Abruptly he said, “Helen, as I told you a few days ago, we’re going to do something about Franklin’s will immediately. Matilda has been hanging on to what belongs to us long enough.”
“Perhaps we ought to wait—just a little,” Helen murmured uncertainly.
“We’ve waited long enough.”
He saw that Helen was hesitating, trying to make up her mind to speak or to keep silent.
“Well,” he asked, “what is it?”
Helen suddenly made up her mind with a rush. “I . . . I had a queer experience today,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“A man telephoned.”
Gerald chuckled. “I’d say it was queerer if any man who knew your number hadn’t telephoned you. If I weren’t your uncle and . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous! This man said— Oh, it just doesn’t sound plausible. It can’t be true!”
“If you’d be just a little more explicit,” Gerald murmured encouragingly.
Helen’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “He said he was Franklin Shore. He seemed to recognize my voice, wanted to know if I recognized his.”
Gerald Shore’s face showed baffled, incredulous surprise. “Nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“It’s true.”
“Helen, you’re excited. You . . .”
“Uncle Gerald, I swear it.”
There was a long pause.
“When did the call come in?” Gerald asked finally.
“Just a few minutes before you came to the house.”
“Some impostor, of course, trying to . . .”
“No. It was Uncle Franklin.”
“Look here, Helen, did you—that is, was there anything familiar about his voice?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t be sure of the voice—but it was Uncle Franklin, all right.”
Her Uncle Gerald frowned at the tip of his cigar. “It’s impossible! What did he say?”
“He wants me to meet him tonight at the Castle Gate Hotel—that is, I’m to see a man named Henry Leech there, and Henry Leech will take me to Uncle Franklin.”
Gerald Shore relaxed. “That settles it. Obviously an impostor after money. We’ll go to the police and set a trap for your friend.”
Helen shook her head. “Uncle Franklin told me to see that well-known lawyer, Perry Mason, tell him the whole story and bring him to the meeting tonight.”
Gerald Shore stared at her blankly. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard. What does he want with Perry Mason?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look here,” Gerald said somewhat sternly, “you don’t know that was Franklin talking, do you, Helen?”
“Well—”
“Then stop referring to that person as Franklin. That might affect the legal situation. All you know is, you heard a man’s voice over the telephone. That man told you he was Franklin Shore.”
“He said things that proved it.”
“What?”
“A lot of things out of my childhood that only Uncle Franklin would know about: the time the kitten got up on the roof of the house and couldn’t get down, and he rescued it; all about the New Year’s party when I was thirteen and sneaked the punch and got tipsy. No one ever knew about that except Uncle Franklin. He followed me up to my room, and was so perfect about it. He just sat down and started talking. Even when I developed a laughing jag, he pretended not to notice. He told me that he didn’t agree with Matilda’s idea of bringing me up, that I was getting to be a big girl, and would have to experiment about life myself, but that it would be better if I learned how dangerous drink was—and learned to gauge just how much I could take. And maybe for a few years it would be better if I didn’t drink at all. And then he got up and walked out.”
Gerald’s brows were level with thought. “And this person told you all about that when he called?”
Helen nodded.
Gerald Shore got up from the chair, walked over toward the window, stood with his hands in his pockets. Outwardly he seemed calm and thoughtful. Only the rapid little puffs of cigar smoke which emerged from his mouth showed nervousness.
“What happened after that?” he asked.
“Then Uncle Franklin—this man, whoever he was—asked me to get Perry Mason and be at the Castle Gate Hotel at nine o’clock and to ask for Henry Leech.”
“But, good heavens, Helen, if it was Franklin who was talking over the telephone, why in the world didn’t he come home and . . .”
“That’s what I kept wondering about, and then I thought perhaps—well, you know, if he’d gone away with some other woman . . . I guess he wants to pave the way for coming back and probably wants someone to sound out Aunt Matilda on how she’ll feel.”
“But why didn’t he call me? I’m his brother. I’m a lawyer. Why did he call you?”
“I don’t know. He said I was the only one who could help him. Perhaps he tried to reach you and couldn’t.”
“And what happened after that? How did the conversation terminate?”
“He acted as though something had surprised him, as though someone had come in the room or something. He gave a quick little exclamation and hung up the telephone very abruptly.”
“He asked you not to tell anyone?”
“Yes. But I—well, I thought I should tell you—under the circumstances.”
“You didn’t tell Matilda?”
“No.”
“Sure she hasn’t any suspicion?”
“No. I’m sure she thought I was talking to Jerry. And right after that she noticed the kitten was having spasms. Poor Amber Eyes! How could he possibly have got poison?”
“I don’t know,” Gerald said somewhat shortly. “Let’s quit thinking about the kitten for a moment and think about Franklin. This doesn’t make sense. Ten years’ silence, and then this fantastic stage play of a return! Personally I always thought he’d run away with that woman. I felt sure he’d left Matilda some note that she’d suppressed. I thought as time passed without any word except that card from Miami that things probably hadn’t gone so well. I always considered the possibility that he might have committed suicide. He’d have preferred that way out rather than face the humiliation of an ignominious return.”
