The Case of the Caretaker's Cat пм-6

by Эрл Стенли Гарднер

  "If that's the sketch," Mason interrupted, "and Brandon saw Douglas Keene leaving the house carrying the cat, where was Ashton's crutch? Douglas Keene wasn't carrying it with him."

  Drake nodded thoughtfully. "That's so," he admitted, "but, of course, Keene could have tossed the crutch out the window that was always left open for the cat, then driven by in his car and picked it up. I tell you, Perry, you've got a tough case here. If Keene doesn't get in touch with you, it's going to put you in a spot. If he surrenders himself, circumstantial evidence is going to hang him in spite of all you can do."

  The telephone rang. Drake answered it, and said, "For you, Perry."

  Della Street was on the line. Her voice was excited.

  "Come on up quick, Chief," she pleaded. "I've just heard from Douglas Keene."

  "Where is he?" Mason asked.

  "He's at a public pay station. He's going to call back in five minutes."

  "Get a line on that stuff, Paul," he said, "and get it fast. I'm going to be on the move from now on." He dashed out of the office, climbed a flight of stairs and ran down the corridor to his own office. "Is he going to give himself up?" he asked Della Street as he rushed into his private office.

  "I think so. He seemed sullen, but I think he's okay."

  "Did you give him a good argument?"

  "I told him the truth. I told him you were doing everything on earth for him and that he simply couldn't let you down."

  "What did he say?"

  "He sort of grunted, the way a man does when he's going to do what a girl wants him to but doesn't want to let her think she's having her own way."

  Mason groaned, and said, "My God, you women!"

  The telephone rang.

  "Wait a minute before you answer it," Della Street said. "Do you know who's hanging around the street by the office?"

  "Who?"

  "Your little playmate—Sergeant Holcomb."

  Mason frowned. The telephone rang again.

  "Serious?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, "they'll try to arrest him before he can surrender and claim they nabbed him as a fugitive from justice, and…"

  He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello."

  A man's voice said, "This is Douglas Keene, Mr. Mason."

  Mason's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  "Where are you now?"

  "Out at Parkway and Seventh Streets."

  "Have you got a wristwatch?" Mason asked.

  "Yes."

  "What time does it show?"

  "Thirteen minutes to eleven."

  "Make it closer than that. How are you on seconds? Say 'thirty' when it's twelve minutes and thirty seconds to eleven."

  "I've passed that," Keene said. "I'll say eleven when it's just exactly eleven minutes to eleven."

  "Be sure and call it right on the dot," Mason said, "because…"

  "Eleven!" Douglas Keene interrupted.

  Perry Mason held his watch in his hand. "All right," he said, "you're about twentyfive seconds slow, as compared with my time. But don't change your watch. I'll change my watch so it'll be even with yours. Now, listen, they're going to tail me when I leave the place, hoping I'll lead them to you. You walk down toward my office and stand on the corner of Seventh—that's just west of my office building—you know where that is?"

  "Yes."

  "At exactly ten minutes past eleven," Mason said, "walk out to the corner and catch the first eastbound street car that comes down Seventh Street. Pay your fare, but don't go inside the car. Stand right by the conductor where you can get off the car when I give you the word. I'll get aboard that car, but won't recognize you or speak to you in any way. A girl will drive right alongside the car in a convertible coupe with the rumble seat open. She'll be going at the same rate of speed the car's going. It may be a block or it may be two blocks after I get aboard, but when I yell, 'Jump, you make a jump for that rumble seat. Can you do it?"

  "Sure I can do it."

  "Okay, Douglas, can I depend on you?"

  "Yes, you can," the young man said in a voice which had lost its sullen tone. "I guess I've made a damn fool of myself. I'll play ball with you."

  "Okay," Mason said. "Remember, ten minutes past eleven."

  He hung up the telephone, grabbed his hat and said to Della Street, "You heard what I told him. Can you do it?"

  Della Street was adjusting her hat in front of the mirror. "And how!" she said. "Do I leave first?"

