“Jerry.” Helen tried her best not to say it defensively, but Aunt Matilda’s eyes were too much for her. “He only stayed a few minutes.”
“So I noticed.” It was clear that Aunt Matilda took a grim pleasure in the brevity of the visit. “You might as well make up your mind to it, Helen. It’s quite plain that he’s made up his. He has sense enough to see he can’t possibly marry you. And it’s a good thing for you that he can’t. You’re just fool enough to do it if he asked you to.”
“Just exactly fool enough,” Helen said.
“Meaning you aren’t a fool at all.” Aunt Matilda sniffed. “That’s what fools always think. It’s lucky for you that what you think doesn’t matter. He’s the worst possible type for a girl like you. He’s a man’s man. He’ll never be any good to a woman. That padlocked, shut-mouthed repression of his would drive you mad. You’ve got enough of it for two, yourself. I’ve been married twice and I know what I’m talking about. The only sort of man you’ll ever be happy with is somebody like George Alber, who—”
“Who leaves me absolutely cold,” Helen said.
“He wouldn’t if you saw more of him. If you’d get rid of this ridiculous idea that you’re in love with Jerry Templar and mustn’t be even civil to any other man. When even you can’t possibly be fool enough not to see that he can’t marry you on his private’s pay. When—”
“Jerry won’t be a private much longer,” Helen said. “They’re sending him to an officers’ training camp.”
“What of it? When he gets his commission—if he gets it—he’ll only be shipped off to the ends of the earth and—”
“He’ll be at the camp first.” Helen spoke quickly, before Aunt Matilda could say anything about what would happen afterward. Helen wasn’t letting herself think about that. “He’ll be there for months, and I could be there, too, or somewhere near by. Near enough for us to see each other sometimes.”
“I see.” Aunt Matilda’s voice was heavily ironic. “You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you? Except, of course, for the trivial matter of what you’ll live on while all this is happening. Or—” She stopped. “I see. Gerald’s been talking to you. He’s made you think he can make me give you the money Franklin left you. Well, you can put that idea out of your head. That money isn’t due you till Franklin’s dead. And he’s no more dead than I am. He’s alive. One of these days he’ll come crawling back, begging me to forgive him.”
She laughed, as if the word were comic. Helen suddenly understood, for the first time, why Aunt Matilda clung so fiercely to her belief that Franklin Shore was alive. She hated him too bitterly to bear the thought of his having gone beyond hatred’s power to follow. She had one dream left and she lived on it, and in it—the dream of his coming back. Coming back for the only reasons that could drive him back. Old, alone, beaten, in want. For her to take payment from him in kind and in full for what he had done to her.
Komo, the houseboy, appearing silently from nowhere, stood in the doorway. “Excuse pleassse,” he said.
Matilda said, “What is it now, Komo? The door’s open. Come in. And don’t be so damned pussyfooting when you walk.”
The houseboy’s dark glittering eyes surveyed Matilda Shore. “Party on telephone, pleassse,” he said. “Statement made that call is most important.”
“All right. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Receiver is left down on extension in your bedroom,” Komo announced, and turned to walk back down the corridor with quick, light steps.
Helen said, “Aunt Matilda, why don’t you get rid of that houseboy? I don’t trust him.”
“Perhaps you don’t. I do.”
“He’s Japanese.”
“Nonsense. He’s Korean. He hates the Japanese.”
“He may say he’s Korean, but that’s just . . .”
“He’s been saying so for twelve years.”
“Well, he doesn’t look like a Korean to me. He looks like a Japanese, he acts like a Japanese, and . . .”
“Ever know any Koreans?” Aunt Matilda interrupted.
“Well, no—not exactly, but . . .”
“Komo is a Korean,” Matilda said positively, and turning, walked back to her bedroom, pulling the door closed behind her.
Helen returned to the living room. Her hand smarted from the scratches and the sting of the disinfectant. The kitten was nowhere in evidence. Helen sat down and tried to read, but her mind refused to concentrate on the printed page.
