The Case of the Caretaker's Cat

Chapter 1

Perry Mason, criminal lawyer, frowned at Carl Jackson, one of his assistants. At the corner of the desk, knees crossed, pencil poised over an open notebook, Della Street, Perry Mason's secretary, regarded both men with level, contemplative eyes.

Mason held in his hand a typewritten memorandum.

"About a cat, eh?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Jackson said. "He insists upon seeing you personally. He's a crank. I wouldn't waste time on him, sir."

"Shriveled leg and a crutch, I believe you said," Mason observed musingly, consulting the memorandum.

"That's right. He's about sixtyfive. He said he was in an automobile accident about two years ago. His employer was driving the car. Ashton—that's the man who wants to see you about the cat—got a broken hip and some of the tendons in his right leg cut. Laxter, his employer, had his right leg broken just above the knee. Laxter wasn't a young man himself. I think he was sixtytwo at the time of his death, but his leg healed up okay. Ashton's leg didn't. He's been on crutches ever since.

"I suppose that was one of the reasons why Laxter was so careful to make provision for the caretaker in his will. He didn't leave Ashton a sum of money outright, but stipulated that the beneficiaries under his will should give Ashton a perpetual job as caretaker so long as he was able to work, and furnish a home for him when he was no longer able to work."

Perry Mason said, frowning, "That's an unusual will, Jackson."

The young lawyer nodded agreement. "I'll say it's an unusual will. This man, Laxter, was a lawyer. He left three grandchildren. One of them, a girl, was completely cut off by the will. The other two divided the property share and share alike."

"How long's he been dead?"

"About two weeks, I think."

"Laxter… Laxter… wasn't there something in the paper about him? Didn't I read something about a fire in connection with his death?"

"That's right, sir, Peter Laxter. He was said to be a miser. He certainly was eccentric. He had a mansion here in the city and wouldn't live in it. He left this man Ashton in charge as the caretaker. Laxter lived in a country house at Carmencita. The house caught fire at night, and Laxter was burned to death. The three grandchildren and several servants were in the house at the time. They all escaped. Ashton says the fire started in or near Laxter's bedroom."

"The caretaker there at the time?" Mason asked.

"No. He was in charge of the city house."

"The grandchildren living there now?"

"Two of them are—the two who inherited. Samuel C. Laxter, and Frank Oafley. The granddaughter, who was disinherited, Winifred Laxter, isn't there. No one knows where she is."

"And Ashton is waiting in the outer office?" Mason inquired, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes, sir. He won't see anyone except you."

"Specifically, what's his trouble?"

"Sam Laxter admits he's obligated, under the will, to furnish Ashton with a job as caretaker, but claims he isn't obligated to keep Ashton's cat in the house. Ashton has a big Persian cat. He's very much attached to it. Laxter's served notice that Ashton can either get rid of the cat, or it'll be poisoned. I could handle it, only Ashton insists on seeing you or no one. I wouldn't take up your time with it—only you insist upon knowing all about the clients who come to the office and won't let any of us handle their cases."

Mason nodded, and said, "Right. You can't ever tell when something seemingly trivial may develop into something big. I remember the time Fenwick was trying a murder case and a man came to the office and insisted on seeing him about a battery case. Fenwick tried to turn him over to a clerk and the man left the office in a rage. Two months after Fenwick's client had been hanged, Fenwick found out the man wanted to see him about having the prosecuting witness in the murder case arrested for assault and battery growing out of an automobile accident. If Fenwick had talked with that man he'd have found out the prosecuting witness couldn't have been where he said he was at the time the murder was committed."

Jackson had heard the story before. He nodded with courteous attention. In a tone which showed very plainly he thought the troubles of Mr. Ashton had occupied far too much of the time allotted for the morning conference, he inquired, "Shall I tell Mr. Ashton we can't handle it?"

"Has he any money?" Mason inquired.

"I don't think so. Under the will he was left a perpetual job as caretaker. That job pays him fifty dollars a month, and his board and room."

