Amber Eyes purred contentedly.
Della Street stepped out into the little kitchenette, poured some top-milk from a bottle, warmed it until it felt just the right temperature, then fed the kitten.
“The doctor says you aren’t to have anything solid,” she told Amber Eyes, “and unless you want to give the show away you’ve got to be a good little kitten and keep your mouth shut. A good full stomach should help, so go ahead and fill up.”
Purring its pleasure, the kitten lapped up the warm, creamy milk, and Della Street, slipping quietly out of the kitchen, gently closed the door so Tragg wouldn’t hear the click of the latch. She hastily threw the covers back into place on the bed, tucked the sheet in, fluffed the pillows, placed them in the clips at the foot of the bed, and pushed the bed back up against the wall, turning the revolving door so the bed was concealed in the closet. She pushed the chairs back into position, working against time.
She put on her street coat, adjusted her hat more by instinct than any desire for facial adornment, opened the door and gave Lieutenant Tragg the benefit of her best smile. “All ready,” she said. “Nice of you to offer to drive me to the office. I suppose, however, it’s not entirely philanthropic.”
“It isn’t,” Tragg said.
“A Greek, bearing gifts?”
“Exactly. Nice place you have there. Nice southeast exposure.”
“Isn’t it,” Della Street said, tugging at the doorknob.
“You’re all alone here?”
“Of course.”
Tragg took a step forward so that his shoulder blocked the closing door. “Tell you what, Miss Street, we may as well talk in here for just a minute.”
“I haven’t time. I’ve got to be at the office.”
“I think this is more important than being at the office,” Tragg said.
“Well, we could talk in your car, or . . .”
“It’s hard to talk, driving a car,” Tragg said, moving on into the apartment and walking apparently in a most casual manner over to the davenport.
Della Street sighed in exasperation, stood in the doorway, fully aware of the fact that his sharp, police-trained eyes, were taking in every detail.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I simply have to get to work. I haven’t time either to be interviewed or to argue about being interviewed . . . and I can’t leave you here.”
Tragg apparently didn’t hear her. “Certainly is a nice place. Well, if you insist, I’ll come along, although I’d prefer to talk here.”
He paused, apparently to adjust his tie in the mirror, but Della realized that from the position in which he was standing he could see a reflection of the bathroom through the open door.
“Will you please come, Lieutenant.”
“Coming,” he said. “Lord, I certainly look as though I’d been up all night. You won’t mind driving with such a disreputable specimen?”
“Just so we get started,” Della Street said firmly.
“What’s this door?” Tragg asked, indicating the kitchen door.
“It’s a door,” she said angrily. “Surely, you’ve seen doors before, Lieutenant. They’re composed of wood. They’re hung on hinges, and they swing back and forth.”
“Do they indeed!” Tragg said, his eyes fastened on the door.
Della Street came angrily back into the apartment. “Now you look here,” she said sharply. “I don’t know what you’re after. You’re not going to come in and snoop around my apartment any time you want to. If you want to search my place, go get a warrant. If you have anything to say to me, say it on the way to the office. I’m starting now, and you’re getting out!”
Tragg looked into the angry defiance of her eyes, said with an ingratiating smile, “Surely, Miss Street, you don’t object to my looking around your apartment.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Why? Are you hiding someone?”
“I give you my word of honor, there’s no other human being in this apartment except myself. Now, does that satisfy you?”
He met the steady anger of her eyes and said, “Yes.”
She let him start first for the door, followed along close behind, this time ready to slam the door shut and let the spring lock snap into position.
Tragg was just stepping over the threshold, and Della Street’s hand was on the doorknob when there came an ear-piercing scream of feline anguish, a scream which changed both its pitch and location with great speed.
“Oh, my heavens!” Della Street exclaimed, suddenly remembering that she habitually left the kitchen window open a few inches for ventilation.
There was no mistaking the sound. This was no mere cry of feline impatience, but a squall of agony.
That cry appealed to the maternal in Della Street. She would no more have abandoned that kitten to its fate in order to save herself from a felony charge than she would have refused to rush to the aid of a child.
Lieutenant Tragg was right behind her as she raced through the apartment’s living room into the kitchenette. His head was at her shoulder as she flung open the kitchen window.
What had happened was only too apparent. The pulley which held the manila rope clothesline was fastened directly beside the kitchen window. Amber Eyes, crawling to the sill and peering out, had been intrigued by the rope. He had hooked a paw around it and, in trying to withdraw that paw, his claws had caught and held. As his weight came against the clothesline, it had started to slide through the well-oiled pulley. There was plenty of slack in that line and Amber Eyes had found himself sailing out through space at a dizzy height above the ground. His other paws had locked around the clothesline, leaving him hanging head downward, squalling with pop-eyed terror, his tail switching back and forth, then fluffing out to huge proportions.
“You poor thing!” Della Street exclaimed and, reaching for the upper rope, started pulling Amber Eyes in. “Hang on now, kitty,” she exhorted. “Don’t let go.”
The cat swayed to and fro, eyes shifting from Della Street in the safety of the window to the courtyard far below.
