The Case of the Caretaker's Cat (2 page)

"What money?"

"The money the master left."

"I thought you said he left it share and share alike to the two grandchildren."

"He did – what they've been able to find."

"They haven't been able to find it all?" Mason asked, interested.

"A bit before the fire," Ashton said, as though the recital gave him great satisfaction, "the master made a complete clean-up. He cashed in something over a million dollars. No one knows what he did with that money. Sam Laxter says he buried it somewhere, but I know the master better than that. I think he put it in a safety deposit box under an assumed name. He didn't trust the banks. He said that when times were good, the banks loaned his money and made a profit on it, and when times were bad, they told him they were sorry they couldn't get it back. He lost some money in a bank a couple of years ago. Once was enough for the master."

"A million dollars in cash?" Mason asked.

"Of course it was in cash," Ashton snapped. "What else would he take it in?"

Perry Mason glanced at Della Street.

"How about Winifred – you say she's disappeared?"

"Yes, she pulled out. I don't blame her. The others treated her shameful."

"How old are the grandchildren?"

"Sam's twenty-eight; Frank Oafley's twenty-six; Winifred's twenty-two – and a beauty! She's worth all the rest put together. Six months ago the master made a will leaving her everything and cutting off the other two grandchildren with ten dollars each. Then two days before he died, he made this new will."

Mason frowned, and said, "That's hard on Winifred."

Ashton grunted, said nothing.

"Just how much money did you plan to spend in enforcing your rights to keep Clinker?" Mason asked speculatively.

Ashton whipped a billfold from his pocket, pulled out a sheaf of bills.

"I'm not a piker," he said. "Good lawyers come high. I don't want anything but the best. How much is it goin' to cost?"

Mason stared at the thick bundle of bills.

"Where did you get all that money?" he asked curiously.

"Saved it. I don't have any expenses, and I've been saving my salary for twenty years. I've put it in gilt-edged stuff – stuff that the master recommended – and when the master cashed in, I cashed in."

"On Mr. Laxter's advice?" Mason asked, eyeing his client curiously.

"If you want to put it that way."

"And you're willing to spend your money to keep your cat?"

"I'm willing to spend a reasonable amount of it; I'm not going to throw it away. But I know it costs money to get a good lawyer, and I know I'm not going to get a poor lawyer."

"Suppose," Mason said, "I should tell you it was going to cost you five hundred dollars by way of retainer?"

"That's too much," Ashton said irritably.

"Suppose I should say two hundred and fifty dollars?"

"That's reasonable. I'll pay it."

Ashton started counting bills.

"Wait a minute," Mason said, laughing. "Perhaps it won't be necessary to spend any large amount of money. I was just trying to determine exactly how attached you were to the cat."

"I'm plenty attached to him. I'd spend any reasonable amount to put Sam Laxter in his place, but I'm not going to be stuck."

"What are Laxter's initials?" Mason asked.

"Samuel C."

"Perhaps," Mason told him, "a letter will be all that's necessary. If that's the case, it isn't going to cost you much."

He turned to Della Street.

"Della," he said, "take a letter to Samuel C. Laxter, 3824 East Washington Street. Dear Sir: Mr. Ashton has consulted me – no, wait a minute, Della, better put his initials in there – I've got them here on the memo – Charles Ashton, that's it – has consulted me with reference to his rights under the will of the late Peter Laxter. Under the provisions of that will, you were obligated to furnish Mr. Ashton with a position as caretaker during the period of his ability to work in that capacity.

"It is only natural that Mr. Ashton should wish to keep his cat with him. A caretaker is entitled to pets. This is particularly true in the present case, because the pet was maintained during the testator's lifetime.

"In the event that you should injure Mr. Ashton's pet, it will be necessary for me to contend that you have breached a condition of the will and have, therefore, forfeited your inheritance."

Perry Mason grinned at Della Street. "That should throw a scare into him," he remarked. "If he thinks he's fighting over his entire inheritance instead of just a cat, he'll decide not to take any chances."

He turned to Ashton, nodded reassuringly. "Leave ten dollars with the bookkeeper as a retainer. She'll give you a receipt. If anything develops I'll write to you. If you find out anything, ring up this office and ask for Miss Street – she's my secretary. You can leave any message with her. That's all for the present."

Ashton's gnarled hands tightened about the crutch. He pulled himself to his feet, slipped the crutch under his arm. Without a word of thanks or farewell, he hobbledy-banged from the office.

Della Street looked at Perry Mason with surprised eyes.