"And he's an old man?" Mason inquired.

"Reasonably so. An old crank, if you ask me."

"But he loves animals," Mason remarked.

"He's very much attached to his cat, if that's what you mean."

Mason nodded slowly, and said, "That's what I mean."

Della Street, more familiar with Mason's moods than the assistant attorney, entered the conversation with the easy familiarity of one who works in an office where there is but little formality.

"You just finished a murder case, Chief. Why not let the assistants handle things while you take a cruise to the Orient? It'll give you a rest."

Mason regarded her with twinkling eyes. "Who the devil would take care of Ashton's cat, then?"

"Mr. Jackson could."

"He won't see Jackson."

"Then let him find some other attorney. The city is overrun with attorneys. You can't afford to take your time to bother with a cat!"

"An old man," Mason said, almost musingly, "a crank… probably friendless. His benefactor is dead. The cat represents the only living thing to which he's attached. Most lawyers would laugh the case out of the office. If some lawyer took the case, he wouldn't know where to begin. God knows there's no precedent to guide him.

"No, Della, this is one of those cases that seems so trivial to the lawyer, but means so much to the client. A lawyer isn't like a shopkeeper who can sell his wares or not as he chooses. He holds his talents in trust for the unfortunate."

Della Street, knowing what was to come, nodded to Jackson and said, "You may ask Mr. Ashton to step in."

Jackson gave a halfhearted smile, gathered up his papers and left the room. As the door clicked shut, Della Street 's fingers closed about Perry Mason's left hand.

"You're only taking that case, Chief, because you know he can't afford to pay any other good lawyer to handle it."

Mason, grinning, replied, "Well, you must admit that a man with a shriveled leg, a crabby disposition, a Persian cat, and no money, is entitled to a break once in a while."

The sounds of a crutch and a foot alternated in the long corridor. Jackson held open the door after the manner of one who, having counseled against an unwise act, is very definitely keeping clear of the consequences.

The man who entered the room was wizened with age. He had thin lips, bushy white eyebrows, a bald head, and unsmiling features. "This is the third time I've been in to see you," he said irritably.

Mason indicated a chair. "Sit down, Mr. Ashton. I'm sorry. I've been trying a murder case. What's the name of your cat?"

"Clinker," Ashton said, sitting down in the big, overstuffed, black leather chair, standing his crutch straight in front of him, holding it with both hands.

"Why Clinker?" Mason asked.

The man's lips and eyes remained unsmiling. "A bit of humor."

"Humor?" Mason inquired.

"Yes, I used to have a job firing a boiler. Clinkers get in the way and clutter things up. When I first got the cat, I called him Clinker because he was always in the way—always cluttering things up."

"Attached to him?" Mason inquired, in a voice which was elaborately casual.

"The only friend I've got left in the world," Ashton said rather gruffly.

Mason raised his eyebrows.

"I'm a caretaker. A caretaker doesn't really work. He just keeps an eye on things. The big house has been closed up for years. The master lived in a place at Carmencita. All I did was just putter around the big place, keep up the yard and sweep off the front steps. Three or four times a year the master had the place thoroughly cleaned; the rest of the time the rooms were all shut, locked, and the shutters drawn."

"No one lived there?"

"No one."

"Why didn't he rent the place?" Mason asked.

"It wasn't his way."

"And he left a will providing for you?"

"That he did. The will keeps me in my job while I'm able to work and takes care of me whenever I can't work."

"The heirs are two grandchildren?"

"Three. Only two are mentioned in the will."

"Tell me about your troubles," Mason invited.

"The master was burned to death when the country home caught fire. I didn't know about it until they telephoned me the next morning. After the death, Sam Laxter took charge. He's a nice boy to look at, and he'll fool you if you let him, but he doesn't like animals and I don't like people who can't get along with animals."

"Who was in the house at the time it burned?" Mason asked.

"Winifred—that's Winifred Laxter. She's a granddaughter. Then there was Sam Laxter and Frank Oafley—they're grandsons. Mrs. Pixley was there—she's the housekeeper. And there was a nurse—Edith DeVoe."

