"I think we'll go and interview the caretaker without giving him previous notice," Burger announced.
"Look here," Mason said. "In view of the circumstances, don't you think it would be fair to let me know just what it is you're after?"
"Come along," Burger said, "and you'll find out, but don't interrupt to ask questions or give advice."
Shuster darted around the table. "You've got to watch him," he warned. "He's hatched up this whole business."
"Dry up," Tom Glassman said over his shoulder.
"Go on," Burger said to Mrs. Pixley; "show us the way."
The woman moved along the hallway, her bedroom slippers slopping against her heels as she walked. Paul Drake fell into step beside Perry Mason. Oafley dropped behind, for a word with Shuster. Burger held Sam Laxter's arm.
"Funnylooking character—the housekeeper," Drake remarked in a low voice. "All soft except her mouth and it's hard enough to make up for everything."
"Underneath that softness," Mason said, his eyes appraising the woman's figure, "is a great deal of strength. Her muscles are cased in fat, but she's plenty husky. Notice the way she carries herself."
The woman led the way down a flight of stairs to a basement. She opened a door, crossed a cement floor, paused in front of another door, and said, "Shall I knock?"
"Not unless it's locked," Burger told her.
She turned the knob of the door and stepped to one side, pushing open the door.
Mason couldn't see the interior of the room but he could see her face. He saw light from the inside of the room strike her features. He saw the flabby flesh of her face freeze in an expression of wild terror. He saw the hard lips sag open, and then heard her scream.
Burger jumped forward. The housekeeper swayed, flung up her hands, and her knees sagged as she slid to the floor. Glassman jumped through the door into the caretaker's room. Oafley caught the housekeeper by the armpits. "Steady," he said. "Take it easy. What's the trouble?"
Mason pushed past them into the room.
Charles Ashton's bed was by an open window in the basement. The window opened almost directly at street level. It had been propped open with a stick, the opening being some four or five inches, just enough to enable a cat to slip through easily.
Directly beneath the window was the bed, covered with a white counterpane and on this white counterpane was a series of muddy cat tracks, tracks which covered not only the spread, but appeared on the pillow as well.
Lying in the bed, his face an unpleasant thing to behold, was the dead body of Charles Ashton. It needed but one look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue to enable these experts in homicide to realize the manner in which the man had died.
Burger whirled to Glassman.
"Keep the people out of this room," he warned. "Get the homicide squad on the telephone. Don't let Sam Laxter out of your sight until this thing has been cleaned up. I'll stay here and look around. Get started!"
Glassman whirled, thrust his shoulder against Perry Mason. "On your way," he said.
Mason left the room. Glassman slammed the door shut. "Let me get to the telephone. Oafley, don't try to leave the place."
"Why should I try to leave the place?" Oafley demanded indignantly.
"Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements!" Shuster pleaded hysterically. "Keep quiet! Let me do the talking. Can't you understand? It's a murder! Don't talk with them. Don't have anything to do with them. Don't…"
Glassman stepped forward belligerently. "You can either keep your face closed," he said, "or I'll button up your lips so they'll stay shut for a while."
Shuster scuttled away from him like a squirrel climbing a tree, chattering continuously. "No statement. No statement at all. Can't you understand that I'm your lawyer? You don't know what these people have said about you. You don't know what accusations they've made. Keep quiet. Let me do the talking for you."
"There's no necessity for such talk," Oafley said to Shuster. "I'm just as anxious to help clean this thing up as the officers are. You're hysterical. Shut up!"
The party climbed the stairs. Perry Mason, dropping behind, put his lips close to Paul Drake's ear. "Stick around, Paul," he said, "and see what happens. Get an eyeful if you can and an earful if you can't."
"You're ducking?" Drake asked.
"I'm ducking," Mason said.
At the head of the stairs leading from the cellar, Glassman hurried toward a telephone. Perry Mason turned to the right, crossed a kitchen, unlocked a door, crossed a screened porch, descended a flight of stairs, and found himself in the rainy night.
