"Naturally, this came as a big shock to me. I know my cousin well. I can't believe that he was capable of any such thing, and then I remembered that Edith had never told me that she had positively recognized Sam as the one in that car. The man in the car had his face concealed under the broad brim of Sam's hat. That was what led Edith to believe the man in the car was Sam Laxter.
"Now, if you told the officers that Edith said Sam Laxter was seated in that car, you have made a statement which was unwarranted by anything Edith said."
Mason, studying Frank Oafley's face, said speculatively, "So that's your story, is it?"
"That's my story," Oafley said, blushing.
Shuster's face was cunning. "Consider, Counselor, what a position you're in," he said to Mason. "You make a charge against my client. You can't back that charge up; you have got no evidence. You can't testify what Edith DeVoe told you because that's hearsay. Dying declarations are admissible when a person making them knows he is going to die, but this wasn't a dying declaration. When she told you this, she thought she'd live to be a hundred, so you haven't got a leg to stand on. My client can take you into court. He can trim you. He can stick you; he can soak you—but he won't do it if you make a retraction."
"What Shuster means," Oafley said, "is that you emphasize that Edith didn't know who it was in the car."
Sam Laxter's face was scowling. "I want more than that," he said. "I want a retraction and an apology. I never sat in that car, and Mason knows it."
Perry Mason stretched forth his hand to a row of books which stood on his desk, supported by book ends. He pulled out a book, opened it, and said, "Speaking of law, gentlemen, I'll read you a little law. Section 258 of the Probate Code reads as follows: 'No person convicted of the murder of the decedent shall be entitled to succeed to any portion of the estate; but the portion thereof to which he would otherwise be entitled to succeed goes to the other persons entitled thereto under the provisions of this chapter. There is some law for you to think over, Frank Oafley."
Shuster sputtered into speech with moist vehemence. "What a trick!" he exclaimed. "What a scheme! He tries to turn you one against the other, reading from his law books, making his dirty slanders. Close your ears to his words, close your hearts to his thoughts, close your…"
Mason interrupted, speaking directly to Frank Oafley. "You would like to protect your cousin," he said, "but you know as well as I do that Edith DeVoe wasn't the sort of girl to jump at false conclusions. Perhaps she didn't see the man's face, but she saw the man's hat, she heard his voice and she thought that man was Sam Laxter."
Oafley's forehead knitted thoughtfully as he said slowly, "She did hear his voice."
"Go ahead," Sam Laxter said bitterly, "put on an act, Frank; pretend you're being convinced, but you're not fooling me any. The minute this lawyer showed you that you could hog all of my inheritance by getting me convicted of murder, I knew what was going to happen."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Shuster half screamed. "Don't do it; don't fight. It's a trap. Don't walk into it. He gets you fighting between yourselves and then his damn cat inherits the estate. What a scheme! What a scheme! Oh, what a trick!"
Mason, looking at Sam Laxter, said, "How do you account for that tube being found in your car?"
"Someone planted it," Laxter said belligerently. "You led the officers to the garage and they 'found' a tube in my car, after you suggested they look for it."
Mason said, "Do you think I planted the tube in your car?"
Shuster rushed in front of Sam Laxter, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, pushed him back and shouted, "Don't answer! Don't answer! It's another trap. He gets you to charge that he planted it and then he sues you for defamation of character. You can't prove he planted it there; don't say it; don't say anything. Let me do the talking. Keep quiet, everybody; keep calm. Don't get excited. I'll handle it."
Oafley moved a step closer to Laxter and said, over Shuster's shoulder, "Are you insinuating that I planted it there, Sam?"
Laxter, his voice edged with bitterness, said, "Why not? You don't fool me any, Frank Oafley. You'd do a damn sight more than that for half a million dollars. I'm commencing to see this thing in a new light now."
"You forget," Oafley said, with cold dignity, "that it was Edith DeVoe who saw this. I didn't see it, and when she first told me, I didn't attach any significance to it."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Shuster pleaded, turning his head rapidly to look beseechingly first at Laxter, then at Oafley. "Gentlemen, calm yourselves. This isn't what we came here for. Keep cool. Remember what I told you to say. Let me do the talking. Shut up, everybody."