Gerald pushed his hands down more deeply into his pockets, stared out of the window. After a time he turned around and said to Helen, “When Franklin left, Matilda had a lot of the property in her name. If Franklin should show up he’s not going to have much left for himself. You and I will have nothing. Franklin’s my brother. He’s your uncle. We both hope he’s alive, but he is going to have to prove it.”
Dr. Blakely came out from the operating room. “Your kitten was poisoned,” he said to Helen.
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
Gerald turned again from the window to regard the doctor gravely. “What did you find?”
“Some poisoned meat had been administered but a very short time before the kitten was brought here. There were tablets of poison in the meat—perhaps more than one. I recovered a part of one tablet which hadn’t as yet fully dissolved. It had probably been embedded in a piece of meat, and the kitten’s digestive juices hadn’t thoroughly dissolved it.”
“Will—will he live?” Helen asked.
“Yes. He’s going to be all right now. You can come back and get him in an hour or two, but you’d better let him either stay here for a few days, or let some friend keep him. Someone very deliberately tried to poison your kitten. You probably have some neighbor who doesn’t like animals, or has some particular reason for disliking you.”
“Why, I can’t believe such a thing’s possible,” Helen said.
Dr. Blakely shrugged his shoulders. “Poisoned tablets packed in small wads of meat such as was given this kitten indicate the work of a deliberate poisoner. We have trouble with poisoners in various parts of the city; usually they’re after dogs. They prepare little balls of meat and toss them into a yard. The dog grabs them eag
erly. It’s rather unusual that a kitten as young as this one gets such a big dose of poison.”
Gerald said abruptly, “You want the kitten to stay away from the house for a few days, Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Is he out of danger now?”
“Yes. But I want to give him some further treatment—an hour or so.”
Helen said, “Let’s come back right after dinner and get him, Uncle Gerald. Then we can take him down to Tom Lunk—the gardener. He has a little bachelor shack that’s out of the neighborhood. Amber Eyes loves him and will be happy there.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Dr. Blakely said.
Gerald Shore nodded. “All right. Come on, Helen, you’ve got a lot to do.”
Four or five blocks from the veterinary’s Gerald Shore pulled into the curb in front of a drugstore.
“That appointment with Perry Mason,” he explained. “I know him slightly, so I’ll telephone for you. It will be a miracle if we can catch him now. He’s a law unto himself as far as office hours go—and a lot of other things.”
A few minutes later he emerged. “In an hour at his office. That all right?”
Helen nodded. “Hadn’t you better come with me?”
“No. You’ll tell him the story better if you do it in your own way without having me there. I’m particularly anxious to see how he reacts to it—if he gets the same impression I do. I told him I’d meet you somewhere in front of the Castle Gate Hotel at nine.”
“What’s your impression, Uncle Gerald?”
He smiled affectionately, but shook his head. He concentrated on his driving for a moment, then turned to Helen. “You really don’t know whether that kitten was outdoors late this afternoon?”
“I’ve been trying to think, Uncle Gerald. I remember he was out in the back yard about three o’clock, but I can’t remember that he was out after that.”
“Who was at the house this afternoon?”
“Komo and Aunt Matilda and the cook.”
“Who else?”
Under the direct impact of his eyes, she felt herself coloring. “Jerry Templar.”
“How long before the kitten developed those spasms?”
“Not very long.”
“Was George Alber there?”
“Yes, only for a few minutes. He came to see Aunt Matilda and then kept hanging around—until Jerry came—then I got rid of him in a hurry. Why?”
A muscle flickered in Gerald’s cheek, as if his jaws had tightened. “How much do you know about this—this devotion of Matilda’s to George Alber?”
“I know she likes him,” Helen said. “She’s always—”
“You don’t know what’s behind it, then? You don’t know that she almost married his father?”
“I never knew that. It—it’s hard to imagine Aunt Matilda as ever having been—”
“She was, though. Along in 1920, when she was forty or so, she was an attractive widow. And Stephen Alber was a good-looking widower. George is a lot like him. It wasn’t any wonder to us that they fell for each other. It was a good deal more of a wonder when they had a quarrel and Matilda married Franklin. I always thought she did that mainly to hurt Stephen. It did hurt him, too, but he got over it. Married, two or three years afterwards. You probably remember when he was divorced, along about 1930.”
Helen shook her head. “It’s hard to believe anybody could ever have been in love with Aunt Matilda. And it’s even harder to imagine her being in love.”
“But she was. So much in love that I don’t think she ever got over it. I think she’s still in love with Stephen Alber. I think the biggest of her reasons for hating Franklin isn’t that he walked out on her. She knew he’d always hated Steve Alber, and I’m pretty sure that the thing she can’t forgive him for is what he did to Steve.”
“What did he do?” Helen said.
“Nothing, really. The bank did it after Franklin disappeared. But I shouldn’t wonder if he’d been getting ready to do it before he left. The big smash in ’29 hit Alber pretty hard, along with everybody else, but he managed to save some of the pieces. He hung on to them till along in ’32, just after Franklin left. Then the bank put on the screws. I shouldn’t wonder if Franklin had been intending to do it himself. He certainly didn’t like Alber. Anyway, Alber went under and never came up. Perhaps that wasn’t what killed him, but I guess it helped. And Matilda—” He stopped. They were almost home. “I’m going with you tonight. I’ll be outside of the Castle Gate at nine.”
