The Case of the Caretaker's Cat (17 page)

"Ashton is mixed up in things pretty deep," Drake said. "The detectives are beginning to think he copped off most of Laxter's coin. Does that mean anything special to you?"

"Sure, it does. It's the whole case. The whole business hinges on Ashton," Mason replied.

As Paul Drake asked an excited question, the lawyer pretended not to hear and said, "Well, I'm taking a train, Paul. Good-by."

He hung up the receiver, looked at his wrist-watch, crossed to a haberdashery store which made a specialty of supplying the needs of travelers, purchased several handbags, a few articles of clothing, and then returned to the depot. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram addressed to Watson Clammert, care of the Hotel Biltmore, Santa Barbara. The telegram read:

LONG DISTANCE TELEPHONE CONVERSATION WITH YOUR NEW YORK ASSOCIATES ADVISES INDUSTRY THREATENED WITH NEW CODE CONTAINING REGULATION AFFECTING YOUR PROPOSED CONSOLIDATION DISASTROUSLY STOP ABSOLUTELY IMPERATIVE YOU BE ON GROUND AT EARLIEST POSSIBLE MOMENT STOP PLEASE CHARTER AIRPLANE FROM SANTA BARBARA FLY TO LOS ANGELES AND CATCH FIRST TRANSCONTINENTAL PLANE EAST STOP ADVISABLE KEEP THIS MOVE CONCEALED FROM OPPOSITION THEREFORE HAVE PURCHASED TICKET FOR YOU UNDER ASSUMED NAME AND WILL HOLD HERE AWAITING YOUR ARRIVAL

Mason unhesitatingly signed the partnership name of the leading law firm in the city, a law firm of financial and political prestige, which specialized only in the most remunerative of corporate and probate business.

He paid for the telegram and saw that it was dispatched.

He consulted his wrist-watch, stretched, yawned, and then, with a chuckle, proceeded to the telephone booth. He looked up the number of Hamilton Burger's residential telephone, together with the address, then called the telephone company and said, "I want to send a telegram, please."

After a moment, a young woman's voice said, "To whom is your message going?"

"Thelma Pixley, 3824 East Washington Street."

"And what is the message?" the feminine voice asked.

"Greatly impressed by your personality appearance and ability," Mason dictated slowly. "In view of what has recently happened you will probably be out of a job. I would like very much to have you work for me. I am a bachelor and will pay you good wages. I will treat you with every consideration. Please come to my office at your earliest convenience bringing this telegram with you and we can discuss wages."

"By whom is the telegram to be signed?" asked the business-like feminine voice.

"Hamilton Burger."

"It's to be charged to your telephone, Mr. Burger?"

"Yes."

"What's the number, please?"

"Exposition 96949."

"And the address?"

"3297 West Lakeside."

"Thank you, Mr. Burger," the voice said.

Mason hung up, left the telephone booth, and stood by the main entrance to the depot smoking cigarettes until Della Street swung his car in close to the curb, then Mason nodded to the red-cap porter. The porter piled Mason's baggage into the rumble seat, having some difficulty to find room for it.

"Now then," Mason said, "I want to buy a new Buick sedan, but I want to stop at one of the outlying agencies. First we'd better stop by the bank and pick up some money."

Della Street was all crisp business efficiency. There was no reference, by word or look, to the manner in which she had played the part of a bride when she had first driven away from the station.

"Okay Chief," she said.

Mason smiled slightly, but said nothing.

She ran the car through the snarl of traffic, stopped at the bank. Mason, consulting his watch to see that he had time before the bank closed, said, "Park in front of the fire plug, Della; I'll only be gone long enough to cash a check."

He entered the bank, secured three thousand dollars in cash, thrust it into his pocket, returned to the car and said, "We want a Buick agency away from the business district. I have a list of them. Let's see, here's one in Franklin that should be just about what we want."

Mason sat back and smoked. Della Street drove the car with silent skill. "This the place?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Do I come in?"

"No. You stay out here with this car. I'll drive the other one away."

Mason entered the car agency. A suave salesman came toward him smiling. "Interested in the new models?" he asked.

"I wish to buy a new sedan. What's the price, fully equipped?"

