The Case of the Careless Kitten

Chapter 1

The kitten’s eyes, weaving back and forth, followed the ball of crumpled page. that Helen Kendal was waving high above the arm of the chair.

The kitten was named Amber Eyes because of those yellow eyes Helen liked to watch them. Their black pupils were always changing, narrowing to ominous slits, widening to opaque pools of onyx. Those black and amber eyes had an almost hypnotic effect on Helen. After she had watched them a little while her thoughts seemed to slip. She would forget the near things, like today, and this room, and the kitten.

She could even forget about Jerry Templar and Aunt Matilda’s eccentric domineerings, and find herself suddenly thinking about things that were far away or in another age.

It was one of the long-ago things this time. Years and years ago. When Helen Kendal was ten, and there was another kitten, a gray-and-white one, up on the roof. So high up that it was afraid to come down. And a tall man with kind gray eyes had fetched a long ladder and was standing up at the wobbly tip of it, patiently coaxing the kitten toward his outstretched hand.

Uncle Franklin. Helen was thinking about him now as she had thought about him then. Not as she had learned to think about him afterward, from other people. Not as Aunt Matilda’s runaway husband, not as Franklin Shore, the Missing Banker, in the big headlines, not as the man who had inexplicably thrown away success and wealth and power and family and lifelong friends, to lose himself, moneyless, among strangers. Helen was thinking of him, now, only as the Uncle Franklin who had risked his life to rescue a scared kitten for a sorrowful little girl, as the only father whom that little girl had ever known, a gentle, understanding, friendly father, remembered, after all these years, with a love that knew and would keep on knowing, against all seeming proofs to the contrary, that it had been returned.

That knowledge, suddenly rediscovered, made Helen Kendal absolutely sure that Franklin Shore was dead. He must be. He must have died long ago, soon after he had run away. He’d loved her. He must have loved her, or he wouldn’t have risked sending her that picture post card from Florida soon after he disappeared, just when Aunt Matilda was trying so hard to find him and he must have been trying even harder to keep her from doing it. He couldn’t have lived very long after that or there’d have been another message for Helen. He’d have known how she’d be hoping for one. He wouldn’t have disappointed her. He was dead. He’d been dead for almost ten years.

He was dead, and Helen had a right to the twenty thousand dollars he had left her in his will. And that much money now, with Jerry Templar home on a week’s leave—

Helen’s thoughts slipped again. The Army had made a difference in Jerry. His blue eyes were steadier, his mouth grimmer. But the change in him only made Helen surer that she loved him, and surer than ever, for all his tight-lipped silence on the subject, that he’d kept on loving her. He wasn’t going to marry her, though. Not when it might mean that Aunt Matilda would turn her out of the house, to live on his Army pay. But if she had money, money of her own, money enough to let Jerry feel perfectly sure that no matter what happened to him, she’d never be homeless or hungry—

There was no use in thinking about it. Aunt Matilda wasn’t going to change her mind. It wasn’t that kind of a mind. Once it was made up, even Aunt Matilda herself couldn’t change it. And it was made up permanently to believe that Franklin Shore was alive, and just as permanently and immovably made up not to take the steps at law that would declare him legally dead and allow his will to be probated. Aunt Matilda didn’t need her share of the estate. As Franklin Shore’s wife, she controlled the property he had left behind him almost as completely as she could hope to control it as his widow and executrix. She controlled Helen, penniless and dependent, far more completely than she would control her after that twenty-thousand-dollar legacy was paid.

And Aunt Matilda enjoyed controlling people. She’d never willingly give up her purse-string power over Helen, especially not while Jerry Templar was here. Aunt Matilda had never liked him nor approved of Helen’s liking him, and the change the Army had made in him only seemed to make her dislike more explicit than ever. There wasn’t a chance on earth of her letting go of that legacy before Jerry’s leave was up. Unless Uncle Gerald—

Helen’s thoughts shifted again. Uncle Gerald, three days ago, telling her he was going to force Aunt Matilda’s hand. His brother’s will left him the same sum it bequeathed to Helen. Sixty-two and looking older, still practicing law for his living, he could use his money and felt he’d waited for it long enough.

“I can make Matilda act, and I’m going to do it,” he’d said. “We all know Franklin’s dead. He’s been legally dead for three years. I want my legacy and I want you to have yours.”

His eyes had softened and warmed as they studied her, Helen remembered, and his voice had been warmer, too, and gentler.

“You’re more like your mother every time I see you, Helen. Even when you were little you had her eyes, with the violets in them, and her hair, with the red just showing under the gold. And you’ve grown up to have her tall, slim, lovely body and her long, lovely hands, and even her quiet, lovely voice. I liked your father, but I never quite forgave him for taking her away from us.”

He had stopped. And there had been something different about his voice when he went on. “You’re going to need your twenty thousand dollars before long, Helen.”