After some fifteen minutes, she tossed the magazine to one side, sat back and closed her eyes. The kitten, appearing from nowhere, seemed properly apologetic as it rubbed, purring, against her ankles. At length it jumped up on the arm of her chair. Its rough tongue scraped against the skin of her arm.
Helen heard the telephone ringing, heard Komo’s light steps as he went to answer it, then he was standing beside her chair as though he had silently materialized from thin air.
“Excussse, please. This time, call for Missy.”
Helen walked out to the reception hallway where the telephone was located. She picked up the receiver, wondering if this might not be Jerry calling to . . . “Hello,” she said, her voice eager.
The voice which came over the telephone wire was quavering with some emotion. “Is this Helen Kendal?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You don’t know who this is?”
“No,” Helen almost snapped. People who rang up and asked her to guess who was calling irritated her.
The voice seemed a little stronger now, more steady. “Be very careful what you say that might be overheard. You remember your Uncle Franklin?”
Helen’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Yes, yes, but . . .”
“This is your Uncle Franklin.”
“I don’t believe it. He’s . . .”
“No, Helen, I’m not dead.” The voice broke with emotion. “I’m very much alive.”
“But . . .”
“I don’t blame you for not believing it. You’d know me if you saw me again, wouldn’t you?”
“Why, I . . . why, yes—of course.”
The man’s voice went on more firmly now. “You remember the time the dog chased the kitten up on the roof of the house? You begged me to get him down, and I took a ladder and climbed up. Remember the New Year’s party when you wanted to try the punch and your Aunt Matilda told you you couldn’t, and you sneaked some in the pantry, anyway? Remember how I followed you up to your room and talked to you until you developed a laughing jag—and how I never told anyone—not even your Aunt Matilda—about it?”
Helen felt a peculiar tingling sensation around the hair at the back of her neck. “Yes,” she said in a voice which was hardly more than a whisper.
“Now do you believe me, Helen?”
“Uncle Frank . . .”
“Careful! Don’t mention my name. Is your aunt at home?”
“Yes.”
“She mustn’t know that I’ve called. No one must know. Do you understand?”
“Why, I . . . why . . . No, I don’t understand.”
“There is only one way to straighten things out. You’ll have to help me.”
“I?”
“Yes.”
“What can I do?”
“You can do something that no one else can do. Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Perry Mason?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“I want you to see him this afternoon, tell him the entire story so he’ll know the facts. Tonight at nine o’clock I want you to bring him to the Castle Gate Hotel. You know where that is?”
“No.”
“You can look it up. It’s a cheap hotel. Don’t be frightened. Bring Mason to that hotel, ask for Henry Leech. He’ll take you to me. Don’t let anyone else know about this conversation or what’s happening. Be sure you aren’t followed. Tell Mason everything, but swear him to secrecy. I’ll . . .”
She heard a quick, gasping intake of breath. Abruptly, the receiver clicked at
the other end of the line, and there was only that peculiar singing of an open telephone line. She jiggled the receiver hook several times. “Operator,” she called. “Operator!”
Through the partially opened door, Helen heard the unmistakable sounds of her aunt’s approach, the slow, labored steps, the steady thump . . . thump . . . thump of the cane, the dragging shuffle of the right foot.
Hastily, she hung up the receiver.
“Who is it?” Aunt Matilda asked, entering the hall as Helen turned away from the telephone.
“I think it’s a date,” Helen said, trying to sound casual.
Aunt Matilda lowered her eyes to Helen’s right hand. “How did that cat happen to scratch you?” she asked. “You’re lying to protect it. I’m not going to keep it if it’s becoming vicious.”
“Don’t be silly,” Helen said. “I tell you, I was teasing it with a piece of paper.”
“Well, it had no business scratching you. Was that your soldier boy on the telephone?”
Helen laughed evasively.
