The Case of the Caretaker's Cat

Chapter 15

Perry Mason was chuckling as Della Street drove the automobile toward his office. "Turn to the left at Fifth Street, Della," he said, "and go straight to the Union Depot."

"The Union Depot?" she asked.

He nodded. "The office is going to be too hot—you know, too many newspaper men, cops, detectives, district attorneys, and what have you. I want to use the telephone, and I'll go down to the depot while you're packing up."

She deftly avoided a jaywalking pedestrian, and gave Mason a sidelong glance. "What do you mean, while I'm packing up?"

"A couple of suitcases," he said, "a light airplane trunk if you have one."

"I have one."

"All of your party clothes. You're going to stay at an exclusive hotel, and I want you to put on a good show—act the part, you know."

"What's going to be my part?"

"A bride."

"The man in the case?" she inquired, as she slid the car to a stop when a traffic signal turned against her.

"He will only appear long enough to be very suddenly called back to town, interfering with his honeymoon most materially."

She was facing him now with calm, steady eyes, in which there was a mischievous light. "And who is the husband going to be?"

He bowed. "Unaccustomed as I am to honeymoons, I shall do my best to act the part of an awkward groom during the few minutes between the time we register and when I am called back to town upon most urgent business."

Her eyes dwelt upon his profile. Ahead of her a traffic light flashed from red to orange, through orange to green and was unheeded. Behind her a chorus of protesting horns sought to call her to her senses. Her voice was vibrant. "You always believe in acting a part perfectly," she said. "Would it be natural for a newlywed husband to interrupt his honeymoon?…"

The growing protest of blaring horns suddenly called her attention to the fact that the traffic on her right was streaming by, while the traffic on the left and directly behind her, being blocked by the car she drove, was expressing its sentiment with all of the impatience which a modern automobile horn is capable of registering.

"Oh, well," she said with whimsical philosophy, as she snapped her eyes back to the road and saw the green light of the traffic signal, "how are those poor fishes behind me going to know I'm a bride just starting on a honeymoon?"

She kicked the gear in, stepped on the throttle, and sent the convertible shooting across the intersection with such speed that she was half way down the block before some of the protesting drivers had fully awakened to the fact that the cause of their protests had departed, and only their own sluggish reactions were holding up the stream of traffic.

Mason lit a cigarette, offered it to her. She took it, and he lit another for himself. "I'm sorry," he said, "to wish this on you, Della, but you're the only one I know whom I can trust."

"On a honeymoon?" she asked dryly.

"On a honeymoon," he answered tonelessly.

She snapped the wheel savagely, making the tires scream as the car slid around to the left and headed toward the Union Depot.

"You don't necessarily need to collect any traffic tickets en route," he observed.

"Shut up," she told him. "I want to collect my thoughts. To hell with the traffic tickets."

She sped down the street, deftly avoiding the vehicles, slid to a stop in front of the Union Depot.

"I meet you here?" she asked.

"Yes," he told her, "with plenty of baggage."

"Okay, Chief."

He left the car, walked around the hood, took off his hat and stood for a moment by the curb. She sat very straight in the seat. Her skirts, well elevated to allow free action of her legs and feet in driving the car, showed her legs to advantage. Her chin was up, her eyes slightly defiant. She smiled into his face. "Anything else?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "you'll have to practice your best honeymoon manners, and quit calling me Chief."

"Okay," she said…"Darling," and, leaning forward, pressed her mouth close to his surprised lips. Then, before he could move, she had shot back the clutch, stepped on the throttle and whizzed away from the curb like a bullet, leaving Perry Mason standing on the curb blinking with surprise, lipstick showing on his lips.

Mason heard a chuckle from a newsboy. He grinned rather sheepishly, wiped the lipstick from his mouth, and strode toward the telephone booth.

He put in a call for Winifred Laxter, heard her voice on the telephone, "It's okay, Winifred," he said. "Your boyfriend came through like the trump that I knew he was."

"You mean… he's in touch with you?"

"He's in jail," Mason said.

She gave a gasp.

