Chapter 4: What the Red Queen Knew, or Down the Rabbit Hole

Unbeknownst to Tugger, his brother had no plans of heading home yet. After he had put a sufficient amount of distance between him and his brother, Munkustrap turned a few corners before finding himself on the back road that led to the employee's entrance of the Heaviside Lair. He instinctively reached for his coat pocket again, only this time he retrieved a single cigarette that he had lifted from Tugger. He fiddled with it absently, putting it to his mouth a few times and taking imaginary puffs. No good, he thought grimly. The cravings were slightly assuaged but they had by no means abided. Restlessly, he returned the cigarette to his pocket and trudged on. He was reaching the Lair soon; he glanced up at the buildings and counted down the blocks, three, two, one… Hearing the door knob jiggle, he stopped in the shadow of the adjacent building and peered out at the entrance as voices leaked out into the silent alley.

"Joanie, my Joanie," moaned a rather rotund black and white cat as he stumbled out of the door into the alleyway. "The night is still so young! You simply must join me for supper!" Munkustrap noted that his dapper suit was slightly crumpled and his bowtie askew.

A red-headed cat clad in a dressing gown had appeared in the doorway, leaning against its frame. For a split second Munkustrap had thought it was Bombalurina, but her face was younger and rounder, and her figure more full. She flicked her cigarette and smiled coquettishly. "Where do you propose we go to?"

"Fox's!" the fat cat exclaimed, then catching himself hurriedly added, "Or Blimpy's, perhaps!" He leaned in to the young queen. "Come with me Joanie," he pleaded, as his monocle slipped off his nose and swung like a pendulum from its chain.

The younger cat laughed, but a nervous flick of her cigarette betrayed the impatience she had hid so well. "But I don't have anything nice to wear, Jonesie."

"Of course," the tom's face filled with a tender compassion. "How awful of me to overlook that! I should have brought you diamonds and a gown tonight! I promise you, the next time we meet, Joanie..." He held her paw in supplication.

"Oh, but you mustn't!" the red-head giggled, in a tone that clearly suggested she would prefer it ever-so-much if he did. Munkustrap marveled at the queen's skills—she was clearly Bombalurina's ingénue. "And now, you must go home." She said, deliberately freeing her paw and pushing him gently backwards. "It won't do if Pounce catches you in the queens' dressing room."

"Adieu, Joanie!" the tom cat said, melodramatically lifting his hat. He leaned in for a quick peck on the cheek and trundled down the steps into the alley, and, turning away from Munkustrap, lurched off into the distance. The red cats continued smoking by the doorway, watching the glow of the retreating cat's white spats dull and fade into the dark. Her expression breaking into a sneer which made her look much older than she was, she tossed the cigarette onto the floor and turned to re-enter the building.

"Wait!" Munkustrap called, running forward. The young queen stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

"Toms aren't allowed in here," she said curtly, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her.

"You don't understand, I must see Bombalurina!" Munkustrap put on what he hoped was a look of foppish longing.

The corners of the red cat's mouth curled unpleasantly. "Yeah, you and the hordes of other toms in that room," she jerked her head towards the building. "Take a number, 'cos she's not seeing anyone."

"What if I were to offer you… a token of appreciation for your trouble?" He reached into his coat and picked out a diamond bracelet he had pocketed from one of Bombalurina's unsuspecting admirers.

Almost as if she was conscious of appearing too eager, the younger cat took great pains to slowly, and deliberately reach out to receive the bracelet. Munkustrap noticed that her smile was relaxing into one of genuine pleasure. "I suppose," she said carefully. "I suppose, say, if you were so big a fan, she wouldn't be opposed to a quick meeting." Her eyes flickered to his face.

"Thank you so much," he effused with boyish enthusiasm. He followed her into the building, walking past innumerable doors before stopping at one with a gilded 'B' fixed into it. There was something strange about the placement of the B, a little to the left instead of dead centre, as if there had been another letter nailed to the door to balance out the symmetry.