  "No, I leave first," Mason said.

  "And you don't want me to get the car out until after you've reached the corner?"

  "That's right. Holcomb will tail me. If he thinks I've got a car, Holcomb will use a car. He'll have one parked somewhere near here. If he thinks I'm walking, he'll walk."

  "What'll he do when you take the street car?"

  "I don't know. How's your wristwatch?"

  "I was listening over the extension telephone. I synchronized it with his."

  "Good girl. Let's go."

  Mason ran down the corridor, caught the elevator and I managed to give the appearance of strolling casually as he crossed the lobby of the building and reached the street. The thoroughfare was well crowded. Mason took the precaution of glancing hastily over his shoulder, but saw no sign of Sergeant Holcomb. He knew, however, that the Sergeant was on his trail. The officer was too old a hand at the game to crowd his quarry too closely, particularly at the start.

  Mason walked half a block up the street, paused in front of a store, looked at his watch, frowned, and looked in a show window, ostensibly trying to kill time. After a minute, he looked again at his wristwatch, then turned to look up and down the street. He walked a few aimless steps, lit a cigarette, took two puffs, threw the cigarette away and looked at his watch for the third time.

  In the street, directly opposite from the place where Mason was standing, was a safety zone. Mason walked aimlessly toward the corner, as though he had a few minutes to kill.

  His wristwatch showed eleventen.

  Mason watched the signals a block away. A street car came through the signal, rumbled slowly down the block, and came to a stop at the safety zone. The signal changed so it was against the car. Mason acted as though he intended to cross the street, and then, as though changing his mind, paused, undecided. The signal changed. The motorman clanged the bell of the car and sent it across the intersection. As the car rolled past him, Mason swung aboard the rear platform. Douglas Keene was standing by the conductor.

  Mason heard the sound of running feet. Sergeant Holcomb, sprinting, just managed to catch the car as it gathered headway. Della Street, driving Mason's convertible coupe with the top down, was coming just behind the street car, holding a line of traffic behind her. As soon as Holcomb boarded the car, Della Street shot the automobile forward, so that the rumble seat was just even with the place where Keene was standing.

  "Jump!" shouted Mason.

  Keene made a leap for the rumble seat, landed on the cushions, clutched at the top of the car. Mason jumped to the runningboard and clung to the back of the front seat with one hand and the well of the rumble seat with the other. Sergeant Holcomb, who had dropped his fare into the box in front of the conductor, shouted, "Stop! You're under arrest!"

  "Give it the gun, Della," Mason said, "and cut in front of the street car."

  Della Street 's shapely foot pushed the throttle against the floorboards. The car leapt forward. Mason flung one leg over the side of the car and got into the rumble seat.

  "Police headquarters," he said to Della, "and give it everything it's got."

  Della Street didn't even bother to nod. She cut the corner in a screaming turn. A traffic officer raised a whistle but she was halfway down the block by the time the first blast echoed through the street. Her right palm pressed down on the horn as she drove with her left hand.

  Mason paid no attention whatever to the traffic, but concentrated his attention on Douglas Keene.

  "Tell me about it," he said, "and don't waste words
. Put your lips up close to my ear and shout, because I've got to hear every word you say. Give me just the highlights."

  "Edith DeVoe telephoned me. She'd already told me about finding Sam in the car pumping exhaust fumes into the pipe. She wanted me to come out at once and see her. She said something important had developed. I went out. I rang her doorbell, and there was no answer, but the manager of the apartment house was just coming out. I started to go in through the door as he opened it, and he stopped me and asked me who I was and whom I wanted to see. I told him I had an appointment with Edith DeVoe, and kept right on going. He hesitated for a minute and then went on out. I went down the corridor to Edith DeVoe's room. She was lying on the floor. There was a club near her, and…"

  "Yes, yes," shouted Mason. "Never mind that. What happened next?"

  "I went directly to my apartment. Someone had been there before me. A suit of mine was spattered with blood. I didn't notice it right away."