"Edith Oafley," Sam Laxter sneered, paying no attention to the lawyer. "If she weren't dead, I could say plenty about her."
Oafley, with an inarticulate expression of rage, pushed Shuster aside with his right hand and slapped Laxter's face with his left.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Shuster screamed. "Remember…"
Sam Laxter's left fist, swinging in a sizzling blow aimed at Oafley's jaw, caught Shuster full in the face as the little attorney pawed at Laxter's coat. Shuster went to the floor, moaning. Laxter swung his bandaged right arm, struck Oafley a glancing blow on the cheek. Oafley stepped in, swinging his right. Laxter missed with a left. For a moment the two men stood toe to toe, slugging wildly, their blows doing but little damage.
Shuster, on the floor, tugged at their trousers legs. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he pleaded, his voice half muffled by his cut and rapidly swelling lips.
Perry Mason elevated his feet to the desk, tilted back in his swivel chair and puffed complacently at his cigarette, watching the melee with whimsical humor.
Abruptly, Oafley stepped back. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said. "I forgot your arm was hurt."
Shuster bobbed up between them, a palm against the vest of each, trying to push them apart. The men, breathing hard, paid no attention to his futile efforts, but stood staring at each other.
"Don't worry about my arm," Sam Laxter said bitterly, then glanced at the bandage. It showed a red stain where the wound had been reopened.
"Come away, come away," Shuster said; "he's full of tricks. He's clever. Didn't I warn you before I came in here?"
Oafley said slowly, his chest heaving, his face flushed, "Just keep your tongue off Edith, that's all."
He turned abruptly, crossed the office, jerked open the corridor door. Shuster hesitated a moment, then ran after him, shouting, "Mr. Oafley! Mr. Oafley! Come back here a moment, Mr. Oafley!"
Oafley called back over his shoulder, "You can go to hell. I'm going to get a lawyer of my own."
Shuster looked at Sam Laxter with an expression of consternation on his face, then turned to Perry Mason. "You did it!" he screamed. "You did it deliberately! You turned these men one against the other. You put suspicion in their minds. You made an issue out of Edith DeVoe. You…"
"Close the door," Perry Mason interrupted in a calm tone of voice, "as you leave."
Shuster put his hand through Sam Laxter's arm.
"Come," he said. "The law gives us our remedy."
Sam Laxter said bitterly. "He'll get a lawyer and try to pin Granddad's murder on me. What a sweet mess that is."
Shuster pushed him through the door.
"Don't forget to close the door," Mason called.
Shuster banged the door shut with a force which threatened to pull the wall down. The effect of the slam was still shivering the pictures on the walls when Della Street opened the door from the outer office.
"Did you do that on purpose?" she asked.
Mason, smoking calmly, said with a detached air, "There was no sense having both of them support Shuster. As a matter of fact, their interests are adverse. They should have realized it. If Shuster is representing one of them, the other will get another lawyer. That'll mean two lawyers fighting, and that'll be a break for Douglas Keene."
She sighed, as a mother sighs who is confronted by a hopelessly naughty child, then suddenly la
ughed. "Well," she said, "I got it all down, even including the sound of the blows. Winifred Laxter is in the outer office. She's got a cat with her."
"A cat?" Mason asked.
"Yes, a Persian cat."
Mason's eyes were twinkling as he said, "Tell her to come in."
"And that was true about the police getting the cat from my place," she said. "They told the manager they had to search my apartment. They got a passkey from her."
"Did they have a warrant?" Mason asked.
"I don't think so."
Mason, smoking his cigarette, said thoughtfully, "It puts you in something of a hole, Della. I'm sorry I didn't think they'd look out there. Sergeant Holcomb is getting better and better—or worse and worse—whichever you want to call it."
"Why does he hate you so much?"