Chapter 8
The electric sign bearing the legend "Winnie's Waffles " was dark. a night light burned over the door. perry mason tried the knob. The door opened. Mason closed the door behind him, walked down the passageway, between counter and booths, until he came to a swinging open door. The room was dark. He heard the sound of a woman sobbing. Mason said, "Hello," and a light switch clicked. A table lamp, with a rose silk shade, gave soft illumination.
A single bed sat against the wall. There were two chairs, a table and a bookcase made by the simple expedient of nailing the wooden cases in which canned goods came into tiers and giving them coats of enamel. The homemade bookcase was well filled with books. A corner of the room had been curtained off to form a closet. A door stood partially open and through it Mason could see the gooseneck connection of a shower. A few framed pictures hung on the wall, and the place, despite the cheapness of its furnishings, had a comfortable, homelike atmosphere. On the table, turned so it faced the bed, was a large framed photograph of Douglas Keene.
Winifred Laxter sat on the bed. Her eyes were red from tears. A big Persian cat sprawled contentedly at her side, its head resting against her leg. It was purring audibly. As the light switched on, the cat turned with that peculiar writhing motion common to felines, and stared at Perry Mason with bright, hard eyes. Then it closed its eyes, stretched out its forepaws, yawned, and once more began to purr.
"What's the trouble?" Mason asked.
The girl indicated the telephone with a little hopeless gesture, as though that gesture explained everything. "And I thought I could laugh at life," she said.
Mason drew up a chair and sat down. He recognized that she was near hysteria, and made his voice casual. "Nice cat."
"Yes, it's Clinker."
Mason raised his eyebrows.
"Doug went out and got it."
"Why?"
"Because he was afraid Sam would poison it."
"When?"
"Around ten o'clock. I sent him."
"Did he talk with Ashton?" Mason asked, making his voice sound elaborately casual.
"No. Ashton wasn't there."
"Mind if I smoke?"
"I'd like one myself. You must think I'm an awful baby."
Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, gravely proffered her one and held a match to the end of the cigarette, when she had placed it between her lips.
"Not at all," he said, lighting his own cigarette. "Pretty lonesome here, isn't it?"
"It hadn't been; it will be."
"Tell me about it any time you're ready," he invited.
"I'm not ready yet." Her voice was stronger now, but there was still that overtone of near hysteria. "I've been sitting here in the dark too long, thinking, thinking…"
"Quit thinking," he said. "Let's just talk. What time did Douglas Keene leave Ashton's place?"
"Around eleven I think. Why?"
"He was there about an hour?"
"Yes."
"Waiting for Ashton to come in?"
"I believe so."
"And then he brought the cat here to you?" Mason asked.
"Yes."
"Let's see—when did it start raining? Before eleven or after eleven?"
"Oh, earlier than that—around nine, anyway."
"Can you tell exactly what time it was when Douglas brought you the cat? Have you any wa
y of fixing it definitely?"
"No. I was cooking waffles for the aftertheater trade. Why are you asking me all these questions?"
"I was just trying to make conversation," Mason remarked casually. "You feel as though I'm too much of a stranger to confide in me right now. I'm trying to put you at your ease. Did one of the servants let Douglas in?"
"You mean to the town house? No. I gave Doug my key. I didn't want Sam to know I was taking the cat. Grandfather had given me a key to the house. I'd never turned it back—in fact, I guess there was no one to turn it back to."
"Why didn't you let Ashton know you'd taken the cat? Won't he be worried?"
"Oh, but he knew Doug was coming after Clinker," she said.
"How did he know?"
"I telephoned him."
"When?"
"Before he went out."
"What time did he go out?"
"I don't know, but I talked with him over the telephone and we decided, everything considered, that it might be best for me to keep Clinker for a while. He said he'd be there when Doug arrived, and told me to give Doug my key so Sam wouldn't know."
