The Case of the Caretaker's Cat (4 page)

"Sam won't let him keep the cat."

"But he has to under the will. He has to keep Ashton employed as a caretaker."

"But not the cat."

Dismay showed on Winifred's face. "Do you mean to say he isn't going to let Ashton keep Clinker?"

"That's it."

"But he can't put Clinker out."

"He says he's going to poison him."

Mason nudged Drake surreptitiously, started toward the door.

"Wait a minute," she called. "We've got to do something about that. He can't get by with that. Why, that's outrageous!"

"We'll see what we can do," Mason promised.

"But look here. You must do something. Perhaps I can do something. Where can I reach you?"

Perry Mason gave her one of his cards, and said, "I'm Ashton's lawyer. If you think of anything that will help, let me know. And don't sign any more papers."

The door from the street opened. A young man of medium build smiled at Winifred Laxter, then regarded Perry Mason with a level, appraising stare, shifted his eyes to Paul Drake and suddenly became hostile.

He was a head shorter than the tall detective, but he pushed up in front of him belligerently, stared at him steadily with gray eyes that didn't so much as flicker. "Say," he demanded, "what's your game?"

Drake remarked casually, "Just eating waffles, Buddy. Don't quarrel with the cash customers."

"He's all right, Doug," Winifred said.

"How do you know he's all right?" the young man resorted, without taking his eyes from Paul Drake. "He hunted me up this afternoon with a stall about going into the contracting business and wanting to have someone who knew architecture work with him. I hadn't talked with him five minutes before I found out he didn't know a single thing about contracting. I think he's a detective."

Drake, smiling, said, "You're a better detective than I am a contractor. You've guessed right. So what?"

The young man turned to Winifred. "Shall I throw him out, Winnie?" he asked.

She laughed. "It's all right, Doug. Shake hands with Perry Mason, a lawyer. You've heard of him. This is Douglas Keene, Mr. Mason."

The young man's expression changed. "Perry Mason," he said. "Oh…"

Mason's hand found Keene's right hand and pumped it up and down. "Glad to know you, Keene," Mason said. "Shake hands with Paul Drake."

As Mason released his grip of Keene's hand, Drake grabbed it. "Okay, Buddy," he said, "no hard feelings. It's all in the day's work."

The steady gray eyes surveyed the two men thoughtfully. The first diffidence gave place to a very evident determination.

"Let's find out if it's all right," he said. "I've got something to say about this. Winifred and I are engaged. She's going to marry me. If I could support her I'd marry her tomorrow, but I can't support her and I won't let her support me. I'm an architect, and you know it takes a while for a young architect to get started. You just don't begin making money right away. But the country needs architects today more than ever. With credit inflated and more and more young families and more and more babies, it's only a question of time before I'll be sitting pretty."

Mason surveyed the youthful enthusiasm of the young man's face and nodded.

Paul Drake said, "Yeah… a couple of years." He said it tonelessly.

"And don't think I'm waiting for business to pick up, either," Keene said. "I'm working in a service station, and darned glad to get the job. Today the big boss was through. He stopped at the service station without anyone knowing who he was. And when he left he gave me his card and a pat on the back for the way I was handling the trade."

"Good boy," Mason told him.

"I'm just telling you fellows this," Keene said, "so you'll know where I stand, because I'm going to find out where you stand."

Mason glanced over at Winifred Laxter. Her eyes were absorbed in Douglas Keene. Her face was flushed with pride.

Keene took a step backward, so that he was between both men and the door.

"Now then," he said, "I've put my cards on the table and you chaps are going to put yours on the table. Peter Laxter died. He didn't leave Winifred a cent. So far as I'm concerned, I'm glad he didn't. She doesn't need his money. She's better off now than she was when she was living with him.

"I'm going to support her. I don't want any of her grandfather's money and she doesn't need any of her grandfather's money, but I don't like the idea of you birds trying to slip something over on her."

Mason's hand dropped to the young man's shoulder. "We're not trying to slip anything over on her," he said.

"What are you hanging around here for, then?"

"I want to get information," Mason said, "so I can represent a client."

"Who's the client?"

Mason grinned. "Believe it or not, but the client's a cat."

"A what?"

Winifred interrupted. "It's Charlie Ashton, Doug – you know, the boys have to keep him on as caretaker, but Sam has threatened to poison the cat, and Mr. Mason's representing Ashton, trying to fix things up so he can keep the cat."

