Judas Cat

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  It was twenty minutes to one when he reached Gautier’s building. At that hour it was more gloomy than ever, all the offices except the lawyer’s having been deserted for the weekend. The heat had penetrated the building and the air seemed thick and stale. It was a real fire-trap he thought, the other exits probably boarded up. In the hallway then he wished that he had not come. If anyone wanted him out of the way, he had obliged him by going up a dead end. Again he told himself that he was being ridiculous, but the little edge of fear kept pricking him. He knocked at the lawyer’s door and stepped into the office. Gautier was at his desk in the front. The brightness made Alex squint after the poorly lit hall.

  “Hello,” Alex called.

  “Hello, yourself. Come in.” The lawyer got up and shook hands. An electric fan was circulating the hot air in the room, and Gautier wiped the sweat from his forehead. “How’s it going?”

  “Not good,” Alex said. “They put through their restraining order. I guess I should tell you I’m here in contempt of county court.”

  “Well I’ll be damned. You got a setup down there as regimented as ours.”

  “Or as stupid,” Alex said. “I just can’t believe they know what they’re doing. But Waterman isn’t his own best friend. He put up a good fight but a lousy showing. He’s so damned honest he won’t let a piece of information out that might hurt somebody not involved.”

  “That’s the way it should be done,” Gautier said, “but sometimes you can’t afford to be that scrupulous. Not against a machine like this.”

  “Remember that tramp who told you he saw me take the cat? He showed up at my office this morning.”

  “Everybody wants in on the act,” Gautier said.

  “He wanted out of it almost as fast,” said Alex. “Somebody hired him to bust up Barnard’s office that morning.”

  “Why in hell did he come around to tell you about it?”

  “More money, I guess. Anyway, I’m pretty sure somebody’s been following me since last night. I was going to take the tramp to Waterman to tell his story, and he got one look at this fellow and disappeared like magic.”

  “You really get the breaks, don’t you?” Gautier said. “Did you get a good look at the fellow you think’s following you?”

  “I didn’t know him, but one of the people at the office swears he was Henry Addison’s chauffeur when the old man used to visit Mattson.”

  “Addison again,” Gautier said. He got up and walked the length of his office and back. His shirt was sticking to his back. “Have you got anything else that makes sense?”

  “We never did have anything that makes sense.”

  “How about that vet? Have you tried him again?”

  “Again and again,” Alex said. “I don’t know if he has anything or not. I just think he’s scared.”

  “If he was scared you’d think he’d get away from the town until it was all over,” the lawyer said.

  “He’s got plenty of fight left,” said Alex. “And we need him, God knows. Do you know how many friends we got in Hillside? I can count them on the fingers of my right hand.”

  “I can’t give you a complete story on those patents yet,” the lawyer said. “It’s all legal probably, but there’s no doubt they got a corner on the market with their timing. We’ll have a full story in a day or two.”

  “I don’t see where it fits just now,” Alex said.

  “Maybe it does, maybe not.” Gautier put his foot up on the chair and looked intently at him. “I’ve got one piece of information that might be pertinent. It’s dangerous stuff, and to tell you the truth, with the spot you’re in, I hesitate to give it to you.”

  “Suit yourself,” Alex said.

  “Now just take it easy, kid. There’s people’s professional reputations at stake here, and I’ve got to be absolutely certain this information won’t escape you if you get desperate, and I think you’re damn near that way now.” Alex just looked at him. “It’s on the Addisons, and I’ve got to have your word that it won’t come out unless, and then until, and I mean until, you’ve proved them involved. If I did and they were to slide out from under the charges, there’s an M.D. in this state whose name wouldn’t be worth spitting at. I’m going to tell you so that you can line up your other findings alongside it and see if it fits.”

  “You have my word,” Alex said.

  “I don’t want it used in bringing charges,” Gautier repeated.

  “I understand.”

  “Last February George Addison tried to have his father declared mentally incompetent.”

