“Just as soon as I can get ’em,” Tragg said.
The Scotchman groaned. “Ye was always an impatient lad,” he observed, and hung up the receiver.
Tragg grinned his satisfaction.
Once more the telephone rang. The man on duty at the switchboard said hurriedly, “Here’s an anonymous tip for you, Lieutenant. Won’t talk with anyone else. Says he’s going to hang up in exactly sixty seconds, and there’s no use trying to trace the call.”
“Got it so you can listen in?” Tragg asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay, put him on.”
A click came over the line as the operator plugged in a key and said, “Here’s Lieutenant Tragg on the line.”
“Hello,” a peculiarly muffled voice said. The man at the other end of the line might well have been holding his fist cupped between his mouth and the transmitter. “Is this Lieutenant Tragg?”
“This is Tragg. Who is this talking?”
“Never mind. I’m just telling you something about Perry Mason, the lawyer, and the girl who drove him out to the Shore place a while after midnight.”
“Go ahead,” Tragg invited. “What d’you know about ’em?”
“They picked a man up. He’s an important witness, one you want. They spirited him away where they’ve got him sewed up.”
“Go on,” Tragg said impatiently. “Who’s the man, and where is he?”
“I don’t know who he is, but I can tell you where he is.”
“Where?”
The voice suddenly speeded up its tempo as though anxious to get the conversation terminated.
“Maple Leaf Hotel under the name Thomas Trimmer. Registered about quarter past four this morning. He’s in room 376.”
Tragg said quickly, “Now, wait a minute. Let me get one thing straight. Are you absolutely certain that Perry Mason, the lawyer, is the one who put this man in the hotel? Is he back of that?”
“Back of it, hell,” the voice said. “Mason was the one who came in with him, carrying a canvas-covered telescope bag. The girl wasn’t with him then.”
The receiver abruptly slammed up at the other end of the line.
Lieutenant Tragg jiggled the hook. “Able to trace that call?” he asked.
“Pay station, block from the hotel,” the exchange operator said. “I got the call traced, and two radio cars rushing out there with instructions to pick up anyone they see within three blocks of the place for questioning. We’ll know in fifteen minutes if they get any results.”
There was the glint of a triumphant hunter in Tragg’s eyes. “I’ll wait fifteen minutes just on a chance.”
It was twenty minutes before the report came in. Two radio cars had converged on the place. It was an all-night restaurant with a phone booth near the door. There was only one man on duty behind the counter, and he had been busy waiting on some customers. He had vaguely noticed a man enter the phone booth, but he couldn’t describe him. The radio cars had picked up two men within a radius of four blocks of the place. It didn’t seem probable that either man had put in the call, but the police had secured names and addresses from driving licenses. Then the officers, stopping at the Maple Leaf Hotel, had found that a Thomas Trimmer had been checked in about four o’clock. He was a man in the late fifties with a slight stoop. He weighed a hundred and forty pounds, was about five feet six, wore somewhat shabby, but clean clothes, had high cheekbones, and a gray drooping mustache. His only baggage had been an old-fashioned canvas telescope case, fairly heavy. Trimmer had been brought in by a tall, well-dressed man.
A little pulse in Lieutenant Tragg’s forehead began to pound as he listened to the report. “Keep the radio cars on the job,” he ordered. “Sew the place up so Trimmer doesn’t get out. I’m on my way out there right now.”
17
MASON DROVE the car slowly. The long hours of sleepless activity had lowered his resistance to the cold chill of the night air.
The kitten curled up on the seat beside him, snuggling closely for warmth. Occasionally, the lawyer, steadying the wheel with his left hand, placed his right hand down on the kitten’s fur, leaving it there for a few seconds until Amber Eyes would start purring in drowsy contentment.
In the east, the stars were shrinking into invisibility. A faint illumination furnished a backdrop against which the roofs of the clustered apartment houses showed in a serrated silhouette. Mason slowed the car as he neared the place where Della Street lived. The entire apartment house was dark, save for that one vaguely lighted orange oblong which would be Della Street’s window.
Mason parked his car, picked up the relaxed form of the purring kitten, and slipped it under his overcoat, holding it against the warmth of his body. He paused before the long list of tenants beside the mail boxes, and pressed the bell of Della Street’s apartment.
Almost instantly, the electric buzzer which released the catch on the street door brought her answering signal. Mason pushed through the door, and into the stuffy, warm air of the lobby. He crossed to the automatic elevator, pressed the button, and ascended to Della Street’s floor. Amber Eyes, nestled under the lawyer’s coat, became apprehensive as he felt the upward motion, and squirmed around, digging sharp little claws into Mason’s clothing until an inquiring, startled head pushed its furry way out from the overcoat to stare curiously at the walls of the elevator cage.
The elevator came to a stop. Mason opened the door, walked down the corridor and paused before Della Street’s door to tap lightly with the tips of his fingers, giving their private code knock.
Della Street opened the door. She was still wearing the clothes in which she had been attired when Mason had deposited her in front of the taxi stand at the hotel.
“Gosh, I’m glad to see you. Tell me, did I get your signals right?” she asked in a half whisper, as Mason eased his way through the door and entered the cozy warmth of her apartment.
