Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

Tragg grinned. “I had to. Pride has busted up more romances than jealousy. Guy didn’t want to say anything because he’s in the Army. Girl shows how she feels when she’s riding up to the hospital with him, and then becomes suddenly self-conscious, thinks she’s been forward, and waits for him to make the next move. He’s afraid perhaps she’s changed her mind. Neither one of them want to say anything, and you standing there...”

“I stood back in the corner out of the way.”

Tragg grinned and said, “Well, I’ve started something, anyway.”

Whistling a little tune, Tragg pushed the button for the elevator, went down to the street floor, walked through the long lines of hushed corridors out into the cold, stinging tang of the night air.

He got into his police car, and drove rapidly to headquarters. An irritable Scotchman in the laboratory said, “I dinna suppose this could a’ waited until nine o’clock.”

“It couldn’t,” Tragg said. “You’ve got the bullet the autopsy surgeon gave you from the body of Henry Leech?”

“Yes.”

Tragg handed him two bullets from his vest pocket. “The one with the three straight lines on it was recovered in an operation performed on Jerry Templar. The other one was dug out of some woodwork beside the door in which Templar and the girl were standing when Templar was shot. Now then, how long will it take you to tell me whether those three are from the same gun?”

“I don’t know,” the Scotchman said with singular pessimism. “It’ll all depend. It may take a long while. It may take a short while.”

“Make it take a short while,” Tragg said. “I’m going down to my office. Give me a ring. And don’t mix those bullets up. Perry Mason’s on the other side of this case, and you know what he’ll do to you on cross-examination.”

“He’ll na do a thing to me in cross-examination,” the man at the laboratory bench said, adjusting the eyepieces on a comparison microscope. “He’ll have no chance. I’ll take micro-photographs, and let the camera speak for me. A man’s a fool to talk wi’ his tongue when he can get a camera lens to do it for him.”

Tragg smiled, then pausing in the doorway, announced, “I’ve declared open season on Mr. Perry Mason. I’m going to teach that boy not to cut corners.”

“You’d better be buyin’ yourself an alarm clock,” Angus MacIntosh grunted as he settled himself to his task. “Ye’ll be gettin’ up early in the morning, Mister Lieutenant.”

Tragg paused in the act of closing the door to say, “I’ve already got one.” Then he gently slipped the door shut and walked down to his office.

Tragg made a little grimace, as the dead odor of stale smoke assailed his nostrils. He went to the windows, opened them, and shivered slightly as the dry cold of the before-dawn air stole into the room. He rubbed exploratory fingers across the angle of his jaw, feeling the stubble, and frowned as he noticed the oil which had been transferred from his skin to his fingertips. He felt sticky, dirty, and tired.

He crossed to the coat closet which contained a wash stand, turned on hot water, washed his hands and face, and was drying himself with a towel when the telephone rang.

Tragg walked over to pick up the receiver.

“Yes?”

The voice of the Scotchman in the laboratory department said, “I havena got ’em in the most advantageous positions yet so that I can make the best possible photograph, but I can tell you one thing. The three bullets came from the same gun. Now then, how soon will ye be wantin’ photographs?”

“Just as soon as I can get ’em,” Tragg said.

The Scotchman groaned. “Ye was always an impatient lad,” he observed, and hung up the receiver.

Tragg grinned his satisfaction.

Once more the telephone rang. The man on duty at the switchboard said hurriedly, “Here’s an anonymous tip for you, Lieutenant. Won’t talk with anyone else. Says he’s going to hang up in exactly sixty seconds, and there’s no use trying to trace the call.”

“Got it so you can listen in?” Tragg asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, put him on.”

A click came over the line as the operator plugged in a key and said, “Here’s Lieutenant Tragg on the line.”

“Hello,” a peculiarly muffled voice said. The man at the other end of the line might well have been holding his fist cupped between his mouth and the transmitter. “Is this Lieutenant Tragg?”

“This is Tragg. Who is this talking?”

“Never mind. I’m just telling you something about Perry Mason, the lawyer, and the girl who drove him out to the Shore place a while after midnight.”

“Go ahead,” Tragg invited. “What d’you know about ’em?”

“They picked a man up. He’s an important witness, one you want. They spirited him away where they’ve got him sewed up.”

“Go on,” Tragg said impatiently. “Who’s the man, and where is he?”

“I don’t know who he is, but I can tell you where he is.”

“Where?”

The voice suddenly speeded up its tempo as though anxious to get the conversation terminated.

“Maple Leaf Hotel under the name Thomas Trimmer. Registered about quarter past four this morning. He’s in room 376.”

Tragg said quickly, “Now, wait a minute. Let me get one thing straight. Are you absolutely certain that Perry Mason, the lawyer, is the one who put this man in the hotel? Is he back of that?”

“Back of it, hell,” the voice said. “Mason was the one who came in with him, carrying a canvas-covered telescope bag. The girl wasn’t with him then.”

The receiver abruptly slammed up at the other end of the line.

Lieutenant Tragg jiggled the hook. “Able to trace that call?” he asked.

“Pay station, block from the hotel,” the exchange operator said. “I got the call traced, and two radio cars rushing out there with instructions to pick up anyone they see within three blocks of the place for questioning. We’ll know in fifteen minutes if they get any results.”

There was the glint of a triumphant hunter in Tragg’s eyes. “I’ll wait fifteen minutes just on a chance.”

It was twenty minutes before the report came in.

Two radio cars had converged on the place. It was an all-night restaurant with a phone booth near the door. There was only one man on duty behind the counter, and he had been busy waiting on some customers. He had vaguely noticed a man enter the phone booth, but he couldn’t describe him. The radio cars had picked up two men within a radius of four blocks of the place. It didn’t seem probable that either man had put in the call, but the police had secured names and addresses from driving licenses. Then the officers, stopping at the Maple Leaf Hotel, had found that a Thomas Trimmer had been checked in about four o’clock. He was a man in the late fifties with a slight stoop. He weighed a hundred and forty pounds, was about five feet six, wore somewhat shabby, but clean clothes, had high cheekbones, and a gray drooping mustache. His only baggage had been an old-fashioned canvas telescope case, fairly heavy. Trimmer had been brought in by a tall, well-dressed man.

A little pulse in Lieutenant Tragg’s forehead began to pound as he listened to the report.

“Keep the radio cars on the job,” he ordered. “Sew the place up so Trimmer doesn’t get out. I’m on my way out there right now.”

Mason drove the car slowly. The long hours of sleepless activity had lowered his resistance to the cold chill of the night air.

The kitten curled up on the seat beside him, snuggling closely for warmth. Occasionally, the lawyer, steadying the wheel with his left hand, placed his right hand down on the kitten’s fur, leaving it there for a few seconds until Amber Eyes would start purring in drowsy contentment.