  Alex thought about it for a moment. “Did he take it to court?” he asked.

  “No. If it had reached the courts it wouldn’t have to be so hush-hush. The doctor involved refused to certify.”

  “I see,” Alex said. He lit a cigarette and threw the package across the desk to the lawyer. “I wonder when old Addison made out his will?”

  “He made this one January 2 of this year,” Gautier said.

  “He was competent enough then to suit George,” Alex said. “I wonder if he was intending to make out another one.”

  “Or possibly a codicil,” said Gautier.

  Alex took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the palms of his hands. “Two witnesses are customary on those things, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” the lawyer said. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking from what you told me and this other information. See if it adds up. Mattson was in some way in on it. I don’t know why or how. He must have signed a copy of the thing. Maybe that chauffeur also signed it and then took the story to George Addison. That just occurred to me. It’s guess work. Anyway, Mattson must have intended to see that the provisions were carried out. He might have written to George Addison after old Henry died. Maybe he didn’t get any satisfaction and that’s why he wrote to me. Remember the date he set with me was the day the probate court convened. He intended to have the will contested.”

  Alex nodded. “It makes sense. But he didn’t live that long.”

  “Now all you’ve got to do is prove it,” Gautier said, “and I don’t know how you’re going to do it. That will would never have gone to probate if a copy of the codicil still existed.”

  The phone on the lawyer’s desk rang a shrill long ring that set Alex’s nerves jumping.

  “Sorry,” Gautier said.

  Alex got up and went to the window while the lawyer answered it. Things were beginning to fit, but the enormity of opposition, the poor lame equipment with which he and Waterman were to go out after the giant! Maybe they should obey the restraining order and take the whole story to the state capital. But without Gautier’s information they had nothing. Where had he obtained it? From the doctor involved? … Across the street, from beneath the awning of the Ford Hopkins drug store, the ex-chauffeur was looking up at him.

  “… Tell you what,” Gautier was saying, “go on out. I’ll meet you on the tenth hole. Nine’s enough for me in this weather anyway.”

  “The guy that’s been following me is in front of the drug store,” Alex said, returning. “He’s got on a light grey suit and a Panama hat. Want to take a look at him?”

  Gautier went to the window. “I think I’ve seen him around town. But I’ll tell you something else, Whiting. If he came up here alone after you, he’s not alone now. He’s got a couple of friends.” He came back to the desk and looked at Alex. “Just take it easy a minute, kid. We’ll figure something.”

  Alex wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was too late now, too late for anything but to get out of that building. He could taste the fear in his mouth. “I’m no hero,” he said.

  “But you’re not quitting?”

  “Of course I’m not quitting,” he said viciously. “I can’t help it if I’m scared. What the hell chance have we got against this pack of hounds?” Through the churning of impressions in his mind at that instant, he remembered Barnard’s words at the town meeting: “Lie down with the dogs and to hell with it.” He had
yielded to the pressure on him. Barnard had learned something about the cat although he denied it, but with his Turnsby connections and all, he had not dared to reveal it to him or Waterman.

  Gautier went to the door and locked it. He began walking back and forth between the rooms. “What chance have you got to prove Mattson was murdered, say you have the motive?”

  “I don’t know. Until now I didn’t think there was any. This is farfetched, but if a man was to deliberately push another man into a cage with a wild animal, say, or a starving animal, could he be charged with murder?”

  “Only if the victim died as a result of the animal’s attack,” the lawyer said, “from his claws or fangs.”

  “Then the coroner’s verdict stands,” Alex said. “I don’t think we’ll ever prove murder, even though we may prove someone was in the house and certain that Mattson was dead before he left it.”

  “All right, let’s forget that for now. Whoever was there, presuming he went after a will or codicil, must have gotten it, damn it. Otherwise the Addison estate would never have gone to probate. If that’s so, why in hell are these guys after you?”

