Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

“The lights,” Helen said, and darted past Jerry’s side to reach for the light switch.

He grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t be a fool. Keep out of this. Tell me...”

A stabbing spurt of flame came from the dark corner near the head of Matilda’s bed. A bluishred spurt of flame that was ringed with orange. The report of the gun boomed through the confines of the room.

She heard the bullet smack against the door jamb, even as a swift whisper of air brushed her face. She saw the drab darkness of the wood burst into lighter colored splinters as the wood beneath the aged exterior was ripped into view by the bullet. She felt the blast of fine particles of wood and plaster stinging her skin.

Jerry had her shoulder then, was jerking her back, shielding her body with his own.

The gun roared again.

That second bullet hit with a meaty “smok” against something at her side. She felt Jerry’s body, close to hers, spin around in a quick half circle. His hand was reaching out, clutching. Then she was frantically trying to support a dead weight. His legs buckled and he went crashing to the floor, taking her with him.

Mason, getting into his own car, waved good night to Gerald Shore, watched the tail-light on his client’s car disappear, then started his own motor.

“Whew!” Della Street exclaimed. “You certainly pick cases! If Lieutenant Tragg ever uncovers those facts... Good night!”

Mason grinned. “There’s only one way to keep him from uncovering those facts.”

“What’s that?”

“Give him so many other facts to uncover he won’t have time to bother with these.”

“That will only hold him back for a while,” she pointed out.

“It’s the best we can do — now.”

Mason swung his car into Hollywood Boulevard, drove halfway to Los Angeles.

“I guess the time has come to call in Paul Drake,” he decided.

Della sighed. “More overhead! What do you need a private detective for? Couldn’t I do it?”

“No, you could not.”

“Well, Paul’s out anyway. He’s taking this week off and he swore that he wouldn’t go to the office or take on any job for love or money.”

“The devil! I’d forgotten.”

“You’ll have to get one of his operatives. That sweet little guy who looks like a Bedlington terrier is good. What’s his name?”

“He won’t do,” Mason said decidedly. “I need Paul.”

“He’ll just hang up on you if you call him. You know Paul.”

“Yeah, I know Paul. I guess you’re right. He’d just dust me off.”

They cruised on down the Boulevard.

“Is it really important, Perry?”

“What?”

“Getting Drake.”

“Yes.”

Della Street sighed resignedly. “All right, pull up by that all-night lunch counter ahead, and if they’ve got a telephone booth, I’ll see what I can do for you.”

“You? What makes you think you can get Paul out of bed in the middle of the night if I can’t?”

Della’s eyes dropped demurely. “You just don’t know how to appeal to Paul’s higher instincts,” she murmured. “I don’t say I can make him work , but if I can get him down to the office you ought to be able to handle him from then on.”

Perry Mason stopped in front of the lunch counter, and followed Della in. She looked around, frowning.

“Go ahead and do your stuff,” Mason said. “I’ll order us something to eat.”

Della shook her head. “This joint won’t do.”

“What’s the matter? It looks clean enough.”

“There’s no telephone booth.”

“There’s a phone on the wall over there, stupid.”

“What I’ve got to say to Paul calls for a booth, ” Della drawled. “A wall telephone won’t do. Come on, we’ll have to try somewhere else.”

A few blocks farther on Mason stopped the car again in front of a brilliantly lighted diner. He looked in through plate windows at the interior, shining with chromium and glass, and locked the car.

“We’re eating here whether there’s a telephone booth or not. I’m hungry.”

Inside the door, Mason pointed to the telephone booth and headed for the counter.

“Ham and eggs and coffee for me,” she called after him.

Mason said to the man behind the counter, “Two orders of ham and eggs. Keep the eggs straight up and fry them easy. Plenty of French-fried potatoes. Lots of hot coffee, and you might make up two cheeseburger sandwiches on the side.”

Five minutes later Della Street joined Mason at the counter.

“Get him?” Perry demanded.

“Yes, I got him.”

“Is he coming down to the office?”

“He’s coming down to the office — in thirty minutes.”

“Swell. Say, what’s the matter with your face? You haven’t got a fever, have you?”

“I’m blushing, you lug! I’ll never do that again, even for you. I want my coffee now.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Perry Mason said softly.

The man drew two steaming cups of fragrant, golden-brown coffee, and slid them across the counter.

“You’ll like that,” he said. “Best grade I can buy. I make it in small quantities and keep it fresh.”

They perched themselves on stools, placed elbows on the counter, sipped coffee, and watched the food cooking on the gas plate, the appetizing odor of frying ham swirling past their nostrils.

“Now tell me why you need Paul Drake,” Della said.

Mason said, “I need a lot of facts dug out before Tragg closes the case with a lot of half truths.”

“Do you think Shore was telling you only half truths?”

Mason thoughtfully regarded the steaming surface of the coffee in his cup. “He was telling us the truth as he sees it. But he was seeing only a part of the picture. There’s nothing so deadly as a case built on circumstantial evidence composed of half truths.”

The cook slid hot, thick platters across the counter. Generous slices of ham, the golden yellow of fried eggs, and the rich brown of French-fried potatoes furnished a tempting visual background for the odors which came drifting up.

“We eat,” Mason said, “and do our thinking afterwards.”

“Your cheeseburgers are coming right along,” the man promised, picking up the toasted buns, putting the fillings in them, spreading them thickly with white, chopped onions. “Do you want mustard?”

“Lots of it,” Mason said.

They ate silently, concentrating on their food.

Della Street pushed her coffee cup across the counter for a refill.

“Why did Matilda Shore try to keep Lieutenant Tragg from knowing someone had poisoned her?”

“Quite evidently because there’s some connection between that and the poisoned kitten.”

“Was it an attempt on her life?”

“Looks that way.”

“Any ideas?” Della asked.

“It depends on the time element. Apparently the stout was kept in an icebox.”

“What makes you think it was?”

“Wouldn’t go flat so quickly after it was opened and poisoned. Probably she keeps several bottles in an icebox.”

“How did the poisoner make certain she was going to take the poisoned drink if she keeps several bottles on hand?”

“Probably by poisoning the nearest one — or perhaps by poisoning several.”

Mason shoved a five-dollar bill across the counter and looked at his wrist watch.

The attendant at the lunch counter made change. “More coffee, yes?”

“About half a cup,” Mason said. “That’s all I have time for.” He pushed back twenty-five cents out of the change, scooped the rest into his pocket, said, “Mighty good grub. We’ll be back again sometime.”

“In a hurry?” the attendant asked.

“Uh huh.”