The salesman took a notebook from his pocket, mentioned the amount. "Now if you'd like a demonstration," he said, "we can arrange to…"

He broke off in gasping surprise as Mason pulled a wallet from his pocket and started counting out bills.

"I'd prefer to purchase a demonstrator, if you have one in that model," Mason said.

The salesman gasped, then adjusted himself to the situation.

"Ah, yes, I'll fix up the papers at once. What's the name please?"

"Clammert, C-l-a-m-m-e-r-t, Watson Clammert," Mason said. "I'm in a hurry. I want to get a certificate of ownership, or whatever it is I need."

Fifteen minutes later, Mason, impatient at the delay, drove a spotless demonstrator from the side door of the agency. He gave an almost imperceptible gesture to Della Street and she followed him around the corner. A block away, Mason stopped and transferred the baggage from the convertible coupe to the sedan. "Now," he told her, "we stop at the first storage garage we come to and store the convertible. You drive the Buick. I'll drive the coupe. I'll take the lead. When I turn in to a garage, you stop out in front."

"When does the honeymoon start?" she asked.

"Just as soon as I emerge from the garage," Mason told her, grinning.

"And you want to make a real honeymoon of it?"

He looked at her sharply.

"I mean," she said, with wide-eyed innocence, "do you want it to look like a real honeymoon?"

"Of course."

She nodded and chuckled.

Mason drove down the street some half-dozen blocks, then turned into a storage garage. A few minutes later he came out sliding the storage check into his pocket.

"The next move in our honeymoon," he said, "is the Biltmore in Santa Barbara. You are now Mrs. Watson Clammert. I'll give you more detailed instructions on the way up. And, incidentally, this car is supposed to have plenty of speed under the hood. Have you ever been pinched for speeding?"

"Not this year."

"It might, then, be advisable to take a chance."

He settled back against the cushions.

"Yes, dear," Della Street said demurely and slammed her neatly shod foot against the accelerator with such violence that the resulting forward leap of the automobile all but jerked Mason's head off.

"An ideal place for a honeymoon," Mason said, escorting Della Street through the door.

Mason approached the desk. The clerk handed him a registration card and a fountain pen.

Mason wrote the name, "Watson Clammert," and then heard a startled feminine exclamation from behind him, followed by a titter.

He turned. Della Street, shaking out her coat, had cascaded a shower of rice to the floor. The clerk smiled. Mason looked completely nonplused, then sighed as he caught the roguish twinkle in Della Street's eyes.

"I'm sorry, dear," she said.

Mason turned to the smiling clerk.

The clerk turned the card to look at the name, then reached into a compartment below the desk. "A telegram for you, Mr. Clammert," he said.

Mason frowned, opened the telegram, and spread it on the counter. Della Street came near, sliding her hand around his neck as she pressed her cheek up against his shoulder.

She gave a startled gasp as she read the telegram. Mason's exclamation was one of annoyance.

"But you're not going, dear!" Della Street protested.

Mason turned away from the counter, leaving the telegram unheeded. "Of course not," he said. "I wouldn't think of going… and yet…"

"Business has always interfered," she said, her voice seemingly perilously near to tears.

The clerk and bellboys watched the tableau.

"At any rate," Mason remarked, somewhat stiffly, to the clerk, "we'll go to our room."

He strode toward the elevator.

"But you didn't tell me what you wanted," the clerk said. "We have…"

"The best in the house," Mason snapped, "and make it snappy."

"Yes, Mr. Clammert," the clerk said, handing the key to one of the bellboys.

They stood waiting for the elevator. Della Street started to cry. "I know you're going," she sobbed into her handkerchief.

Mason stood very erect, frowning. His eyes dropped to his handbag. And old shoe dangled from the handle. "How the devil," he asked, "did…"

Della Street continued to sob into her handkerchief.

The elevator slid to a stop. The door opened. Mason and Della Street entered, followed by the bellboy. Five minutes later they were ensconced in a corner suite which looked over the calm blue waters.

"You little devil," Mason said as the door closed. "What was the idea of all the rice business and the old shoe?"

Her eyes were too innocent. "I thought you wanted to make it seem convincing," she said, "and I had to do something. After all, you weren't very much like a bridegroom. To my mind, you seemed to fall down on your acting. You seemed to play more the part of a business man or a busy lawyer than a bridegroom. You didn't show any affection whatever."

