The Case of the Caretaker's Cat (15 page)

Sam Laxter said bitterly. "He'll get a lawyer and try to pin Granddad's murder on me. What a sweet mess that is."

Shuster pushed him through the door.

"Don't forget to close the door," Mason called.

Shuster banged the door shut with a force which threatened to pull the wall down. The effect of the slam was still shivering the pictures on the walls when Della Street opened the door from the outer office.

"Did you do that on purpose?" she asked.

Mason, smoking calmly, said with a detached air, "There was no sense having both of them support Shuster. As a matter of fact, their interests are adverse. They should have realized it. If Shuster is representing one of them, the other will get another lawyer. That'll mean two lawyers fighting, and that'll be a break for Douglas Keene."

She sighed, as a mother sighs who is confronted by a hopelessly naughty child, then suddenly laughed. "Well," she said, "I got it all down, even including the sound of the blows. Winifred Laxter is in the outer office. She's got a cat with her."

"A cat?" Mason asked.

"Yes, a Persian cat."

Mason's eyes were twinkling as he said, "Tell her to come in."

"And that was true about the police getting the cat from my place," she said. "They told the manager they had to search my apartment. They got a pass-key from her."

"Did they have a warrant?" Mason asked.

"I don't think so."

Mason, smoking his cigarette, said thoughtfully, "It puts you in something of a hole, Della. I'm sorry I didn't think they'd look out there. Sergeant Holcomb is getting better and better – or worse and worse – whichever you want to call it."

"Why does he hate you so much?"

"Simply because he thinks I'm shielding murderers. He's all right; he's just zealous. I don't blame him. And you must admit my manner toward him is a little irritating at times."

"I'll say it is."

Mason looked up at her and grinned. "Purposely irritating," he said. "Send Winifred in, and wait in your office. You might listen in."

She opened the door and beckoned. Winifred Laxter entered, a big gray Persian cat on her arm. Her chin was up, her eyes defiant. There was a pugnacious set to her head.

Perry Mason looked her over with amused tolerance.

"Sit down," he told her.

"I lied to you," she said, standing by the side of the desk.

"About the cat?" he asked, looking at the Persian.

She nodded. "That cat wasn't Clinker – this is Clinker."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I telephoned Uncle Charles, the caretaker, you know, and told him I wanted him to get rid of Clinker, that I wanted him to let me keep Clinker. He refused. So then I suggested as a next best thing that we could fool Sam Laxter into thinking he'd parted with Clinker. I told him to keep Clinker under cover and I'd send Douglas Keene out with another cat that would look like Clinker. He could use this other cat as a double and let it be very much in evidence, then, if Sam was going to poison any cat, he'd poison the other cat. Don't you see?"

Perry Mason, watching her shrewdly, said, "Sit down and tell me about it."

Her eyes were apprehensive. "Do you believe me?"

"Let's hear the rest of it."

She sat down on the edge of the overstuffed leather chair. The cat struggled to free itself. She held it tightly, smoothing the fur of its forehead, scratching it behind the ears.

"Go on," Mason said.

When she saw that the cat was quiet once more, she said, "Douglas Keene went out there. He took the cat out with him. He waited for some little time for Ashton to show up. Then, he came back to me for instructions. He left the cat with me."

"Why did you tell me that cat was Clinker?"

"Because I was afraid other people would say Douglas had taken Clinker with him, and I wanted to see if you thought that would be too serious. In other words, I wanted to get your reactions."

Mason was laughing now. The cat squirmed restlessly.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mason said, "let the cat down. Where did you get him?"

She stared steadily at him and then said defiantly, "I don't know what you're talking about. This cat is Clinker. He's very much attached to me."

The cat jumped to the floor.

"It would be a good story," Mason said with a voice that was almost judicial in its complete detachment. "It would help me out of a jam and it would be a swell out for Della Street. The cats sure look alike. But you couldn't get away with it. They'd find out sooner or later where you got the cat. There might be a big difference of opinion as to whether it was Clinker or wasn't Clinker. But in the long run it would put you on a spot, and you're not going to get put on a spot."

"But it is Clinker. I went out there and found him. He'd been frightened to death – poor cat – all the noise and excitement and finding his master dead, and everything…"

"No," Mason told her, "I'm not going to let you do it, and that's final. I suppose the papers are on the street and you've read that the police found Clinker in my secretary's apartment."