"Simply because he thinks I'm shielding murderers. He's all right; he's just zealous. I don't blame him. And you must admit my manner toward him is a little irritating at times."
"I'll say it is."
Mason looked up at her and grinned. "Purposely irritating," he said. "Send Winifred in, and wait in your office. You might listen in."
She opened the door and beckoned. Winifred Laxter entered, a big gray Persian cat on her arm. Her chin was up, her eyes defiant. There was a pugnacious set to her head.
Perry Mason looked her over with amused tolerance.
"Sit down," he told her.
"I lied to you," she said, standing by the side of the desk.
"About the cat?" he asked, looking at the Persian.
She nodded. "That cat wasn't Clinker—this is Clinker."
"Why did you lie to me?"
"I telephoned Uncle Charles, the caretaker, you know, and told him I wanted him to get rid of Clinker, that I wanted him to let me keep Clinker. He refused. So then I suggested as a next best thing that we could fool Sam Laxter into thinking he'd parted with Clinker. I told him to keep Clinker under cover and I'd send Douglas Keene out with another cat that would look like Clinker. He could use this other cat as a double and let it be very much in evidence, then, if Sam was going to poison any cat, he'd poison the other cat. Don't you see?"
Perry Mason, watching her shrewdly, said, "Sit down and tell me about it."
Her eyes were apprehensive. "Do you believe me?"
"Let's hear the rest of it."
She sat down on the edge of the overstuffed leather chair. The cat struggled to free itself. She held it tightly, smoothing the fur of its forehead, scratching it behind the ears.
"Go on," Mason said.
When she saw that the cat was quiet once more, she said, "Douglas Keene went out there. He took the cat out with him. He waited for some little time for Ashton to show up. Then, he came back to me for instructions. He left the cat with me."
"Why did you tell me that cat was Clinker?"
"Because I was afraid other people would say Douglas had taken Clinker with him, and I wanted to see if you thought that would be too serious. In other words, I wanted to get your reactions."
Mason was laughing now. The cat squirmed restlessly.
"Oh, for goodness sake," Mason said, "let the cat down. Where did you get him?"
She stared steadily at him and then said defiantly, "I don't know what you're talking about. This cat is Clinker. He's very much attached to me."
The cat jumped to the floor.
"It would be a good story," Mason said with a voice that was almost judicial in its complete detachment. "It would help me out of a jam and it would be a swell out for Della Street. The cats sure look alike. But you couldn't get away with it. They'd find out sooner or later where you got the cat. There might be a big difference of opinion as to whether it was Clinker or wasn't Clinker. But in the long run it would put you on a spot, and you're not going to get put on a spot."
"But it is Clinker. I went out there and found him. He'd been frightened to death—poor cat—all the noise and excitement and finding his master dead, and everything…"
"No," Mason told her, "I'm not going to let you do it, and that's final. I suppose the papers are on the street and you've read that the police found Clinker in my secretary's apartment."
"They found the cat they thought was Clinker."
Mason said goodnaturedly, "Baloney! Take your cat and go on back to your waffle parlor. Is Douglas Keene going to get in touch with me and give himself up?"
"I don't know," she said with tears in her eyes.
The cat, arching its back, started exploring the office. "Kitty—kitty, come, kitty," Winifred pleaded.
The cat paid no attention to her. Mason's eyes were sympathetic as he stared at the tearstricken countenance. "If Douglas gets in touch with you," he said, "tell him how important it is that he back my play."
"I don't know that I will. You ddddidn't have to go ahead and ssssay that. Suppose they should convict him and hang him for mmmmurder?"
Mason crossed to her side, patted her on the shoulder.
"Won't you have some confidence in me?" he asked.
She raised her eyes.
"Don't you think you've got to take the responsibility of this thing," Mason told her soothingly. "Don't go out picking up cats and figuring how you can work out an alibi for Douglas. You just dump all of that onto my shoulders and let me carry the load. Will you promise that you'll do that?"
Her lips quivered for a moment, then straightened. She nodded her head.