“Darned if I know. What did you think I wanted?”
“For me to go out to Lunk’s place.”
“Right. What did you do with him?”
She said, “He wasn’t there. Oh, you’ve got the kitten!”
Mason took off his hat, placed the kitten in Della Street’s outstretched hands, and sat down without taking off his overcoat. He frowned thoughtfully at the carpet. “Got a drink?”
“Been keeping a pot of coffee hot for you. Spiked with brandy, it will fix you up in a jiffy—” She deposited the kitten on the davenport. “You sit there, Amber Eyes, and be a good kitten.”
Mason said, “Wait a minute, Della. I want to talk with you about . . .”
“Not until you’ve had that coffee,” she said, and vanished through the door into the kitchenette.
Mason sat motionless, elbows resting on his knees, staring fixedly at the pattern in the carpet.
Amber Eyes investigated the davenport, jumped down to the floor, allowed his nose to guide the way to the kitchenette, and stood at the door giving a high-pitched “miaow.”
Della Street laughed and opened the door, saying, “And I suppose you want some warm milk.”
Mason was still in the same position when she returned carrying a tray on which were two cups of steaming black coffee. The aroma of fine brandy mingled with that of the beverage to caress the nostrils.
Mason lifted a cup and saucer from the tray, and grinned at Della Street.
“Here’s to crime,” he said.
She sat down on the davenport, balanced the saucer on her knee and said, “Sometimes that toast of yours scares me.”
Mason sipped hot coffee, felt the brandy warming his blood into circulation. “What happened?” he asked.
She said, “I wasn’t certain you could keep Lunk occupied much longer. I told the cab driver to hurry.”
“Give him the Bilvedere address?” Mason asked.
“Not the address. I told him to stop at the corner of a cross street and wait. Then I walked back a block, turned the corner, checked the numbers until I came to the dri
veway which led into Lunk’s place. It’s a little square house tacked onto the garage and . . .”
“I know,” Mason interrupted. “I was inside the place. What did you do?”
“I saw the house was dark, so I barged up on the steps and rang the doorbell, big as life. No one answered. I kept leaning against the doorbell, and couldn’t hear it ring, so I started to knock, and then I noticed that the front door wasn’t quite closed. Believe me, Chief, I wished I’d been a mind reader right then and known what you wanted me to do. But, after a while, I pushed the door open and went in.”
“Turn on the lights?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“There was no one in the house. The bed in the front bedroom hadn’t been made. In the back bedroom . . .”
“Wait a minute. How did you get into the back bedroom? Through the kitchen or the connecting bathroom?”
“The connecting bathroom.”
“Now be sure about this, Della. Were the doors between the two bedrooms open?”
“Yes, about halfway open—that is, the first door was about half open. The door from the bathroom to the back bedroom was all the way open. There was a window in the back bedroom that opened on an alley. That window was raised, and the wind was coming through there, gently blowing the curtains.”
“How about the door from the bedroom into the kitchen?”
“It was open just an inch or two.”
“Did you go through that?”
“No. I went into the kitchen by going back through the front bedroom and the living room. But let me tell you about the front bedroom first. Drawers had been pulled out of the bureau and clothes from the closet were piled on the floor.”
Mason said, “I know. Let’s get back to the kitchen. Did you look in the pantry?”
“Yes.”
“Was the pantry door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
“Did you turn on a light in the pantry?”
“No. I opened the door, and enough light came in from the kitchen so I could see there was no one in the pantry. I wanted to make sure—I thought perhaps Franklin Shore had heard the bell ring and decided to hide, just in case it might be someone whom he didn’t want to see.”
“Did you notice any flour on the floor around the flour can in the pantry?”
“No—but I wouldn’t have noticed it unless there’d been quite a bit of flour on the floor, because the light was back of me and I was only searching to make certain someone wasn’t hiding in there.”
“Feel pretty shaky?”
“I’ll say! Chills were chasing one another up and down my spine. If Franklin Shore had been standing in that pantry, he’d have scared the boots off me.”
Mason finished the coffee, got up to put the cup and saucer over on the table. He slipped out of his overcoat, stretched his long arms, then lowered them to shove his hands down deep in his pockets. From the little kitchen, the kitten “miaowed” a peremptory command to be readmitted to the room which contained human companionship. Della Street opened the door, and the kitten, its stomach bulging with warm milk, marched awkwardly into the room, made a little throaty noise of satisfaction, jumped up on the davenport, and settled down, curling its forepaws in under its chest. The alert interest slowly left its eyes, and, after a moment, they closed enough so white membranes could be seen at the corners as the kitten settled down to purring slumber.
Mason, still standing, jerked his head toward the kitten. “Where was Amber Eyes when you came in?”
“Curled up on the sheets right in the middle of the bed in the front bedroom.”
“Near the center of the bed?”
“Yes. The bed sags a little, and there was a low place right near the center. The kitten was curled up, fast asleep.”
Mason took his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and started pacing the floor.
“More coffee?” Della asked.
He might not have heard her, but continued pacing the carpet, head pushed slightly forward, eyes lowered.