Tragg grinned. The grin became a chuckle, and, as Della brought the kitten to within reaching distance and clutched it in her hand, the chuckle became a burst of laughter.
Not only did Amber Eyes have no intention of letting go, but terror had locked his claws into the rope so that Della Street had to disengage them as though they had been so many fish hooks. She held the trembling little body close to her, speaking reassuringly to it, quieting its fear.
“Go on and laugh,” she blazed at Lieutenant Tragg. “I suppose you think it’s funny!”
“I do for a fact,” Tragg admitted. “The cat makes a playful swipe at the rope, and the next thing he knows, he’s flying through the air with the greatest of ease. It must have been a startling sensation for a kitten.”
“Startling,” Della said indignantly. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”
“I didn’t know you had a kitten,” Tragg said.
“Indeed. I suppose the police department feels aggrieved that I should have adopted a kitten without consulting it. I suppose if I should tell you that my Aunt Rebecca had sprained her ankle ice skating, you’d call me on the carpet because I let her go out without permission from the police. If you’ll just let me get to the office, I’ll write you a letter ‘Dear Lieutenant Tragg: I have a kitten. Does it meet with your approval?’ ”
Lieutenant Tragg said, “That is a very effective burst of indignation and sarcasm—but it doesn’t tell me anything about the cat; and it isn’t distracting my attention in the least.”
“Oh, is that so!”
“How long have you had the cat?”
“Not very long.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It isn’t a very old kitten.”
“Have you had it ever since it was born?”
“No.”
“About how long then?”
“Not so very long. Long enough to get to feel attached to it. You know
how it is, after an animal has been with you a few weeks—or as far as that’s concerned, even a few minutes, if you love animals, you get to feeling an attachment that . . .”
“Has the cat been with you a few weeks?” Tragg asked.
“No, I suppose not.”
“Even a few days?”
“I fail to see where this concerns you in any way.”
Tragg said, “Ordinarily, I would say you were quite right, Miss Street, but there are some circumstances which might alter the case.”
“Such as what?” she asked impulsively, and then wished she had kept her mouth shut, realizing that she had given him just the opening he had been angling for.
“Oh,” Tragg said casually, “in case the kitten happened to be the one that belonged to Mrs. Matilda Shore, one that had been poisoned last night.”
“Even so, what would that have to do with it?”
“The question of how that cat came into your possession,” Tragg said, “might be interesting to the police. However, as you suggested, we can talk it over while we’re riding to the office.”
“Yes, I’m late now.”
Tragg’s smile was apologetic. “Perhaps,” he said, “you are not referring to the same office that I am.”
She turned to face him, fighting back a wobbly feeling in her knees.
“You know perfectly well to what office I am referring,” Della Street said, managing to keep firmness in her voice.
Lieutenant Tragg was not in the least impressed. He announced, “I am referring to the office of the district attorney. And you may as well bring the kitten along. Not only does it seem to be too careless to be left alone, but it may be a bit of very significant evidence.”
19
PERRY MASON soaked up slumber. The consciousness of broad daylight knifed its way through to his brain. He sat up in bed long enough to look at his watch, fling the pillows into a new position, and drop back with a sense of languid comfort. He started drifting comfortably down into the welcome warmth of nerve-healing oblivion. . . . The ringing of the buzzer on his doorbell irritated him into consciousness.
Mason decided to ignore the summons. He turned over, frowning in the determination of his concentration . . . damn the doorbell anyway . . . probably someone wanting to sell something. Why hadn’t he shut it off. . . . The bell again . . . well, let them ring. He wouldn’t pay any attention to it.
Again and again the bell rang. Mason found that his very determination to sleep was marshaling his faculties into wakefulness. He heard quick steps in the corridor, then knuckles banging imperatively on his door.
With an exclamation of irritation, Mason climbed out of bed, unlocked the door and jerked it open.
Paul Drake stood on the threshold, grinning at him. “How do you like it?” he asked.
Mason said, “Damn it. I don’t like it. Come in.”
Drake followed the lawyer into his apartment, selected the most comfortable chair, twisted himself into a pretzel of comfort, and lit a cigarette. “Nice place you have here.”
“Isn’t it,” Mason said sarcastically.
Drake said, “A little chilly. I’ll close this window. The breeze is coming in through there. Sunlight’s pouring in through the other one. It’s eleven-thirty, Perry.”
“What the devil do I care what time it is?”
Drake tried to blow a smoke ring, watched the blue clouds of smoke drift out into the shaft of sunlight, and said, “You’re always getting me up around the middle of the night, when you and Della have been out making whoopee—and seem to think it’s fun. Thought I’d interfere with your sleep just so you can see how it feels.”
Mason, pulling the covers over his bare toes, grinned at the poetic justice of Drake’s position, said, “It feels like hell,” and reached for a cigarette.
“Thought you’d like a report of what’s going on.”
Mason tapped the end of the cigarette, carefully moistened the end with his tongue, lit a match, and said, “As soon as I finish with this cigarette, I’m going to throw you out and go back to sleep.” He placed the match to the end of the cigarette.
