“What gave you that impression?” Drake asked.
“Letters badly out of line, a faint ribbon which looked as though it had dried out from lack of use, dirt in the loops of the e’s and the a’s, a few strike-overs and cross-outs, poor spacing of the letter on the sheet of paper, and irregularities in the letters which indicated a ragged touch. However, Tragg will have seen all that almost at a glance, so don’t waste too much time on the letter. There’s no use duplicating the police effort, and we can’t expect to engage in competition with them on the things they’ll be covering.”
“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll . . .”
Della Street said, “The phone keeps ringing in the outer office. Hear that peculiar buzzing sound? That’s the way the switchboard sounds when the lines are out and someone’s ringing on the main line. It’s been doing that at intervals for the past five minutes.”
Mason glanced at his watch, said, “On a hunch, Della, see who it is.”
She got up and went through to the outer office and in a few minutes came running back.
“What is it?” Mason asked.
“Helen Kendal. Someone broke into the house and shot her boy friend—the one who’s on leave from the Army. She notified the police and called for a taxicab. She’s at the hospital now. They’re operating, on a desperate chance. They don’t expect him to live through the operation. She’s been calling for the last five minutes.”
Mason nodded to Paul Drake. “Let’s go, Paul.”
Drake shook his head. “You go. By the time you get there, Lieutenant Tragg will have things sewed up so tight you’ll have to pay admission to get within a block of the place. I’ll put in the time working these other angles while Tragg’s busy out there.”
Mason said, “There may be something to that.”
“This new development will keep him occupied,” Drake said, “and leave my hands free.”
Mason was struggling into his overcoat. “Want to come, Della?”
“Try holding me back.”
Drake looked at Mason, with his peculiar, lopsided smile twisting his features. “Where was your client when this last bit of shooting took place?” he asked.
Mason looked at his wrist watch, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he made a rapid mental calculation, and said, “That’s one of the first things Lieutenant Tragg is going to ask. For all I know, he’s asking it right now—and getting an answer. And, as I figure out the time element, my client could have made it back to the house in time to do the shooting.”
13
THE BIG, old-fashioned house in which Franklin B. Shore had reigned as a financial power was lighted from cellar to garret. Two police cars were parked in the driveway. Under the contagion of excitement, adjoining houses showed lighted windows, mostly in the upper stories, and these oblongs of light, in a neighborhood which was otherwise wrapped in slumber and darkness, held in themselves a certain portent of tragedy.
Mason drove past the house twice, then parked his car on the opposite side of the street and said to Della Street, “I’ll make a preliminary survey. Do you want to sit here in the car?”
“Okay.”
“Keep your eyes open. If you see anything suspicious, strike a match and light a cigarette. Otherwise, don’t smoke. When you strike the match, hold it for a second close to the windshield, then cup your hands and bring it up to the cigarette. It won’t do any harm to let the first match go out and strike a second, just in case I’m where I don’t get your first signal.”
“Are you going up to the house?”
“Eventually. I want to snoop around the yard first.”
“Want me to go in with you when you do make the house?”
“I’ll let you know. I want to check up here first. Notice that window over on the north side of the house, the one on the ground floor. It’s wide open and the curtains aren’t drawn. I saw the light from a flash bulb on the inside of that room just now. It looks as though they were photographing the window. That’s significant.”
Della Street settled down in the car. “I suppose Tragg’s already on the job in person.”
“Oh, sure.”
“And your client, Gerald Shore?”
“May have walked right into the middle of things,” Mason said. “I hope he has sense enough not to give them his alibi.”
“What is his alibi?” Della Street asked.
“He was with us—I hope, I hope.”
She said, “I don’t think we’ve ever furnished an alibi for a client, have we?”
“No. That’s why I hope he keeps his mouth shut.”
“Wouldn’t Tragg accept your word?”
“Tragg might, but put yourself in the position of someone in a jury box. A lawyer comes into court defending a man charged with one murder. Another murder gets linked up with him. He says, ‘At that time I was with my lawyer,’ and the lawyer who is defending him, and his secretary, get on the stand and glibly try to prove the alibi. Doesn’t look very well, does it?”
She shook her head. “Not to a jury it wouldn’t.”
“That is why the better lawyers withdraw from a case when they have to be witnesses,” Mason said.
“You mean you’d withdraw if you had to make an alibi for Shore?”
“I wouldn’t want to be both a witness and an attorney in a case.”
“I could be a witness.”
“We’ll talk it over later,” Mason said, and buttoning his overcoat against the chill of the night wind which was sweeping down from the northeast, walked diagonally across the street toward the lighted house.
Della Street watched him through the windshield of the car, her eyes darting about, searching the shadows. As Mason neared the yard and started to cut across the strip of lawn, Della saw the motion of a shadow near the hedge.
Mason had turned so that he was facing the window on the north. The shadow was moving toward him.
Della Street hurriedly lit a match. Mason, with his back to her, didn’t notice the signal. Della reached to the dashboard and switched the headlights on and off, twice.