"Is it possible," she asked, "that this grandson might forfeit his inheritance if he threw out the cat?"

"Stranger things have happened," he answered. "It depends on the wording of the will. If the provision about the caretaker is a condition to the vesting of the inheritance, I might be able to make it stick. But, you understand, all I'm doing now is throwing a scare into Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. I think we'll hear from that gentleman in person. When we do, let me know… That's what I like about the law business, Della – it's so damned diversified… A caretaker's cat!"

He chuckled.

Della Street closed her notebook, started toward her own office, paused at the window to look down at the busy street. "You saved him two hundred and forty dollars," she said, her eyes aimlessly watching the snarl of city traffic, "and he didn't even thank you."

A breath of wind, blowing in through the open window stirred her hair. She bent forward from the waist, leaning out to catch the breeze, filling her lungs with the fresh air.

"Probably he's just peculiar," Mason said. "He certainly is a shriveled-up specimen… Don't lean too far out there, Della… You must remember he likes animals, and he's not a young man any more. Regardless of what age he claims, he must be more than seventy-five…"

Della Street straightened. With a quick twist of her lithe body, she turned to face Perry Mason. She was frowning. "It might interest you to know," she said, "that someone is shadowing your cat-loving client."

Perry Mason shoved back his chair as he got to his feet, strode across the office. He braced himself with one arm on the window ledge, the other around Della Street's waist. Together, they stared down at the street.

"See?" he said. "That man with the light felt hat. He darted out of a doorway… See, he's getting into that car."

"One of the new Pontiacs," Mason said speculatively. "What makes you think he was following Ashton?"

"The way he acted. I'm certain of it. He jumped out of the doorway… See, the car's barely crawling along – just to keep Ashton in sight."

Ashton hobbled around the corner, to the left. The car followed him, apparently crawling in low gear.

Mason, watching the car in frowning speculation, said, "A million dollars in cash is a whale of a lot of money."

Della Street, opening the door from her office, brought in a file of mail and some papers. Perry Mason folded the newspaper he had been reading, as Della Street seated herself, pulled out the sliding leaf of the desk, and held her fountain pen poised over an open notebook.

"Lord, but you're chockful of business," Perry Mason complained. "I don't want to work. I want to let down and play hookey. I want to do something I shouldn't. My Lord, you'd think I was a corporation lawyer, sitting at a desk, advising banks and probating estates! The reason I specialized in trial law was because I didn't like the routine, and you're making this business more and more of a job and less and less of an adventure.

"That's what I like about the practice of law – it's an adventure. You're looking behind the scenes at human nature. The audience out front sees only the carefully rehearsed poses assumed by the actors. The lawyer sees human nature with the shutters open."

"If you will insist on mixing into minor cases," she said acidly, with that degree of familiarity which comes from long and privileged association in an office where conventional discipline is subordinated to efficiency, "you'll have to organize your time so you can handle your work. Mr. Nathaniel Shuster is in the outer office waiting to see you."

Perry Mason frowned. "Shuster?" he said. "Why, he's a damned jury-briber – a pettifogger. He poses as a big trial lawyer, but he's a bigger crook than the people he defends. Any damn fool can win a case if he has the jury bribed. What the devil does he want?"

"He wishes to see you in regard to a letter you wrote. His clients are with him – Mr. Samuel C. Laxter and Mr. Frank Oafley."

Abruptly Perry Mason laughed. "The caretaker's cat, eh?" he asked.

She nodded.

Mason pulled the file of mail over toward him.

"Well," he said, "as a matter of professional courtesy, we won't keep Mr. Shuster waiting. We'll take a quick run through this important stuff and see if there are any telegrams to be sent out."

He looked at a folder, and frowned. "What's this?" he asked.

"Quotations from the N.Y.K. Line on a deluxe single stateroom on the Asamu Maru – stops at Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai and Hong Kong."

"Who made the inquiry?"

"I did."

He pulled a letter from the pile of mail, stared at it, and said, "The Dollar Steamship Company – quotations on a deluxe single stateroom on the President Coolidge – Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Manila."

Della Street continued to look demurely at her notebook.

Perry Mason laughed, and pushed the pile of mail away.

"We'll let it wait," he said, "until after we've disposed of Shuster. You sit right there and if I nudge your knee, start taking notes. Shuster's a pretty slippery customer. I wish he'd have his teeth fixed."

She raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Franklin teeth," he told her, "and they leak."

"Franklin teeth?" she asked.

