The Grey Destiny, Chapter Eight


Miss Marple was lounging next to the bay window, dreaming cat dreams, her fur illuminated silver with moonlight. Maybe she is dreaming of fish, maybe of catnip. No one knows, and time will tell if anyone will ever know. The current technologies have yet to decipher the mind of felines.

There was a knock on the door.

The cat, roused by the sound, stretches and sits on her haunches, looking at the door as if it is a new toy. The knocking comes harder, almost to pounding, but no one comes to answer it. A moment of silence and another sound, a soft metallic whine, is heard. The door swings in a moment later, showing off a tall, shadowed person, dressed in a trench coat and a wide brimmed fedora. The person walks in, the head looking around, trying to find someone.

“It appears he is not here,” a voice said, garbled almost to incomprehension. He winces a bit and presses a hand to his forehead.

“He is not?” another person said, coming in, dressed in crystal and black fabric. “Odd.”

The first person cautiously entered the room and came up to a pile of mail that was carelessly cast on the sofa. He picked the assorted envelopes up with gloved fingers and looked them over with a penlight. “It is not here, it seems.” A soft caress was felt around the legs. He looked down, and his eyes met with blue and green ones. “There’s a kitty on my foot, and I want to touch it.”

“Ah, how adorable” The other stooped over to pet it. Miss Marple paws at the shiny crystal around the head, much to the person’s annoyance. “No no, stop that.” However, the kitty does not stop; she is entranced by the sparkle.

“It is not here,” the person repeated.

“I heard you the first time,” the other person said, standing and walking to the other, trying to ignore the prancing feline around the legs, who was already mewling loudly and purring up a storm. “Maybe he is asleep?”

They both looked at a shut door in the back wall, near a framed image of Sinatra’s smiling face, and then looked at each other. “It might be true,” one said.

“If that was the case, then we might be in trouble,” the other responded.

“But if not, doesn’t matter, seeing I am already picking up signals of the silent alarm.”

“Then we’d better hurry, or else the police are going to come in.”

“Since we cannot find the package, the founder might want to have two more people wanting to follow his orders.”

They looked at each other again for a moment, and they both shuddered at the thought.

The meowing got more impatient.

“Maybe it is hungry?”

“I do not know. But we should quiet it.”

The other shrugged and jammed fingers against the hat. “Ach, my head. The signals are getting worse.”

“Damn. We don’t have much time, then, huh?”

More meowing.

One rifled through the coat pockets. “I do have a bit of sandwich from earlier.” A stub of ham and wheat was placed on the floor in front of the kitty.

Miss Marple sniffed it and played with it for a moment. Then she sat on her haunches again and mewled louder.

“Quiet!” The stub was whisked away, much to the puzzlement of the cat, who swiped at the space for a moment before prancing around the legs again and purring. “I can’t believe that did not work. Aren’t cats supposed to eat everything?”

“Well,” the other said, already closing the door near the portrait, “it appears that he and the package is not here. We need to find out where he went. We need that package. And you stop that.” The last was to the cat, which was still prancing.

They left, silently closing the door and leaving the room almost back to where it was before.

Miss Marple, seeing no one was going to feed her, stopped mewling, jumped on the pile of mail that was tossed back on the sofa, curled up, and went back to sleep, dreaming kitty dreams.


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