All Cats Look Alike.

By David Mason

Not your average spy story, here we have professionals, amateurs and incompetents competing. As the locations change, so the tale begins to warm up, then it boils.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Mason
• Release date: Jan 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370769131

David Mason

David Mason grew up in Bellingham, Washington and has lived in many parts of the world, including Greece and Colorado, where he served as poet laureate for four years. His books of poems began with The Buried Houses, The Country I Remember, and Arrivals. His verse novel, Ludlow, was named best poetry book of the year by the Contemporary Poetry Review and the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. It was also featured on the PBS NewsHour. He has written a memoir and four collections of essays. His poetry, prose, and translations have appeared in such periodicals as the New Yorker, Harper’s Magazine, The Nation, The New Republic, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Times Literary Supplement, Poetry, and the Hudson Review. Anthologies include Best American Poetry, The Penguin Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Poetry, and others. He has also written libretti for operas by Lori Laitman and Tom Cipullo, all available on CD from Naxos. In 2015 Mason published two poetry collections: Sea Salt: Poems of a Decade and Davey McGravy: Tales to Be Read Aloud to Children and Adult Children. The Sound: New and Selected Poems and Voices, Places: Essays appeared in 2018. Incarnation and Metamorphosis: Can Literature Change Us? appeared in 2022. He lives with his wife Chrissy (poet Cally Conan-Davies) in Tasmania on the edge of the Southern Ocean.

Book preview

Other titles by this Author.

Fantasy/Adventure.

Rambusco.

Drangora’s Revenge.

Adventure/Mystery.

South of the Border.

Revenge.

Part Bio.

Father’s Last Joke by Pat.

Tales for Youngsters.

A Collection of Friends.

A Curious Old Shop. Beautifully illustrated by Jenny.

Short Stories and Poems.

Mixed Bits.

Adults only.

S by Fenella.

All Cats look alike..

by

David Mason

Copyright 2017. First Edition.

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Chapter One.

I cannot believe you have been so stupid.

Sergeant Wilson’s lugubrious expression perfectly suited his feelings as he regarded the familiar figure sitting on the other side of the table.

George Smith wearily returned the sad look, How many more times? I can’t imagine why anyone would bother to pinch that grotesque, gothic monstrosity of a clock.

It may not be your choice, but it is a valuable antique, worth stealing. So, tell me, why did we find it in your van? And, most of all, why did you have to hit her so hard?

Red faced with anger, George jumped up, I’ve told you, shouting, this was too much for him, I didn’t. You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that.

For Edward George Smith, the day had started quite well. This hospital contract had made all the difference. With the seasonal fall off in outside painting work during the winter months, a big indoor job like this was very welcome.

As a relatively small, almost ‘cottage’ hospital, the budget was equally small; wisely, George had priced his estimate small. Now he could keep Barney on, probably till the spring. 'George Smith. Decorator', he was proud of the sign on the side of his new van; all right, so it was second hand, but it was new to him; and, at only five years old, it was the closest he had been to ‘new’.

Things were looking up. That morning, when he went inside the waiting area, Barney was already hard at work, and, together, they’d made good progress by the lunch break. Sadly, his happy frame of mind was soon to be changed. They had just started again, when his visitor arrived. The ominous form in the doorway had said, A word Smith.

Oh no. Now what?, George sighed as he stepped back from the wall he was painting. Whenever 'Lanky' Wilson paid him a visit he brought trouble. Defensively he said, Look. I've got to finish this room by 5.0 o'clock. He sighed again as he looked at Sergeant Wilson, what on earth possessed him to wear a raincoat on such a warm day? He knew the bowler hat tipped slightly over one eye was supposed to convey a knowledgeable sort of look, but the breakfast crumbs clinging to the Sgt’s pullover thoroughly ruined the effect.

I'm sure your most able assistant will be able to do that. I want a word – NOW. George looked across the room where Barney stood, frozen with his paint roller half way up the other wall, looking back over his shoulder with wide enquiring eyes.

Do as much as you can. I've got to talk to Mr. Wilson for a while. We'll just have to finish off tomorrow.

O.K. Boss, and the roller continued on its downward track. The uniformed policeman in the doorway almost moved aside as George eased past into the passage. Patting the bulging waistline, George grinned, There's a Dietician down the hall who could help you with that. Seeing raised eyebrows above tightly pressed lips, Just joking Harry, just joking.

Looking around the empty Hospital waiting room Sgt. Wilson jerked his head. This will do Smith. Wondering why the Sgt. looked more sober faced than usual, he strolled into the room, and sat on one of the wall benches next to a table. It was one of those ‘out of this world’ places where seconds stretch, minutes drag, and each hour becomes an age.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sgt. Wilson's high voice, louder than usual, Stop looking so smug, as he eased himself gingerly into a chair.

This is no laughing matter Smith. I am investigating a serious crime; you could be in very deep trouble. And before you answer, your van was seen.

Come on Sgt. you're not going to tell me that that's an offence now, Sarah and I are both over 21 you know.

Don't be flippant. I want to know what you were doing at Mill Cottage.

George looked puzzled, That was a couple of weeks ago. We decorated the spare bedroom.

And what about the Dining Room? He looked up sharply, caught off balance as he expected George to deny he had been there.

I did an estimate for that, I went in to measure up; said she might have it done later, after Christmas. Anyway what's the problem? Not setting up in opposition are you?

Ignoring this jibe Sgt. Wilson leaned forward. Why did you have to hit the old lady so hard?

