The Case of the Caretaker's Cat пм-6

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

"Did anyone using Clammert's name ever go to the safety deposit boxes?" Mason asked.

  "No, Clammert's never been near the box. Ashton went to it several times. He went to it yesterday, and he went to it today. While the clerks didn't want to talk about it, I gathered the impression they thought Ashton had pulled out a wad of dough from those safety boxes either yesterday or today, or both."

  "How do they know what a man takes out?"

  "Ordinarily they don't, but one of the clerks saw Ashton stuffing currency into a satchel."

  Perry Mason laughed. "In most cases," he said, "we can't find out any facts at all until after we've gone through a lot of preliminary work. In this case they pour into our laps."

  "Did your client tell you about the Koltsdorf diamonds?" Drake wanted to know.

  "Gosh," Mason remarked, "I feel like the interlocutor at a minstrel show. No, Mr. Drake, Mr. Ashton did not tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds. What about the Koltsdorf diamonds?… Now, Paul, that's your cue to tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds."

  The detective chuckled. "The Koltsdorf diamonds are about the only jewels Peter Laxter ever fell for. Lord knows how he came by them. They were some of the stones smuggled out of Russia by the old aristocracy. Peter Laxter showed them to a few friends. They were large, brilliant diamonds."

  "What about them?"

  "Some of this other stuff," Drake said, "such as the currency, bonds, and all that, might have burnt up when the house was burned. It wouldn't have been possible to find even a trace of them. But the Koltsdorf diamonds haven't been found."

  "Diamonds in the wreckage of a burnt house could hide pretty well," Mason said dryly.

  "They've taken that wreckage to pieces with a finetooth comb, sifted ashes and done all sorts of things. But the diamonds can't be located. A distinctive ruby ring which Peter Laxter always wore on his left hand was found on the body, but no diamonds."

  "Tell me the rest of it," Mason demanded. "Has Ashton shown up with those diamonds?"

  "No, not that I've been able to find out. But he's done other peculiar things that are just as incriminating. For instance, shortly before the fire, Laxter had been dickering for a piece of property. He'd taken Ashton out with him to look the property over. A couple of days ago, Ashton called on the owner of that property and made an offer. The offer was for cash on the nail."

  "It was refused?"

  "Temporarily, yes, but I think the deal's still open."

  Mason, frowning thoughtfully, said, "Looks like I'm stirring up a mare's nest. Laxter might have cached his property and Ashton might have had an inside track. In that event he probably wouldn't feel obligated to hand Sam Laxter the coin on a silver platter. Guess we're due for a talk with Ashton."

  Drake said tonelessly, "The two grandchildren have been pretty wild, particularly Sam. Oafley's the quiet, unsociable sort. Sam went in for speedy automobiles, polo ponies, women, and all that sort of stuff."

  "Where'd the money come from?"

  "From the old man."

  "I thought the old man was a miser."

  "He was tighter than a knot in a shoelace except with his grandchildren; he was very liberal with them."

  "How much was he worth?"

  "No one knows. The inventory of the estate…"

  "Yes," Mason said, "I checked over the inventory of the estate. Apparently the only things that were left were the frozen assets. The other stuff hasn't been discovered yet."

  "Unless Ashton discovered it," Drake commented.

  "Let's not talk about that," Mason said. "I'm interested right now in cats."

  "The day before the fire there was a hell of a fight out at the house. I can't find out exactly what it was, but I think this nurse can tell us. I've talked with the servants. They froze up. I hadn't got around to the nurse yet… Here's her apartment."

  "What's her name—Durfey?"

  "No—DeVoe—Edith DeVoe. According to the reports I get, she isn't a bad looker. Frank Oafley was pretty much interested in her when she was taking care of the old man, and he's been seeing her off and on since."

  "Intentions honorable?" Mason asked.

  "Don't ask me; I'm just a detective—not a censor of morals. Let's go."

