Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

“Let me see where the cat scratched you,” she demanded.

“It wasn’t the kitten’s fault, Aunt Matilda. I was playing with it, and holding out a piece of paper for it to jump at. I didn’t realize that I was holding it so far from the floor. Amber Eyes just tried to hang on, that’s all.”

Aunt Matilda glared at the scratched hand.

“I heard somebody talking a while ago. Who was it?”

“Jerry.” Helen tried her best not to say it defensively, but Aunt Matilda’s eyes were too much for her. “He only stayed a few minutes.”

“So I noticed.” It was clear that Aunt Matilda took a grim pleasure in the brevity of the visit. “You might as well make up your mind to it, Helen. It’s quite plain that he’s made up his. He has sense enough to see he can’t possibly marry you. And it’s a good thing for you that he can’t. You’re just fool enough to do it if he asked you to.”

“Just exactly fool enough,” Helen said.

“Meaning you aren’t a fool at all.” Aunt Matilda sniffed. “That’s what fools always think. It’s lucky for you that what you think doesn’t matter. He’s the worst possible type for a girl like you. He’s a man’s man. He’ll never be any good to a woman. That padlocked, shut-mouthed repression of his would drive you mad. You’ve got enough of it for two, yourself. I’ve been married twice and I know what I’m talking about. The only sort of man you’ll ever be happy with is somebody like George Alber, who—”

“Who leaves me absolutely cold,” Helen said.

“He wouldn’t if you saw more of him. If you’d get rid of this ridiculous idea that you’re in love with Jerry Templar and mustn’t be even civil to any other man. When even you can’t possibly be fool enough not to see that he can’t marry you on his private’s pay. When—”

“Jerry won’t be a private much longer,” Helen said. “They’re sending him to an officers’ training camp.”

“What of it? When he gets his commission — if he gets it — he’ll only be shipped off to the ends of the earth and—”

“He’ll be at the camp first.” Helen spoke quickly, before Aunt Matilda could say anything about what would happen afterward. Helen wasn’t letting herself think about that. “He’ll be there for months, and I could be there, too, or somewhere near by. Near enough for us to see each other sometimes.”

“I see.” Aunt Matilda’s voice was heavily ironic. “You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?

She stopped. “I see. Gerald’s been talking to you. He’s made you think he can make me give you the money Franklin left you. Well, you can put that idea out of your head. That money isn’t due you till Franklin’s dead. And he’s no more dead than I am. He’s alive. One of these days he’ll come crawling back, begging me to forgive him.”

She laughed, as if the words were comic. Helen suddenly understood, for the first time, why Aunt Matilda clung so fiercely to her belief that Franklin Shore was alive. She hated him too bitterly to bear the thought of his having gone beyond hatred’s power to follow. She had one dream left and she lived on it, and in it — the dream of his coming back. Coming back for the only reasons that could drive him back. Old. Alone. Beaten. In want. For her to take payment from him in kind and in full for what he had done to her.

Komo, the houseboy, appearing silently from nowhere, stood in the doorway. “Excuse pleassse,” he said.

Matilda said, “What is it now, Komo? The door’s open. Come in. And don’t be so damned pussyfooting when you walk.”

The houseboy’s dark glittering eyes surveyed Matilda Shore. “Party on telephone, pleassse,” he said. “Statement made that call is most important.”

“All right. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Receiver is left down on extension in your bedroom,” Komo announced, and turned to walk back down the corridor with quick, light steps.

Helen said, “Aunt Matilda, why don’t you get rid of that houseboy? I don’t trust him.”

“Perhaps you don’t. I do.”

“He’s Japanese.”

“Nonsense. He’s Korean. He hates the Japanese.”

“He may say he’s Korean, but that’s just...”

“He’s been saying so for twelve years.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like a Korean to me. He looks like a Japanese, he acts like a Japanese, and...”

“Ever know any Koreans?” Aunt Matilda interrupted.

“Well, no — not exactly, but...”

“Komo is a Korean,” Matilda said positively, and turning, walked back to her bedroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

Helen returned to the living room. Her hand smarted from the scratches and the sting of the disinfectant. The kitten was nowhere in evidence. Helen sat down and tried to read, but her mind refused to concentrate on the printed page.

After some fifteen minutes, she tossed the magazine to one side, sat back and closed her eyes. The kitten, appearing from nowhere, seemed properly apologetic as it rubbed, purring, against her ankles. At length it jumped up on the arm of her chair. Its rough tongue scraped against the skin of her arm.

Helen heard the telephone ringing, heard Komo’s light steps as he went to answer it, then he was standing beside her chair as though he had silently materialized from thin air.

“Excussse, please. This time, call for Missy.”

Helen walked out to the reception hallway where the telephone was located. She picked up the receiver, wondering if this might not be Jerry calling to... “Hello,” she said, her voice eager.

“Hello,” she said, her voice eager.

The voice which came over the telephone wire was quavering with some emotion. “Is this Helen Kendal?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You don’t know who this is?”

“No,” Helen almost snapped. People who rang up and asked her to guess who was calling irritated her.

The voice seemed a little stronger now, more steady. “Be very careful what you say that might be overheard. You remember your Uncle Franklin?”

Helen’s mouth was suddenly very dry. “Yes, yes, but...”

“This is your Uncle Franklin.”

“I don’t believe it. He’s...”

“No, Helen, I’m not dead.” The voice broke with emotion. “I’m very much alive.”

“But...”

“I don’t blame you for not believing it. You’d know me if you saw me again, wouldn’t you?”

“Why, I... why, yes — of course.”

The man’s voice went on more firmly now. “You remember the time the dog chased the kitten up on the roof of the house? You begged me to get him down, and I took a ladder and climbed up. Remember the New Year’s party when you wanted to try the punch and your Aunt Matilda told you you couldn’t, and you sneaked some in the pantry, anyway? Remember how I followed you up to your room and talked to you until you developed a laughing jag — and how I never told anyone — not even your Aunt Matilda — about it?”

Helen felt a peculiar tingling sensation around the hair at the back of her neck.

“Yes,” she said in a voice which was hardly more than a whisper.

“Now do you believe me, Helen?”

“Uncle Frank...”

“Careful! Don’t mention my name. Is your aunt at home?”

“Yes.”

“She mustn’t know that I’ve called. No one must know. Do you understand?”

“Why, I... why... No, I don’t understand.”

“There is only one way to straighten things out. You’ll have to help me.”

“I?”

“Yes.”

“What can I do?”

“You can do something that no one else can do. Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Perry Mason?”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“I want you to see him this afternoon, tell him the entire story so he’ll know the facts. Tonight at nine o’clock I want you to bring him to the Castle Gate Hotel. You know where that is?”