"I would appreciate it though, if you neglected to mention who let you in," the red cat whispered coyly. "I might get into trouble."

Munkustrap smiled winningly at her. "No worries." He waited till she had disappeared round the corner before rapping on the door.

"Who is it?" Bombalurina's replied sharply. He heard a rustling of clothes and footsteps. "If it's you, Joan, I told you I don't want to be disturbed. You're going to have to handle ol' Bustopher your—" The door swung open. "—self…" She broke off, and glared sullenly at the striped cat with red-rimmed eyes. "What, here to call me more nasty names?"

"Not unless you want me to." Seeing that she was neither amused nor in the mood for verbal sparring, he sighed and continued, "There was no name-calling involved," he groped for the right words. "There may have been some insinuation, the intent and meaning of you inferred yourself. Taking offence was entirely your choice."

She sniffed in response. After glancing around to check that the corridor was clear, stepped aside and let him enter her dressing room.

He took in the room, the lingering whiffs of perfume and stale cigarettes, the smell of powder, and the garish fluorescence of the décor. The room was divided into two sections by a silk Japanese screen that extended from wall to wall. In the section where he stood, there were two mirrors side by side, two dressing tables, two chairs; but while one side was filled with an array of disarrayed cosmetics, perfume bottles, photo frames and flowers, the other was conspicuously bare, save for the few articles of clothing carelessly strewn across the table. To the left of the dressing tables was a chaise longue where Bombalurina had settled herself, watching him warily.

"What's up with the new layout? What's behind the screen?"

"My personal quarters," she replied, her eyes darting to the screen briefly.

"For entertaining purposes?" Munkustrap smirked. "You queens really don't take the 'no Toms' rule very seriously do you?"

She made no reply, but he noticed that her lips tightened slightly as she fit a cigarette into her holder. "What do you want?" she asked, curtly. She was looking intently away from him, avoiding his gaze. "And don't even try to get smart with me. I'm not in the mood."

He shrugged, "Suits me." He crossed the room to the chaise longue. "I want the truth," he said, simply, lowering himself to pick up the lighter she was reaching for. "I think we're both done playing games, so there's no use denying it. I saw the look the shot Tugger. You were telling me what you thought he wanted you to say, weren't you?"

"Maybe," she said, slowly. She leaned in and let Munkustrap light her cigarette. She took a quick puff. "Maybe not." Her eyes met his, and for a split second a wretched expression crossed Bombalurina's face. "What does it matter now?" The nakedness of the misery in her voice took Munkustrap by surprise. She looked away quickly. After a pause, she lifted her head to look at him again and the wretched look had been replaced with a cold, closed expression. "Tell me, is it true, what Quaxo has been going around saying—is Alonzo…"

"Yes," Munkustrap replied quietly. "No, I don't know who did it, but that's what I intend to find out." Their eyes met again, but she quickly looked away, discomforted. Bombalurina raised her cigarette to her mouth with shaky paws.

"How's Cass taking it?"

"Considering the magnitude of this—she's doing alright. She's as tough as Jellicle queens come. Had the presence of mind to track me down in my office and tell me about this."

"Did you see him… see the body?" The corners of her mouth twitched a little as if she were about to cry.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Was he… it… how…" Her mouth tripped over what she wanted to say, unable to find a way to say it without confronting the fact of her friend's death.

"I don't think he suffered much," he lied, running over Cassandra's words at the morgue: I told them to make it look like he had not felt very much pain. What sort of horrific grimace did Lonz have before they forced his face into that grotesque roman comedy mask smile? He glanced at Bombalurina's face, and despite her attempts to keep her expression blank, he could sense the tumult underneath, and he suspected that she had not believed a word of his answer.

"I'm… I'm glad." She said tremulously.

As hardened as he might have become, Bombalurina's grief for Alonzo moved him. "I hadn't realized you were close."

