The Case of the Careless Kitten

Chapter 8

It was a good half hour before Lieutenant Tragg completed his searching questions. By that time, the men had finished their examination of the body and the car Tragg said wearily, “All right, you four stay right here in this automobile. I want to go back to that other car and check upon some things.”

Gerald Shore said, as Tragg moved away, “Rather a searching interrogation, it seemed to me. There was an element of cross-examination in it. He would almost seem to suspect our motives.”

Mason was soberly thoughtful as he said, “Tragg senses that there’s something else behind this. Naturally, he wants to know what that something else is.”

Shore said, very casually, “You didn’t suggest to me that I should withhold any information which might seem trivial from Lieutenant Tragg.”

“That’s right,” Mason conceded.

“What specifically did you have in mind, counselor?”

“Oh, minor matters — things which enter into the general background, but don’t seem particularly pertinent to the case.”

Shore asked, “Did you have some particular thing in mind?”

“Lots of little things,” Mason replied. “The poisoned cat, for instance.”

Helen Kendal’s quick inhalation betrayed her surprise. “Surely, Mr. Mason, you don’t think the poisoning of the cat has anything to do with this?” and she motioned toward the parked sedan in which the body had been discovered.

Mason said suavely, “I was merely mentioning it to illustrate the trivia in which I felt Lieutenant Tragg wouldn’t be interested.”

“But I thought you said the thing you didn’t want us to tell him was...” She caught herself abruptly.

“Was what?” Gerald Shore asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

Shore looked at Mason suspiciously.

“I think the only thing I specifically mentioned,” Mason went on suavely, “was something that I suggested by way of illustration — just as I mentioned the poisoned cat just now.”

“What was the illustration that you used?” Shore asked.

Helen Kendal blurted out, “About you not going into the Castle Gate Hotel when we drove up there tonight.”

Gerald Shore’s body seemed wrapped in that rigid immobility which is the result of a conscious effort not to betray emotion. “What in the world would that have to do with it?”

Mason said, “That is just it, counselor. I mentioned it as one of those trivial details which might clutter up the case and unnecessarily prolong the examination of the witnesses. It’s in exactly the same category as the poisoning of the kitten.”

Shore cleared his throat, started to say something, then thought better of it, and lapsed into silence.

Lieutenant Tragg returned to the automobile, carrying a white cloth bundle.

“Open the car door,” he said to Mason. “Move over so I’ll have a place to put these things. Now, I don’t want anyone to touch any article here. I do want you to look at them carefully — but just look at them.”

He spread out the bundle, which proved to be a handkerchief upon which rested a gold watch, a penknife, a leather billfold and card case, a gold pencil, and a fountain pen encrusted with gold and on which initials had been engraved.

“I have some theories about these things,” Tragg said. “But I’m not going to tell you what they are. I want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these before, if any of them look at all familiar.”

They leaned forward to stare down at the articles, Shore peering over Mason’s shoulder from the front seat of the automobile, Della Street and Helen Kendal leaning over the back of the front seat.

“They mean nothing to me,” Mason announced promptly.

“How about you, Shore?” Lieutenant Tragg asked.

Shore craned his neck, frowning thoughtfully.

Mason said, “He can’t see very well from that position, Lieutenant. Suppose I get out, so he can look at them more closely.”

“All right,” Tragg said, “but don’t touch any of the articles.”

“Is it in order to ask where you got them?” Mason inquired.

“They were done up in this handkerchief in a little bundle such as you see here, and were on the seat of the automobile beside the body.”

“Indeed.” Mason said, squirming around so that he could get out of the front door without brushing against any of the articles. “It’s all right to touch the handkerchief, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. We won’t get any fingerprints from the cloth.”

Mason fingered the handkerchief. “Good grade of linen,” he said. “A man’s handkerchief. Touch of rather a peculiar color, isn’t there. Lieutenant?”

“There may be.”

As Mason slid out of the door, Gerald Shore, leaning over, exclaimed, “Why, that’s my brother’s watch!”