  Mason paid off the cab. They rang a bell, and, when a buzzer had released the door catch, entered the outer door and walked down a long corridor to a ground floor apartment. A redhaired woman with quick, restless eyes, swift, nervous motions, and a wellmodeled figure which was set off to advantage by her clothes, met them at the door of the apartment. Her face showed disappointment. "Oh," she said, "I was expecting… Who are you?"

  Paul Drake bowed, and said, "I'm Paul Drake. This is Mr. Mason, Miss DeVoe."

  "What is it you want?" she asked. Her speech was very rapid. The words seemed almost to run together.

  "We wanted to talk with you," Mason said.

  "About some employment," Paul Drake hastened to add. "You're a nurse, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, we wanted to talk with you about some work."

  "What sort of a position?"

  "I think we could talk it over better if we stepped inside," Drake ventured.

  She hesitated a moment, looked up and down the corridor, then stepped back from the door and said, "Very well, you may come in, but only for a few minutes."

  The apartment was clean and well cared for as though she had just finished a careful housecleaning. Her hair was perfectly groomed. Her nails were well kept. She wore her clothes with the manner of one who is wearing her best.

  Drake sat down, relaxing comfortably, as though he intended to stay for hours.

  Mason sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. He looked at the detective and frowned.

  "Now this employment may not be exactly the kind of a job you had in mind," Drake said, "but there's no harm talking it over. Would you mind telling me what your rates are by the day?"

  "Do you mean for two or three days, or…"

  "No, just one day."

  "Ten dollars," she said crisply.

  Drake took a billfold from his pocket. He extracted ten dollars but didn't at once pass it over to the nurse.

  "I have one day's employment," he said. "It won't take over an hour, but I'd be willing to pay for a full day."

  She wet her lips with the tip of a nervous tongue, glanced swiftly from Mason to Drake. Her voice showed suspicion. "Just what is the nature of this employment?" she asked.

  "We wanted you to recall a few facts," Drake said, folding the ten dollar bill about his fingers. "It would take perhaps ten or fifteen minutes for you to give us an outline, and then you could sit down and write out the facts you'd told us."

  Her voice was distinctly guarded now.

  "Facts about what?"

  The detective's glassy eyes watched her in expressionless appraisal. He pushed the ten dollar bill toward her. "We wanted to find out all you knew about Peter Laxter."

  She gave a start, staring from face to face in quick alarm, and said, "You're detectives!"

  Paul Drake's face registered the expression of a golfer who had just dubbed an approach shot.

  "Let's look at it this way," he said. "We're after certain information. We want to get the facts—we don't want anything except facts. We're not going to drag you into anything."

  She shook her head vehemently. "No," she said. "I was employed by Mr. Laxter as a nurse. It wouldn't be ethical for me to divulge any of his secrets."

  Perry Mason leaned forward and took a hand in the conversation. "The house was burned, Miss DeVoe?"

  "Yes, the house was burned."

  "And you were in it at the time?"

  "Yes."

  "How did the house burn—rather quickly?"

  "Quite quickly."

  "Have any trouble getting out?"

  "I was awake at the time. I smelled smoke and thought at first it was just smoke from an incinerator. Then I decided to investigate. I put on a robe and opened the door. The south end of the house was all i
n flames then. I screamed, and, after a few minutes… Well, I guess perhaps I shouldn't say anything more."

  "You knew the house was insured?" Mason asked.

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  "Do you know whether the insurance has been paid?"

  "Why, I think it has. I think it's been paid to Mr. Samuel Laxter. He's the executor, isn't he?"

  "Was there someone in that house you didn't like?" Mason asked. "Someone who was particularly obnoxious to you?"

  "Why, whatever makes you ask such a question as that?"

  "Whenever a fire occurs," Mason said slowly, "which might result in the loss of life and in which a person actually was killed, the authorities usually make an investigation. That investigation isn't always completed at the time of the fire, but when it is made it's always advisable for the witnesses to tell what they know."

  She thought that over for several seconds, during which her eyes blinked rapidly.

  "You mean that if I shouldn't make a statement I might be under suspicion of having set the fire to trap someone whom I didn't like? Oh, but that's too absurd!"

