The Case of the Caretakers Cat   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

"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 willcontest 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."

Shuster pushed forward. "You can't fool me for a minute, Perry Mason. You're using this cat as a blind. Winifred wants to contest the will, and…"

Perry Mason took two quick steps towards him. The little lawyer danced away, turned and scuttled for the doorway. He pulled it open and shot through it.

"We'll fight!" he called back over his shoulder. "I'm just as tough a fighter as you are, Perry Mason."

"Yes," Perry Mason sighed, "you act like it."

Samuel Laxter hesitated for a moment, as though about to say something, then turned and walked out of the office, followed by Oafley.

Perry Mason met Della Street 's smiling eyes with a grin. "Go on," he said; "say, 'I told you so. "

She shook her head. "Fight that little shyster off his feet!" she said.

Mason looked at his watch. "Ring up Paul Drake and ask him to be here at two thirty."

"And Ashton?" she asked.

"No," he told her. "Ashton's got enough to worry about. I think this is going to be a matter of principle all around."



Chapter 3

The clock on Perry Mason's desk showed two thirtyfive. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, sat crosswise in the big leather chair, his knees draped over one arm, the small of his back propped against the other. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving an expression of droll humor to his face. It was as though he were on the point of breaking into a smile. His eyes were large, protruding, and glassy.

"What's the grief this time?" he asked. "I didn't know there'd been another murder."

"It isn't a murder, Paul, it's a cat."

"A what?"

"A cat, a Persian cat."

The detective sighed and said, "All right, then, it's a cat. So what?"

"Peter Laxter," Mason said, "probably a miser, had a house in the city that he wouldn't live in. He stayed in his country place at Carmencita. The place burned up, and Laxter burned up with it. He left three grandchildren: Samuel C. Laxter and Frank Oafley, who inherit under his will, and a granddaughter, Winifred Laxter, who was left out in the cold. His will contained a provision that Charles Ashton, his caretaker, was to be given a perpetual job during his lifetime. Ashton had a cat. He wanted to keep the cat with him. Sam Laxter told him to get rid of the cat. I sympathized with Ashton, wrote Laxter a letter and told him to leave the cat alone. Laxter went to Nat Shuster. Shuster saw a chance to horn in on a big fee, so he sold Laxter on the idea I was trying to break the will; demanded a lot of impossible conditions from me in order to effect a settlement, and when I didn't agree to them because I couldn't, he made the most of my refusal. I presume he's collected a fat retainer."

"What do you want?" Drake inquired.

"I'm going to break that will," Mason said grimly.

The detective lit a cigarette and said, in his slow drawl, "Going to break the will over a cat, Perry?"

"Over a cat," Mason admitted, "but really I'm going to break Shuster, as well as the will. Shuster's been setting himself up as a bigtime criminal lawyer. I'm tired of it. He's a shyster, a suborner of perjury and a jurybriber. He's a disgrace to the profession, and he gets us all into disrepute. My God, Paul, whenever he has a client he not only tries to get that client off, but he deliberately frames evidence, so it will point to some innocent party, in order to make his own case look better. He's been boasting around town that if he ever runs up against me, he's going to show just how smart he is. I'm sick of him."

"Have you got a copy of the will?" Drake asked.

"No, not yet. I'm having a copy made from the probate records."

"Has it been admitted to probate?"

"I understand it has. It can be contested, however, after probate as well as before."

"Where do I come in?"

"First, find Winifred. Then dig up everything you can about Peter Laxter, and everything you can about the two grandchildren who inherit the property."

"Shall I go at it in the routine way, or do you want action?" Drake asked.

"I want action."

Drake's glassy eyes surveyed Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "There must be a lot of money in cats," he remarked.

Mason's face was grave. "I'm not certain but what there is going to be a chance to make some money, Paul. Evidently Peter Laxter was a miser. He didn't trust too much in banks. Shortly before his death, he cashed in securities to the tune of about a million dollars. After his death, the heirs couldn't find the million."

"Suppose it burnt up in the house with him?" Drake asked. "He'd have had it in currency, you know."

"It may have," Mason admitted. "Again, it may not. When Ashton left my office, some man was shadowing him—a man who was driving a new green Pontiac.