“You mean Franklin Shore?” Lieutenant Tragg’s manner was tense.

“Yes,” Gerald said, his voice showing his excitement. “That’s his watch all right, and I believe... yes, that’s his fountain pen!”

“The initials ‘FBS’ are engraved on it,” Tragg said dryly. “It made me think perhaps it might have been your brother’s.”

“It is. It’s his.”

“How about the pencil?”

“I’m not certain about the pencil.”

“Or the billfold and card case?”

“I can’t help you there.”

“The knife?”

Gerald shook his head. “But that’s his watch all right.”

“Is the watch running?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Perhaps we could manipulate the handkerchief so we could look at the face of the watch.”

“It’s a plain, open-faced watch,” Tragg said. “But you’ll notice there’s a scroll on the back of the watch, a scroll made by the initials ‘FBS.’”

“Highly interesting,” Mason said. “We might look at the face of the watch to see whether it has any added significance.”

The lawyer picked up the handkerchief, moved it around so that the watch slowly turned over.

Mason glanced significantly at Della Street, closed one eye in a quick wink. Della Street promptly lowered her hands to the catch of her purse.

Mason said, “That’s interesting. A Waltham watch. There’s something written on the dial. What is it?... ” He bent over the handkerchief. “Hold that spotlight there just a moment if you will, Lieutenant.”

“It’s a trade name and description of the watch,” Tragg said.

Mason bent over it. “That’s right. The printing is rather fine. The word ‘Waltham’ is printed in a straight line, and down below it in a curve is ‘Vanguard 23 Jewels’. Notice this, Lieutenant There’s a winding indicator on the top, right by the figure twelve. It indicates when the watch has been wound up and when it’s run down. There are twenty-four hours on the dial and you can tell roughly from the position of the hand how long since it’s been wound — about six hours in this case. Rather interesting — don’t you think?”

Tragg said, “Yes. It indicates that the watch was fully wound up about six hours ago — although I can’t see that the point has any particular significance.”

Mason consulted his own watch. “It’s about ten-thirty,” he remarked, thoughtfully. “That would indicate the watch was wound up around four-thirty or five o’clock this afternoon.”

“Exactly,” Tragg said. “But you’ll pardon me, Mason, if I don’t get very excited over it. Somehow or other, I’ve always noticed that when you start pointing out clues, it isn’t because you’re so anxious to have me become interested in the things you’re mentioning as to keep me from becoming interested about some other thing which you carefully avoid mentioning.”

Helen Kendal grimaced over her shoulder at Della Street and in a loud stage whisper observed, “I’m glad I’m not Lieutenant Tragg’s wife!”

Mason looked at Helen appreciatively. She was coming on fast. “The lieutenant isn’t married,” he told her.

“Mr. Mason, I’m not at all surprised. Are you?”

“No, Miss Kendal, I’m not,” Mason replied gravely. “They tell me that once... All right, Tragg, all right. Carry on.”

“That’s his fountain pen all right,” Gerald Shore said. “I remember now that he was very fond of it.”

“Carried it in his pocket all the time?” Lieutenant Tragg asked.

“Yes.”

Mason slid out of the car, peered over the back of the seat to make certain that Della Street had interpreted his signal correctly.

She had her shorthand notebook on her knees and was taking down the conversation.

Mason took a pencil and notebook from his pocket and scribbled a series of figures.

Lieutenant Tragg said, “Quite obviously, that is the body of Henry Leech. There’s a driving license in his pocket. It shows that it was issued to Henry Leech who resides at the Castle Gate Hotel. Evidently, he must have been a permanent tenant there. There are also some other cards in the wallet. It’s Leech all right.”

Gerald Shore said excitedly, “Look here, Lieutenant, this man was going to take us to my brother. I think you can appreciate the extreme importance of clearing up that old mystery.”

Lieutenant Tragg nodded.

“If my brother is alive and well, that is a matter of the greatest importance. It might even overshadow the murder of this man. I feel that you should lose no time in running down every available clue.”

Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “Now, why should that overshadow a murder?”

Shore said, “I’m speaking as a lawyer.”

Tragg retorted, “Exactly. And I’m speaking as a detective.”

Shore glanced at Mason; then turned hastily away. “My brother was a man of some importance. I take it this man Leech who lived at a questionable, second-rate hotel was not.”

“Keep talking,” Tragg said. “You haven’t said anything — yet.”

Shore went on rapidly, “Well, there might be a lot of difference in the legal situation. You see — well, I think you’ll understand what I mean.”

Tragg thought for a moment, then snapped a question. “A will?”

“I wasn’t referring to that.”

“You had it in mind?”

“Not particularly.”

“But it’s an angle?”

“Yes,” Shore admitted reluctantly. “It’s an angle.”

Mason intervened with a suggestion. “Look here Lieutenant, don’t you think under the circumstances, we’re entitled to see everything that was in the pockets of the dead man?”

Tragg shook his head emphatically. “I’m handling this investigation on my own, Mason. You’re entitled to see nothing.”

“At least,” Mason said, “we should be permitted to go with you to Henry Leech’s room in the Castle Gate Hotel and see what you uncover there in a search. After all, this is Gerald Shore’s brother we’re looking for, and Shore should have some rights in the matter.”

Gerald Shore said hastily, “As far as I’m concerned, I have unlimited confidence in Lieutenant Tragg’s ability. I don’t want to do anything which would interfere. However, if there’s anything I can do to help, I want to place myself and every bit of my time and ability at the lieutenant’s disposal.”

Tragg nodded absently. “I’ll call on you when I need anything.”

Mason said, “Tragg, I want to go to the Castle Gate Hotel with you. I want to see what’s in this man’s room.”

Lieutenant Tragg shook his head in a gesture of finality. “No, Mason, I’m going to run this investigation in my own way without any suggestions or interference.”

“But you’re going there now,” Mason insisted. “At least, we can follow along and...”

“Nope,” Tragg said. “You’re all done. Your car’s parked down by Hollywood Boulevard, Mason. Go on down and get in it and go about your business. I’ll let you know in case I want anything. I’ll leave a man here with this body. I want a fingerprint man to go over every inch of the car. Okay, Floyd, let’s get started. And remember, Mason, I don’t want you to try following me. You stay away from the Castle Gate Hotel until I’ve completed my investigation. Good night.”

Lieutenant Tragg gathered up the handkerchief and once more tied the corners together, making a compact bundle of it.

Mason slid back into the front seat.

“Well, counselor,” he remarked to Shore, “I guess Tragg doesn’t want any of our assistance. You might drive me back to where I’ve left my car parked. And,” he added in a lower voice, “get started before the lieutenant changes his mind.”

“Why, what do you mean?” Shore asked, stepping on the starter.

Mason said, in a low voice, “If I hadn’t apparently been so eager to have him let us accompany him to the Castle Gate Hotel, he might have insisted on it.”

Shore turned to Mason defiantly. “Well,” he asked, “what’s wrong with that?”

“Something else has happened that I thought we might want to investigate before the police stepped in. Matilda Shore is in the Exeter Hospital. She’s been poisoned.”

“Good God!” Shore exclaimed, swinging the car into a quick turn. “Helen, did you hear that?”

“I heard it,” Helen said calmly.

“Easy, easy,” Mason warned Shore. “Don’t make it seem that you’re too anxious to get away. Drive along rather slowly until after the police car passes you. And that won’t be long. That fellow Floyd drives like the devil.”

They had gone about three hundred yards when they saw the red spotlights on the police car blossom into ruddy brilliance, heard the sound of gears meshing, and then the big car came roaring up behind them.

“Pull over,” Mason said, “and let’s hope he doesn’t think things over and change his mind.”

The police car didn’t even hesitate, but went screaming on by, swaying into the first down turn of the long, winding grade.

Mason settled back in the seat. “All right,” he said to Gerald Shore, “put her in second gear and turn her loose.”