Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

“More coffee?” Della asked.

He might not have heard her, but continued pacing the carpet, head pushed slightly forward, eyes lowered.

Abruptly, he turned, “Did you notice any tracks on the floor, such as might have been made if the kitten had walked through some white powder?”

Della Street frowned, said, “Let me think. I wasn’t looking for anything smaller than a man, and I was scared stiff, but... I think there were some cat tracks across the kitchen. I carried away the general impression that it was a place in which a man had been living by himself, and that it needed a darn good cleaning. The sheets on the bed in the front bedroom were pretty soiled, and the pillow case was filthy. The lace curtains needed cleaning. The dish towels were in pretty bad shape. Oh, just a lot of little things like that. And I think there was something in the kitchen, some cat tracks or something spilled on the floor.”

“But the pantry door was closed? You’re certain of that?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “How the devil could the kitten have got into flour in the pantry and left tracks across the floor — if the pantry door had been closed? It didn’t go in when you opened the door?”

Della Street thought that over for a few seconds, then shook her head. “It’s beyond me. The kitten never moved while I was there.”

Mason thoughtfully regarded the sleeping kitten, abruptly picked up his overcoat, whipped it on, and reached for his hat.

Della Street came to stand at his side as he reached for the doorknob.

“Please go to bed and get some sleep, Chief. You’ll need it.”

He looked down at her, and the granite lines of his face softened into a smile. “Get some yourself. You’ll need it.

“When you were in the house, did you notice a calling card on the ash tray with George Alber’s name and some handwriting on it?”

“A card was there. I didn’t notice the name on it. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. Forget it.”

He circled her waist with his arm, drew her close to him. She raised half-parted lips. His other arm circled her shoulder. For a moment, he held her close, then said, “Keep a stiff upper lip, Kid. I think we’ve pulled a boner.”

Silently opening the door, he slipped out into the hallway.

Della Street fought against the clamor of the alarm clock.

Her sleep-drugged struggle against the first spasm of ringing was successful. The bell ceased its clanging summons and Della Street slipped off once more into deep slumber, only to be aroused by the irritating insistence of the second alarm.

She raised herself on one elbow, eyes still closed, groped for the shut-off. The clock eluded her, making it necessary for her to open her eyes.

The clock was not in its accustomed place by the bed, but over on the dresser where she had placed it as a precaution against shutting it off and going to sleep again.

Reluctantly, she threw back the covers, swung her legs out of bed, and started for the clock.

A faint “miaow” of protest came from the bed.

It took her a moment to account for that strange sound, then, switching off the alarm, she pulled up the covers which she had thrown back over Amber Eyes.

The kitten curled in a warm little nest on top of the bed, purred its gratitude, got to its feet, arched its back, stretched, yawned, made two awkward zigzag cat jumps which brought it within reaching distance of Della Street’s fingers.

The kitten accepted the ministrations of Della’s fingertips behind his ears, ventured in purring exploration over the slippery treachery of the rounded bedclothes, seeking to regain the warmth of Della Street’s body.

Della laughed and pushed him away. “Not now, Amber Eyes. The strident clang of the alarm calls me to industry.”

She knew that she didn’t have to get to the office on time, but there were some matters in the mail which needed attention. A new typist was working on an important brief, and Della knew she’d have to check over that brief before letting Mason see it for final reading.

Warm needles of water from the shower, the scented lather of soap, then, at the last, the sting of the cold water, tingled her into life. She vigorously toweled her skin into glowing health, inspected stockings for possible runners, and was standing before the mirror in her underthings, getting her face made up when the buzzer on her inner door exploded into noise.

For a while, Della ignored it, then she opened the door a scant inch, said, “Go away, I’m a working girl. I don’t want to buy anything, I can’t subscribe to anything, and I’m late for the office now.”

Lieutenant Tragg’s voice said, “Well, I’ll drive you down to the office. That will save time.”

Della Street tilted her head, placing her eyes close to the crack in the door so that she could see Lieutenant Tragg’s face.

“How’d you get past the street door?”

“It’s a secret. You look sleepy.”

“You look worse than that.”

Tragg grinned. “As far as I can tell, no one west of the Mississippi got any sleep last night.”

“I’m dressing.”

“How long will it take you to finish?”

“Five or ten minutes.”

“Breakfast?”

“Not here. I grab a cup of coffee at the drugstore on the corner.”

“Bad for the health to eat that way,” he told her.

“Swell for the figure.”

“I’ll wait outside the door,” he said.

“Is it that important?”

“It’s that important,” Tragg said.

Della closed the door. Her mirror showed her the reflection of a scowling countenance. She moved over to the telephone, picked up the receiver, started to dial Mason’s unlisted number, then changed her mind, dropped the receiver back into place, got into her dress, kicked off her bedroom slippers, put on shoes, and then realized the problem presented by the kitten.

She snatched the little fluff of fur up in her arms, said softly, “Now listen, my love, that cop outside eats kittens, eats ’em alive. What’s more, he’ll want your presence explained, and, frankly, you’d be harder to laugh off than a man under the bed. It’s the kitchen for you, and I’m praying that lots of warm milk will keep you quiet.”

Amber Eyes purred contentedly.

Della Street stepped out into the little kitchenette, poured some top-milk from a bottle, warmed it until it felt just the right temperature, then fed the kitten.

“The doctor says you aren’t to have anything solid,” she told Amber Eyes, “and unless you want to give the show away you’ve got to be a good little kitten and keep your mouth shut. A good full stomach should help, so go ahead and fill up.”

Purring its pleasure, the kitten lapped up the warm, creamy milk, and Della Street, slipping quietly out of the kitchen, gently closed the door so Tragg wouldn’t hear the click of the latch. She hastily threw the covers back into place on the bed, tucked the sheet in, fluffed the pillows, placed them in the clips at the foot of the bed, and pushed the bed back up against the wall, turning the revolving door so the bed was concealed in the closet. She pushed the chairs back into position, working against time.

She put on her street coat, adjusted her hat more by instinct than any desire for facial adornment, opened the door and gave Lieutenant Tragg the benefit of her best smile.

“All ready,” she said. “Nice of you to offer to drive me to the office. I suppose, however, it’s not entirely philanthropic.”

“It isn’t,” Tragg said.

“A Greek, bearing gifts?”

“Exactly. Nice place you have there. Nice southeast exposure.”

“Isn’t it,” Della Street said, tugging at the doorknob.