"Anyone else?" Mason asked.

"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur. He's a smooth one. He knows which side of the bread his butter's on, all right. You should see the way he toadies to Sam Laxter."

Ashton pounded on the floor with the tip of his crutch to emphasize his disgust.

"Who else?" Mason asked.

Ashton checked off the people he had named on his fingers, then said, "Nora Abbington."

"What's she like?" Mason asked, very evidently enjoying seeing these various characters through Ashton's cynical eyes.

"A big cow," Ashton said. "A docile, trusting, goodnatured, bigeyed clod. But she wasn't there when the house burned. She came in and worked by the day."

"After the house burned there was no more work for her?" Mason inquired.

"That's right. She didn't come any more after that."

"Then I presume we can eliminate her from the picture. She really doesn't figure in the case."

"Wouldn't," Ashton said significantly, "if it wasn't that she was in love with Jim Brandon. She thinks Jim's going to marry her when he gets money. Bah! I tried to tell her a thing or two about Jim Brandon, but she wouldn't listen to me."

"How does it happen you know these people so well if you were in the city house and they were out in the country?"

"Oh, I used to drive out once in a while."

"You drive a car?"

"Yes."

"Your car?"

"No, it's one the master kept at the house for me so I could drive out to see him when he wanted to give instructions. He hated to come to the city."

"What sort of a car?" Mason inquired.

"A Chevvy."

"Your bad leg doesn't keep you from driving?"

"No, not that car. It has a special emergency brake on it. When I pull up on that brake lever the car stops."

Mason flashed an amused glance at Della Street, turned back to the wizened, baldheaded man. "Why wasn't Winifred provided for in the will?" he asked.

"No one knows."

"You were in charge of the house here in the city?"

"That's right."

"What's the address?"

"3824 East Washington."

"You're still there?"

"Yes—and so're Laxter, Oafley, and the servants."

"In other words, when the house burned at Carmencita, they came to live in the city house. Is that right?"

"Yes. They'd have moved in anyway as soon as the master died. They're not the sort who like country life. They want city stuff and lots of it."

"And they object to the cat?"

"Sam Laxter does. He's the executor."

"Specifically, what form has his objection taken?"

"He's told me to get rid of the cat or he'll poison it."

"Has he given any reason?"

"He doesn't like cats. He doesn't like Clinker especially. I sleep in the basement. I keep the basement window open. Clinker jumps in and jumps out—you know how a cat is—you can't keep him shut up all the time. With my leg the way it is, I don't walk around much. Clinker has to get out some. When it's raining, he gets his feet dirty. Then he jumps in through the window, and gets my bed muddy."

"The window is over your bed?" Mason inquired.

"That's right, and the cat sleeps on my bed. It has for years. It hasn't bothered anyone. Sam Laxter says it runs up the laundry bill, getting the bedspreads all mussed up… Laundry bills! He throws away enough in one night at a night club to pay my laundry bills for ten years!"

"Rather a free spender?" Mason asked goodnaturedly.

"He was—he isn't so much now."

"No?" Mason inquired.

"No, he can't get the money."

"What money?"

"The money the master left."

"I thought you said he left it share and share alike to the two grandchildren."

"He did—what they've been able to find."

"They haven't been able to find it all?" Mason asked, interested.

"A bit before the fire," Ashton said, as though the recital gave him great satisfaction, "the master made a complete cleanup. He cashed in something over a million dollars. No one knows what he did with that money. Sam Laxter says he buried it somewhere, but I know the master better than that. I think he put it in a safety deposit box under an assumed name. He didn't trust the banks. He said that when times were good, the banks loaned his money and made a profit on it, and when times were bad, they told him they were sorry they couldn't get it back. He lost some money in a bank a couple of years ago. Once was enough for the master."

"A million dollars in cash?" Mason asked.

"Of course it was in cash," Ashton snapped. "What else would he take it in?"