Keene's jaw set grimly. "Do you mean to say that Sam Laxter threatens to poison Clinker?"

She nodded.

"Well, I'll be damned," Keene said slowly. He turned to Perry Mason. "Listen," he said, "I was going to keep out of that, but if Sam's pulling stuff like that, ask him what became of the Koltsdorf diamonds."

Winifred said sharply, "Doug!"

He swung to face her. "Don't stop me," he said. "You don't know what I know. I know stuff about Sam that's going to come out. No, don't worry, Winnie, I'm not going to bring it out; I'm going to keep out of it. It's Edith DeVoe. She…"

Winifred interrupted him firmly. "Mr. Mason is only interested in the cat, Doug."

Keene laughed, a quick, nervous laugh. "I'm sorry. Guess I got pretty well worked up. I can't stand the idea of anyone poisoning an animal, and when it comes down to brass tacks, Clinker is worth a dozen Sam Laxters. Oh, well, I'll keep out of it."

Paul Drake casually seated himself on one of the stools.

"What's going to come out about Sam Laxter?" he asked.

Mason dropped his hand to the detective's shoulder. "Wait a minute, Paul. These people have shot square with us; let's shoot square with them."

He turned to Winifred. "Do you want to give us any information?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I want to keep out of it and I want Doug to keep out of it."

Mason took Drake's arm and literally pushed him along the passageway between the booths on one side and the stools on the other. "Come on, Paul," he said.

As the outer door closed behind them Winifred's eyes flashed them a smile. She waved her arm.

"What did you do that for?" Drake protested. "That fellow knows something. He's been talking with Edith DeVoe."

"Who's Edith DeVoe?"

"She's the nurse who lived there in the house. I had a hunch she might know something."

Mason, staring moodily up and down the street, said, "If I catch Shuster hanging around here, I'm going to punch his face. Can you imagine the damn shyster going in and taking advantage of the kid and getting her to sign a paper like that?"

Drake said, "It's his style. What can you do now? You haven't got any client who can bust the will. That will's just as good as gold, isn't it?"

"I've got a cat for a client," Mason said grimly.

"Can a cat contest a will?"

Mason's face showed the determination of a born fighter. "Damned if I know," he said. "Come on, we're going to see Edith DeVoe."

"But you can't contest a will unless you're representing an interested party. Two of the interested parties take under the will and the other one has signed away her rights," the detective protested.

"I've told you before," Mason said, "that I never hit where the other man's expecting the punch."

"That's nothing unusual," Mason remarked. "It's a regular sales talk. He might have had a million dollars salted away and still have said the same thing."

Drake went on in the mechanical tone of voice of one who is primarily interested in facts rather than in their interpretation. "He had a bank account at one of the banks. As nearly as we can find out, it was the only bank account he ever had. He deposited his salary there. He'd saved something like four hundred dollars. After the accident, he spent it all, and still owes some to a doctor."

"Wait a minute," Mason interposed, "didn't Peter Laxter take care of his expenses in that automobile accident?"

"No, but don't jump at conclusions on account of it. Ashton told one of his friends that Laxter would take care of him all right in the long run, but Laxter thought he'd stand a better chance recovering damages if he could show that the money for the doctors and hospital bills had been paid out of his own savings."

"Go ahead," Mason said. "You're leading up to something. What is it?"

"Shortly before the house burned, Laxter started cashing in. I can't find how much, but it was plenty. Three days before the house burned down, Ashton rented two large-size safety deposit boxes. The boxes were rented by Charles Ashton and in his name, but he told the clerk in charge that he had a half-brother who was to be given access to the boxes at any time. The clerk told him his half-brother would have to come in and register for signature. Ashton said the half-brother was sick in bed and couldn't move, but couldn't he take out a card and have the half-brother sign. He said he'd guarantee the signature, indemnify the bank against any claim, and all that sort of stuff. The bank gave him a card for his half-brother's signature. Ashton went out and came back in an hour or so with the signature on the card."

"What was the name?"

"Clammert – Watson Clammert."

"Who's Clammert?" Mason asked. "Is it a phony?"

"No," Drake said, "he's probably Ashton's half-brother. That is, he was; he's dead now. He wasn't registered in the city directory, but I took a chance, inquired at the motor vehicle department and found Clammert had a driving license. I got the address, chased him down and found that Watson Clammert had died within twenty-four hours after affixing his signature to that card."

"Anything fishy about the death?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely nothing. He died of natural causes. He died in a hospital. Nurses were in constant attendance, but – and here's the phony part – he'd been in a coma for days prior to his death. He hadn't regained consciousness."