She smiled a tight, tense smile at him as she took a drag of her cigarette, making no move to qualify his statement. The air in the room stilled as the smoke from the cigarette curled gently upwards. Alonzo's absent presence loomed over them as the silence started to make him feel impatient and uneasy, and the garish lights from the dressing table mirror and the sickly sweet smell of perfume pressed upon and suffocated him. It was warm in the dressing room, too warm; he felt like he was choking. Coughing, he tugged at his collar and loosened his tie. "I think, your sister might know more about what happened to Alonzo." He said gently, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. "I need to find her. Will you tell me the truth about your sister?"

Her dark eyes flashed at him as she lifted the cigarette to her mouth. "Can't you leave well enough alone?" She continued, miserably, mechanically. "If you had a secret, you know I would keep it. I wouldn't… tell…"

"I need to know, Bombalurina." He looked intently at her. "Where is your sister?"

"I told you, I don't know!"

"I don't believe you!" He could feel the anger building in him, even as he tried to hold it in. "How is she linked to Alonzo? What are they wrapped up in?"

The furtive glance she gave him when he suggested Demeter's link with Alonzo confirmed that she knew more than she let on. Was Demeter in danger too, then? How could Bombalurina sit here and waste his time, if her sister's life hung in the balance? She gave a forced laugh. "What makes you think I would know anything—"

"She's your sister!" He snapped, losing his temper. "Don't you care that she might be in trouble?"

For a moment Bombalurina recoiled like he had slapped her. Collecting herself, she glared spitefully at the striped cat. "You have no clue when you're dealing with! This doesn't involve you."

"Alonzo was my best friend! And Demeter," he panted, his heart racing with rage. He realized, with a pang, he had used the past tense 'was' in referring to Alonzo. "You, of all people, should know how I felt about her. I am involved, even if I don't want to be."

"How can you help?" she snapped. "You gave up any right you had to know when you walked out of here two years ago!"

"Don't you dare," he snarled. "Hold that against me."

"You left us to fend for ourselves! If you were here—Alonzo… Alonzo…" She looked miserable. "You didn't protect Alonzo, Munk. What use are you to us now?"

The words were intended to cut, and they did. "I am not to blame for Alonzo's death!" He said quietly, but he doubted that he believed himself any more than Bombalurina did. "Help me fix this!" He said insistently, "Save your sister. Help me find her."

"Leave it well alone, Munk! I'm warning you." Her tone was low and dangerous now.

"This is no time to be playing games!" His pulse was racing now. "If your sister is out there mixed up with something that got Lonz killed—every second of mine you waste here means a second less to help her. How could you not want to help your sister!?"

The latter accusation stung, and she glared at him, her eyes turning red. "Fine," she spat. "So you want to know?" She looked scornfully at him. "She's dead, Munk. Dead! Like Alonzo. You didn't do anything for her, and now you can't anymore!" Then she burst into tears.

"You're lying," he blurted, mostly from reflex. He felt numb. He searched her face to see signs of duplicity, but she continued to sob quietly. He stood dumbly, watching her sob for a while before reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his handkerchief. Instead his fingers closed on a small piece of paper. He threw it at Bombalurina. "You're lying," he said again. "Dead people don't write notes."

The existence of the note seemed to surprise Bombalurina. Hastily wiping away her tears, she opened the note with trembling hands and her eyes passed over the note several times. Sniffling, she handed it back to him. "Well, she might as well be dead now."

"What do you mean? Where is she now?"

"Who knows?" The red queen said bitterly. "I really don't know where she is, Munk. I haven't had contact with her for over a year." She looked imploringly at Munkustrap. "What I said, in front of Tugger, was the truth. I wasn't lying when I said she left. And yes, believe it, she left us."