"They found the cat they thought was Clinker."

Mason said good-naturedly, "Baloney! Take your cat and go on back to your waffle parlor. Is Douglas Keene going to get in touch with me and give himself up?"

"I don't know," she said with tears in her eyes.

The cat, arching its back, started exploring the office. "Kitty – kitty, come, kitty," Winifred pleaded.

The cat paid no attention to her. Mason's eyes were sympathetic as he stared at the tear-stricken countenance. "If Douglas gets in touch with you," he said, "tell him how important it is that he back my play."

"I don't know that I will. You d-d-d-didn't have to go ahead and s-s-s-say that. Suppose they should convict him and hang him for m-m-m-murder?"

Mason crossed to her side, patted her on the shoulder.

"Won't you have some confidence in me?" he asked.

She raised her eyes.

"Don't you think you've got to take the responsibility of this thing," Mason told her soothingly. "Don't go out picking up cats and figuring how you can work out an alibi for Douglas. You just dump all of that onto my shoulders and let me carry the load. Will you promise that you'll do that?"

Her lips quivered for a moment, then straightened. She nodded her head.

Mason gave her shoulder one last pat, crossed the office to where the cat was sniffing about, picked it up, and carried it back to Winifred and put it in her arms.

"Go home," he said, "and get some sleep."

He held the corridor door open for her. When he had closed it, Della Street stood in the doorway of his private office.

Mason grinned at her. "A dead game kid," he said.

Della Street nodded her head slowly.

Mason said, "How'd you like to cut corners, Della?"

"What do you mean?"

"How'd you like to go on a honeymoon with me?"

She stared at him, eyes growing wide. "A honeymoon?" she asked.

Mason nodded.

"Why… oh…"

He grinned at her. "Okay," he said, "but first lie down there on the couch and get some sleep. If Douglas Keene rings in on the telephone, tell him that he must back my play. You can put up a stronger talk than I could. I'm going down to Paul Drake's office for a little while."

"Watson Clammert," Drake said. "Where the devil have I heard that name before?"

Mason grinned as he waited for Drake's recollection to function. Suddenly the detective said, "Oh, yes, I remember. He's the person who shared a lock box with Charles Ashton."

"I presume the police have gone into that lock box," Mason said.

"Yes, and found it practically empty. They only found some of the paper wrappers used by banks in bundling bills of large denomination. Evidently Ashton had pulled out the bills and left the wrappers behind."

"Ashton or Clammert?" Mason inquired.

"Ashton. The bank records show that Clammert never did go to the safety deposit box. He's nothing but a name signed upon the card, so far as the bank knows."

"How much money do the police figure was taken from the box?"

"They don't know. It may have been a lot. Ashton was seen by one of the attendants stuffing bills into a suitcase."

"Did you check into that automobile accident Laxter had?" Mason asked.

"Yes. He was crowded into a telephone pole, just as he said – some drunken driver whipped around a corner."

"Any witnesses?"

"A few people heard the crash."

"Get their names?" Mason asked.

"Yes. They saw the tracks where Laxter had put on his brakes and skidded. They say he was on his side of the road at the time. He seemed excited, but perfectly sober."

"Where had he been before that?"

Drake said slowly, "I'm checking on that, Perry. When the police first talked with him they were investigating the death of Peter Laxter, the grandfather, and later on the death of Ashton, the caretaker. Laxter had a perfectly good alibi on Ashton's death. He'd left the house about nine o'clock and hadn't returned. Ashton was murdered between ten and eleven."

Mason nodded.

"Later on, Shuster did the talking. He gives Laxter an alibi."

"He does?"

Drake nodded. "Shuster says Laxter was in his office."

"Talking about what?"

"Shuster refuses to state."

"What a sweet alibi that is," Mason said scornfully.

"Wait a minute, Perry, I think it checks."

"How?"

"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur, had been with Laxter. He drove him up to Shuster's office. Around eleven o'clock. Laxter told Brandon to take the car and go on home; that he'd come later. Brandon took the green Pontiac back to the house. That's when he saw Keene. It was shortly after eleven."