  "That was after you'd taken the cat to Winifred?"

  "Yes, I left Winifred and went to my apartment. That was where I got Edith DeVoe's message."

  "And you went from your apartment to see Edith?"

  "That's right."

  "How long after you got back to your apartment did you notice your suit had blood on it?"

  "Almost at once."

  "Then what did you do?"

  "It was a nightmare. I tried to get rid of the bloodstains and couldn't."

  "Why didn't you call the officers when you saw Edith DeVoe had been murdered?"

  "I just lost my head, that's all. I was afraid they'd try to pin it on me. I was shocked and frightened. I just ran away. Then when I saw my clothes all spattered with blood… Ugh! It was a nightmare!"

  "Did you kill Ashton?"

  "Of course not; I didn't even see him."

  "Did you go to the house to get the cat?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you in Ashton's room?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you look around any?"

  The man hesitated. Della Street swung the car to avoid a truck. The car swerved out of control, lurched toward a telephone pole. Della Street fought with the steering wheel. Perry Mason gave but a passing glance to the road ahead as Della struggled to get the car back under control, leaned close to Douglas Keene's ear and said, "Did you look around any while you were in the room?"

  Keene hesitated.

  "Go on and answer."

  "Yes, I was looking for something."

  "What?"

  "Evidence."

  "Evidence of what?"

  "I don't know; I thought there was something fishy in the way Ashton had been spending money. I was just looking around. Jim Brandon hinted Ashton had the diamonds in his crutch."

  "Did you wear gloves or did you leave fingerprints?"

  "I must have left fingerprints."

  "Now, look here, Keene, wasn't Ashton there? Wasn't he dead? Aren't you trying to cover up something?"

  "No," Keene said, "he wasn't there. I'm telling you the truth."

  "You left before he came in?"

  "So help me, Mr. Mason, that's the truth."

  Della Street had the car back under control. Street intersections whizzed by in flashes. She braked the car for a turn.

  "Don't tell anyone what you've told me," Mason said. "You're going to surrender at police headquarters. Refuse to talk unless I'm with you. You've got to do that in order to protect Winifred. If you so much as open your mouth, Winifred is going to become involved. Can you keep quiet for her sake?"

  The youth nodded.

  The car skidded as Della Street made the turn, slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop in front of police headquarters. Mason grabbed Keene by the arm, rushed him out of the car and up the steps. As they were about to enter, a commandeered automobile screeched to a stop at the curb and Sergeant Holcomb, with a gun in his right hand, jumped from the car and sprinted after them. Mason rushed Keene down the corridor to a door marked "Homicide Squad," kicked it open and said casually to the man at the desk, "This is Douglas Keene. He's surrendering himself into custody, in accordance with the understanding I had…"

  The door burst open. Sergeant Holcomb tore into the room.

  "I've got you this time," he said to Perry Mason.

  "For what?" Mason inquired.

  "Resisting arrest."

  "I didn't resist arrest."

  "I was trying to arrest this man and you took him away from me; I don't give a damn if you did take him to headquarters. I had him arrested before you took him here."

  "You can't arrest a man," Mason said, "until you've actually taken him into custody. After you've taken him into custody, he can escape, but there can't be any arrest until the man is in custody."

  "But you helped him beat it so I couldn't make the arrest. I'm going to get you for that."

  Mason smiled, and said, "You overlook one thing, Sergeant. A private citizen can make an arrest when a felony has in fact been committed and he has reasonable ground to believe that the person he is arresting is the one who committed the felony. I put Douglas Keene under arrest."

  Sergeant Holcomb pushed the gun back into his holster. The officer behind the desk said, "Take it easy, Sergeant. Mason has surrendered him."

  Sergeant Holcomb turned without a word and pushed out of the door. A newspaper reporter came running into the room. He grabbed Mason by the arm. "Do I get an interview with Keene?" he asked.