Helen hesitated. “Uncle Franklin said I mustn’t bring anybody except Mr. Mason. He sounded terribly in earnest about it.”
“No matter,” Gerald said. “I’m going with you.” His voice dropped a tone as he stopped in front of the house. “Be careful what you say. There’s George Alber.”
3
GEORGE ALBER was coming down the steps. If he looked as much like his father as Uncle Gerald said he did, Helen thought, it was easy enough to believe that twenty-odd years ago Aunt Matilda—and plenty of other women, probably—had fallen rather hard for Stephen Alber.
They would have had to be the kind of women, though, who lose their hearts to photographs of motion-picture actors. Retouched photographs, Helen told herself. There was something of that artificial quality about George Alber’s handsomeness, as if some careful pencil had drawn the Greek straightness of the nose, given the eyebrows that precisely perfect line, sketched a little extra wave into the thick, brightly dark hair.
But the retoucher hadn’t taken quite enough pains on the mouth. It was too full-lipped, and the jaw was too prominent. They marred the picture a little, that chin and mouth; they let coarseness into it, and vanity, and a kind of ruthlessness that might easily be cruel.
“What’s this about the kitten’s going mad?” His voice was something like his face, Helen told herself. Retouched, so that instead of being just right, it was just a little too right to be real. “The cook says it scratched you. Let’s see that hand.”
He reached for it. His fingers were long and strong and beautifully kept, but Helen didn’t like their touch. She jerked her hand away.
“My hand’s all right. And Amber Eyes wasn’t mad. He—”
“You can’t afford to take that for granted.” He wagged his head. “From what the cook says—”
“The cook got her information second-hand from Aunt Matilda,” Helen interrupted. “The kitten was poisoned.”
“Poisoned!” Alber exclaimed.
“That’s right.”
“You’re certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“But I can’t understand that.”
Gerald Shore, opening the left-hand car door and sliding out from behind the steering wheel, said dryly, “There’s no particular reason why you shouldn’t be able to understand it. Pellets of poison were embedded in several particles of meat and fed to the animal by someone who wanted to make a very thorough job of killing the kitten. I don’t know how I can explain it to you any more plainly.”
George Alber apparently failed to notice the sarcasm. He said, smiling, “I didn’t mean that I couldn’t understand what had happened. I can’t understand why.”
Gerald said, “The answer is obvious. Someone wanted the kitten out of the way.”
“But why?” George Alber persisted.
It was that question which suddenly impressed Helen. She turned to her uncle, her forehead puckered into a frown. “Yes, Uncle Gerald, why should anyone want to poison Amber Eyes?”
Gerald Shore dismissed the subject, rather brusquely Helen thought. “You can’t account for the psychology of an animal-poisoner. People go along and drop poisoned bits of meat into yards. The veterinary says they’re rather prevalent in certain sections of the city.”
Helen watched George Alber’s eyes lock with those of her uncle. There was, she realized, a certain innate combativeness about the younger man which made him advance under fire rather than retreat. “I doubt very much if the kitten co
uld have been poisoned in that way,” he said. “One scrap of meat, perhaps, yes. But several scraps—well, I doubt it.”
Gerald Shore, on the defensive and somewhat nettled by finding himself in that position, said, “Several scraps of meat might have been tossed into the yard within a space of a few feet. I see no reason why a kitten couldn’t pick them up.”
George Alber turned back to Helen. “When was the kitten out last, Helen?”
She said, “I don’t know, George. I can’t remember that it went out after three o’clock.”
“Could it have picked up the poison then?”
“The veterinary says that it must have been administered within a few minutes of the time of the first spasm, not very long before we got it to the hospital. That’s all that saved the kitten’s life.”
Alber nodded slowly as though that merely confirmed some idea which he had had in mind all along, then said suddenly, “Well, I’ll be on my way. I only dropped in. Be seeing you later. Sorry about Amber Eyes. Take good care of him.”
“We will,” Helen said. “We’re going to let Tom Lunk keep him for a few days.”
George Alber walked across to the curb where his car was parked, jumped in, and drove away.
Gerald Shore said with an intensity of feeling which came as somewhat of a surprise to his niece, “I definitely and distinctly dislike that man.”
“Why, Uncle Gerald?”
“I don’t know. He’s too—too damned assured. You can take it in an older man, but what the devil has he ever done to warrant his assuming such a cocksure air? How does it happen he isn’t in the Army?”
“Defective hearing in his left ear,” Helen explained. “Haven’t you ever noticed he always turns so his right side is toward you?”
Gerald snorted. “It’s his profile. Notice the way he holds his head. Trying to ape the pose of some matinee idol in the pictures.”
“No, he isn’t, Uncle Gerald. That’s unfair. It’s on account of his hearing. I know that for a fact. He tried to enlist.”
Gerald Shore asked abruptly, “When does Jerry Templar go back to camp?”
“Monday.” Helen tried not to think how near Monday was.
The Case of the Careless Kitten Page 3