Mason started pacing the detective's office, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head thrust forward. At length, he said, in the mumbling monotone of one who is thinking out loud, "Laxter, then, left the house with Jim Brandon in the green Pontiac, but he returned in Ashton's Chevvy. How the hell did he get that Chevvy?"

Drake stiffened to attention. "That's a thought," he said.

Mason said slowly, "Paul, put out a bunch of men to cover the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived. Talk with all the inmates. See if any of them noticed the Chevvy parked anywhere near the apartment house."

Drake pulled a pad of paper toward him and scribbled a memorandum.

"That would make a swell break," he said, "but it would take more than that to make Sam Laxter the fall guy. You see, the person who murdered Ashton must have killed him between ten and eleven. Then he must have taken Ashton's crutch with him and sawed it up into sections. Then he must have gone to Edith DeVoe's place. Now, if Sam Laxter can prove he was in Shuster's office…"

"If that's the sketch," Mason interrupted, "and Brandon saw Douglas Keene leaving the house carrying the cat, where was Ashton's crutch? Douglas Keene wasn't carrying it with him."

Drake nodded thoughtfully. "That's so," he admitted, "but, of course, Keene could have tossed the crutch out the window that was always left open for the cat, then driven by in his car and picked it up. I tell you, Perry, you've got a tough case here. If Keene doesn't get in touch with you, it's going to put you in a spot. If he surrenders himself, circumstantial evidence is going to hang him in spite of all you can do."

The telephone rang. Drake answered it, and said, "For you, Perry."

Della Street was on the line. Her voice was excited.

"Come on up quick, Chief," she pleaded. "I've just heard from Douglas Keene."

"Where is he?" Mason asked.

"He's at a public pay station. He's going to call back in five minutes."

"Get a line on that stuff, Paul," he said, "and get it fast. I'm going to be on the move from now on." He dashed out of the office, climbed a flight of stairs and ran down the corridor to his own office. "Is he going to give himself up?" he asked Della Street as he rushed into his private office.

"I think so. He seemed sullen, but I think he's okay."

"Did you give him a good argument?"

"I told him the truth. I told him you were doing everything on earth for him and that he simply couldn't let you down."

"What did he say?"

"He sort of grunted, the way a man does when he's going to do what a girl wants him to but doesn't want to let her think she's having her own way."

Mason groaned, and said, "My God, you women!"

The telephone rang.

"Wait a minute before you answer it," Della Street said. "Do you know who's hanging around the street by the office?"

"Who?"

"Your little playmate – Sergeant Holcomb."

Mason frowned. The telephone rang again.

"Serious?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "they'll try to arrest him before he can surrender and claim they nabbed him as a fugitive from justice, and…"

He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello."

A man's voice said, "This is Douglas Keene, Mr. Mason."

Mason's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Where are you now?"

"Out at Parkway and Seventh Streets."

"Have you got a wrist-watch?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What time does it show?"

"Thirteen minutes to eleven."

"Make it closer than that. How are you on seconds? Say 'thirty' when it's twelve minutes and thirty seconds to eleven."

"I've passed that," Keene said. "I'll say eleven when it's just exactly eleven minutes to eleven."

"Be sure and call it right on the dot," Mason said, "because…"

"Eleven!" Douglas Keene interrupted.

Perry Mason held his watch in his hand. "All right," he said, "you're about twenty-five seconds slow, as compared with my time. But don't change your watch. I'll change my watch so it'll be even with yours. Now, listen, they're going to tail me when I leave the place, hoping I'll lead them to you. You walk down toward my office and stand on the corner of Seventh – that's just west of my office building – you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"At exactly ten minutes past eleven," Mason said, "walk out to the corner and catch the first eastbound street car that comes down Seventh Street. Pay your fare, but don't go inside the car. Stand right by the conductor where you can get off the car when I give you the word. I'll get aboard that car, but won't recognize you or speak to you in any way. A girl will drive right alongside the car in a convertible coupe with the rumble seat open. She'll be going at the same rate of speed the car's going. It may be a block or it may be two blocks after I get aboard, but when I yell, 'Jump,' you make a jump for that rumble seat. Can you do it?"

"Sure I can do it."

"Okay, Douglas, can I depend on you?"

"Yes, you can," the young man said in a voice which had lost its sullen tone. "I guess I've made a damn fool of myself. I'll play ball with you."

"Okay," Mason said. "Remember, ten minutes past eleven."