"I still don't believe you. It makes no sense!" He said, frustrated. "Why would she go, why would she burn her bridges with everyone she knows?" He paused, processing the thought. But no matter how he turned the matter over, it did not make sense. Yet Bombalurina was telling the truth now, he was sure of it. As good a showgirl as she was, she could not possibly have feigned the sort of unabated sorrow she displayed when she had believed her sister dead. "How could she have just left?"

"How could you?" Bombalurina shot back. "You broke her heart, you know. We were all having a bad time after that business with Electra. Yet, instead of staying," she stubbed her cigarette angrily. "You left. You were supposed to be there for us, Munk. You were supposed to tell us what to do, how to move on—but you just packed and abandoned us all. Can you blame Dem? We lost our leader, but she lost so much more." Her expression was one of misery. "So she got really sad," She looked at him with wide eyes. "And then she just got really angry. Then she… I don't know, she just… disappeared. There was no news, no letters explaining why, until one day… we got a letter delivered to the Lair. She told us not to go find her, said she was running with… a different crowd now."

"Who?" Munkustrap breathed. "Who is she with?"

Bombalurina shakily put down her cigarette and looked Munkustrap in the eyes. What happened after, as Munkustrap would later recall it, seemed to happened in slow motion, where the stifling atmosphere of the dressing room seemed to solidify and become still and the noise drowned by static. Yet, over and above this drowned silence, his eyes saw her lips move and, not entirely synchronized, his ears heard her voice intone shakily, "The Hidden Paw."

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Munkustrap unlocked the door to his apartment and kicked it open angrily. Throughout the walk home from the Heaviside Lair his mind had been a whirl of jumbled up thoughts. There were too many questions left unanswered, more in fact, than those he had started with. What Bombalurina had thrown at him had caught him completely off-guard. His head was spinning, the result of a combination of a lack of sleep and—well, what else? Horror at his friend's death; shock at his friend's betrayal; offence at the ignominy of his treatment at the lair; all these emotions jostled in his head for attention. His body was trying to shut down from the overload, but his brain kept moving and churning trying to jolt the heart into reaction. He needed a smoke; no, he needed something stronger than a smoke. He needed something to dull and still his mind, to render it blissfully blank for a bit; for just a while, if he could embrace oblivion and escape the surreal un-pleasantries of the past 24 hours. He walked to his kitchen and threw open the lower cabinet. He tapped the lower board till the sound rang hollow. Prying the board off, he reached under and groped about until his hands found the long, sleek body of his opium pipe. He tried to pull it out, but at that point his brain intervened and he faltered.

The world ran on rules. Rules governing decorum, behavior, morals—together they made up the world as people knew it. One had to obey the rules. To ignore them would be to embrace anarchy. The rules were comforting because they helped him to tidy his life neatly into Things He Could Do, and Things He Couldn't. He let go of the pipe and replaced the board neatly. One had to heed the rules, especially those that you had put into place for yourself. The rules, in this case, said No, You Couldn't.

He padded back out of the kitchen, aware now that he was breathing heavily and that he had clenched his fists so tight that they had begun shaking. He had unconsciously stopped in front the big cork board mounted on the wall that formed the centerpiece of his sitting room. He glanced at it, and his eyes immediately found the yellowed article that had plagued him all night. KITTEN FOUND DROWNED IN BAG, WASHED UP ON RIVER BANK, screamed the headlines. The anger and fury was rising in him again. The animal in him was howling now, the same animal in him that told him to let go of the rules and decorum, to throw caution into the wind and embrace the chaos and madness that anarchy held.

Munkustrap had always been vaguely aware of the animal in him. When harnessed correctly, it made him a formidable fighter, and a worthy protector of the gang. In the past, the rules were used to draw the boundaries which boxed in the animal and made it an asset, not a curse. But ever since the sight of Electra's damp, limp body had been seared into his mind; it had become harder to force the animal back into the boundaries and to make it stay there. It was tempting, he had to concede, to succumb to the black, black fury; to be sucked into the dark, to be blind to the world that was spinning out of control; to scream, to shout, to rend limb from limb anyone that crossed him. Yet, his deeply-instilled sense of right or wrong intervened—the rules must be followed. He had been brought up to believe that as an unwavering truth. Rules existed to be followed. He had to swallow the scream that threatened to climb up out of his gullet and claw its way out of his mouth. There was no time to waste on fruitless rage; use that energy; channel it to find the person responsible.

