Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

Tragg waited until Komo had been escorted from the room to the kitchen. Then he turned to Mason.

“Mason,” he said, “I don’t like your attitude, nor that of your client.”

Mason grinned. “If we’re going to play a game of Truth, Lieutenant, it’s my turn. I don’t like the way you dragged me in here as though I were a second-story man.”

Tragg said, “And perhaps you won’t like what I’m going to do now any better. When my men checked on the Castle Gate Hotel, the clerk said there were three of you in there when the letter was received. Four of you went up to the mountain. Now, why didn’t one of your party want to go in the hotel? Just hold everything a moment.”

Tragg got up, walked out to the telephone in the hallway, leaving the door open behind him. He dialed a number, and after a moment said, “The Castle Gate Hotel? The night clerk?... This is Lieutenant Tragg, Homicide... That’s right... What time did you come on duty last night?... Six o’clock. All right, do you know a man named Gerald Shore?... Let me describe him. About sixty-two years, rather distinguished looking, a high forehead, clean-cut profile, five-feet-eight or eight and a half, weighs a hundred and sixty-five pounds, flowing gray hair which sweeps back from a high fore head, wearing a gray checked suit, a light blue shirt, and a blue-and-red necktie with a black pearl scarf pin... He was! When?... I see... For how long?... I’ll be up and see you within the next half hour. In the meantime, don’t talk with anyone about this.”

Tragg slammed up the telephone receiver and came back to stand where he could look from Gerald Shore to Perry Mason.

“I think I begin to see a very great light,” he said. “Perhaps, Mr. Shore, you will tell me why you went to the Castle Gate Hotel early this evening and waited — and waited — and waited.”

Gerald Shore calmly removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem toward Perry Mason. “He’s my lawyer.”

Tragg nodded. His smile was triumphant.

“Okay, Jerry,” he called to the guard in the hall, “Mr. Mason has got to go. If you see him hanging around remind him that he has an engagement elsewhere — until we meet again, counselor!” Then he held up his hand for attention. “And I’m telling everyone here that as soon as Franklin Shore is found I want him as a witness to testify before the grand jury — and you’ll all kindly remember that.”

Mason turned without a word and started for the front door and opened it. Tragg said to Gerald Shore, “This is going to be about your last chance to say something.”

Mason hesitated, listening for Shore’s reply.

“Have you got a match, Lieutenant?” Shore asked calmly.

The guard bustled Mason out to the front porch. The door slammed shut.

Another officer, evidently waiting to see that he left the grounds promptly, stepped up beside him. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“No need to.”

“Oh, I’d better. No telling what might happen around here tonight. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you , Mr. Mason.”

Perry walked down the driveway, the officer marching at his side. Peering across the street, he saw only the vacant curb. There was no sign of his automobile nor of Della Street. For a moment only, the lawyer was puzzled. He hesitated just enough to throw the officer out of step with him.

“What is it?” the officer asked.

“Little kink in my leg,” Mason said, walking toward the corner.

“Say, Mr. Mason! Your car’s on the other side. You’d better... Where the hell is your car?”

Mason said, “My chauffeur took it back to the office. I had an errand I wanted done.”

The officer looked at him suspiciously. “Where you goin’ now?”

“I’m going to take a walk — a long walk — to get some air. Would you like to come along?”

Said the officer, with feeling, “Hell, no!”

Mason’s unlisted telephone was ringing as he opened the door of his apartment. He switched on the lights, crossed over, picked up the receiver and said, “Let’s have it.”

It was Della Street. As soon as she started talking Perry realized that she was in a nervous funk and trying to cover up.

“Gosh, Chief, is that you?” She was off at the tempo of a pneumatic riveter exploding into action. “I think I may be violating the form, force and effect of the statutes in such cases made and provided, and my actions are probably against the peace and dignity of the People of the State of California. I guess I’ve graduated into a full-fledged criminal.”

“They tell me prison is a great experience,” Mason assured her. “You’ll learn a lot.”

Her laugh was high-pitched, and there was a catch in the middle of it.

“Paul Drake warned me that I’d wind up in jail if I went on working for you, but I was too stubborn to listen to him.”

“Well, you haven’t been sentenced yet. What have you done?”

“I’ve k-k-k-kidnaped a witness,” she wailed.

“Done what?”

“Snaked him right from under Lieutenant Tragg’s nose, and am holding him incommunicado.”

“Where?”

“In my automobile — or rather, your automobile.”

“Where are you?”

“At a service station about four blocks from your apartment.”

“Who’s the witness?”

“He’s sitting out in the car now. His name’s Lunk, and he...”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted, “what was the name?”

“Lunk. He’s the gardener out at the Shore place. And he’s the temporary custodian of the poisoned kitten.”

“How does he spell his name?”

“L-u-n-k. Thomas B. Lunk. That part’s on the up. I’ve already managed to get a look at his driver’s license.”

“What does he know?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I think it’s awfully important.”

“Why?”

“He got off a street car about two blocks from the house. It was just after that guard collared you and took you inside. I saw the street car come to a stop and this man get off. He’s an old, weather-beaten, outdoor type of man. He came hurrying toward the house. Occasionally he’d break into a run for a few steps. You could see he was in a great rush.”

“What did you do?”

“Followed a hunch,” she said, “started the car, and drove down a block to meet him, got out of the car and asked him if he was looking for the Shore residence.”

“Then what?” Mason asked, as she hesitated.

“I’d rather not tell you all this over the phone.”

“You’ve got to. At least the part that you don’t want him to hear.”

“Well, he was so excited he was stammering. He just kept nodding his head and couldn’t talk at first. Then he said he had to see Mrs. Shore right away. I turned on my best manner and asked him if he knew Mrs. Shore when he saw her — just sort of sparring for time and trying to find out what it was all about. He said then that he’d worked for her. That he’s the gardener who’s been with the place for twelve or thirteen years.”

“But doesn’t live there?” Mason asked.

“No. The address on his driving license is 642½ South Bilvedere. He says he lives in a little bachelor shack in back of a house. He used to live in a room over the garage up at the Shore place. Then he went down to live in this little shack.”

“What’s he know?”

“I don’t know. He was so excited he could hardly talk. He said he had to see her at once, that something had happened, and I told him that Mrs. Shore wasn’t at home, that I happened to know where she was and I could take him to see her. I got him in the car, drove away from the place, and then started stalling, pretending that I needed oil and gas, and then let the attendant at the service station here talk me into changing spark plugs. I told him that Mrs. Shore was where she couldn’t be disturbed right away, but that we could see her in fifteen or twenty minutes and I’d take him to her. All the time, of course, I kept calling up, hoping that you’d get a taxi and come in. When I didn’t hear anything from you, I bribed the service station attendant to let the air out of one of my tires and tell me that I had a puncture that had better be fixed right away. He got the tire off and kept fooling around with it. Now my boyfriend’s getting nervous and a little suspicious. I’ve got to let the attendant here put that tire back on, and you’ll have to get here in a rush.”