THE CASE OF CHET MILLERBY AND THE MISSING WEEVIL: Chapter Six

Outside it was a beautiful spring day, the pale blue sky above dotted with the merest wisps of white cloud. As Chet bounced merrily along, his eye was drawn to the sparrows and pigeons leering at him from behind the relative security of the park railings; but he reminded himself that whilst it appeared to him the kind of perfect day just designed to be spent in a leisurely outdoor killing spree, that perhaps somewhere else underneath the huge blue sky, a safe was being sliced open with an electric power saw, elsewhere still a stiletto was being twisted under someone’s ribs in a crowded medieval street, and hopefully even further elsewhere a fully loaded passenger plane was just seconds away from disaster , ready to explode down out of it and wreck the peace for everyone. No, he firmly told himself, a cat detective’s work was never done, and there would be other sunny days, and other parks.

If the gentle rays of the spring sun had bestowed some carefree sense of unlimited possibility upon the young Chet, they had clearly not penetrated the penumbra of Tony’s Brasserie-Bistro, 112 The Street, City Village. Nor indeed, the furrowed, furry brow of its eponymous maître de, who stood glowering in the gloom of the staff entrance, situated down a shady side street, along with some overflowing catering bins and squashed cardboard boxes.

Tony, who was Bulgarian, had the permanent upturned mouth of a Frenchman, with a very French cigarette dangling flakily out of the corner. Chet wrinkled his nose. He hated any kind of cigarette which wasn’t Turkish with a passion. Unfortunately, it appeared Tony hated any kind of detective who wasn’t human with a passion.

He took one look at Chet, spat the remains of the cigarette out and smeared it under his shoe, before smoothing his greasy hair down, and wiping his hands on his burgundy waistcoat.

“I don’t like cats”, he said. “Cats are not good for ze business. Ze say you catch mice, but –“ he shrugged his shoulders, “all you do all ze day long is drink cocktails and solve ze stupid mysteries no one else cares about.”

He turned to go back in but found his way blocked by a very definite paw.

“Oh yeah?” said Chet. “Well I’ll tell you what also isn’t good for business. A blocked fire exit, a kitchen full of imported Bulgarian bush meat masquerading as organic chicken, enough rats to put the Pied Piper out of business, and a surprise visit tomorrow from the Environmental Health- that’s what’s bad for business. And since you’re asking, mine’s a milk and champagne on the rocks. Now move it.”

Tony didn’t need much more encouragement, but just in case he did, Chet prodded him along with his gold can opener, wittily engraved on the back –“To Chet- I didn’t kill no-one guv XX Curiosity”

“How deed you know all zat?” grumbled Tony, vigorously pumping the cocktail shaker from side to side, “You never been ere before.”

“A cat sees many things”, said Chet mysteriously. And then, less mysteriously “Especially when you leave all your illegal meat packaging out in an alleyway, standing in a fire exit, with a rat crawling around your ankles”.

“What rat?”

“Nothing”, said Chet, wiping his lips innocently.

TO BE CONTINUED...