"Then how the devil," Mason asked, "could he have signed his name on that card?"

Drake said tonelessly, "I'll bite, how could he?"

"What else about him?" Mason asked.

"Apparently he and Ashton are chips off the same block. Ashton went for years without seeing him or speaking to him. It wasn't until Ashton heard that Clammert was dying in the charity ward of a hospital that he came to help him out."

"How did you get this stuff?" Mason asked.

"Ashton talked quite a bit to one of the nurses. She got a kick out of him. He was so bitterly vindictive and yet so big-hearted. He'd heard Clammert was sick and broke, so he hobbled around, making a canvass of the hospitals until he found Clammert lying unconscious and near death. He dug down in his pocket and did everything he could, hired specialists, got special nurses and haunted the bedside. He left instructions with the nurse to see that Clammert had everything money could buy. Of course, the nurse knew he was dying and the doctors knew it, but, naturally, they kidded Ashton along, telling him there was perhaps one chance in a million, and Ashton told them to take that chance.

"But just to show you what a cantankerous cuss you've got for a client, he stipulated that when Clammert recovered consciousness, he was never to know who his benefactor had been. Ashton told the nurses they quarreled years ago and hadn't seen each other since – and what do you think they quarreled about?"

Mason said irritably, "I'll bite, Little Peter Rabbit, what did Ruddy the Lame Fox and Goofy the Sleeping Beauty quarrel about?"

The detective grinned and said, "A cat."

"A cat?" Mason exclaimed.

"That's right – a cat by the name of Clinker – it was just a kitten then."

"Oh, hell," Mason said disgustedly.

"As near as I can figure out," Drake went on, "from the time Ashton discovered his half-brother until Clammert died a couple of days later, Ashton had spent something like five hundred dollars in hospital and doctors' bills. He paid everything out in cash. The nurse said he had a big sheaf of bills he carried in his wallet. Now, then, where the hell did Charles Ashton get that money?"

Mason made a grimace. "Shucks, Paul, I didn't want you to dig up facts that would put my client in a spot; I wanted you to dig up something that would put Sam Laxter in a spot."

"Well," Drake remarked in his dry, expressionless voice, "they're some of the pieces in the puzzle picture. I'm hired to get the pieces; you're hired to put them together. If they're going to make the wrong kind of picture when they're put together, you can always lose some of the pieces so no one else can find them."

Mason chuckled, then said thoughtfully, "Why the devil did Ashton want it so Clammert could go to that safety deposit box?"

"Well, the only thing I could think of," Drake said, "was that if Clammert got well Ashton intended to give him money but didn't intend to have any personal contact, so he arranged to give Clammert a key to a safety deposit box into which he'd put money from time to time and Clammert could take it out."

"That doesn't make sense," Mason said, "because Clammert would have to sign his name to get access to the box and the signature that Ashton turned in as being that of Clammert couldn't have been made by Clammert because Clammert was unconscious."

"Okay," Drake said, "you win. That's what I meant when I said the facts were the pieces in the puzzle. I get them and you put them together."

"Did anyone using Clammert's name ever go to the safety deposit boxes?" Mason asked.

"No, Clammert's never been near the box. Ashton went to it several times. He went to it yesterday, and he went to it today. While the clerks didn't want to talk about it, I gathered the impression they thought Ashton had pulled out a wad of dough from those safety boxes either yesterday or today, or both."

"How do they know what a man takes out?"

"Ordinarily they don't, but one of the clerks saw Ashton stuffing currency into a satchel."

Perry Mason laughed. "In most cases," he said, "we can't find out any facts at all until after we've gone through a lot of preliminary work. In this case they pour into our laps."

"Did your client tell you about the Koltsdorf diamonds?" Drake wanted to know.

"Gosh," Mason remarked, "I feel like the interlocutor at a minstrel show. No, Mr. Drake, Mr. Ashton did not tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds. What about the Koltsdorf diamonds?… Now, Paul, that's your cue to tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds."

The detective chuckled. "The Koltsdorf diamonds are about the only jewels Peter Laxter ever fell for. Lord knows how he came by them. They were some of the stones smuggled out of Russia by the old aristocracy. Peter Laxter showed them to a few friends. They were large, brilliant diamonds."

"What about them?"

"Some of this other stuff," Drake said, "such as the currency, bonds, and all that, might have burnt up when the house was burned. It wouldn't have been possible to find even a trace of them. But the Koltsdorf diamonds haven't been found."