Perry Mason glanced at Della Street.

"How about Winifred—you say she's disappeared?"

"Yes, she pulled out. I don't blame her. The others treated her shameful."

"How old are the grandchildren?"

"Sam's twentyeight; Frank Oafley's twentysix; Winifred's twentytwo—and a beauty! She's worth all the rest put together. Six months ago the master made a will leaving her everything and cutting off the other two grandchildren with ten dollars each. Then two days before he died, he made this new will."

Mason frowned, and said, "That's hard on Winifred."

Ashton grunted, said nothing.

"Just how much money did you plan to spend in enforcing your rights to keep Clinker?" Mason asked speculatively.

Ashton whipped a billfold from his pocket, pulled out a sheaf of bills.

"I'm not a piker," he said. "Good lawyers come high. I don't want anything but the best. How much is it goin' to cost?"

Mason stared at the thick bundle of bills.

"Where did you get all that money?" he asked curiously.

"Saved it. I don't have any expenses, and I've been saving my salary for twenty years. I've put it in giltedged stuff—stuff that the master recommended—and when the master cashed in, I cashed in."

"On Mr. Laxter's advice?" Mason asked, eyeing his client curiously.

"If you want to put it that way."

"And you're willing to spend your money to keep your cat?"

"I'm willing to spend a reasonable amount of it; I'm not going to throw it away. But I know it costs money to get a good lawyer, and I know I'm not going to get a poor lawyer."

"Suppose," Mason said, "I should tell you it was going to cost you five hundred dollars by way of retainer?"

"That's too much," Ashton said irritably.

"Suppose I should say two hundred and fifty dollars?"

"That's reasonable. I'll pay it."

Ashton started counting bills.

"Wait a minute," Mason said, laughing. "Perhaps it won't be necessary to spend any large amount of money. I was just trying to determine exactly how attached you were to the cat."

"I'm plenty attached to him. I'd spend any reasonable amount to put Sam Laxter in his place, but I'm not going to be stuck."

"What are Laxter's initials?" Mason asked.

"Samuel C."

"Perhaps," Mason told him, "a letter will be all that's necessary. If that's the case, it isn't going to cost you much."

He turned to Della Street.

"Della," he said, "take a letter to Samuel C. Laxter, 3824 East Washington Street. Dear Sir: Mr. Ashton has consulted me—no, wait a minute, Della, better put his initials in there—I've got them here on the memo—Charles Ashton, that's it—has consulted me with reference to his rights under the will of the late Peter Laxter. Under the provisions of that will, you were obligated to furnish Mr. Ashton with a position as caretaker during the period of his ability to work in that capacity.

"It is only natural that Mr. Ashton should wish to keep his cat with him. A caretaker is entitled to pets. This is particularly true in the present case, because the pet was maintained during the testator's lifetime.

"In the event that you should injure Mr. Ashton's pet, it will be necessary for me to contend that you have breached a condition of the will and have, therefore, forfeited your inheritance."

Perry Mason grinned at Della Street. "That should throw a scare into him," he remarked. "If he thinks he's fighting over his entire inheritance instead of just a cat, he'll decide not to take any chances."

He turned to Ashton, nodded reassuringly. "Leave ten dollars with the bookkeeper as a retainer. She'll give you a receipt. If anything develops I'll write to you. If you find out anything, ring up this office and ask for Miss Street—she's my secretary. You can leave any message with her. That's all for the present."

Ashton's gnarled hands tightened about the crutch. He pulled himself to his feet, slipped the crutch under his arm. Without a word of thanks or farewell, he hobbledybanged from the office.

Della Street looked at Perry Mason with surprised eyes.

"Is it possible," she asked, "that this grandson might forfeit his inheritance if he threw out the cat?"

"Stranger things have happened," he answered. "It depends on the wording of the will. If the provision about the caretaker is a condition to the vesting of the inheritance, I might be able to make it stick. But, you understand, all I'm doing now is throwing a scare into Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. I think we'll hear from that gentleman in person. 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."