Mason turned, then—too late.
Della Street, rolling down the window of the car, could hear the conversation.
“Mr. Mason?”
Only one who had been intimately associated with Perry Mason for years would have noticed anything unusual in his voice as he said, “Yes. This is Mr. Mason. Why?”
The man moved forward.
“Lieutenant Tragg wants to see you. He said you’d probably be along and for me to keep an eye out for you.”
Mason’s laugh was hearty. “My compliments to Lieutenant Tragg. When do we see him?”
“Now.”
“Where?”
“Inside.”
Mason linked his arm through that of the officer. “It’s a little chilly outside, anyway. Care for a cigar?”
“Don’t mind it I do.”
They marched up the steps and into the house.
Della Street settled back against the cushions of the automobile.
Lights in the hallway beat into the lawyer’s eyes, so that he squinted against the sudden glare. A plain-clothes officer, seated by the door, got to his feet.
“Tell Tragg Mr. Mason’s here.”
The guard looked curiously at Mason and said, “Okay,” and vanished.
Mason’s escort held a match to the cigar, tilted his hat back on his head. “We stay here,” he said. “I don’t think the lieutenant would like to have you rubbering around the house until he’s ready to talk with you.”
Mason heard the sound of quick steps. Tragg came through the door which opened from the living room. “Well, well, Mason,” he said, “nice of you to call! I wanted to talk with you. Called your office but you weren’t there.”
“I endeavor to anticipate your every wish,” said Mason with mock formality.
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
Lieutenant Tragg turned, pushed his head through the door, called out to someone, “
Close that bedroom door.”
He waited until the sound of a door slamming shut indicated that his order had been obeyed.
“Come on in, Mason.”
Tragg led the way into the living room. Mason’s eyes, by this time thoroughly adjusted to the light, took in the significant details with photographic clarity.
Gerald Shore, apparently perfectly calm and composed, was sitting in an easy chair, his knees crossed, puffing placidly at his pipe. A plain-clothes officer stood unobtrusively in the shadows, his hat brim pulled down so that his face was completely in the shadow. The ruddy tip of a lighted cigarette glowed and paled alternately as he smoked. A man whom Mason took to be Komo, with a distinctly Oriental cast of countenance, was seated within a few feet of the officer.
That end of the long room was shadowed by a relatively dim illumination, but the end over toward the hallway leading to Matilda’s bedroom and the hallway itself blazed with the brilliant light thrown by powerful floodlights in reflectors which were supported on metal stands. These lamps quite evidently had been used to give illumination for photographic purposes. The wires which led to them from outlets in various parts of the living room and hall criss-crossed over the floor.
The closed door and the end of the hall concealed the interior of the room beyond. The blazing floodlights standing just outside the door, showed quite plainly that Lieutenant Tragg had wanted photographs of the bedroom, and the sinister red stain on the hardwood floor by the door showed why.
“Sit down, Mason,” Tragg said. “I don’t want to take any unfair advantage of you. I have asked you for cooperation in times past. I’m not doing that now, because I’m in a definitely hostile position.”
“How so?” Mason asked.
“Mr. Shore says you’re his attorney. He isn’t doing any talking. I don’t like that.”
“I don’t blame you,” Mason said.
“And,” Tragg went on, “I don’t propose to stand for it. When a man tries to conceal something from me in a murder case, I consider it an admission of guilt.”
Mason’s nod was sympathetic.
“I’m hoping,” Tragg said to Mason, “that you’ll talk. It’s going to be unfortunate for your client if you don’t.”
Mason nodded to Gerald Shore, sat down in a chair by the table, and said, “Of course I’ll talk, Tragg. I’m always willing to talk.”
Tragg drew up a chair.
Shore removed the pipe from his mouth. “Lieutenant Tragg has been asking me questions. I told him you were my lawyer.”
Tragg said, “That doesn’t prevent you from answering questions about an entirely different matter.”
“How do you know it’s an entirely different matter?” Mason asked.
“Because it must have occurred after he’d employed you.”
“I see.”
Shore tamped the tobacco down into the bowl of the pipe with his finger and said, “It’s an axiom of the profession, Lieutenant, that a lawyer who seeks to advise himself has a fool for a client.”
Tragg said, “The point is, Shore refuses to tell me where he was when this crime occurred.”
Mason said, “Suppose you tell me what crime we’re talking about, Tragg.”
Tragg said, “All right—I’ll tell you that. Helen Kendal was sitting on that davenport talking with Jerry Templar, her—well, if she’s not engaged to him, she ought to be. They heard a noise in Mrs. Shore’s bedroom.”
“What sort of a noise?” Mason asked, his eyes showing keen interest.
“As though a bedside stand or something of the kind had been knocked over.”
“By an intruder climbing in through that window on the north side?” Mason asked.
Tragg hesitated for a moment, then said, “Well, yes.”
“Go on.”