But who was responsible? He ran his eyes over the myriads of news clippings that covered the board from corner to corner. Each one was covered with underlines and scribbling, as if each article was written in a secret code and if he cracked the code he could figure out the answer to the question that had haunted him for the past two years. Each article covered crimes, both minor and major, all seemingly unlinked. Yet, he felt, deep down in his gut that each of them had been orchestrated and carried out by an invisible paw—The Hidden Paw, an apt nickname. He had searched manically for clues these past two years, scouring papers, interviewing members of the underground, tapping informants—some oft-repeated facts began to emerge: his name was Macavity; they said he had scars that marred and disfigured his face; they said he was everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Yet once probed for more concrete details, the lines between myth, hearsay and truth began to blur. No one had seen him in person—the only people willing talk to him about the Hidden Paw were those that were so far down the chain of command they could talk with impunity; no one knew where he operated from; no one could offer any real, concrete piece of evidence that linked him to anything traceable, not a bank account, a phone bill, let alone a paw print.

For the past few months Munkustrap had been tormented by the thought that possibly this cat was not real at all. All he had been chasing these two years had been smoke and mirrors; no more than a fairy tale, a bogeyman. How could he be sure that what he was pursuing was not some sort of collective nightmare, but flesh and bone?

Yet tonight, of all nights, he had found the confirmation he had so desired. Macavity was real! He was a real, living cat. If Demeter had found him—then he had to be traceable somehow. But ay, there's the rub. Demeter had found him, and was with him. The revelation that his enemy was mortal after all instead of filling him with grim excitement only gave him a darker despair. Demeter, Judas to her tribe? Surely not; it couldn't be. He wouldn't believe it. But what was the alternative? That she was captive, held against her will; or trapped, and living in fear? He felt sick with unease. Was that what Alonzo was trying to do, get her to safety? Take care of her, he had told Lonz at their final meeting. Alonzo had not given Munkustrap any indication he had heard, but Munkustrap knew that Lonz's better nature would honor that request. So Lonz had gotten himself killed trying to do the job that had been dumped upon him, when it was really Munkustrap's responsibility. Could he have changed the outcome; saved Alonzo? What could he have done?

With his head pounding with the collision of thoughts which churned together and collided in his mind, he padded off to his bedroom and curled up on his bed, in approximation of the position he had been in after the news of Electra's death broke.

The door opened, and she came close to him, and even though he faced away from her, he heard the soft pad, pad, pad of her feet crossing the apartment. He smelt her scent as she stood by the bed, he knew that her gaze begged him to turn and face her, but he couldn't. He felt her climb into bed gingerly, and her arms slip around him, pulling him into her as she lowered her head onto his and her golden hair fell over him. As the last vestiges of the day's sun petered into the room through shuttered windows, the golden veil of her hair glowed and in spite of the emptiness in him, filled him with warmth.

He had felt like he was on the cusp of madness. But her arms had anchored him, had kept him warm, kept him safe. But now the bed was cold and empty and it was only him. He closed his eyes and willed his mind to be silent and to let him rest.

When Munkustrap would finally come to it would be well past noon and his still wet pillow the only proof that he had wept all night long.

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To all who have written reviews, or listed this as a favorite, and/or signed up for a story alert—thank you! It's been very encouraging to have feedback about this.

This also marks the end of the first part of the story, most of the details of the mystery have now been revealed. It's also the longest chapter yet, and because it was written in bits and pieces, it runs smooth and sags alternatingly. Any C & C would be appreciated. :)