Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

Mason nodded.

“Now then,” Tragg said turning to the others, “what was it Mason told you not to tell me about?”

Mason said, “What makes you think...”

Tragg silenced him by holding up his hand. He kept his eyes on Helen Kendal. “All right, Miss Kendal, I’ll ask you. What was it?”

In a loud, droning voice Della Street started in reciting, “‘Will you come into my Parlor,’ said the Spider to the Fly—”

“Stop that!” Tragg looked angry. “I’m asking Miss Kendal. Come on, Miss Kendal. What was it?”

Helen Kendal seemed embarrassed for a moment, then, looking straight at Lieutenant Tragg, said, “He told us to answer all your questions fairly and frankly.”

“That all?”

“He said not to waste your time by interpolating a lot of trivial little things.”

“Such as what?” Tragg asked, pouncing upon her answer with the alacrity of a cross-examiner who has found a weak point in the story of a witness.

Helen Kendal’s big, violet eyes were wide. “Such as the things you didn’t want to ask us about,” she said. “Mr. Mason said that you were very skillful and that you’d ask questions which would cover every single angle of the case about which you wanted information from us.”

Tragg’s face showed angry determination.

“And don’t think I won’t,” he promised grimly.

It was a good half hour before Lieutenant Tragg completed his searching questions. By that time, the men had finished their examination of the body and the car Tragg said wearily, “All right, you four stay right here in this automobile. I want to go back to that other car and check upon some things.”

Gerald Shore said, as Tragg moved away, “Rather a searching interrogation, it seemed to me. There was an element of cross-examination in it. He would almost seem to suspect our motives.”

Mason was soberly thoughtful as he said, “Tragg senses that there’s something else behind this. Naturally, he wants to know what that something else is.”

Shore said, very casually, “You didn’t suggest to me that I should withhold any information which might seem trivial from Lieutenant Tragg.”

“That’s right,” Mason conceded.

“What specifically did you have in mind, counselor?”

“Oh, minor matters — things which enter into the general background, but don’t seem particularly pertinent to the case.”

Shore asked, “Did you have some particular thing in mind?”

“Lots of little things,” Mason replied. “The poisoned cat, for instance.”

Helen Kendal’s quick inhalation betrayed her surprise. “Surely, Mr. Mason, you don’t think the poisoning of the cat has anything to do with this ?” and she motioned toward the parked sedan in which the body had been discovered.

Mason said suavely, “I was merely mentioning it to illustrate the trivia in which I felt Lieutenant Tragg wouldn’t be interested.”

“But I thought you said the thing you didn’t want us to tell him was...” She caught herself abruptly.

“Was what?” Gerald Shore asked.

“Oh, nothing.”

Shore looked at Mason suspiciously.

“I think the only thing I specifically mentioned,” Mason went on suavely, “was something that I suggested by way of illustration — just as I mentioned the poisoned cat just now.”

“What was the illustration that you used?” Shore asked.

Helen Kendal blurted out, “About you not going into the Castle Gate Hotel when we drove up there tonight.”

Gerald Shore’s body seemed wrapped in that rigid immobility which is the result of a conscious effort not to betray emotion. “What in the world would that have to do with it?”

Mason said, “That is just it, counselor. I mentioned it as one of those trivial details which might clutter up the case and unnecessarily prolong the examination of the witnesses. It’s in exactly the same category as the poisoning of the kitten.”

Shore cleared his throat, started to say something, then thought better of it, and lapsed into silence.

Lieutenant Tragg returned to the automobile, carrying a white cloth bundle.

“Open the car door,” he said to Mason. “Move over so I’ll have a place to put these things. Now, I don’t want anyone to touch any article here. I do want you to look at them carefully — but just look at them.”

He spread out the bundle, which proved to be a handkerchief upon which rested a gold watch, a penknife, a leather billfold and card case, a gold pencil, and a fountain pen encrusted with gold and on which initials had been engraved.

“I have some theories about these things,” Tragg said. “But I’m not going to tell you what they are. I want you to tell me if you’ve ever seen any of these before, if any of them look at all familiar.”

They leaned forward to stare down at the articles, Shore peering over Mason’s shoulder from the front seat of the automobile, Della Street and Helen Kendal leaning over the back of the front seat.

“They mean nothing to me,” Mason announced promptly.

“How about you, Shore?” Lieutenant Tragg asked.

Shore craned his neck, frowning thoughtfully.

Mason said, “He can’t see very well from that position, Lieutenant. Suppose I get out, so he can look at them more closely.”

“All right,” Tragg said, “but don’t touch any of the articles.”

“Is it in order to ask where you got them?” Mason inquired.

“They were done up in this handkerchief in a little bundle such as you see here, and were on the seat of the automobile beside the body.”

“Indeed.” Mason said, squirming around so that he could get out of the front door without brushing against any of the articles. “It’s all right to touch the handkerchief, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”

“Yes. We won’t get any fingerprints from the cloth.”

Mason fingered the handkerchief. “Good grade of linen,” he said. “A man’s handkerchief. Touch of rather a peculiar color, isn’t there. Lieutenant?”

“There may be.”

As Mason slid out of the door, Gerald Shore, leaning over, exclaimed, “Why, that’s my brother’s watch!”

“You mean Franklin Shore?” Lieutenant Tragg’s manner was tense.

“Yes,” Gerald said, his voice showing his excitement. “That’s his watch all right, and I believe... yes, that’s his fountain pen!”

“The initials ‘FBS’ are engraved on it,” Tragg said dryly. “It made me think perhaps it might have been your brother’s.”

“It is. It’s his.”

“How about the pencil?”

“I’m not certain about the pencil.”

“Or the billfold and card case?”

“I can’t help you there.”

“The knife?”

Gerald shook his head. “But that’s his watch all right.”

“Is the watch running?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Perhaps we could manipulate the handkerchief so we could look at the face of the watch.”

“It’s a plain, open-faced watch,” Tragg said. “But you’ll notice there’s a scroll on the back of the watch, a scroll made by the initials ‘FBS.’”

“Highly interesting,” Mason said. “We might look at the face of the watch to see whether it has any added significance.”

The lawyer picked up the handkerchief, moved it around so that the watch slowly turned over.

Mason glanced significantly at Della Street, closed one eye in a quick wink. Della Street promptly lowered her hands to the catch of her purse.

Mason said, “That’s interesting. A Waltham watch. There’s something written on the dial. What is it?... ” He bent over the handkerchief. “Hold that spotlight there just a moment if you will, Lieutenant.”