  “They didn’t get it,” Alex said slowly. “They thought they did, but Mattson must have expected them. It accounts for the precautions he took those last weeks. And even then he knew that it was not enough. He had a dummy codicil waiting for whoever came to kill him.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “I think I can. I’m not sure, but I think I can.”

  Gautier went to the window again. “Then they think we have the original copy,” he said. “That must be it. They think you’ve led them to me, a custodian appointed by Mattson, maybe. Without that copy you’d have nothing. No case, nothing. That has to be it.” The lawyer turned. “Whiting, do you know where that copy is?”

  There was something in his intensity that sent a chill down Alex’s back. Andy Mattson had trusted someone. He had not wanted to, but he had had to do it in the end and he was dead. It might have been Gautier.

  “No,” he said, “I don’t.” He tried to remember if he had told the lawyer about Mabel and the chair in Andy’s house. He had told it too often to remember now.

  “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth,” the lawyer said. “I don’t blame you, but I think you’ve learned your lesson too late. Just one thing, kid. Remember that promise, whatever happens.”

  “I will,” Alex said.

  “All right,” said Gautier. “Now to get out of here. I’d just as soon they kept the idea of your having it. I don’t want my office messed up. If they’re coming after us it will be in the hallway. There’s only one of them over there now …” He turned off the fan and put on his coat while he spoke. “I think we can give them the slip if you follow me and move quickly. I’ll tell you the truth, Whiting. I’ve done all I can for you now …”

  “I understand,” Alex said. “I appreciate it, and I won’t be back.”

  They picked up their hats. There was not a wasted motion in Gautier. He threw the safety lock on the door and closed it behind them. As they reached the stairs Alex saw two men in the doorway. The lawyer turned as though he were going downstairs, holding Alex back with his hand. As soon as the men saw them, Gautier whirled back to the hall and down it in the opposite direction from his office. He was lithe on his feet and quick, and Alex was hard pressed to keep up with him. Their pursuers were coming up the stairs like elephants. Gautier turned at the end of the hallway, where it made an L, the offices here probably fronting on County Street. They slipped into an office to the back of the building, and Gautier closed the door softly and threw the double lock on it.

  Alex waited at the door, deciphering the words “Amusements, Inc.” painted on the front. He heard the men run by to the end of the hall. Gautier was moving a desk. Some amusements, Alex thought. The place was lined with gambling devices. Outside the men were working their way back, trying every door. Gautier lifted a trap door and motioned for Alex to come.

  “We’ve got a good drop here,” he whispered. “I’ll go first and push a table over for you.” As easy as a forest animal, the lawyer swung himself through the opening and dropped a good six feet to the floor. As Alex lowered himself, he heard the smashing of windows a few doors down the hall. The feeling of nightmare was returning, but he was jarred out of it by the impact with the table.

  “This is Molly’s place,” Gautier said. “The home of lost husbands. Good little boys don’t come here.”

  Molly’s place. A man had been killed there last spring when his wife followed him. Then the police got around to closing it. Evidently Molly was holding court again. Gautier had opened a window into a passageway lighted by sky-lights. Alex climbed out after him.

  “I’m not sure what happens now,” said Gautier. “I think this leads into the alley, but it may be locked up.”

  The dirty sky windows were three stories up, and the light was very dim. The air was foul with dust and an acridness Alex thought probably came from rats. Along the wall opposite Molly’s old iron fire escapes clung unsteadily to the crumbling bricks.

  “What’s this place?”

  “The back of the old Majestic.”

  It was a legitimate theatre that had been condemned years ago. His mother had brought him there often when he was a boy. At the end of the theater the passageway angled along its side. An iron fence was all that separated them from the regular alley.

  “We’ve got to climb this,” Gautier said. “I’m sure the gate’s locked and there’s no time to monkey with it.” The rust enabled them to get a good grip. When they dropped to the alley, Gautier held Alex a moment. “They’re coming out of Molly’s. Come on, kid.”

