The Case of the Caretakers Cat   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

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 shriveledup 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 seventyfive…"

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 catloving 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."



Chapter 2

Morning sun, streaming in through the windows of Perry Mason's private office, struck the calfskin bindings on the shelved law books and made them seem less grimly foreboding.

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 jurybriber—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, aircooled, 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 goodnaturedly. "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.