"But Ashton wasn't there when Douglas arrived?"
"No. Doug waited an hour. Then he took the cat and left."
Mason, leaning back in the chair, studied the cigarette smoke which spiraled upward.
"Clinker always sleeps on Ashton's bed, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"Any other cats there?"
"Around the house you mean?"
"Yes."
"No. I should say not. Clinker would chase any cat away. He's insanely jealous, particularly of Uncle Charles."
"Uncle Charles?" he asked.
"I sometimes call the caretaker Uncle Charles."
"Rather a peculiar character, isn't he?"
"Peculiar, but he's a fine man when you get to know him."
"Honest?"
"Of course, he's honest."
"Something of a miser, isn't he?"
"He would be if he had anything to save, I guess. He's been around Grandpa so long. Grandpa was always suspicious of banks. When the country went off the gold basis Grandpa nearly died. He'd been hoarding gold, you know. But he went down and turned his gold in and took paper money. It was quite a blow to him. He was upset for weeks."
"He must have been a peculiar chap."
"He was—very peculiar—and yet very lovable. He had a great sense of right and wrong."
"His will wouldn't seem to indicate that."
"No," she said, "I think under all the circumstances, it was the best thing that could have happened. I think I was pretty much hypnotized by Harry."
"Harry?" Mason asked.
"Harry Inman. He was rushing me to death. He seemed one of those straightforward, cleancut, sincere young men, and…"
"He wasn't?" Mason prompted as her voice faded away.
"He most certainly was not. As soon as he found out I wasn't going to get anything under the will, he fell all over himself taking back everything he'd said. I think he was afraid at the last minute I'd try to marry him in order to have someone to look after me."
"He has money?"
"He has a good position. He's making around six thousand a year, in an insurance office."
"Douglas Keene stuck by you, eh?" Mason asked, bringing the subject casually around to the young man whose framed picture stood on the table facing the bed.
"I'll say he stuck by me. He was a brick. He's the most wonderful boy in the world. I never realized just how much there was to him—you know, words don't mean anything—anyone who can talk can use words. Some people can use them better than others. Many insincere people, who have the gift of expressing themselves, can sound more sincere than those who are perfectly loyal."
Mason nodded, waited for her to go on talking.
"I wanted to see you about Douglas," she said. "Something awful has happened and Douglas is afraid I might get involved in it. He's mixed in it himself some way—I don't know just how."
"What's happened?" Mason asked.
"A murder," she told him, and began to sob.
Mason moved over to the bed, sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. The cat looked up at him appraisingly, flattened its ears slightly, then slowly relaxed, but did not resume purring.
"Now take it easy," Mason told her, "and give me the facts."
"I don't know the facts; all I know is that Douglas rang up. He was frightfully excited. He said there'd been a murder and that he wasn't going to let me get dragged into it; that he was going to skip out and that I'd never see him again. He said that I was to say nothing, and answer no question about him."
"Who was murdered?"
"He didn't say."
"How did he think you might be dragged into it?"
"Just through knowing him, I guess. It's all too silly. But I think it's all mixed up with Grandfather's death."
"When did he telephone you?"
"About fifteen minutes before I telephoned you. I tried to locate you every place I could think of—your office and your apartment. When I couldn't get any answer I decided to call Uncle Charles. He'd told me you'd telephoned him something about Sam and the district attorney, and I thought he might hear from you again."
"Did you," Mason asked, "know that your grandfather was murdered?"
She stared at him with wide eyes. "Grandfather? No."
"Did it impress you there was anything peculiar about the manner in which the house burned?"
"Why, no. The fire seemed to have centered right around Grandpa's bedroom. It was a windy night and I thought they blamed the fire on defective electric wiring."
"Let's come back to the cat for a minute," Mason said. "He's been with you ever since around eleven o'clock?"
"Yes—shortly after eleven, I guess it was."
