile was sunny. “Get us a car; this shouldn’t take long.” As he was going out the door, he added, “And send that tuna to