Mason gave her shoulder one last pat, crossed the office to where the cat was sniffing about, picked it up, and carried it back to Winifred and put it in her arms.
"Go home," he said, "and get some sleep."
He held the corridor door open for her. When he had closed it, Della Street stood in the doorway of his private office.
Mason grinned at her. "A dead game kid," he said.
Della Street nodded her head slowly.
Mason said, "How'd you like to cut corners, Della?"
"What do you mean?"
"How'd you like to go on a honeymoon with me?"
She stared at him, eyes growing wide. "A honeymoon?" she asked.
Mason nodded.
"Why… oh…"
He grinned at her. "Okay," he said, "but first lie down there on the couch and get some sleep. If Douglas Keene rings in on the telephone, tell him that he must back my play. You can put up a stronger talk than I could. I'm going down to Paul Drake's office for a little while."
Chapter 14
Perry Mason, seated in Paul Drake's office, said, "Paul, I want you to turn your men loose on the new car agencies and find out if a new car has recently been sold to a Watson Clammert."
"Watson Clammert," Drake said. "Where the devil have I heard that name before?"
Mason grinned as he waited for Drake's recollection to function. Suddenly the detective said, "Oh, yes, I remember. He's the person who shared a lock box with Charles Ashton."
"I presume the police have gone into that lock box," Mason said.
"Yes, and found it practically empty. They only found some of the paper wrappers used by banks in bundling bills of large denomination. Evidently Ashton had pulled out the bills and left the wrappers behind."
"Ashton or Clammert?" Mason inquired.
"Ashton. The bank records show that Clammert never did go to the safety deposit box. He's nothing but a name signed upon the card, so far as the bank knows."
"How much money do the police figure was taken from the box?"
"They don't know. It may have been a lot. Ashton was seen by one of the attendants stuffing bills into a suitcase."
"Did you check into that automobile accident Laxter had?" Mason asked.
"Yes. He was crowded into a telephone pole, just as he said—some drunken driver whipped around a corner."
"Any witnesses?"
"A few people heard the crash."
"Get their names?" Mason asked.
"Yes. They saw the tracks where Laxter had put on his brakes and skidded. They say he was on his s
ide of the road at the time. He seemed excited, but perfectly sober."
"Where had he been before that?"
Drake said slowly, "I'm checking on that, Perry. When the police first talked with him they were investigating the death of Peter Laxter, the grandfather, and later on the death of Ashton, the caretaker. Laxter had a perfectly good alibi on Ashton's death. He'd left the house about nine o'clock and hadn't returned. Ashton was murdered between ten and eleven."
Mason nodded.
"Later on, Shuster did the talking. He gives Laxter an alibi."
"He does?"
Drake nodded. "Shuster says Laxter was in his office."
"Talking about what?"
"Shuster refuses to state."
"What a sweet alibi that is," Mason said scornfully.
"Wait a minute, Perry, I think it checks."
"How?"
"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur, had been with Laxter. He drove him up to Shuster's office. Around eleven o'clock. Laxter told Brandon to take the car and go on home; that he'd come later. Brandon took the green Pontiac back to the house. That's when he saw Keene. It was shortly after eleven."
Mason started pacing the detective's office, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head thrust forward. At length, he said, in the mumbling monotone of one who is thinking out loud, "Laxter, then, left the house with Jim Brandon in the green Pontiac, but he returned in Ashton's Chevvy. How the hell did he get that Chevvy?"
Drake stiffened to attention. "That's a thought," he said.
Mason said slowly, "Paul, put out a bunch of men to cover the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived. Talk with all the inmates. See if any of them noticed the Chevvy parked anywhere near the apartment house."
Drake pulled a pad of paper toward him and scribbled a memorandum.
"That would make a swell break," he said, "but it would take more than that to make Sam Laxter the fall guy. You see, the person who murdered Ashton must have killed him between ten and eleven. Then he must have taken Ashton's crutch with him and sawed it up into sections. Then he must have gone to Edith DeVoe's place. Now, if Sam Laxter can prove he was in Shuster's office…"
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