"Yes, air-cooled, you know. If there's anything in reincarnation, he must have been a Chinese laundryman in a prior existence. Every time he snickers, he sprays his audience, like a Chinese laundryman sprinkling clothes. He has a fondness for shaking hands. Personally I don't like him, but you can't insult him. I suppose the situation calls for some show of professional courtesy; but, if he tries to slip anything over on me, I'm going to forget the ethics of the situation and kick him out."

"The cat," she said, "must feel flattered – so many busy attorneys putting in their time deciding whether he's going to get his muddy feet on a bedspread."

Perry Mason laughed outright. "Go ahead," he said, "rub it in! Oh, well, I'm in for it now. Shuster will try to egg his clients into a fight, and I'll either have to back up or play into his hands. If I back up, he makes his clients believe he's browbeaten me into submission, and charges them a good fee. If I don't back up, he tells them their whole inheritance is involved and soaks them a percentage. That's what I get for running that bluff about a forfeiture of the inheritance."

"Mr. Jackson could talk with them," she suggested.

Perry Mason grinned good-naturedly. "Nope, Jackson isn't accustomed to having his face sprinkled. I've met Shuster before. Let's get them in."

He lifted the telephone, said to the girl at the desk, "Send Mr. Shuster in."

Della Street made one last appeal, "Oh, please, Chief, let Jackson handle it. You'll get into an argument, and the first thing we'll know, you'll be putting in all of your time fighting over a cat."

"Cats and corpses," Mason remarked. "If it isn't one it seems to be another. I've been fighting over corpses for so long, a good live cat will be a welcome diversion from…"

The door opened. A blonde with wide blue eyes said in a lifeless voice, "Mr. Shuster, Mr. Laxter, Mr. Oafley."

The three men pushed the doorway into the room. Shuster, small-boned and active, was in the lead, bustling about like a sparrow peering under dead leaves. "Good morning, Counselor, good morning, good morning. Going to be warm today, isn't it?" He bustled across the room, hand outstretched. His lips twisted back, disclosing a mouthful of teeth, between each of which was a well-defined space.

Mason, seeming to tower high above the little man, extended a reluctant hand and said, "Now let's get these people straight. Which is Laxter and which is Oafley?"

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, of course," Shuster said. "This is Mr. Laxter – Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. He's the executor of the will – a grandson of Peter Laxter."

A tall man with dark skin, smoldering black eyes and hair which had been carefully marcelled, smiled with that oily affability which speaks of poise rather than sincerity. A large cream-colored Stetson hat was held in his left hand.

"And this is Frank Oafley. Frank Oafley is the other grandson, Counselor."

Oafley was yellow-haired and thick-lipped. His face seemed unable to change its expression. His eyes had the peculiar watery blue tint of raw oysters. He had no hat.

He said nothing.

"My secretary, Miss Street," Perry Mason remarked. "If there's no objection, she'll be here during the conference and take such notes as I may wish."

Shuster chuckled moistly. "And if there is any objection, I suppose she'll stay here anyway, eh? Ha, ha, ha. I know you, Counselor. Remember, it isn't as though you were dealing with someone who didn't know you. I know you well. You're a fighter. You're to be reckoned with. It's a matter of principle with my clients. They can't knuckle under to a servant. But they've got a fight on their hands. I told them you were a fighter, I warned them. They can't say I didn't warn them!"

"Sit down," Mason said.

Shuster nodded to his clients, indicating the chairs which they were to take. He sank in the big overstuffed leather chair himself and seemed almost lost in the space of it. He crossed his legs, pulled down his cuffs, adjusted his tie, beamed at Mason and said, "You can't make it stick. It's a matter of principle with us. We'll fight to the last ditch. But it's a serious matter, all right."

"What's a serious matter?" Mason asked.

"Your contention about that being a condition in the will."

"And what's the matter of principle?" Mason inquired.

"Why," Shuster remarked, showing surprise, "the cat, of course. We can't stand it. But, more than that, we can't stand to have this caretaker start dictating. He's too officious already. You understand, when a person can't discharge his hired help, it doesn't take long for that help to get completely out of hand."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Mason asked, letting his eyes shift from Shuster's face to the faces of the two grandchildren, "that you folks are making a mountain out of a molehill? Why don't you let poor Ashton keep his cat? The cat won't last forever and Ashton won't either. There's no reason for spending a lot of money on lawyers, and…"

"Not so fast, Counselor, not so fast," Shuster broke in, sliding forward on the smooth leather of the chair until he sat on the very edge of it. "It's going to be a hard fight; it's going to be a bitter fight. I've warned my clients of that. You're a resourceful man. You're a sly man. If you don't mind the expression, I'll say you're a cunning man. Lots of us would take that as a compliment; I take that as a compliment myself. Lots of times my clients say, 'Shuster is cunning.' Do I get sore? I don't! I say that's a compliment."