"Diamonds in the wreckage of a burnt house could hide pretty well," Mason said dryly.

"They've taken that wreckage to pieces with a fine-tooth comb, sifted ashes and done all sorts of things. But the diamonds can't be located. A distinctive ruby ring which Peter Laxter always wore on his left hand was found on the body, but no diamonds."

"Tell me the rest of it," Mason demanded. "Has Ashton shown up with those diamonds?"

"No, not that I've been able to find out. But he's done other peculiar things that are just as incriminating. For instance, shortly before the fire, Laxter had been dickering for a piece of property. He'd taken Ashton out with him to look the property over. A couple of days ago, Ashton called on the owner of that property and made an offer. The offer was for cash on the nail."

"It was refused?"

"Temporarily, yes, but I think the deal's still open."

Mason, frowning thoughtfully, said, "Looks like I'm stirring up a mare's nest. Laxter might have cached his property and Ashton might have had an inside track. In that event he probably wouldn't feel obligated to hand Sam Laxter the coin on a silver platter. Guess we're due for a talk with Ashton."

Drake said tonelessly, "The two grandchildren have been pretty wild, particularly Sam. Oafley's the quiet, unsociable sort. Sam went in for speedy automobiles, polo ponies, women, and all that sort of stuff."

"Where'd the money come from?"

"From the old man."

"I thought the old man was a miser."

"He was tighter than a knot in a shoelace except with his grandchildren; he was very liberal with them."

"How much was he worth?"

"No one knows. The inventory of the estate…"

"Yes," Mason said, "I checked over the inventory of the estate. Apparently the only things that were left were the frozen assets. The other stuff hasn't been discovered yet."

"Unless Ashton discovered it," Drake commented.

"Let's not talk about that," Mason said. "I'm interested right now in cats."

"The day before the fire there was a hell of a fight out at the house. I can't find out exactly what it was, but I think this nurse can tell us. I've talked with the servants. They froze up. I hadn't got around to the nurse yet… Here's her apartment."

"What's her name – Durfey?"

"No – DeVoe – Edith DeVoe. According to the reports I get, she isn't a bad looker. Frank Oafley was pretty much interested in her when she was taking care of the old man, and he's been seeing her off and on since."

"Intentions honorable?" Mason asked.

"Don't ask me; I'm just a detective – not a censor of morals. Let's go."

Mason paid off the cab. They rang a bell, and, when a buzzer had released the door catch, entered the outer door and walked down a long corridor to a ground floor apartment. A red-haired woman with quick, restless eyes, swift, nervous motions, and a well-modeled figure which was set off to advantage by her clothes, met them at the door of the apartment. Her face showed disappointment. "Oh," she said, "I was expecting… Who are you?"

Paul Drake bowed, and said, "I'm Paul Drake. This is Mr. Mason, Miss DeVoe."

"What is it you want?" she asked. Her speech was very rapid. The words seemed almost to run together.

"We wanted to talk with you," Mason said.

"About some employment," Paul Drake hastened to add. "You're a nurse, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, we wanted to talk with you about some work."

"What sort of a position?"

"I think we could talk it over better if we stepped inside," Drake ventured.

She hesitated a moment, looked up and down the corridor, then stepped back from the door and said, "Very well, you may come in, but only for a few minutes."

The apartment was clean and well cared for as though she had just finished a careful housecleaning. Her hair was perfectly groomed. Her nails were well kept. She wore her clothes with the manner of one who is wearing her best.

Drake sat down, relaxing comfortably, as though he intended to stay for hours.

Mason sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. He looked at the detective and frowned.

"Now this employment may not be exactly the kind of a job you had in mind," Drake said, "but there's no harm talking it over. Would you mind telling me what your rates are by the day?"

"Do you mean for two or three days, or…"

"No, just one day."

"Ten dollars," she said crisply.

Drake took a billfold from his pocket. He extracted ten dollars but didn't at once pass it over to the nurse.

"I have one day's employment," he said. "It won't take over an hour, but I'd be willing to pay for a full day."

She wet her lips with the tip of a nervous tongue, glanced swiftly from Mason to Drake. Her voice showed suspicion. "Just what is the nature of this employment?" she asked.

"We wanted you to recall a few facts," Drake said, folding the ten dollar bill about his fingers. "It would take perhaps ten or fifteen minutes for you to give us an outline, and then you could sit down and write out the facts you'd told us."