“What are you so excited about? You’re all flushed.” She shrugged her heavy shoulders contemptuously. “It would be just like that fool, Jerry Templar, to propose to a girl over the telephone. It wouldn’t surprise me at that. . . . Helen, what in heaven’s name is the matter with that kitten?”
Helen sighed wearily. “I told you it was my fault. I . . .”
“No, no! Look at him!”
Helen moved over, impelled by her aunt’s fixed stare.
“He’s just playing,” she said. “Kittens play that way.”
“It doesn’t look like he’s playing to me.”
“Kittens do that when they’re stretching. They have to flex their little muscles. They . . .”
Helen felt the words fading from her tongue as she lost assurance. The kitten was acting most peculiarly, its motions very different from the stretches by which kittens coax their immature muscles into growth. The little spine arched backwards. The paws were stretched out to the fullest extent. Little spasms sent tremors through the body. But what arrested Helen’s attention and filled her with apprehension was the expression in the amber eyes, the manner in which the kitten’s jaws were clamped together, bits of froth oozing from beneath curled, pale lips.
“Oh, dear, something’s wrong! Amber Eyes is sick!” she exclaimed.
Matilda Shore said, “Don’t go near it. The cat’s gone mad. Cats do that just the same as dogs. You’d better go see a doctor at once about that hand.”
“Nonsense!” Helen said. “The kitten’s sick. . . . Poor little Amber Eyes. What’s the matter? Did you hurt your self some way?”
Helen reached down to the rigid little body. As soon as her fingers touched the fur, the cat went into a very definite convulsion.
“I’m going to take that cat to a veterinary right away,” Helen said.
“You watch out. You’ll get hurt,” Aunt Matilda warned.
“I’ll take care of that,” Helen promised, dashing to the closet and struggling into her coat.
“You get something to wrap that cat in,” Aunt Matilda said, “so it can’t scratch you. . . . Komo. . . . Oh, Komo.”
The swarthy little man materialized almost at once in the doorway. “Yes, ma’am.”
Helen said, “Get an old blanket or a quilt out of the closet. Something to wrap the cat in.”
Komo regarded the kitten with a peculiar expression in his lacquered eyes. “Kitten sick?” he asked.
“Don’t stand there asking foolish questions,” Matilda said impatiently. “Of course the kitten’s sick. Do what Miss Helen told you. Get that blanket.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Helen hastily adjusted her hat in front of the mirror, then stooped to bend over the kitten.
“Keep away from him,” Matilda warned. “I don’t like the way he’s acting.”
“What is it, Amber Eyes?” Helen asked, her voice soothing.
The cat’s eyes were staring fixedly, but at the sound of Helen’s voice, he made a slight motion as though to turn his head. That little motion brought on another of those swift spasms, this time more violent.
Just as Komo brought the blanket, Helen heard steps on the outer porch. The door opened. Her uncle, Gerald Shore, crossed the reception hallway to the living room, taking off his hat and light coat as he moved. “Hello, everybody,” he said cheerfully. “What seems to be the trouble?”
There was reassurance in Gerald Shore’s deeply resonant voice. It never seemed necessary for him to raise that voice, yet he could be plainly heard, no matter how large the room.
“It’s Amber Eyes,” Helen said. “He’s sick.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We don’t know. He’s having spasms. I’m taking him to a veterinary,” Helen said. “I’m . . . Here, Komo, help me get the blanket around the cat. Watch out he doesn’t bite now.”
They wrapped the blanket around the kitten. Helen clasped the tense little body to her and could feel another spasm tighten the muscles as she started for the door.
“Come on,” Gerald Shore said. “I’ll drive the car. You can hold the cat.”
“The cat’s already scratched Helen,” Matilda said.
“I washed it with alcohol,” Helen explained.
“Cats can go mad just the same as dogs do,” Matilda insisted.
Komo, smiling and nodding, said, “Fits. Excussse, please. All cats have fits. This very typical cat fit.”
Helen turned to her Uncle Gerald. “Come on. Please let’s get started.”