  "I'll put it to you another way," Mason said. "Was there someone in the house whom you did like?"

  "Just what do you mean by that?"

  "Simply this: You can't be thrown with people for some time under the same roof without forming attachments, certain likes and dislikes. Let's suppose, for example, there was some person whom you didn't like and some person whom you did. We're going to get the facts about that fire. We're going to get them from someone. If we should get them from you, it might be better all around than if we happened to get them from the person whom you didn't like, particularly if that person should try to fasten guilt upon the person you did like."

  She seemed to stiffen in the chair. "You mean that Sam Laxter has accused Frank Oafley of setting that fire?"

  "Certainly not," Mason said. "I am purposely refraining from making any statement of facts. I'm giving out no information. I came to get it."

  He nodded to the detective. "Come on, Paul," he said.

  He got to his feet.

  Edith DeVoe jumped from her chair, almost ran between Mason and the door.

  "Wait a minute, I didn't understand just what you wanted. I'll give you all the information I have."

  "We'd want to know quite a few things," Mason said dubiously, as though hesitating about returning to his chair, "not only about the fire, but about the things which preceded it. I guess we'd better get the information somewhere else after all. We'd want to know all about the lives and personal habits of the people who lived in the house, and you, being a nurse… I guess perhaps we'd better leave you out of it."

  "No, no, don't do that! Come back here. I'll tell you everything I know. After all, there's nothing that's confidential, and if you're going to get the facts I'd prefer that you get them from me. If Sam has even intimated Frank Oafley had anything to do with that fire, it's a dirty lie by which Sam hopes to save his own bacon!"

  Mason sighed, then, with apparent reluctance, returned to his chair, sat once more on the arm and said, "We're willing to listen for a few minutes, Miss DeVoe, but you'll have to make it snappy. Our time is valuable, and…"

  She broke into swift conversation: "I understand all that. I thought at the time there was something funny about the fire. I told Frank Oafley about it and he said I should keep quiet. I screamed and tried to arouse Mr. Laxter—that's Peter Laxter—the old man. By that time the flames were all over that end of the house. I kept screaming, and groped my way up the stairs. It was hot there and smoky, but there weren't any flames. The smoke bothered me a lot. Frank came after me and pulled me back. He said there was nothing I could do. We stood on the stairs and yelled, trying to arouse Mr. Laxter, but we didn't get any answer. Lots of black smoke was rolling up the stairs. I looked back and saw some flames just breaking through the floor near the bottom of the stairs and I knew we had to get out. We went out through the north wing. I was almost suffocated with smoke. My eyes were red and bloodshot for two or three days."

  "Where was Sam Laxter?"

  "I saw him before I saw Frank. He had on pajamas and a bathrobe, and he was yelling 'Fire! Fire! He seemed to have lost his head."

  "Where was the fire department?"

  "It didn't get there until the place was almost gone. It was very isolated, you know—the house."

  "A big house?"

  "It was too big!" she said vehemently. "There was too much work in it for the help they employed."

  "What help was employed?"

  "There was Mrs. Pixley; a girl named Nora—I think her last name was Abbington—I can't be certain; and then there was Jimmy Brandon—he was the chauffeur. Nora was sort of a general maidofallwork. She didn't live at the place, but came every morning at seven and stayed until five in the afternoon. Mrs. Pixley did all the cooking."

  "And Charles Ashton, the caretaker—was he there?"

  "Only occasionally. He kept the town house, you know. He'd drive in at times when Mr. Laxter would ask him. He'd been there the night of the fire."

  "Where did Peter Laxter sleep?"

  "On the second floor, in the south wing."

  "What time did the fire take place?"

  "Around one thirty in the morning. It must have been about quarter to two when I woke up. The house had been burning for some time then."

  "Why were you employed? What was wrong with Mr. Laxter?"