He hung up the telephone, grabbed his hat and said to Della Street, "You heard what I told him. Can you do it?"

Della Street was adjusting her hat in front of the mirror. "And how!" she said. "Do I leave first?"

"No, I leave first," Mason said.

"And you don't want me to get the car out until after you've reached the corner?"

"That's right. Holcomb will tail me. If he thinks I've got a car, Holcomb will use a car. He'll have one parked somewhere near here. If he thinks I'm walking, he'll walk."

"What'll he do when you take the street car?"

"I don't know. How's your wrist-watch?"

"I was listening over the extension telephone. I synchronized it with his."

"Good girl. Let's go."

Mason ran down the corridor, caught the elevator and I managed to give the appearance of strolling casually as he crossed the lobby of the building and reached the street. The thoroughfare was well crowded. Mason took the precaution of glancing hastily over his shoulder, but saw no sign of Sergeant Holcomb. He knew, however, that the Sergeant was on his trail. The officer was too old a hand at the game to crowd his quarry too closely, particularly at the start.

Mason walked half a block up the street, paused in front of a store, looked at his watch, frowned, and looked in a show window, ostensibly trying to kill time. After a minute, he looked again at his wrist-watch, then turned to look up and down the street. He walked a few aimless steps, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, threw the cigarette away and looked at his watch for the third time.

In the street, directly opposite from the place where Mason was standing, was a safety zone. Mason walked aimlessly toward the corner, as though he had a few minutes to kill.

His wrist-watch showed eleven-ten.

Mason watched the signals a block away. A street car came through the signal, rumbled slowly down the block, and came to a stop at the safety zone. The signal changed so it was against the car. Mason acted as though he intended to cross the street, and then, as though changing his mind, paused, undecided. The signal changed. The motorman clanged the bell of the car and sent it across the intersection. As the car rolled past him, Mason swung aboard the rear platform. Douglas Keene was standing by the conductor.

Mason heard the sound of running feet. Sergeant Holcomb, sprinting, just managed to catch the car as it gathered headway. Della Street, driving Mason's convertible coupe with the top down, was coming just behind the street car, holding a line of traffic behind her. As soon as Holcomb boarded the car, Della Street shot the automobile forward, so that the rumble seat was just even with the place where Keene was standing.

"Jump!" shouted Mason.

Keene made a leap for the rumble seat, landed on the cushions, clutched at the top of the car. Mason jumped to the runningboard and clung to the back of the front seat with one hand and the well of the rumble seat with the other. Sergeant Holcomb, who had dropped his fare into the box in front of the conductor, shouted, "Stop! You're under arrest!"

"Give it the gun, Della," Mason said, "and cut in front of the street car."

Della Street's shapely foot pushed the throttle against the floorboards. The car leapt forward. Mason flung one leg over the side of the car and got into the rumble seat.

"Police headquarters," he said to Della, "and give it everything it's got."

Della Street didn't even bother to nod. She cut the corner in a screaming turn. A traffic officer raised a whistle but she was halfway down the block by the time the first blast echoed through the street. Her right palm pressed down on the horn as she drove with her left hand.

Mason paid no attention whatever to the traffic, but concentrated his attention on Douglas Keene.

"Tell me about it," he said, "and don't waste words. Put your lips up close to my ear and shout, because I've got to hear every word you say. Give me just the high-lights."

"Edith DeVoe telephoned me. She'd already told me about finding Sam in the car pumping exhaust fumes into the pipe. She wanted me to come out at once and see her. She said something important had developed. I went out. I rang her doorbell, and there was no answer, but the manager of the apartment house was just coming out. I started to go in through the door as he opened it, and he stopped me and asked me who I was and whom I wanted to see. I told him I had an appointment with Edith DeVoe, and kept right on going. He hesitated for a minute and then went on out. I went down the corridor to Edith DeVoe's room. She was lying on the floor. There was a club near her, and…"

"Yes, yes," shouted Mason. "Never mind that. What happened next?"

"I went directly to my apartment. Someone had been there before me. A suit of mine was spattered with blood. I didn't notice it right away."

"That was after you'd taken the cat to Winifred?"

"Yes, I left Winifred and went to my apartment. That was where I got Edith DeVoe's message."

"And you went from your apartment to see Edith?"

"That's right."