Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

“What gave you that impression?” Drake asked.

“Letters badly out of line, a faint ribbon which looked as though it had dried out from lack of use, dirt in the loops of the e’s and the a’s, a few strike-overs and cross-outs, poor spacing of the letter on the sheet of paper, and irregularities in the letters which indicated a ragged touch. However, Tragg will have seen all that almost at a glance, so don’t waste too much time on the letter. There’s no use duplicating the police effort, and we can’t expect to engage in competition with them on the things they’ll be covering.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll...”

Della Street said, “The phone keeps ringing in the outer office. Hear that peculiar buzzing sound? That’s the way the switchboard sounds when the lines are out and someone’s ringing on the main line. It’s been doing that at intervals for the past five minutes.”

Mason glanced at his watch, said, “On a hunch, Della, see who it is.”

She got up and went through to the outer office and in a few minutes came running back.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“Helen Kendal. Someone broke into the house and shot her boyfriend — the one who’s on leave from the Army. She notified the police and called for a taxicab. She’s at the hospital now. They’re operating, on a desperate chance. They don’t expect him to live through the operation. She’s been calling for the last five minutes.”

Mason nodded to Paul Drake. “Let’s go, Paul.”

Drake shook his head. “ You go. By the time you get there, Lieutenant Tragg will have things sewed up so tight you’ll have to pay admission to get within a block of the place. I’ll put in the time working these other angles while Tragg’s busy out there.”

Mason said, “There may be something to that.”

“This new development will keep him occupied,” Drake said, “and leave my hands free.”

Mason was struggling into his overcoat. “Want to come, Della?”

“Try holding me back.”

Drake looked at Mason, with his peculiar, lopsided smile twisting his features. “Where was your client when this last bit of shooting took place?” he asked.

Mason looked at his wrist watch, narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he made a rapid mental calculation, and said, “That’s one of the first things Lieutenant Tragg is going to ask. For all I know, he’s asking it right now — and getting an answer. And, as I figure out the time element, my client could have made it back to the house in time to do the shooting.”

The big, old-fashioned house in which Franklin B. Shore had reigned as a financial power was lighted from cellar to garret. Two police cars were parked in the driveway. Under the contagion of excitement, adjoining houses showed lighted windows, mostly in the upper stories, and these oblongs of light, in a neighborhood which was otherwise wrapped in slumber and darkness, held in themselves a certain portent of tragedy.

Mason drove past the house twice, then parked his car on the opposite side of the street and said to Della Street, “I’ll make a preliminary survey. Do you want to sit here in the car?”

“Okay.”

“Keep your eyes open. If you see anything suspicious, strike a match and light a cigarette. Otherwise, don’t smoke. When you strike the match, hold it for a second close to the windshield, then cup your hands and bring it up to the cigarette. It won’t do any harm to let the first match go out and strike a second, just in case I’m where I don’t get your first signal.”

“Are you going up to the house?”

“Eventually. I want to snoop around the yard first.”

“Want me to go in with you when you do make the house?”

“I’ll let you know. I want to check up here first. Notice that window over on the north side of the house, the one on the ground floor. It’s wide open and the curtains aren’t drawn. I saw the light from a flash bulb on the inside of that room just now. It looks as though they were photographing the window. That’s significant.”

Della Street settled down in the car. “I suppose Tragg’s already on the job in person.”

“Oh, sure.”

“And your client, Gerald Shore?”

“May have walked right into the middle of things,” Mason said. “I hope he has sense enough not to give them his alibi.”

“What is his alibi?” Della Street asked.

“He was with us — I hope, I hope.”

She said, “I don’t think we’ve ever furnished an alibi for a client, have we?”

“No. That’s why I hope he keeps his mouth shut.”

“Wouldn’t Tragg accept your word?”

“Tragg might, but put yourself in the position of someone in a jury box. A lawyer comes into court defending a man charged with one murder. Another murder gets linked up with him. He says, ‘At that time I was with my lawyer’, and the lawyer who is defending him, and his secretary, get on the stand and glibly try to prove the alibi. Doesn’t look very well, does it?”

She shook her head. “Not to a jury it wouldn’t.”

“That is why the better lawyers withdraw from a case when they have to be witnesses,” Mason said.

“You mean you’d withdraw if you had to make an alibi for Shore?”

“I wouldn’t want to be both a witness and an attorney in a case.”

“ I could be a witness.”

“We’ll talk it over later,” Mason said, and buttoning his overcoat against the chill of the night wind which was sweeping down from the northeast, walked diagonally across the street toward the lighted house.

Della Street watched him through the windshield of the car, her eyes darting about, searching the shadows. As Mason neared the yard and started to cut across the strip of lawn, Della saw the motion of a shadow near the hedge.

Mason had turned so that he was facing the window on the north. The shadow was moving toward him.

Della Street hurriedly lit a match. Mason, with his back to her, didn’t notice the signal. Della reached to the dashboard and switched the headlights on and off, twice.

Mason turned, then — too late.

Della Street, rolling down the window of the car, could hear the conversation.

“Mr. Mason?”

Only one who had been intimately associated with Perry Mason for years would have noticed anything unusual in his voice as he said, “Yes. This is Mr. Mason. Why?”

The man moved forward.

“Lieutenant Tragg wants to see you. He said you’d probably be along and for me to keep an eye out for you.”

Mason’s laugh was hearty. “My compliments to Lieutenant Tragg. When do we see him?”

“Now.”

“Where?”

“Inside.”

Mason linked his arm through that of the officer. “It’s a little chilly outside, anyway. Care for a cigar?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

They marched up the steps and into the house.

Della Street settled back against the cushions of the automobile.

Lights in the hallway beat into the lawyer’s eyes, so that he squinted against the sudden glare. A plain-clothes officer, seated by the door, got to his feet.

“Tell Tragg Mr. Mason’s here.”

The guard looked curiously at Mason and said, “Okay,” and vanished.

Mason’s escort held a match to the cigar, tilted his hat back on his head.

“We stay here,” he said. “I don’t think the lieutenant would like to have you rubbering around the house until he’s ready to talk with you.”

Mason heard the sound of quick steps. Tragg came through the door which opened from the living room.

“Well, well. Mason,” he said, “nice of you to call! I wanted to talk with you. Called your office but you weren’t there.”