  "He'd been in an automobile accident, you know, and it had left him quite nervous and upset. At times he couldn't sleep and he had a dislike of drugs. He wouldn't let the doctor give him anything to make him sleep. I'd been a masseuse, and I massaged him when he had those nervous fits. It relaxed him. A bath in a tub of hot water, with the water running over his body, then a massage, and he could relax and sleep. And he had some heart complications. Sometimes I had to give him hypodermics—heart stimulants, you know."

  "Where was Winifred the night of the fire?"

  "She was asleep. We had some trouble getting her up. I thought for awhile the smoke had got her. Her door was locked. The boys nearly broke it down before they were able to wake her up."

  "Where was she? In the north wing or the south wing?"

  "Neither. She was in the center of the house, on the east."

  "How about the two boys—where did they sleep?"

  "They were in the center of the house, on the west."

  "And the servants?"

  "All of them were in the north wing."

  "If you were there as a nurse for Mr. Laxter, and he was having heart trouble, why didn't you sleep where you would be near him in case he was taken with a spell?"

  "Oh, but I did. You see, he had an electric push button installed in his room, so that all he needed to do was to signal me and I could signal back, to let him know I was coming."

  "How did you signal back?"

  "A button that I pressed."

  "That rang a bell in his room?"

  "Yes."

  "Why didn't you ring that the night of the fire?"

  "We did. That was the first thing I did. I ran back and rang the bell repeatedly. Then, when we didn't hear from him, I started up the stairs. The fire must have burnt through the wires."

  "I see. There was a lot of smoke?"

  "Oh, yes, the central part of the house was simply filled with smoke."

  "What was the trouble about the day before the fire?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "There'd been a row over something, hadn't there?"

  "No… not exactly. There'd been some trouble between Peter Laxter and Sam. I don't think Frank was mixed up in it."

  "Was Winifred drawn into it?"

  "I don't think so. It was just an argument between the old man and Sam Laxter. Something about Laxter's gambling."

  "Have you any idea how the fire started?" Mason asked.

  "Do you mean did someone set it?"

  Mason said slowly and impressively, "You've dodged the issue long
enough, Miss DeVoe—tell us what you know about the fire!"

  She took a quick breath. Her eyes faltered for a moment. "Is there any way a person could start a fire by feeding exhaust fumes into a furnace?" she asked.

  Drake shook his head. "No," he said, "not exhaust fumes. Come on down to earth and…"

  "Wait a minute, Paul," Perry Mason interrupted, "let's find out just what she means when she refers to exhaust fumes being put into a furnace."

  "It isn't important unless a fire could be started that way," she countered evasively.

  The lawyer, flashing a warning glance at the detective, nodded his head gravely and said, "Yes, I think perhaps a fire could be started that way."

  "But it would have to be started several hours after the fumes were put into the furnace?"

  "Just how were they put into the furnace?" Mason inquired.

  "Well, it's this way: The garage was built into the house. It held three cars. The house was on a slope, and the garages were on the southwest corner, down the slope. I guess when they built the house there was that extra room under the hill and the architects just decided to put garages in there, instead of having separate buildings or…"

  "Yes," Mason agreed hurriedly, "I understand exactly what you mean. Tell me about the exhaust fumes."

  "Well," she said, "I'd been out for a walk and I was coming back to the house when I heard the sound of a car running in the garage. The garage door was closed, but the motor kept running. I thought someone must have gone away and left his motor running without knowing it, so I opened the door—that's a little door in the side—not the big sliding door that you open to let the cars out—and switched on the lights."

  Mason leaned toward her. "What did you find?" he asked.

  "Sam Laxter was sitting in there in his car, with the motor running."

  "The motor of his car was running?"

  "Yes."

  "Running slowly, as though it were idling?"

  "No, it was running rapidly. I would say the motor was being raced. If it had been running slowly, I couldn't have heard it."

  "How did that get exhaust fumes into the furnace?" Paul Drake inquired.

  "That's the peculiar thing. I just happened to notice that there was a tube running from the car to the heating pipe. The furnace was a gas furnace which supplied hot air. It was in a basement in the back of the garage."