"Grooms don't kiss their brides in the hotel lobbies," he said… "Say, were you really crying? You sounded like it."

Della Street ignored his question. "You see I haven't been married before. All I know is what my friends have told me and what I've read. What are we supposed to do next? Do we stroll out hand in hand to watch the sunset?"

Mason grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Snap out of it, you little devil, and quit your kidding. Do you remember the part you're to play?"

"Of course, I do."

Mason opened his suitcase, took out an onion. Gravely he cut it in two and handed it to her. "Smell," he said.

She made a grimace of distaste, held the onion under her eyes, moved it back and forth. Mason, standing by the telephone, watched the result of the onion application with a nod of approval. Della Street dropped the onion and reached for her handkerchief. Mason took down the receiver and said to the operator, "Get me the room clerk."

Della Street came and leaned against his shoulder. Her sobs were plainly audible.

When Mason heard the voice of the room clerk, he said, "This is Watson Clammert. I want to charter a plane at once. Will you make the necessary arrangements and get me transportation to the airport? I'm leaving my wife here and she'll keep my car. She isn't going with me to the airport."

"Very well," the clerk said. "Incidentally, Mr. Clammert, you left your telegram here on the counter. I'm having a bellboy bring it up."

"Okay," Mason said. "The boy can take my baggage down with him. I want to leave within ten minutes. Can you arrange it?"

"I can try," the clerk promised.

Della Street rubbed her tear-reddened eyes.

"The honeymoon is over," she sobbed. "I knew you'd go busting away on business. You d-d-d-don't l-l-l-love me."

Mason grinned at her. "Save it for the lobby," he said.

"How do you know I'm not s-s-s-sincere?" she sobbed.

A puzzled look came over his face. He strode to her, stood for a moment staring down at the slender sobbing figure.

"The devil," he said, and pulled her hand from her face.

She looked up at him with a grin, but there were tears on her cheeks.

Mason's stare showed puzzled perplexity.

"Onion tears," she said, grinning.

There was a knock on the door. Mason crossed to the door and opened it. A bellboy handed him the folded telegram and said, "You had some baggage?"

Mason indicated his bags. The boy picked them up. Mason and Della Street followed him to the lobby. Della Street managed to convey the impression of a young woman who has been crying, who is very much hurt, somewhat angry, and defies the public to do its damnedest in the line of speculating.

She glanced with haughty defiance at the clerk. The clerk averted his gaze from her tear-reddened eyes. She turned to a bellboy, and the boy's incipient smile faded into expressionless servility.

"Remember, dear," Perry Mason said, "about that automobile. Now you're inclined to drive too fast. That's a new automobile and it isn't broken in yet. Don't drive it too fast, and change the oil just as the instruction book says."

"Yes, dear," Della Street said.

"And remember, if anyone should ring up, don't tell them I'm not here. Tell them that I can't come to the telephone, tell them that I'm down with influenza; tell them I'm out playing polo; tell them anything, but don't let on that I'm not here."

"Yes, dear."

"And I'll come back just as soon as I can make the round trip. I won't need to be in New York more than two hours."

Della Street turned away and said nothing.

A taxi driver entered the hotel. The clerk nodded to Perry Mason. "Your arrangements are all made, Mr. Clammert."

"That," Mason grunted, "is what I call service."

He nodded to the bellboy, started for the door, then stopped, turned awkwardly to Della Street.

"Good-by, darling," he said.

She flashed across the distance between them, a bundle of flying clothes and outflung arms. She clasped her arms around his neck, drew his head down to her savagely, clung against him while her lips sought his, found them, and held them in a long, close embrace.

There was something of startled surprise in Perry Mason's face as she released him. He took a quick step toward her. "Della," he said, "you…"

She pushed him away.

"Hurry, Watson Clammert," she said, "and get that airplane. You know how vitally important it is for you to get to New York."

For a moment Mason stood uncertainly, then turned and strode from the hotel lobby.

Della Street placed her handkerchief to her eyes, walked unsteadily toward the elevator.

The hotel clerk shrugged his shoulders and turned away. After all, it was none of his business. He was there to give service. A guest had demanded an airplane at ten minutes' notice, and the clerk had seen that he was accommodated.