Abruptly, he turned, “Did you notice any tracks on the floor, such as might have been made if the kitten had walked through some white powder?”
Della Street frowned, said, “Let me think. I wasn’t looking for anything smaller than a man, and I was scared stiff, but . . . I think there were some cat tracks across the kitchen. I carried away the general impression that it was a place in which a man had been living by himself, and that it needed a darn good cleaning. The sheets on the bed in the front bedroom were pretty soiled, and the pillow case was filthy. The lace curtains needed cleaning. The dish towels were in pretty bad shape. Oh, just a lot of little things like that. And I think there was something in the kitchen, some cat tracks or something spilled on the floor.”
“But the pantry door was closed? You’re certain of that?”
“Yes.”
Mason said, “How the devil could the kitten have got into flour in the pantry and left tracks across the floor—if the pantry door had been closed? It didn’t go in when you opened the door?”
Della Street thought that over for a few seconds, then shook her head. “It’s beyond me. The kitten never moved while I was there.”
Mason thoughtfully regarded the sleeping kitten, abruptly picked up his overcoat, whipped it on, and reached for his hat.
Della Street came to stand at his side as he reached for the doorknob.
“Please go to bed and get some sleep, Chief. You’ll need it.”
He looked down at her, and the granite lines of his face softened into a smile. “Get some yourself. You’ll need it.
“When you were in the house, did you notice a calling card on the ash tray with George Alber’s name and some handwriting on it?”
“A card was there. I didn’t notice the name on it. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. Forget it.”
He circled her waist with his arms, drew her close to him. She raised half-parted lips. His other arm circled her shoulder. For a moment, he held her close, then said, “Keep a stiff upper lip, Kid. I think we’ve pulled a boner.”
Silently opening the door, he slipped out into the hallway.
18
DELLA STREET fought against the clamor of the alarm clock.
Her sleep-drugged struggle against the first spasm of ringing was successful. The bell ceased its clanging summons and Della Street slipped off once more into deep slumber, only to be aroused by the irritating insistence of the second alarm.
She raised herself on one elbow, eyes still closed, groped for the shut-off. The clock eluded her, making it necessary for her to open her eyes.
The clock was not in its accustomed place by the bed, but over on the dresser where she had placed it as a precaution against shutting it off and going to sleep again.
Reluctantly, she threw back the covers, swung her legs out of bed, and started for the clock.
A faint “miaow” of protest came from the bed.
It took her a moment to account for that strange sound, then, switching off the alarm, she pulled up the covers which she had thrown back over Amber Eyes.
The kitten curled in a warm little nest on top of the bed, purred its gratitude, got to its feet, arched its back, stretched, yawned, made two awkward zigzag cat jumps which brought it within reaching distance of Della Street’s fingers.
The kitten accepted the ministrations of Della’s fingertips behind his ears, ventured in purring exploration over the slippery treachery of the rounded bedclothes, seeking to regain the warmth of Della Street’s body.
Della laughed and pushed him away. “Not now, Amber Eyes. The strident clang of the alarm calls me to industry.”
She knew that she didn’t have to get to the office on time, but there were some matters in the mail which needed attention. A new typist was working on an important brief, and Della knew she’d have to check over that brief before letting Mason see it for final reading.
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nbsp; Warm needles of water from the shower, the scented lather of soap, then, at the last, the sting of the cold water, tingled her into life. She vigorously toweled her skin into glowing health, inspected stockings for possible runners, and was standing before the mirror in her underthings, getting her face made up when the buzzer on her inner door exploded into noise.
For a while, Della ignored it, then she opened the door a scant inch, said, “Go away, I’m a working girl. I don’t want to buy anything, I can’t subscribe to anything, and I’m late for the office now.”
Lieutenant Tragg’s voice said, “Well, I’ll drive you down to the office. That will save time.”
Della Street tilted her head, placing her eyes close to the crack in the door so that she could see Lieutenant Tragg’s face.
“How’d you get past the street door?”
“It’s a secret. You look sleepy.”
“You look worse than that.”
Tragg grinned. “As far as I can tell, no one west of the Mississippi got any sleep last night.”
“I’m dressing.”
“How long will it take you to finish?”
“Five or ten minutes.”
“Breakfast?”
“Not here. I grab a cup of coffee at the drugstore on the corner.”
“Bad for the health to eat that way,” he told her.
“Swell for the figure.”
“I’ll wait outside the door,” he said.
“Is it that important?”
“It’s that important,” Tragg said.
Della closed the door. Her mirror showed her the reflection of a scowling countenance. She moved over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, started to dial Mason’s unlisted number, then changed her mind, dropped the receiver back into place, got into her dress, kicked off her bedroom slippers, put on shoes, and then realized the problem presented by the kitten.
She snatched the little fluff of fur up in her arms, said softly, “Now listen, my love, that cop outside eats kittens, eats ’em alive. What’s more, he’ll want your presence explained, and, frankly, you’d be harder to laugh off than a man under the bed. It’s the kitchen for you, and I’m praying that lots of warm milk will keep you quiet.”
The Case of the Careless Kitten Page 16