Perry Mason nodded, picked up the cat and held it in his arms.
"Clinker," he said, "how would you like to go for a nice ride somewhere?"
"What do you mean?" Winifred asked him.
Perry Mason, holding the cat, stared steadily at her, and said slowly, "Charles Ashton was murdered sometime tonight. I don't know yet exactly what time. He was strangled, probably after he'd gone to bed. There were muddy cat tracks all over the counterpane and over the pillow; there was even a track on his forehead."
She got to her feet, staring at him with wide eyes. Then she opened bloodless lips and tried to scream.
No sound came.
Perry Mason dropped the cat to the bed, took Winifred in his arms, stroked her hair. "Take it easy," he told her. "I'm going to take the cat with me. If anyone comes to question you, refuse to answer, no matter what the questions are."
She slid from his arms to sit on the bed. It was as though her knees refused to support her weight. There was panic in her face. "He didn't do it," she said. "He couldn't have. I love him. He wouldn't hurt a fly!"
"Can you buck up," Mason asked, "until I can get rid of this cat?"
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I'll find a home for it—some place where we can keep it until things blow over. You see what it means having the cat tracks on the bedspread. It means the cat was there after the murder was committed."
"But it's impossible," she said.
"Of course it's impossible," he told her, "but we've got to make other people see that it's impossible. The question is, can you be brave enough to help me?"
She nodded silently.
Perry Mason picked up the cat and started for the door.
"Listen," she told him, as he put his hands on the knob of the door, "I don't know if you understand, but you must defend Douglas. That's why I telephoned you. You must find him and talk with him. Douglas isn't guilty of murder. You understand what I mean?"
"I understand," he told her gravely.
She came to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "He's clever enough so the officers will never find him… Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you thin
k they can find him, but you don't realize how clever Douglas is. The officers will never, never catch him. And that means he'll be a fugitive as long as he lives unless you clear things up… And I know what it'll mean as far as I'm concerned. They'll figure that he's going to get in touch with me. They'll watch my mail; they'll tap my telephone; they'll do everything, trying to trap Douglas."
He nodded and patted her shoulder with his free hand, holding the big Persian cat in his left arm.
"I haven't much," she said. "I'm building up a good business here. I can make my living, and I can make more than my living. I'll pay you by the month. I'll give you anything that I make. You can have the business and I'll run it for you without any salary except just what I need to eat, and I can live on waffles and coffee, and…"
"We'll talk that over later," Mason interrupted. "The thing to do now is to find out where we stand. If Douglas Keene is guilty, the thing for him to do is to plead guilty, and plead whatever extenuating circumstances there may be."
"But he's not guilty. He isn't; he can't be."
"All right, if he isn't, then the thing for you to do is to get rid of this damned cat. Otherwise, you'll be tied up with the murder. Do you understand?"
She nodded silently.
"I've got to have a box or something to carry the cat in."
She ran to the closet and picked up a big hatbox. She jabbed her finger through the pasteboard top, making little breathing holes.
"I'd better put him in," she said, "he'll understand if I do it…Clinker, this man is going to take you with him. You must go with him and be a nice cat."
She put the cat in the box, stroked it for a moment or two, then gently put on the cover. She whipped a piece of string about the cover, tied it, and handed the box to Perry Mason.
The lawyer, holding the hatbox by the string, smiled reassuringly at her, and said, "Stay right here. Remember, don't answer questions. You'll hear from me after a while."
She held open the door of the bedroom. Mason walked to the outer door, opened it, and pushed his way out into the wind and rain. The cat in the box stirred uneasily.
Mason put the hatbox on the seat of the convertible coupe, climbed in behind the wheel and started the motor. The cat meowed a faint protest.
Mason spoke to the cat reassuringly, drove the car for several blocks, then swung in close to the curb by an allnight drugstore. He parked the car, got out, and picking up the hatbox, walked into the drugstore, where the clerk eyed him curiously.
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