“I need it now,” Helen said.

“Jerry Templar?” Her face must have been answer enough, because he hadn’t waited for her to speak. He’d nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll try to get you that money.”

He’d sounded as if he meant to do more than just try. And it had been three days ago. Maybe—

Amber Eyes had stood it as long as he could. He flashed up in a leap toward that maddening ball of paper, clutching with teeth and claws; then, starting to fall, struck instinctively for Helen’s wrist, clinging with needle-sharp claws trying to save himself from a fall to the carpeted floor.

Violently startled, Helen screamed.

Aunt Matilda called sharply from her room, “What’s the matter, Helen?”

“Nothing,” Helen said, laughing nervously as she grasped the kitten’s paw with her free hand, disengaging the clutching claws. “Amber Eyes scratched me, that’s all.”

“What’s the matter with Amber Eyes?”

“Nothing. We were just playing.”

“Stop playing with that kitten. You’re spoiling it.”

“Yes, Aunt Matilda,” Helen said dutifully, stroking the kitten and regarding the scratches on the back of her hand.

“I suppose,” she said to Amber Eyes, “you don’t know that your little claws are sharp. Now I’ve got to go put something on my hand.”

She was in the bathroom at the medicine cabinet when she heard the sound of Matilda’s cane; then the door of the bedroom opened, and Matilda stood frowning at her.

Matilda Shore, at sixty-four, had a full ten years of deferred vengeance behind her. Sciatica had not improved her disposition. She was a big-boned woman. In her youth, she must have had a certain Amazon type of beauty, but now she had lost all regard for personal appearance. Flesh had wrapped itself around her frame. Her shoulders were stooped. She habitually carried her head pushed forward and down. There were deep, sagging pouches under her eyes. Her mouth had taken on a sharp, downward curve. But none of the encroachments of time had been able to eradicate from her features the grim determination of a woman of indomitable will who lived with a single, definite purpose in mind.

“Let me see where the cat scratched you,” she demanded.

“It wasn’t the kitten’s fault, Aunt Matilda. I was playing with it, and holding out a piece of paper for it to jump at. I didn’t realize that I was holding it so far from the floor. Amber Eyes just tried to hang on, that’s all.”

Aunt Matilda glared at the scratched hand.

“I heard somebody talking a while ago. Who was it?”

“Jerry.” Helen tried her best not to say it defensively, but Aunt Matilda’s eyes were too much for her. “He only stayed a few minutes.”

“So I noticed.” It was clear that Aunt Matilda took a grim pleasure in the brevity of the visit. “You might as well make up your mind to it, Helen. It’s quite plain that he’s made up his. He has sense enough to see he can’t possibly marry you. And it’s a good thing for you that he can’t. You’re just fool enough to do it if he asked you to.”

“Just exactly fool enough,” Helen said.

“Meaning you aren’t a fool at all.” Aunt Matilda sniffed. “That’s what fools always think. It’s lucky for you that what you think doesn’t matter. He’s the worst possible type for a girl like you. He’s a man’s man. He’ll never be any good to a woman. That padlocked, shut-mouthed repression of his would drive you mad. You’ve got enough of it for two, yourself. I’ve been married twice and I know what I’m talking about. The only sort of man you’ll ever be happy with is somebody like George Alber, who—”

“Who leaves me absolutely cold,” Helen said.

“He wouldn’t if you saw more of him. If you’d get rid of this ridiculous idea that you’re in love with Jerry Templar and mustn’t be even civil to any other man. When even you can’t possibly be fool enough not to see that he can’t marry you on his private’s pay. When—”

“Jerry won’t be a private much longer,” Helen said. “They’re sending him to an officers’ training camp.”

“What of it? When he gets his commission — if he gets it — he’ll only be shipped off to the ends of the earth and—”

“He’ll be at the camp first.” Helen spoke quickly, before Aunt Matilda could say anything about what would happen afterward. Helen wasn’t letting herself think about that. “He’ll be there for months, and I could be there, too, or somewhere near by. Near enough for us to see each other sometimes.”

“I see.” Aunt Matilda’s voice was heavily ironic. “You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?

She stopped. “I see. Gerald’s been talking to you. He’s made you think he can make me give you the money Franklin left you. Well, you can put that idea out of your head. That money isn’t due you till Franklin’s dead. And he’s no more dead than I am. He’s alive. One of these days he’ll come crawling back, begging me to forgive him.”

She laughed, as if the words were comic. Helen suddenly understood, for the first time, why Aunt Matilda clung so fiercely to her belief that Franklin Shore was alive. She hated him too bitterly to bear the thought of his having gone beyond hatred’s power to follow. She had one dream left and she lived on it, and in it — the dream of his coming back. Coming back for the only reasons that could drive him back. Old. Alone. Beaten. In want. For her to take payment from him in kind and in full for what he had done to her.