"And," Mason promised her grimly, "he won't stay there long. Don't try to get in touch with me. I won't be at my office. I'll call you as soon as there's anything new. Don't give out any statements to the press, in case any reporters should start looking for interviews. Pose for all the pictures they want, back of your waffle counter, or in front of the place. If you play it right, you should get a lot of advertisement for Winnie's Waffles."

"Advertisement!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "I want Douglas. I want to go to him. I want to see him."

"That's the one thing you can't do. If they'd let you in to see him he'd talk to you, and I don't want him to talk. They probably wouldn't let you in anyway. I don't think it's going to be long now until I have the case cleared up."

"You don't think Douglas is guilty, do you?"

Perry Mason laughed lightheartedly. "No boy that came through the way he did is guilty of anything," he said. "The kid's young, and he lost his head. You can't blame him for that. He was confronted with a frameup that would have stampeded an older man."

"Then it was a frameup?"

"Of course, it was a frameup."

"May I quote you as saying that—you know, in case someone…"

"You may not," he told her. "For the next fortyeight hours you may concentrate your attention upon making waffles. Goodby. I'm catching a train," and he hung up before she could protest.

Mason dropped another coin and called Drake's office. Paul Drake, himself, answered the telephone.

"Got a lot for you, Perry," he said. "Do you want it over the telephone?"

"Spill it."

"It's an earful."

"What is it?"

"There was a poker game going on—in the apartment house where Edith DeVoe was murdered. The poker game was on the same floor."

"So what?" Mason inquired.

"So one of the participants in the poker game, reading about the murder, considers it his civic duty to report to the police all about the poker game and about a mysterious gentleman who broke in on the game, saying he was the occupant of an adjoining apartment. That was just about the time the police showed up, and the man had an idea the chap might have been connected with the crime. The police showed him photographs of all the principals in the crime and then, after they checked up on his descriptions, showed him a photograph of you, and he identified it instantly."

"The moral of that story," Mason said, "is: Don't play cards with strangers. What are the cops doing? Are they taking it seriously?"

"I think they are. Sergeant Holcomb is all worked up about it. You sure as hell do get around, don't you, Perry?"

"I can't spend all my time in my office," Mason grinned. "This was after office hours, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. I thought you should know about it. But here's another funny development. The bird identified one of the other pictures—that of Sam Laxter. He said that he'd seen Sam in the corridor about eleven fifteen. They confronted him with Laxter and he made a positive identification."

"What does Sam say?"

"He isn't saying anything. Shuster is doing all the talking. Shuster says the man was drunk; that the illumination in the hallway wasn't good; that Sam wasn't anywhere near the place; that the man's a publicity seeker; and that Sam Laxter and Douglas Keene look very much alike and that Keene was the one the man saw; that the man wasn't wearing glasses, and that he's a liar."

"That's all he's said so far?" Mason asked, grinning into the transmitter.

"Yeah, but give the boy a little time and he'll think up something else."

"I'll say he will. Have the police put Sam under arrest?"

"They're questioning him in the district attorney's office."

"And Shuster isn't present?"

"Shuster naturally isn't present, and Sam isn't talking."

"Do they know just when Edith DeVoe was killed?" Mason asked.

"No. She was dead when the ambulance arrived. Her skull was fractured. Death itself took place shortly before the ambulance got there, but when the blow was struck is another question. She may have died instantly. She may have been unconscious for an hour or two and then died. They can't fix the time of the attack. The police know about the marriage now. They've got a statement from Milton, and Oafley has told them all he knows. The marriage ceremony took place right around ten o'clock. The boys from the poker game came in and helped celebrate. They were in there fifteen or twenty minutes. Then they left. Oafley says he left about ten minutes to eleven."

"Rather strange that Oafley should leave within an hour after the ceremony was performed," Mason said slowly.

"As far as Oafley's concerned, he's in the clear," Drake said. "The officers have checked his story. He left about ten minutes to eleven. He arrived at the house about five or ten minutes after eleven. That gives him a perfect alibi on the Ashton killing. Ashton was killed right around ten thirty. Four or five people can prove that Oafley was in Edith DeVoe's apartment as late as ten twenty anyway, and one person saw him leaving the apartment house a few minutes before eleven. The housekeeper saw him come in about ten minutes after eleven."

