The Case of the Caretakers Cat   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

"

Mason nodded slowly, and said, "That's what I mean."

Della Street, more familiar with Mason's moods than the assistant attorney, entered the conversation with the easy familiarity of one who works in an office where there is but little formality.

"You just finished a murder case, Chief. Why not let the assistants handle things while you take a cruise to the Orient? It'll give you a rest."

Mason regarded her with twinkling eyes. "Who the devil would take care of Ashton's cat, then?"

"Mr. Jackson could."

"He won't see Jackson."

"Then let him find some other attorney. The city is overrun with attorneys. You can't afford to take your time to bother with a cat!"

"An old man," Mason said, almost musingly, "a crank… probably friendless. His benefactor is dead. The cat represents the only living thing to which he's attached. Most lawyers would laugh the case out of the office. If some lawyer took the case, he wouldn't know where to begin. God knows there's no precedent to guide him.

"No, Della, this is one of those cases that seems so trivial to the lawyer, but means so much to the client. A lawyer isn't like a shopkeeper who can sell his wares or not as he chooses. He holds his talents in trust for the unfortunate."

Della Street, knowing what was to come, nodded to Jackson and said, "You may ask Mr. Ashton to step in."

Jackson gave a halfhearted smile, gathered up his papers and left the room. As the door clicked shut, Della Street 's fingers closed about Perry Mason's left hand.

"You're only taking that case, Chief, because you know he can't afford to pay any other good lawyer to handle it."

Mason, grinning, replied, "Well, you must admit that a man with a shriveled leg, a crabby disposition, a Persian cat, and no money, is entitled to a break once in a while."

The sounds of a crutch and a foot alternated in the long corridor. Jackson held open the door after the manner of one who, having counseled against an unwise act, is very definitely keeping clear of the consequences.

The man who entered the room was wizened with age. He had thin lips, bushy white eyebrows, a bald head, and unsmiling features. "This is the third time I've been in to see you," he said irritably.

Mason indicated a chair. "Sit down, Mr. Ashton. I'm sorry. I've been trying a murder case. What's the name of your cat?"

"Clinker," Ashton said, sitting down in the big, overstuffed, black leather chair, standing his crutch straight in front of him, holding it with both hands.

"Why Clinker?" Mason asked.

The man's lips and eyes remained unsmiling. "A bit of humor."

"Humor?" Mason inquired.

"Yes, I used to have a job firing a boiler. Clinkers get in the way and clutter things up. When I first got the cat, I called him Clinker because he was always in the way—always cluttering things up."

"Attached to him?" Mason inquired, in a voice which was elaborately casual.

"The only friend I've got left in the world," Ashton said rather gruffly.

Mason raised his eyebrows.

"I'm a caretaker. A caretaker doesn't really work. He just keeps an eye on things. The big house has been closed up for years. The master lived in a place at Carmencita. All I did was just putter around the big place, keep up the yard and sweep off the front steps. Three or four times a year the master had the place thoroughly cleaned; the rest of the time the rooms were all shut, locked, and the shutters drawn."

"No one lived there?"

"No one."

"Why didn't he rent the place?" Mason asked.

"It wasn't his way."

"And he left a will providing for you?"

"That he did. The will keeps me in my job while I'm able to work and takes care of me whenever I can't work."

"The heirs are two grandchildren?"

"Three. Only two are mentioned in the will."

"Tell me about your troubles," Mason invited.

"The master was burned to death when the country home caught fire. I didn't know about it until they telephoned me the next morning. After the death, Sam Laxter took charge. He's a nice boy to look at, and he'll fool you if you let him, but he doesn't like animals and I don't like people who can't get along with animals."

"Who was in the house at the time it burned?" Mason asked.

"Winifred—that's Winifred Laxter. She's a granddaughter. Then there was Sam Laxter and Frank Oafley—they're grandsons. Mrs. Pixley was there—she's the housekeeper. And there was a nurse—Edith DeVoe."

"Anyone else?" Mason asked.

"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur. He's a smooth one. He knows which side of the bread his butter's on, all right. You should see the way he toadies to Sam Laxter."

Ashton pounded on the floor with the tip of his crutch to emphasize his disgust.

"Who else?" Mason asked.

Ashton checked off the people he had named on his fingers, then said, "Nora Abbington."

"What's she like?" Mason asked, very evidently enjoying seeing these various characters through Ashton's cynical eyes.

"A big cow," Ashton said. "A docile, trusting, goodnatured, bigeyed clod. But she wasn't there when the house burned. She came in and worked by the day."

"After the house burned there was no more work for her?" Mason inquired.

"That's right. She didn't come any more after that."

"Then I presume we can eliminate her from the picture. She really doesn't figure in the case."

"Wouldn't," Ashton said significantly, "if it wasn't that she was in love with Jim Brandon. She thinks Jim's going to marry her when he gets money. Bah! I tried to tell her a thing or two about Jim Brandon, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"How does it happen you know these people so well if you were in the city house and they were out in the country?"

"Oh, I used to drive out once in a while."

"You drive a car?"

"Yes."

"Your car?"

"No, it's one the master kept at the house for me so I could drive out to see him when he wanted to give instructions. He hated to come to the city."

"What sort of a car?" Mason inquired.

"A Chevvy."

"Your bad leg doesn't keep you from driving?"

"No, not that car. It has a special emergency brake on it. When I pull up on that brake lever the car stops."

Mason flashed an amused glance at Della Street, turned back to the wizened, baldheaded man. "Why wasn't Winifred provided for in the will?" he asked.

"No one knows."

"You were in charge of the house here in the city?"

"That's right."

"What's the address?"

"3824 East Washington."

"You're still there?"

"Yes—and so're Laxter, Oafley, and the servants."

"In other words, when the house burned at Carmencita, they came to live in the city house. Is that right?"

"Yes. They'd have moved in anyway as soon as the master died. They're not the sort who like country life.