What?! George jumped up, startled, What the hell are you talking about?

Your van was there.

Where, for goodness sake? Who am I supposed to have hit?

Mill Cottage was burgled last night, and a valuable antique clock was taken. Mrs Winterbourne's cleaner found her on the Dining room floor by the fireplace. One of my men had been to see her about security some time ago, and remembered seeing it on the mantelpiece. Frowning into George’s face, it is now missing.

It was Sarah I went to see. I parked outside Mill Cottage because she didn't like the idea of anyone seeing the van at her place. It's only round the corner.

Unfortunately Miss Simpson's mother was taken ill through the night and she left early this morning. We haven’t been able to speak to her, so we only have your word for that.

This was when the trouble really had started for George, a Constable knocking on the door interrupted them.

Well? snapped Wilson. The P.C. flinched

This was under some old sheets behind the driver’s seat, putting an ornamental clock on the table. George looked at it as if it were a snake about to strike. It was an ornamental mantel clock, and George remembered seeing it on Mrs Winterbourne's Dining Room mantelpiece. But how had it found it's way into his van?

That's it Smith. You're coming down to the station. We're going to have a long talk about this.

But I haven’t done anything. You know I wouldn't do anything like that; somebody must have put it there. His voice trailed off as he saw the triumphant look in the Sgt's eyes.

An hour and a half later in the interview room, waiting alone, and becoming bored with his own company, he studied his hands. That fingerprint ink hadn't come off like they said it would. Just goes to show, you can't trust a copper. He wasn’t unduly worried, at least that was the impression he hoped to convey; Sarah would be back soon, and would confirm his story. As for the clock, well, it must be someone’s idea of a ‘frame’, or a stupid joke, after all, there were one of two people who would be happy to get him into trouble.

He looked wistfully at his reflection in the window. If only he had been a bit taller, five feet five and slim with it, didn't make much impression on people. He smiled to himself. Before taking over his father’s customers, he’d spent several years in the army and had, at one time, been very involved with the rather vaguely described ‘Special Forces’. There were a lot of people he knew he didn’t need to impress, probably one of the reasons why he had always been too casual whenever he was contacted by anyone in the local force; the good Sergeant always viewing him with suspicion. Ah, well. At least the deep tan and mop of dark hair made him feel good, swayed the girls, and when he was dressed, debonair, yes that was the…. The sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts.

Sit down Smith. George groaned, thinking, 'God! That man sounds far too pleased with himself for my liking'. Sitting at the table, he studied the lean face of his interrogator. Almost weasely. We can't sit here all night, He started. What made you think you could get away with it? Yes, definitely weasely George thought.

Look Sergeant. He knew he had to tread carefully now, I don’t know a single thing about this business. I think it's terrible someone hitting an old lady like that, you know I can't stand violence at any time, but that, it's shocking. As soon as Sarah gets back I'm sure it will all be cleared up, honest.

Don't make me laugh. You don't know the meaning of the word honest. This was clearly a reference to something that had happened last year. George had borrowed a friend's car, but forgot to tell his friend. It had all been straightened out in the end; but somehow Headquarters had become involved and the Chief Constable had been most upset. Especially when it turned out that George had used the car so that he could do a rush job in the Chief's house. Sgt. Wilson looked at him quizzically, doubt starting to cloud his judgement. He knew, in the deep recesses of his mind that Smith wasn't really a criminal. At the moment, though, this was all he had, his number one suspect. I must say though, it's not like you to be stupid enough to leave that clock where it was easily found.

They were interrupted by a Constable bringing a message from the forensic Dept. Taking the envelope and studying it's contents, a grim smile spread over the Sgt's., face as he pushed a photograph across the table.

The weapon used was that old milking stool, and it's got your fingerprints on it.

Sarah's stool, George looked puzzled, what was that doing there?

The Sgt. now was equally bemused, What do you mean Sarah's stool? Who said anything about that? As usual this was starting to irritate him; Smith so often knew more than himself.

Well, the last time I saw it was in her sitting room; her little niece used it to sit on to watch the telly. It's quite an old one, I looked it over to see if it had been repaired or altered. I think it's in original condition. This had obviously spoilt the Sgt's line of questioning. The phrase 'open and shut case' didn't seem to apply any more.

Yes, but that doesn't explain away the clock.

George's answer came more easily now that he had time to settle down Be fair Sarge, anyone could have put it there. I haven't used those sheets for a couple of months now, I only use them for outside work.

Right then we'll have to make some more enquiries. This interview is terminated at 2.15 pm. He looked at George for a moment, hesitatingly. What about that lad of yours at the hospital, will he be all right?

George felt relieved, he always knew Lanky had a soft spot somewhere inside; it shouldn't be too long before he was out of here. Do me a favour Sarge, can you get someone to tell him to clear everything up and go home at five? Goodness knows how far he would get before he ran out of paint.

MMmmm. All right, I'll call in. I'll tell him not to do any more till he hears from you. If we can't contact Miss Simpson you're going to have to be our guest for tonight; you could be here for some time.

Oh. Thank you that's very reassuring.

No need for sarcasm, I'm only doing my job. He looked at George as thoughts chased through his mind. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t have a criminal record, he just didn’t mingle with the local bad lads; he didn’t particularly mingle with anyone, a quiet drink in his local pub seemed to be the extent of his activities.

Apart from that business with a couple men who worked for a bookie, debt collectors they called themselves. They