"Could Oafley have smashed Edith DeVoe's head before he left her apartment?"

"No, she was alive at eleven o'clock. She knocked on the door where the boys were playing poker and asked to borrow some matches."

"Everyone in the case seems to have been going to Edith DeVoe's apartment last night," Mason said thoughtfully. "She must have been holding a reception."

"It's only natural," Drake told him, "when you consider that she'd been telling what she knew about Sam Laxter. These things get around, you know.

"Frankly, Perry, you've got a swell break. Things look pretty black for Sam Laxter right now. The only alibi he has to tie to is that he was in Shuster's office while Ashton was being murdered. It's now come out that Shuster had been tipped off when Burger made arrangements to exhume Peter Laxter's body, so Shuster telephoned Sam and Sam came to his office."

"Find out anything about that Chevrolet?" Mason asked.

"I can't prove it's the same Chevrolet," Drake said, "but a couple of people noticed an old Chewy with a crumpled fender parked in front of the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived, about eleven o'clock. One witness remembered it because he said there was a new Buick parked right behind it and he noticed the contrast in the two cars."

Mason said slowly, "Could you see that the police were tipped off to ask Sam Laxter how it happened he left his house in the green Pontiac and came back in the caretaker's Chevrolet?"

"I could tip them off to ask, but it wouldn't do any good. Laxter is keeping quiet. He's making a lot of mysterious references to the old standby—the married woman with whom he spent an hour after leaving Shuster's office. He won't jeopardize her good name."

Mason laughed heartily. "My God," he said, "hasn't Shuster worn out that alibi yet? Every one of his clients has used it for the past ten years."

"It sometimes gets by with a jury," Drake pointed out. "But, anyway, it gives your man, Keene, a swell break if you play it right."

"I'm going to play it right," Mason promised him grimly. "How about the Clammert automobile, did you find out anything?"

"Some," Drake said. "I find that Watson Clammert purchased a Buick sedan and had a state license issued to him. The number is 3D4416. I haven't been able to get the engine number or the body number, but we'll get them. He took a full coverage policy with the International Automotive Indemnity Exchange."

"Did you get a description of him?" Mason asked.

"No. But I'm working on it."

"Quit working on it, then. Drop Watson Clammert like a hot potato. Call in your men. Tell them not to ask any more questions. You've done a swell job, Paul. And now you can go get some sleep."

"You mean you don't want anything more?"

"Not another thing. So far as you're concerned, the case is closed. Further inquiries are just going to make trouble."

Drake said slowly, "Well, you know your business, Perry… Here's a tip for you. I got it from headquarters. The police are planning to rush through a preliminary hearing for Douglas Keene and call Sam Laxter as a witness. Then they'll ask him where he was at the time the murder was committed. Laxter will be given his choice of naming the woman or going to jail for contempt."

"Under the circumstances, he'll probably go to jail for contempt and get a lot of newspaper sympathy," Mason said. "Anything else?"

"Ashton is mixed up in things pretty deep," Drake said. "The detectives are beginning to think he copped off most of Laxter's coin. Does that mean anything special to you?"

"Sure, it does. It's the whole case. The whole business hinges on Ashton," Mason replied.

As Paul Drake asked an excited question, the lawyer pretended not to hear and said, "Well, I'm taking a train, Paul. Goodby."

He hung up the receiver, looked at his wristwatch, crossed to a haberdashery store which made a specialty of supplying the needs of travelers, purchased several handbags, a few articles of clothing, and then returned to the depot. He went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram addressed to Watson Clammert, care of the Hotel Biltmore, Santa Barbara. The telegram read:

Mason unhesitatingly signed the partnership name of the leading law firm in the city, a law firm of financial and political prestige, which specialized only in the most remunerative of corporate and probate business.

He paid for the telegram and saw that it was dispatched.

He consulted his wristwatch, stretched, yawned, and then, with a chuckle, proceeded to the telephone booth. He looked up the number of Hamilton Burger's residential telephone, together with the address, then called the telephone company and said, "I want to send a telegram, please."

