I said, “When I got here this morning, you were on Mrs. Abbott’s porch. Did you go inside the house?”
The sudden shift in questions bewildered Belasco. “Why do you want to know that?”
“Just answer the question. Were you inside her house this morning?”
Mrs. Alvarez answered it for him. “No, he wasn’t. Not while I was here.”
“Wasn’t any reason for me to go in,” he said.
“The last time you were in there was when?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“More than a few days?”
“A lot longer than that.”
“Do you own a cat?”
“A cat?” Now I really had him off balance. “What’s a cat got to do with anything?”
“Oh, quite a bit. You don’t own one, do you?”
“No. I don’t like cats.”
“Are you left-handed, Mr. Belasco?”
“. . . What?
“You heard me. Left-handed.”
“No. Right-handed. What the hell—?”
“That bandage on your right hand. This morning you said you cut yourself slicing bacon.”
“That’s right. So what?”
“When you’re doing something like that and the knife slips, the cut is almost always on the other hand, the one you’re holding the bacon with. Since when does a right-handed man slice a slab of bacon with the knife in his left hand?”
Belasco was sweating now, in spite of the cold. “So maybe I’m ambidextrous. What’re you trying to imply?”
“I’m not implying anything. I’m saying that what’s under that bandage isn’t a knife cut; it’s a bite.” I held out my hand, palm down, so he had a clear look at the shallow iodine-daubed punctures on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. “A cat bite, just like this one.”
“No, no, you’re wrong—”
“Take off the bandage and prove it to us.”
“No!”
“Doesn’t matter, I don’t need to see it to know it’s a fresh bite, not more than twelve hours old. From the same cat that bit me—Mrs. Abbott’s Spike.”
Belasco shook his head mutely.
“Spike is an indoor cat, never allowed outside. And he likes to nip strangers when they aren’t expecting it. Somebody comes into his house in the middle of the night, he goes to investigate; and if the somebody doesn’t like cats, he senses it and does more than just nip the intruder’s hand—he gives it a good chomp. Mrs. Abbott was woken up by Spike yowling and she thought it was because the intruder stepped on him. But the real reason he yowled so loud was you swatting or kicking him after he bit you.”
“A poor defenseless animal,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “You ought to be kicked yourself, Ev Belasco, in a place that’ll do the most damage.”
He ignored her. “Even if I was bitten by a cat, you can’t prove it was Spike. A neighborhood stray—”
“Spike,” I said, “and the police lab can prove it. Test the bites on my hand and yours, match them to Spike’s teeth and saliva. Cat DNA doesn’t lie any more than human DNA does.”
Belasco shook his head again, but not in denial. He knew he was caught; he’d have to be an idiot like Charley Doyle not to know it.
“You’re not only the man in the sheet last night,” I said. “You’re the one who’s been harassing Mrs. Abbott all along. You live right here next door. Easiest thing in the world for you to slip over onto her property in the middle of the night. Hardly any risk at all.”
Belasco said, “What reason would I have for hassling an old lady like Margaret?”
“The obvious one—money. A cut of the proceeds from the sale of her property after she was dead or declared incompetent.”
“That don’t make sense. I’m not a relative of hers—”
“No, but Doyle is,” I said. “And you and Charley are buddies, play poker together regularly, have a few private drinks together. He’s not very bright and just as greedy as you are. Your brainchild, wasn’t it, Belasco? Inspired by that auction fiasco. ‘Hey, Charley, why wait until your aunt dies of natural causes—that might take years. Suppose we give her a heart attack, or drive her into an institution . . . either way you get immediate control of her property, then sell it to the Pattersons or some other real estate speculator for a nice fat profit. And I earn my cut by doing all the dirty work while you work up alibis to keep yourself in the clear.’ ”
“Bastard!” Mrs. Alvarez said fiercely. “Dirty swine!”
A trapped look had come into Belasco’s eyes. He stood poised and rigid now, massaging his bandaged hand with the other, as if he were thinking of breaking into a blind run. I hoped he would; I wouldn’t have minded popping him for Margaret Abbott’s sake.