Komo, the houseboy, appearing silently from nowhere, stood in the doorway. “Excuse pleassse,” he said.

Matilda said, “What is it now, Komo? The door’s open. Come in. And don’t be so damned pussyfooting when you walk.”

The houseboy’s dark glittering eyes surveyed Matilda Shore. “Party on telephone, pleassse,” he said. “Statement made that call is most important.”

“All right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Receiver is left down on extension in your bedroom,” Komo announced, and turned to walk back down the corridor with quick, light steps.

Helen said, “Aunt Matilda, why don’t you get rid of that houseboy? I don’t trust him.”

“Perhaps you don’t. I do.”

“He’s Japanese.”

“Nonsense. He’s Korean. He hates the Japanese.”

“He may say he’s Korean, but that’s just...”

“He’s been saying so for twelve years.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like a Korean to me. He looks like a Japanese, he acts like a Japanese, and...”

“Ever know any Koreans?” Aunt Matilda interrupted.

“Well, no — not exactly, but...”

“Komo is a Korean,” Matilda said positively, and turning, walked back to her bedroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

Helen returned to the living room. Her hand smarted from the scratches and the sting of the disinfectant. The kitten was nowhere in evidence. Helen sat down and tried to read, but her mind refused to concentrate on the printed page.

After some fifteen minutes, she tossed the magazine to one side, sat back and closed her eyes. The kitten, appearing from nowhere, seemed properly apologetic as it rubbed, purring, against her ankles. At length it jumped up on the arm of her chair. Its rough tongue scraped against the skin of her arm.

Helen heard the telephone ringing, heard Komo’s light steps as he went to answer it, then he was standing beside her chair as though he had silently materialized from thin air.

“Excussse, please. This time, call for Missy.”

Helen walked out to the reception hallway where the telephone was located. She picked up the receiver, wondering if this might not be Jerry calling to... “Hello,” she said, her voice eager.

“Hello,” she said, her voice eager.

The voice which came over the telephone wire was quavering with some emotion. “Is this Helen Kendal?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You don’t know who this is?”

“No,” Helen almost snapped. People who rang up and asked her to guess who was calling irritated her.

The voice seemed a little stronger now, more steady. “Be very careful what you say that might be overheard. You remember your Uncle Franklin?”

Helen’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Yes, yes, but...”

“This is your Uncle Franklin.”

“I don’t believe it. He’s...”

“No, Helen, I’m not dead.” The voice broke with emotion. “I’m very much alive.”

“But...”

“I don’t blame you for not believing it. You’d know me if you saw me again, wouldn’t you?”

“Why, I... why, yes — of course.”

The man’s voice went on more firmly now. “You remember the time the dog chased the kitten up on the roof of the house? You begged me to get him down, and I took a ladder and climbed up. Remember the New Year’s party when you wanted to try the punch and your Aunt Matilda told you you couldn’t, and you sneaked some in the pantry, anyway? Remember how I followed you up to your room and talked to you until you developed a laughing jag — and how I never told anyone — not even your Aunt Matilda — about it?”

Helen felt a peculiar tingling sensation around the hair at the back of her neck.

“Yes,” she said in a voice which was hardly more than a whisper.

“Now do you believe me, Helen?”

“Uncle Frank...”

“Careful! Don’t mention my name. Is your aunt at home?”

“Yes.”

“She mustn’t know that I’ve called. No one must know. Do you understand?”

“Why, I... why... No, I don’t understand.”

“There is only one way to straighten things out. You’ll have to help me.”

“I?”

“Yes.”

“What can I do?”

“You can do something that no one else can do. Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Perry Mason?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“I want you to see him this afternoon, tell him the entire story so he’ll know the facts. Tonight at nine o’clock I want you to bring him to the Castle Gate Hotel. You know where that is?”

“No.”

“You can look it up. It’s a cheap hotel. Don’t be frightened. Bring Mason to that hotel, ask for Henry Leech. He’ll take you to me. Don’t let anyone else know about this conversation or what’s happening. Be sure you aren’t followed. Tell Mason everything, but swear him to secrecy. I’ll...”

She heard a quick, gasping intake of breath. Abruptly, the receiver clicked at the other end of the line, and there was only that peculiar singing of an open telephone line. She jiggled the receiver hook several times.

“Operator,” she called. “Operator!”

Through the partially opened door, Helen heard the unmistakable sounds of her aunt’s approach, the slow, labored steps, the steady thump... thump... thump of the cane, the dragging shuffle of the right foot.

Hastily, she hung up the receiver.

“Who is it?” Aunt Matilda asked, entering the hall as Helen turned away from the telephone.

“I think it’s a date,” Helen said, trying to sound casual.