After a moment, a young woman's voice said, "To whom is your message going?"

"Thelma Pixley, 3824 East Washington Street."

"And what is the message?" the feminine voice asked.

"Greatly impressed by your personality appearance and ability," Mason dictated slowly. "In view of what has recently happened you will probably be out of a job. I would like very much to have you work for me. I am a bachelor and will pay you good wages. I will treat you with every consideration. Please come to my office at your earliest convenience bringing this telegram with you and we can discuss wages."

"By whom is the telegram to be signed?" asked the businesslike feminine voice.

" Hamilton Burger."

"It's to be charged to your telephone, Mr. Burger?"

"Yes."

"What's the number, please?"

"Exposition 96949."

"And the address?"

"3297 West Lakeside."

"Thank you, Mr. Burger," the voice said.

Mason hung up, left the telephone booth, and stood by the main entrance to the depot smoking cigarettes until Della Street swung his car in close to the curb, then Mason nodded to the redcap porter. The porter piled Mason's baggage into the rumble seat, having some difficulty to find room for it.

"Now then," Mason said, "I want to buy a new Buick sedan, but I want to stop at one of the outlying agencies. First we'd better stop by the bank and pick up some money."

Della Street was all crisp business efficiency. There was no reference, by word or look, to the manner in which she had played the part of a bride when she had first driven away from the station.

"Okay Chief," she said.

Mason smiled slightly, but said nothing.

She ran the car through the snarl of traffic, stopped at the bank. Mason, consulting his watch to see that he had time before the bank closed, said, "Park in front of the fire plug, Della; I'll only be gone long enough to cash a check."

He entered the bank, secured three thousand dollars in cash, thrust it into his pocket, returned to the car and said, "We want a Buick agency away from the business district. I have a list of them. Let's see, here's one in Franklin that should be just about what we want."

Mason sat back and smoked. Della Street drove the car with silent skill. "This the place?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Do I come in?"

"No. You stay out here with this car. I'll drive the other one away."

Mason entered the car agency. A suave salesman came toward him smiling. "Interested in the new models?" he asked.

"I wish to buy a new sedan. What's the price, fully equipped?"

The salesman took a notebook from his pocket, mentioned the amount. "Now if you'd like a demonstration," he said, "we can arrange to…"

He broke off in gasping surprise as Mason pulled a wallet from his pocket and started counting out bills.

"I'd prefer to purchase a demonstrator, if you have one in that model," Mason said.

The salesman gasped, then adjusted himself to the situation.

"Ah, yes, I'll fix up the papers at once. What's the name please?"

"Clammert, Clammert, Watson Clammert," Mason said. "I'm in a hurry. I want to get a certificate of ownership, or whatever it is I need."

Fifteen minutes later, Mason, impatient at the delay, drove a spotless demonstrator from the side door of the agency. He gave an almost imperceptible gesture to Della Street and she followed him around the corner. A block away, Mason stopped and transferred the baggage from the convertible coupe to the sedan. "Now," he told her, "we stop at the first storage garage we come to and store the convertible. You drive the Buick. I'll drive the coupe. I'll take the lead. When I turn in to a garage, you stop out in front."

"When does the honeymoon start?" she asked.

"Just as soon as I emerge from the garage," Mason told her, grinning.

"And you want to make a real honeymoon of it?"

He looked at her sharply.

"I mean," she said, with wideeyed innocence, "do you want it to look like a real honeymoon?"

"Of course."

She nodded and chuckled.

Mason drove down the street some halfdozen blocks, then turned into a storage garage. A few minutes later he came out sliding the storage check into his pocket.

"The next move in our honeymoon," he said, "is the Biltmore in Santa Barbara. You are now Mrs. Watson Clammert. I'll give you more detailed instructions on the way up. And, incidentally, this car is supposed to have plenty of speed under the hood. Have you ever been pinched for speeding?"

"Not this year."

"It might, then, be advisable to take a chance."

He settled back against the cushions.

"Yes, dear," Della Street said demurely and slammed her neatly shod foot against the accelerator with such violence that the resulting forward leap of the automobile all but jerked Mason's head off.