  They ran the length of the alley and slowed down only to ease into the flow of shoppers on Hunter Avenue. As people brushed against him, and he could smell sweat, and women’s perfume, dime store candy, hair tonic, Alex felt the fear slide away. He looked at his hands. They were red with rust as was the front of his suit. Gautier was grinning.

  “Infantry?” he said.

  “Quartermaster,” Alex answered.

  Alex paused at the corner of Hunter and County Streets. A Salvation Army band was playing there, and the feeling of people about him was good and reassuring. The decision he had to make now, and quickly, was whether to return to Hillside immediately. He was sure now that Mabel had the codicil or whatever it was. Andy had given her a key to the house, somehow anticipating the events as they came. Mabel’s visitor that night had gone to her looking for the other copy. Why had she not given it to him, or else to Fred Waterman? Was she afraid of being implicated in Andy’s death? Or was she really implicated? Gautier had suggested the chauffeur as the other signer. Alex thought not.

  And what were the contents of the codicil? Two incidents suggested patents: the newspaper stories and Joe Hershel. Where was the tie-up there? It was reasonable to assume that Joe wanted to make the fortune that had not come his way when Andy was alive. What he had failed to learn about Hershel and Altman’s transactions from them he might learn from George Addison, especially if it had nothing to do with the codicil. It was important to eliminate them, if they were to be eliminated. He was none too anxious to lead the three men back to Hillside after him until he was sure of himself. And he was far from that. He was not even sure of Gautier. The information was too vital, too pat. Either the lawyer’s conjecture was absolutely right or it was a perfect ruse.

  He dropped a quarter into the tambourine and moved through the onlookers. He stopped at the first drug store and looked up the Addison number, and gave it to the operator. The phone was answered immediately.

  “I want to speak to George Addison,” Alex said.

  “Whom shall I say is calling, please?”

  “Tell him …” Alex rang off purposely. Addison was at home. And that too he thought was strange. It would seem likely that a man of Addison’s means would have taken weekends at least away from Riverdale.

  He ordered a coke at t
he fountain and lit a cigarette. By this time the chauffeur and his buddies would be watching the car for his return. He took a Sentinel envelope from his pocket and wrote “Pepsi Cola hits the spot” on it because the words were on the fountain mirror. He then folded a paper napkin and sealed it into the envelope. Finishing the coke at one swallow he left a dime on the counter and started for the car, keeping next to the street curb in case anyone got too close to him. He had the ignition key ready and without breaking rhythm he swung into the car and had the motor started before he closed the door. He drove into County Street and double parked in front of the Farmer’s Exchange Bank. Still with measured pace, he got out and pushed the envelope through the night deposit slot. The black sedan with its three passengers passed just as he turned. If they still wanted to follow him, he would lead them home, he thought.

  There was no sign of them as he turned into the long Addison driveway. While he was waiting in the hall of the big house he realized that it was little wonder Addison stayed here. It was the coolest place he had been since the last air-conditioned movie. He took out his handkerchief and wiped some of the rust from his clothes and hands. The maid who had announced him returned and said that Mr. Addison would see him in the library. Alex could hear the click of the girl’s heels echoing in the great hall as he followed her, and then before they reached the library door, he heard men’s voices and realized that Addison was not alone.

  “Good afternoon, Whiting,” Addison said cordially enough, coming to meet him. But Alex had to force his eyes away from the other man in the room. “May I present Mr. Whiting … Mr. Turnsby.”

  Alex felt that he had seen him before although he knew that he had not. He was a handsome man with deep black eyes that missed nothing, and he was over six feet tall. His features were strong looking, and yet somehow delicate. The cheekbones and forehead were brown from the sun. He threw back his head a little as he came forward to shake hands, and Alex realized that this was how Andy must have looked when he came to Hillside. The head of a lion, his father said. Now he knew what he meant, for he was shaking hands with Andrew Mattson’s son.