The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [79]
With alarm, I noticed one of her coterie keying her phone and then speaking into it.
“Madame, please,” Simon said in an aggrieved voice, “we are required to allow all Seeing Eye dogs on the premises.”
“That thing is not a dog.”
“Under the circumstances he has the legal standing of a Seeing Eye dog,” I lied, thinking, If she only knew.
Alphus made some minimal movements with his hands and fingers, the signing equivalent of whispering. “Let’s just go through the bar.”
Royale threw me a venomous look. To no one in particular but loud enough for all to hear, she said, “What else do you expect from someone who would marry his own daughter.”
“My late wife’s daughter,” I corrected her, making it sound worse somehow.
“What are you doing out of jail, anyway? Haven’t you been charged with murdering poor Heinie?”
“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”
An audience, including some blinking denizens of the bar, diners with napkins in hand, even staff from the kitchen, had begun to gather.
Royale, voice piping over the murmuring spectators, declared, “Simon, we are not dining in the same place as that … criminal animal, that despicable beast.”
Simon bowed. “Madame, they are leaving.”
We might have made good our escape, as the locution has it, but the words despicable beast stuck in my craw. To hell with Elgin Warwick, I thought, as I turned and walked several paces back to the woman. Through clenched teeth, I told her, “He is anything but a despicable beast. He is a gentleman of the first order. He is a considerate, rational, moral being. And that, lady, is more than I can say for you.” I just barely kept myself from adding that she was an overprivileged rich bitch whose family wealth came from a whiskey-running grandfather who had been little more than a mobster.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Ratour,” said Simon, who had a little trimmed mustache, “but it would help matters if you and your party were to leave.”
“We’re just on our way,” I said. “You’ve been most patient.”
Alphus was tugging at me, signing. “It’s okay, Norman. Let’s just leave. Now.”
But we had left leaving too late. The police sirens I had heard a moment before had stopped abruptly. Indeed, we were scarcely at the main door when it opened and two uniformed officers came in with guns drawn.
Keeping my voice steady — there is nothing more intimidating than the black muzzle hole of a gun pointed at you — I said, “We were just leaving, Officer. Your guns won’t be necessary.”
I felt a push from behind as Royale rushed past me in full screech. “That’s the one, officer! That’s the one that ate my dog!”
“In here?” asked the younger officer, whose gun now pointed directly at Alphus.
“No, no, no, in the Arboretum.”
Marlen appeared holding several white containers. “Your doggie bags, sir.”
I took them and said “Thank you.” I turned and handed them to Roxanne.
When Marlen lingered as though for a tip, I nearly erupted again.
“The Arboretum?” asked the older officer, who was holstering his gun.
“Matt, we ought to call the animal squad,” said the younger one, his gun still at the ready.
More diners and patrons from the bar had begun to gather and watch the show.
The older police officer, bushy browed and sardonic of face, said, “Christ, I thought I had seen everything.”
Just then Alphus turned to me and signed, “Tell them they don’t need their guns.”
Officer Matt caught it and said, “What did he just say?”
“Officer,” screeched Ms. Toite.
He waved her off.
“He just told me you don’t need your guns,” I said.
“Jesus Christ, I have seen everything.” He turned to his younger colleague. “Vince, holster your weapon.”
At which point, I succeeded in handing Lieutenant Tracy’s card with his private cell number to Officer Matt. “Please call him before you proceed …”
“Vince, hang on.” He turned away and I heard him muttering into the