The Case of the Caretaker's Cat

Chapter 3

The clock on Perry Mason's desk showed two thirtyfive. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, sat crosswise in the big leather chair, his knees draped over one arm, the small of his back propped against the other. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving an expression of droll humor to his face. It was as though he were on the point of breaking into a smile. His eyes were large, protruding, and glassy.

"What's the grief this time?" he asked. "I didn't know there'd been another murder."

"It isn't a murder, Paul, it's a cat."

"A what?"

"A cat, a Persian cat."

The detective sighed and said, "All right, then, it's a cat. So what?"

"Peter Laxter," Mason said, "probably a miser, had a house in the city that he wouldn't live in. He stayed in his country place at Carmencita. The place burned up, and Laxter burned up with it. He left three grandchildren: Samuel C. Laxter and Frank Oafley, who inherit under his will, and a granddaughter, Winifred Laxter, who was left out in the cold. His will contained a provision that Charles Ashton, his caretaker, was to be given a perpetual job during his lifetime. Ashton had a cat. He wanted to keep the cat with him. Sam Laxter told him to get rid of the cat. I sympathized with Ashton, wrote Laxter a letter and told him to leave the cat alone. Laxter went to Nat Shuster. Shuster saw a chance to horn in on a big fee, so he sold Laxter on the idea I was trying to break the will; demanded a lot of impossible conditions from me in order to effect a settlement, and when I didn't agree to them because I couldn't, he made the most of my refusal. I presume he's collected a fat retainer."

"What do you want?" Drake inquired.

"I'm going to break that will," Mason said grimly.

The detective lit a cigarette and said, in his slow drawl, "Going to break the will over a cat, Perry?"

"Over a cat," Mason admitted, "but really I'm going to break Shuster, as well as the will. Shuster's been setting himself up as a bigtime criminal lawyer. I'm tired of it. He's a shyster, a suborner of perjury and a jurybriber. He's a disgrace to the profession, and he gets us all into disrepute. My God, Paul, whenever he has a client he not only tries to get that client off, but he deliberately frames evidence, so it will point to some innocent party, in order to make his own case look better. He's been boasting around town that if he ever runs up against me, he's going to show just how smart he is. I'm sick of him."

"Have you got a copy of the will?" Drake asked.

"No, not yet. I'm having a copy made from the probate records."

"Has it been admitted to probate?"

"I understand it has. It can be contested, however, after probate as well as before."

"Where do I come in?"

"First, find Winifred. Then dig up everything you can about Peter Laxter, and everything you can about the two grandchildren who inherit the property."

"Shall I go at it in the routine way, or do you want action?" Drake asked.

"I want action."

Drake's glassy eyes surveyed Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "There must be a lot of money in cats," he remarked.

Mason's face was grave. "I'm not certain but what there is going to be a chance to make some money, Paul. Evidently Peter Laxter was a miser. He didn't trust too much in banks. Shortly before his death, he cashed in securities to the tune of about a million dollars. After his death, the heirs couldn't find the million."

"Suppose it burnt up in the house with him?" Drake asked. "He'd have had it in currency, you know."

"It may have," Mason admitted. "Again, it may not. When Ashton left my office, some man was shadowing him—a man who was driving a new green Pontiac."

"Know who this chap was?"

"No, I saw him from the window. I couldn't see his face. I saw a light felt hat and a dark suit. The Pontiac was a sedan. Of course, there may be nothing to it; again, there may be. At any rate, it's going to be a swell break for Winifred Laxter, because I'm going to smash that will for her. Shuster has been talking about what he was going to do to me if he ever got in court against me, and I'm going to give him a chance to make good."

"You can't make Shuster sore by fighting," the detective said. "That's what he wants. You fight to get results for your clients; Shuster fights to collect fees from his."

"He can't collect fees if his clients have lost their money," Mason said. "A prior will leaves everything to Winifred. If I break this will, the other will stand up and take its place."

"Going to have Winifred as your client?" Drake asked.

Mason shook his head, said doggedly, "I've got a cat for a client. I may want Winifred as a witness."

Drake slid his legs over the smooth leather of the chair, got to his feet.

"Knowing you as I do," he said, "I presume that means you want lots of action."

Mason, nodding grimly, said, "And I want it fast. Get me information on every angle you can uncover, property, soundness of mind, undue influence, everything."

As Drake closed the exit door behind him, Jackson gave a perfunctory knock and entered the office bearing several typewritten sheets of legalsized paper.

"I've had a copy of the will made, and have gone over it carefully," he said. "The provision about the cat is rather weak. It certainly isn't a condition relating to the vesting of the inheritance, and it may not even be a charge upon the estate. It's probably just the expression of a wish on the part of the testator."

Mason's face showed disappointment. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Apparently Peter Laxter drew the will himself. I understand he practiced law for several years in some eastern state. It's pretty much of an ironclad job, but there's one peculiar paragraph in it. We might be able to do something with that paragraph in a contest."

"What is it?" Mason asked.

Jackson picked up the will and read from it: "During my lifetime I have been surrounded with the affectionate regard not only of those who were related to me, but those who apparently hoped that fortuitous circumstance would include them in my bounty. I have never been able to ascertain how much was intended to pave the way for an inheritance under my will. If the latter is the case, I am afraid my legatees are doomed to disappointment, because the extent of my estates will doubtless be disappointing to them. However, I have one thought to offer in the nature of a condolence and at the same time, a suggestion. While those who waited impatiently for my passing merely in order to share in my estate are doomed to disappointment, those who had a genuine affection for me are not."

Jackson ceased reading and looked owlishly across at Perry Mason.

Mason scowled and said, "What the devil is he getting at? He disinherited Winifred, and he left all of his property to two grandchildren, share and share alike. There's nothing in this paragraph which could change that."

"No, sir," Jackson agreed.

"He secreted something like a million dollars in cash shortly before his death, but even if that is discovered, it would still pass as a part of his estate."

"Yes, sir."

"Unless," Mason said, "he'd made a gift of some sort before his death. And in that event, the property would be owned by the person to whom it had been given."

"It's a peculiar provision," Jackson remarked noncommittally. "He might have made a gift in trust, you know."

Mason said slowly, "I can't help thinking of the sheaf of currency Charles Ashton had in his pocket when he offered me a retainer… However, Jackson, if Peter Laxter gave Ashton money… well, there's going to be one hell of a fight over it—trust or no trust."

"Yes, sir," Jackson agreed.

Mason, nodding slowly, picked up the telephone which connected with Della Street's office, and, when he heard her voice on the wire, said, "Della, get hold of Paul Drake and tell him to include Charles Ashton in his investigations. I want particularly to find out about Ashton's financial affairs—whether he has any bank account; whether he's filed any income tax return; whether he owns any real property; whether he has any money out at interest; how much he's assessed for on the assessment roll, and anything else Paul can find out."

"Yes, sir," Della Street said. "You want that information in a hurry?"

"In a hurry."

"The Dollar Line said they'd hold a reservation until tomorrow morning at ten thirty," Della Street remarked in tones of cool efficiency, and then slid the receiver back on the hook, terminating the connection, leaving Perry Mason grinning into a dead transmitter.