Aunt Matilda lowered her eyes to Helen’s right hand. “How did that cat happen to scratch you?” she asked. “You’re lying to protect it. I’m not going to keep it if it’s becoming vicious.”

“Don’t be silly,” Helen said. “I tell you, I was teasing it with a piece of paper.”

“Well, it had no business scratching you. Was that your soldier boy on the telephone?”

Helen laughed evasively.

“What are you so excited about? You’re all flushed.” She shrugged her heavy shoulders contemptuously. “It would be just like that fool, Jerry Templar, to propose to a girl over the telephone. It wouldn’t surprise me at that... Helen, what in heaven’s name is the matter with that kitten?”

Helen sighed wearily. “I told you it was my fault. I...”

“No, no! Look at him!”

Helen moved over, impelled by her aunt’s fixed stare.

“He’s just playing,” she said. “Kittens play that way.”

“It doesn’t look like he’s playing to me.”

“Kittens do that when they’re stretching. They have to flex their little muscles. They...”

Helen felt the words fading from her tongue as she lost assurance. The kitten was acting most peculiarly, its motions very different from the stretches by which kittens coax their immature muscles into growth. The little spine arched backwards. The paws were stretched out to the fullest extent. Little spasms sent tremors through the body. But what arrested Helen’s attention and filled her with apprehension was the expression in the amber eyes, the manner in which the kitten’s jaws were clamped together, bits of froth oozing from beneath curled, pale lips.

“Oh, dear, something’s wrong! Amber Eyes is sick!” she exclaimed.

Matilda Shore said, “Don’t go near it. The cat’s gone mad. Cats do that just the same as dogs. You’d better go see a doctor at once about that hand.”

“Nonsense!” Helen said. “The kitten’s sick... Poor little Amber Eyes. What’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself some way?”

Helen reached down to the rigid little body. As soon as her fingers touched the fur, the cat went into a very definite convulsion.

“I’m going to take that cat to a veterinary right away,” Helen said.

“You watch out. You’ll get hurt,” Aunt Matilda warned.

“I’ll take care of that,” Helen promised, dashing to the closet and struggling into her coat.

“You get something to wrap that cat in,” Aunt Matilda said, “so it can’t scratch you.”

“Komo... Oh, Komo”

The swarthy little man materialized almost at once in the doorway.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Helen said, “Get an old blanket or a quilt out of the closet. Something to wrap the cat in.”

Komo regarded the kitten with a peculiar expression in his lacquered eyes.

“Kitten sick?” he asked.

“Don’t stand there asking foolish questions,” Matilda said impatiently. “Of course the kitten’s sick. Do what Miss Helen told you. Get that blanket.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Helen hastily adjusted her hat in front of the mirror, then stooped to bend over the kitten.

“Keep away from him,” Matilda warned. “I don’t like the way he’s acting.”

“What is it, Amber Eyes?” Helen asked, her voice soothing.

The cat’s eyes were staring fixedly, but at the sound of Helen’s voice, he made a slight motion as though to turn his head. That little motion brought on another of those swift spasms, this time more violent.

Just as Komo brought the blanket, Helen heard steps on the outer porch. The door opened. Her uncle, Gerald Shore, crossed the reception hallway to the living room, taking off his hat and light coat as he moved.

“Hello, everybody,” he said cheerfully. “What seems to be the trouble?”

There was reassurance in Gerald Shore’s deeply resonant voice. It never seemed necessary for him to raise that voice, yet he could be plainly heard, no matter how large the room.

“It’s Amber Eyes,” Helen said. “He’s sick.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“We don’t know. He’s having spasms. I’m taking him to a veterinary,” Helen said. “I’m... Here, Komo, help me get the blanket around the cat. Watch out he doesn’t bite now.”

They wrapped the blanket around the kitten. Helen clasped the tense little body to her and could feel another spasm tighten the muscles as she started for the door.

“Come on,” Gerald Shore said. “I’ll drive the car. You can hold the cat.”

“The cat’s already scratched Helen,” Matilda said.

“Cats can go mad just the same as dogs do,” Matilda insisted.

Komo, smiling and nodding, said, “Fits. Excussse, please. All cats have fits. This very typical cat fit.”

Helen turned to her Uncle Gerald. “Come on. Please let’s get started.”

Matilda Shore said to the houseboy, “Komo, you’ve let me run out of stout again. Now you go all the way uptown to the market and get me six bottles. Don’t disturb me when you come back. I’ll lie down until dinner. Helen, don’t take on so over that kitten. Find a better outlet for your affections. Now get started, all of you.”

She entered her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

“Come on, Helen,” Uncle Gerald said sympathetically.

Suddenly Helen remembered the telephone call. Curiously, she had forgotten it completely in the excitement over Amber Eyes. In a way it seemed unreal, like something that had never happened.

Uncle Franklin!

As soon as she took care of Amber Eves, she would try to reach this Perry Mason.