Matilda Shore said to the houseboy, “Komo, you’ve let me run out of stout again. Now you go all the way uptown to the market and get me six bottles. Don’t disturb me when you come back. I’ll lie down until dinner. Helen, don’t take on so over that kitten. Find a better outlet for your affections. Now get started, all of you.”
She entered her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
“Come on, Helen,” Uncle Gerald said sympathetically.
Suddenly Helen remembered the telephone call. Curiously, she had forgotten it completely in the excitement over Amber Eyes. In a way it seemed unreal, like something that had never happened. Uncle Franklin! As soon as she took care of Amber Eyes, she would try to reach this Perry Mason.
2
GERALD SHORE had never had his brother’s flair for making money, or rather, for keeping money. Where Franklin had watched his ever-growing fortune with the tight-lipped determination of a man who knows how to say no, Gerald had spent money recklessly on the “easy come, easy go” theory. Prior to 1929, Gerald had considered himself a wealthy man. Within a few short weeks, he not only had been completely stripped of his property, but had found himself dependent upon his law practice to give him even a living.
This period of transition had been most embarrassing. Having adjusted his practice on the theory that he would not waste his time with small cases, that he would see clients by appointment only, and would take only such cases as interested him, Gerald suddenly found himself eager to accept any honorable employment where there was even a fair possibility of a fee.
Holding the kitten close, feeling the convulsive waves that racked its little body, Helen thought gratefully that Uncle Gerald was more sympathetic, more understanding, than any man she knew. She wondered if he had always been like this. Certainly his difficulties and his trouble had not hardened him. It seemed even that since the crash he had been more gentle, more tolerant, than before. Whereas Aunt Matilda’s idea was for Komo to put the kitten out of the way, Uncle Gerald obviously recognized a major emergency that relegated traffic laws to the background. It was but a matter of minutes before they had Amber Eyes in the hands of a competent veterinary.
Dr. Blakely, making a quick: diagnosis, reached for a hypodermic needle.
“It isn’t—isn’t rabies, is it?” Helen asked.
“Probably poison,” he said. “Here, hold the cat’s head. Hold him tightly by the neck and shoulders. Hold fir
mly now. Don’t let go if he starts fighting.”
He inserted the hypodermic needle, carefully regulated the amount of fluid which he injected, withdrew the needle, and said, “Temporarily, we’ll put him in this cage. The kitten’s going to eject the contents of its stomach. In that way, we’ll get rid of any poison which remains. How long ago was it when you first observed any symptoms?”
“I don’t think it could possibly have been over five or ten minutes,” Helen said. “It didn’t take us over three minutes to get here, and . . . well, perhaps ten minutes ago.”
“We stand a good chance,” Dr. Blakely said. “Nice little kitten. Hope we can save it.”
“You think it’s poison?”
“I think so. The treatment isn’t going to be particularly pleasant. You’ll think the animal is suffering even more than it is. You two had better wait out in the office. If I need any more help, I’ll call you.”
He drew on a pair of thick leather gloves.
“You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?” Helen asked.
He shook his head. “I can let you know more in a few minutes. It had been playing out in the yard, hadn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember distinctly, but I think the kitten had been in the living room all the time.”
“Well, we’ll find out more about it after a while. Go sit down and wait.”
Out in the waiting room, Gerald Shore settled himself in a chair, fished a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end and struck a match. The flame, which was held in his cupped hands, illuminated the sensitive outlines of his features, the sweep of a high, contemplative forehead, kindly, tolerant eyes, about which were little crow’s-feet of humor, a mouth which was uncompromising and determined without being too stern.
“Nothing we can do now, Helen. May as well sit down and take it easy. We’ve done everything we can.”
They sat silently for several minutes, Helen’s mind tumbling around between that strange telephone call and Amber Eyes and poison, and what she should do about her Uncle Franklin. In spite of what he had said, she wanted to confide in Uncle Gerald but she hesitated. Gerald Shore was quite evidently lost in thought, his mind occupied with a problem that plainly required concentration.
The Case of the Careless Kitten Page 2
