Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

Lunk fidgeted uneasily, said, “Last time the boss was down in Florida he ran on a guy who looked just like him. They had their pictures taken together, an’ this guy certainly was a ringer for the boss.

“Well, the boss kept kidding about it after he got back, said he was going to use this guy as a double when his wife had some of her social doings that he wanted to get out of. Mrs. Shore would get hopping mad every time he’d mention it.

“Now, I got an idea that the boss went down to Florida with this woman of his, and intended to educate this here double to go back and pretend he was Franklin Shore. This guy could live a swell life and send Franklin Shore money, and the boss could be happy with this woman he’d gone away with. Well, I think that after he’d sort of educated the guy, the bird got cold feet, or he may have died or somethin’.

“Get me? I think the boss was plannin’ to have this other bird show up, claimin’ it had been a loss of memory that was responsible for everything. People would have believed that, because the boss didn’t take any money with him when he left. Well, somehow or other, it didn’t pan out. Maybe he couldn’t get this other guy educated right, or something. That left the boss with his bridges burnt.”

Mason held his eyes steadily on those of the gardener. “Might it not have been the other way around?”

“What do you mean? What you gettin’ at?”

“This double might have got the idea and then made way with Franklin Shore, and returned to take his place.”

“Nope. This man who came to my place is Franklin B. Shore. An’ I knew from what he told me... say, wait a minute. I’m talkin’ too damn much. You an’ me will start gettin’ along a hell of a lot better, Mr. Mason, if you quit askin’ questions — beginnin’ right now. Come on, let’s go where we’re goin’... or you can let me out right here an’ I’ll handle things myself.”

Mason’s laugh was good natured. “Oh, come on, Lunk. I didn’t mean to be nosey.”

Houses in the neighborhood were dark and silent as Mason stopped his car at 642½ South Bilvedere. The chill which comes an hour or so before dawn was in the air.

Mason switched off the headlights and ignition and eased the automobile door shut after he and Lunk had alighted at the curb.

“You live in back?” Mason asked.

“Uh huh. That little house around in back. You walk in along the driveway. My place is built onto the garage.”

“You have a car?” Mason asked.

Lunk said, grinning, “Well, it ain’t a car like yours, but it gets me there all right.”

“Keep it here in the garage?”

“Uh huh. I’d’ve taken it to go up to Shore’s place tonight, only I was afraid opening the garage door and starting the car would wake Franklin Shore up. So I sneaked out and took the street car.”

Mason nodded, started walking quietly up the driveway.

“Look here,” Lunk protested, “you ain’t comin’ in.”

“Just far enough to make sure Franklin Shore is still there.”

“You don’t want to wake him up.”

Mason said, “Certainly not. Those flowers will be delivered at almost any time now, and Mrs. Shore may call you up. When she does, you’ll have to talk with her in such a way she’ll know you have a message for her without telling her what it is.”

“Why can’t I tell her over the phone?”

“Because Franklin Shore will wake up when he hears the phone ring and listen to the conversation.”

“Maybe he won’t,” Lunk said. “The phone is right by my bed. I can sort of muffle what I’m saying with a pillow.”

“You might do that,” Mason conceded, all the time walking toward the little bungalow on the back of the lot. “Or, you could just tell her that you’d seen me and that she could get in touch with me, and give her my number.”

“Yes. That might work. What’s your number?”

“I’ll come in and write it out for you,” Mason said.

“You can’t make no noise,” Lunk warned.

“I won’t.”

“Can’t you write it down out here?”

“Not very well.”

“Well, come on in. But don’t make no noise.”

Lunk tiptoed up the two stairs which led to the wooden porch, inserted a key in the lock, and noiselessly opened the door. He switched on a light which illuminated a small room cheaply furnished and bearing unmistakable evidences of masculine occupancy. It seemed even colder inside than it had been out in the air. The house was a flimsy structure, and the chill had penetrated through the walls. The air was impregnated with the odor of stale cigar smoke, and a cigar butt, soggy and cold, was lying on an ash tray.

Mason bent over to look at it. “His?” he asked.

“Yep. Expensive, too, I guess. Smelled good when he was smokin’ it. Pipe and cigarettes are what I smoke.”

Mason continued to lean over the little table on which the ash tray reposed. Directly beside it was a card bearing the printed words, “GEORGE ALBER,” and, in a man’s handwriting, “Called to see about the kitten. Rang the bell, got no answer. Guess everything’s O.K. Knew Helen was worrying.”

Lunk lit a gas heater.

“Nice little place,” Mason said in a low voice.

“Uh huh. Over here’s my bedroom; other bedroom’s in back of that, with a bath between.”

Mason said, “Better close the doors between the bedrooms so Franklin won’t hear the phone ring.”

“That’s a good idea,” Lunk said. “I think the door from the bathroom to the boss’s room was left open. I closed the one from my room.”

He tiptoed into the bedroom, and Mason followed along close behind.

The bedroom was a small, square room, furnished with a cheap bureau, a table, a straight-backed chair, and a single iron bed with a thin mattress and sagging wire springs.

In the light which filtered through from the living room, Mason saw that the door to the bathroom was open, that the bed had not been made, and in the low spot in the center of that bed, lying in the middle of a soiled and crumpled sheet, curled up in a furry ball, was a sleeping kitten.

The drawers of the bureau had been pulled out, the contents dumped on the floor. A clothes closet had been opened and garments pulled out and dropped into a careless pile near the closet door.

Lunk, standing halfway between the door and the bed, looked around him in dazed surprise, and said, “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun!”

Mason walked past Lunk through the open door into the bathroom and looked into the adjoining bedroom.

It was empty.

This bedroom was even smaller than the other. A window in the far side of the bedroom and which looked out on the alley, was standing wide open. A night breeze blew somewhat grimy lace curtains in bellying folds. Covers had been turned back on the spring cot. Clean sheets were slightly rumpled. A pillow case had a depression in it where a man’s head would have rested.

Lunk came to stand beside Mason, looking with open-mouthed dismay at the bed and the window.

“He’s skipped out,” he said ruefully. “If I could’ve got to Matilda Shore while he was still here, she’d have...”

He stopped talking suddenly as though afraid he had said too much.

Mason made a cursory examination of the room. “These bathroom doors open when you left?” he inquired.

“I think this one was, but the one into my room wasn’t. I was very careful to close it when I sneaked out.”

Mason indicated a second door. “Where does this go?”

“Kitchen. And then from the kitchen you can get to the living room.”

“You have to go through one of the bedrooms to get to the bathroom?”

“That’s right. This house is just a square box. The front room an’ kitchen on one side, an’ the two bedrooms on the other, with the bathroom in between the bedrooms.”