“Naturally, Helen Kendal was startled,” Tragg said, “as she knew that her aunt was not in her bedroom. After that they both heard sounds that should have been Matilda Shore walking across the room, the thump-thump of a cane and the slightly dragging steps. It’s significant that if Miss Kendal hadn’t known that Mrs. Shore was in the hospital, she would not have paid any attention to the sounds, thinking that her aunt had accidentally overturned some object in getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. But since she knew Mrs. Shore was not in the house, they started to investigate.”
“Mrs. Shore was in the hospital?” Mason asked.
Tragg said, “She was. I can vouch for that. Templar opened the door. While he was fumbling for the light switch, someone who was in the room shot him with a revolver. Two shots were fired. The first missed. The second struck him in the left side.”
“Killed?” demanded Mason quickly.
“No. I understand his chances of recovery are about fifty-fifty. The doctors are performing an emergency operation.”
“This seems to be one of your more lurid nights, Tragg,” Mason broke in dryly.
Tragg ignored him. “They ought to have that bullet shortly, if they have not already recovered it. I’ve got here, though, the bullet which missed him and which hit the woodwork just to the side of the door. It missed Helen Kendal’s head by a scant inch or two. It’s a .38 caliber slug, apparently fired from a conventional doubleaction, self-cocking revolver. I haven’t as yet matched it up with the bullet which killed Henry Leech, but I won’t be at all surprised if all three shots were fired from the same gun. That means, of course, they were fired by the same person.”
Mason drummed softly with the tips of his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Interesting,” he observed.
“Isn’t it?” Tragg said acidly.
Mason nodded. “If we concede in advance that all three shots were fired from the same gun and that, therefore, they must have been fired by the same person, we can exclude Leech because he is dead, Matilda Shore because she was in a hospital at the time the last crime was committed, Gerald Shore because he has a perfect alibi for that same period, also Helen Kendal and Jerry Templar. Moreover . . .”
“I’m quite capable of working out the theory of elimination,” Tragg interrupted. “What I am interested in is your statement that Gerald Shore has an alibi.”
Mason said, “He has.”
“Well, what is it?”
Mason smiled. “You haven’t told me the time the crime was committed.”
“Then how do you know he has an alibi?” Tragg countered quickly.
“That’s right,” Mason said, smiling, “I don’t, do I? Now let’s see. The person who entered that room knew that Mrs. Shore wasn’t in the room, but didn’t know that Helen Kendal knew it.”
“How do you make that deduction?” Tragg asked, interested.
Mason said, “Because he tried to deceive Helen by impersonating Mrs. Shore, and walking across the room just as Mrs. Shore would have done. That proves Gerald Shore couldn’t have done it. Gerald knew that Helen knew her aunt wasn’t in the house.”
Tragg frowned. It was plain that Mason’s reasoning impressed him, and also upset some theory he had formed.
Suddenly the guard at the other end of the room said, “This Jap’s doing a lot of listening, Lieutenant. His ears are sticking out a foot.”
Tragg turned, his face showing annoyance. “Get him out of here.”
Komo bowed. “Excussse please,” he said with dignity. “I am not Japanese. I am Korean. My sentiments for Japanese are not friendly.”
“Get him out!” Tragg repeated.
The guard clapped a hand on Komo’s shoulder. “Come on, Skibby,” he said. “Out!”
Tragg waited until Komo had been escorted from the room to the kitchen. Then he turned to Mason. “Mason,” he said, “I don’t like your attitude, nor that of your client.”
Mason grinned. “If we’re going to play a game of Truth, Lieutenant, it’s my turn. I don’t like the way you dragged me in here as though I were a second-story man.”
Tragg said, “And perhaps you won’t like what I’m going to do now any better. When my men checked on the
Castle Gate Hotel, the clerk said there were three of you in there when the letter was received. Four of you went up to the mountain. Now, why didn’t one of your party want to go in the hotel? Just hold everything a moment.”
Tragg got up, walked out to the telephone in the hallway, leaving the door open behind him. He dialed a number, and after a moment said, “The Castle Gate Hotel? The night clerk? . . . This is Lieutenant Tragg, Homicide. . . . That’s right. . . . What time did you come on duty last night? . . . Six o’clock. All right, do you know a man named Gerald Shore? . . . Let me describe him. About sixty-two years, rather distinguished looking, a high forehead, clean-cut profile, five-feet-eight or eight and a half, weight a hundred and sixty-five pounds, flowing gray hear which sweeps back from a high forehead, wearing a gray checked suit, a light blue shirt, and a blue-and-red necktie with a black pearl scarf pin. . . . He was! When? . . . I see. . . . For how long? . . . I’ll be up and see you within the next half hour. In the meantime, don’t talk with anyone about this.”
Tragg slammed up the telephone receiver and came back to stand where he could look from Gerald Shore to Perry Mason. “I think I begin to see a very great light,” he said. “Perhaps, Mr. Shore, you will tell me why you went to the Castle Gate Hotel early this evening and waited—and waited—and waited.”
The Case of the Careless Kitten Page 11