“Lots of things have been happening,” Drake said. “Those bullets all came from the same gun.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“Tragg’s turned the whole police force upside down. He’s working on every angle of the case, squeezing out every last bit of information.”
“I’m glad he is.”
“The doctors give Jerry Templar nine chances out of ten to pull through. He stood the operation in fine shape.”
“That’s good.”
“The kitten that was poisoned was taken down to the gardener’s house for safekeeping—chap by the name of Thomas Lunk.”
Mason said, “Uh huh.”
“Lunk’s disappeared. So has the kitten.”
Mason said, “Listen, Paul. I can keep abreast of the current developments by reading the newspapers. I wanted you to get some angles everybody didn’t know about, not trail along a few steps behind the police.”
Drake went on as though he hadn’t even heard Mason’s remark, “Chap by the name of George Alber seems to stand ace-high with Her Majesty, Matilda Shore. Seems as though Matilda thinks Alber and Helen Kendal should get spliced. Alber thinks so too. Alber’s going places. He’s going to amount to something in the world. He’s attractive and magnetic. Helen is throwing herself away on a man who isn’t at all worthy of her. Aunt Matilda may leave her dough to Alber if Helen isn’t a good girl.”
Mason sucked in a prodigious yawn. “You are very annoying at times, Paul.”
Drake looked at him with humorless eyes. “Do you find me that way?”
Mason knocked ashes off the end of his cigarette, snuggled back down under the covers.
“Matilda is out of the hospital and back at the house. Seems as though she’s made a will in which she’s tried to exert some pressure on Helen Kendal to make her marry young Alber. Alber apparently gets a very, very nice chunk of the Shore fortune one way or another. Either he gets it by marrying Helen, or, if Helen doesn’t marry him, he is taken care of very handsomely. . . . Oh, yes, your friend Lieutenant Tragg is having the last few checks that went through Franklin Shore’s account carefully experted. A ten-thousand-dollar check to a man by the name of Rodney French seems to be the one he’s particularly interested in. Rodney French is being looked for by the police. He seems to have taken a little vacation for himself, commencing yesterday evening. He neglected to tell anyone just where he was going.”
Mason said, “Franklin Shore telephoned his bookkeeper he was putting that ten-thousand-dollar check through.”
“That’s right,” Drake said, grinning, “he did.”
“Well?” Mason asked.
“Tragg’s working on a theory that perhaps Franklin intended to put that check through, but pulled his disappearing act before he’d made out the check. . . . That would make an interesting situation, wouldn’t it, Perry? Put yourself in the position of a man who is depending on a ten-thousand-dollar check from a chap whose name on the bottom of a check would have made it as good as a certificate of the United States Mint. Then the chap disappears and can’t be found, and you’ve already committed yourself to the things you’re going to do, on the assumption that check is going through.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked.
“Oh, yes. Tragg’s really working on that disappearance. It’s a shame he wasn’t in on it when it happened, but that was during the regime of our old friend, Sergeant Holcomb. Tragg’s going over all the unidentified bodies that were found around that time—getting the records out for an airing. He’s found one body. The description doesn’t check, however. He’s also checking up on all the suicides around Florida in 1932, and he’s checking up on some mining property Leech was interested in, also making a very close check on the finances of Gerald’ Shore as of January, 1932. A very, very resourceful chap, Tragg.”
Mason said, “Phooey! Tragg’s just a damne
d misanthrope.”
“Of course, he covers a lot of territory,” Drake went on. “Seems to think that kitten is rather an important factor in the entire situation.”
“The kitten, eh?” Mason observed.
“Uh huh. Interesting chap, Tragg. When he goes after something, he really gets it.”
“The kitten for instance?” Mason asked, very casually.
“Oh, of course, the kitten. He has that kitten up at the district attorney’s office.”
Mason sat bolt upright in bed. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Has the kitten up at the district attorney’s office. Don’t know just what he’s doing with it, but . . .”
“Where did he get it?”
“I don’t know. I pick up a lot of stuff from the newspaper boys, things that leak out through the police. He’s asking questions of the chap who does the gardening out there, man by the name of Lunk. He . . .”
Mason became a moving mass of arms and legs, pinching out the cigarette, kicking the covers off, grabbing the telephone. The dial whirred through a number. Mason said, “Hello. . . . Hello. That you, Gertie? . . . Where’s Della this morning?
“No word from her, eh? . . . Let me talk with Jackson. . . . Hello, Jackson. This is an emergency. Give it a right of way over everything in the office. Make out an application for a writ of habeas corpus for Della Street. Make it wide enough, big enough and broad enough to cover everything from rape to arson. She’s being detained against her will. She’s being examined concerning privileged communications, she’s held without any charge being placed against her. She’s abundantly able to furnish bail in any reasonable amount. Ask for a writ of habeas corpus and ask that she be admitted to bail pending the return and hearing on the writ. I’ll sign and verify it. Get going on the thing!”
Mason slammed up the telephone, peeled off his pajamas, splashed hurriedly into the shower, came out drying his body, jerking clean underwear out of a bureau drawer.
Drake sat curled up in the chair watching with a puzzled expression of growing concern while Mason hurried into his clothes.
The Case of the Careless Kitten Page 17