  "Certainly," Mason told him. "I can tell you exactly what Douglas Keene will say, and all he will say. He will say that it is remarkably nice weather we are having for this time of year, and that is all, my dear boy, absolutely all."

  Chapter 15

  Perry Mason was chuckling as Della Street drove the automobile toward his office. "Turn to the left at Fifth Street, Della," he said, "and go straight to the Union Depot."

  "The Union Depot?" she asked.

  He nodded. "The office is going to be too hot—you know, too many newspaper men, cops, detectives, district attorneys, and what have you. I want to use the telephone, and I'll go down to the depot while you're packing up."

  She deftly avoided a jaywalking pedestrian, and gave Mason a sidelong glance. "What do you mean, while I'm packing up?"

  "A couple of suitcases," he said, "a light airplane trunk if you have one."

  "I have one."

  "All of your party clothes. You're going to stay at an exclusive hotel, and I want you to put on a good show—act the part, you know."

  "What's going to be my part?"

  "A bride."

  "The man in the case?" she inquired, as she slid the car to a stop when a traffic signal turned against her.

  "He will only appear long enough to be very suddenly called back to town, interfering with his honeymoon most materially."

  She was facing him now with calm, steady eyes, in which there was a mischievous light. "And who is the husband going to be?"

  He bowed. "Unaccustomed as I am to honeymoons, I shall do my best to act the part of an awkward groom during the few minutes between the time we register and when I am called back to town upon most urgent business."

  Her eyes dwelt upon his profile. Ahead of her a traffic light flashed from red to orange, through orange to green and was unheeded. Behind her a chorus of protesting horns sought to call her to her senses. Her voice was vibrant. "You always believe in acting a part perfectly," she said. "Would it be natural for a newlywed husband to interrupt his honeymoon?…"

  The growing protest of blaring horns suddenly called her attention to the fact that the traffic on her right was streaming by, while the traffic on the left and directly behind her, being blocked by the car she drove, was expressing its sentiment with all of the impatience which a modern automobile horn is capable of registering.

  "Oh, well," she said with whimsical philosophy, as she snapped her eyes back to the road and saw the green light of the traffic signal, "how are those poor fishes behind me going to know I'm a bride just starti
ng on a honeymoon?"

  She kicked the gear in, stepped on the throttle, and sent the convertible shooting across the intersection with such speed that she was half way down the block before some of the protesting drivers had fully awakened to the fact that the cause of their protests had departed, and only their own sluggish reactions were holding up the stream of traffic.

  Mason lit a cigarette, offered it to her. She took it, and he lit another for himself. "I'm sorry," he said, "to wish this on you, Della, but you're the only one I know whom I can trust."

  "On a honeymoon?" she asked dryly.

  "On a honeymoon," he answered tonelessly.

  She snapped the wheel savagely, making the tires scream as the car slid around to the left and headed toward the Union Depot.

  "You don't necessarily need to collect any traffic tickets en route," he observed.

  "Shut up," she told him. "I want to collect my thoughts. To hell with the traffic tickets."

  She sped down the street, deftly avoiding the vehicles, slid to a stop in front of the Union Depot.

  "I meet you here?" she asked.

  "Yes," he told her, "with plenty of baggage."

  "Okay, Chief."

  He left the car, walked around the hood, took off his hat and stood for a moment by the curb. She sat very straight in the seat. Her skirts, well elevated to allow free action of her legs and feet in driving the car, showed her legs to advantage. Her chin was up, her eyes slightly defiant. She smiled into his face. "Anything else?" she asked.

  "Yes," he said, "you'll have to practice your best honeymoon manners, and quit calling me Chief."

  "Okay," she said…"Darling," and, leaning forward, pressed her mouth close to his surprised lips. Then, before he could move, she had shot back the clutch, stepped on the throttle and whizzed away from the curb like a bullet, leaving Perry Mason standing on the curb blinking with surprise, lipstick showing on his lips.

  Mason heard a chuckle from a newsboy. He grinned rather sheepishly, wiped the lipstick from his mouth, and strode toward the telephone booth.