Della Street glanced at Perry Mason, her eyes showing amusement. Mason's face was momentarily becoming more granite-hard.

Shuster went on, speaking rapidly, "I warned my clients that Winifred was going to try to break the will. I knew that she'd try it by every means in her power, but she couldn't claim the grandfather was of unsound mind, and there's no question of undue influence. So she had to get something she could tie to, and she picked on Ashton and his cat."

There was anger in Mason's voice. "Look here, Shuster, cut out this flimflamming. All I want is to have the caretaker left with his cat. Your clients don't need to spend any money fighting. The amount that it's costing just to have this conference would more than pay for all the bedspreads the cat could soil in ten years."

Shuster's head bobbed up and down eagerly. "That's what I've told them all along. Counselor. A poor compromise is better than a good lawsuit. Now, if you're willing to compromise, we are."

"On what basis?" Mason inquired.

Shuster recited his proposed compromise with a glibness which showed much rehearsal. "Winifred signs an agreement that she won't contest the will. Ashton signs a paper that he knows that the will is genuine; that it was executed by the old man when he was of sound and disposing mind and memory, and then Ashton can keep his cat."

Mason's voice was edged with irritation. "I don't know anything about Winifred," he said. "I've never met her and haven't talked with her. I can't ask her to sign anything."

Shuster glanced triumphantly at the two clients. "I told you he was clever," he said. "I told you it was going to be a fight."

"Winifred doesn't enter into it," Mason said. "Now let's come down to earth and talk sense. All I'm interested in is this damned cat."

There was a moment of silence, broken by Shuster's moist chuckle.

Sam Laxter, glancing at the growing rage of Mason's features, took a hand in the conversation. "Of course, you'll admit you threatened to invalidate my inheritance. I know that wouldn't have come from Ashton. We've been expecting Winifred to contest the will."

There was something smoothly ingratiating in his tone, a suave smirking of the vocal cords which made his voice seem like the smile of a courtesan.

"All I want," Mason said, "is to have that cat left alone."

"And you'll have Winifred sign a complete waiver?" Shuster asked.

Mason faced him. "Don't be a damn fool," he said. "I'm not representing Winifred. I haven't anything to do with her."

Shuster rubbed his hands gleefully. "We couldn't settle on any other basis. It's a matter of principle with us. Personally, I don't think that's a condition in the will, but it's open to controversy."

Mason got to his feet, like an angry bull turning to face a yapping terrier.

"Now listen," he said to Shuster, "I don't like to lose my temper unless someone's paying for it, but you've gone far enough."

Shuster chuckled. "Clever!" he said. "Very clever. Cunning."

Mason took a step toward him. "You know damn well I'm not representing Winifred. You know that the letter of mine meant exactly what it said, but you knew you couldn't kid your clients into paying big fees over a cat, so you dragged in this will-contest business. You laid this egg, and you've brought your clients in to see it hatched. Not knowing Winifred and not representing her, I naturally can't get her signature to anything. You've frightened your clients into believing they've got to get Winifred's signature to a release. That's laying the foundation for a nice fat fee for you."

Shuster came up out of his chair. "That's slander!" he screamed.

Mason face the two grandsons. "Listen," he said, "I'm not your guardian. I'm not going to break my neck trying to save your money. If you two want to give that cat a home, say so now; that's all there'll be to it. If you don't I'll make Shuster earn his fees by dragging you into the damnedest fight you've ever been in. I'm not going to be used as a bugaboo to frighten you two into sticking a fat fee on Shuster's desk and have him do nothing but rub his hands in order to earn it…"

"Have a care! Have a care!" Shuster shouted, literally dancing about in his indignation. "You can't talk that way. That's a violation of professional ethics. I'll report you to the Grievance Committee. I'll sue you for slander."

"Report, and be damned," Mason said. "Sue and be doubly damned. Take your clients and get out of here. By two o'clock this afternoon you either notify me that cat stays in the house, or you're going to have a fight on your hands – all three of you. And remember one thing about me – when I start fighting I don't hit where the other man's expecting the punch. Now don't say I didn't warn you. Two o'clock this afternoon. Get out."