Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

“You’re all alone here?”

“Of course.”

Tragg took a step forward so that his shoulder blocked the closing door. “Tell you what, Miss Street, we may as well talk in here for just a minute.”

“I haven’t time. I’ve got to be at the office.”

“I think this is more important than being at the office,” Tragg said.

“Well, we could talk in your car, or...”

“It’s hard to talk, driving a car,” Tragg said, moving on into the apartment and walking apparently in a most casual manner over to the davenport.

Della Street sighed in exasperation, stood in the doorway, fully aware of the fact that his sharp, police-trained eyes, were taking in every detail.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I simply have to get to work. I haven’t time either to be interviewed or to argue about being interviewed... and I can’t leave you here.”

Tragg apparently didn’t hear her. “Certainly is a nice place. Well, if you insist I’ll come along, although I’d prefer to talk here.”

He paused, apparently to adjust his tie in the mirror, but Della realized that from the position in which he was standing he could see a reflection of the bathroom through the open door.

“Will you please come, Lieutenant.”

“Coming,” he said. “Lord, I certainly look as though I’d been up all night. You won’t mind driving with such a disreputable specimen?”

“Just so we get started,” Della Street said firmly.

“What’s this door?” Tragg asked, indicating the kitchen door.

“It’s a door,” she said angrily. “Surely, you’ve seen doors before, Lieutenant. They’re composed of wood. They’re hung on hinges, and they swing back and forth.”

“Do they indeed!” Tragg said, his eyes fastened to the door.

Della Street came angrily back into the apartment. “Now you look here,” she said sharply. “I don’t know what you’re after. You’re not going to come in and snoop around my apartment any time you want to. If you want to search my place, go get a warrant. If you have anything to say to me, say it on the way to the office. I’m starting now, and you’re getting out!”

Tragg looked into the angry defiance of her eyes, said with an ingratiating smile, “Surely, Miss Street, you don’t object to my looking around your apartment.”

“I most certainly do.”

“Why? Are you hiding someone?”

“I give you my word of honor, there’s no other human being in this apartment except myself. Now, does that satisfy you?”

He met the steady anger of her eyes and said, “Yes.”

She let him start first for the door, followed along close behind, this time ready to slam the door shut and let the spring lock snap into position.

Tragg was just stepping over the threshold, and Della Street’s hand was on the doorknob when there came an ear-piercing scream of feline anguish, a scream which changed both its pitch and location with great speed.

“Oh, my heavens!” Della Street exclaimed, suddenly remembering that she habitually left the kitchen window open a few inches for ventilation.

There was no mistaking the sound. This was no mere cry of feline impatience, but a squall of agony.

That cry appealed to the maternal in Della Street. She would no more have abandoned that kitten to its fate in order to save herself from a felony charge than she would have refused to rush to the aid of a child.

Lieutenant Tragg was right behind her as she raced through the apartment’s living room into the kitchenette. His head was at her shoulder as she flung open the kitchen window.

What had happened was only too apparent. The pulley which held the manila rope clothesline was fastened directly beside the kitchen window. Amber Eyes, crawling to the sill and peering out, had been intrigued by the rope. He had hooked a paw around it and, in trying to withdraw that paw, his claws had caught and held. As his weight came against the clothesline, it had started to slide through the well-oiled pulley. There was plenty of slack in that line and Amber Eyes had found himself sailing out through space at a dizzy height above the ground. His other paws had locked around the clothesline, leaving him hanging head downward, squalling with pop-eyed terror, his tail switching back and forth, then fluffing out to huge proportions.

“You poor thing!” Della Street exclaimed and, reaching for the upper rope, started pulling Amber Eyes in. “Hang on now, kitty,” she exhorted. “Don’t let go.”

The cat swayed to and fro, eyes shifting from Della Street in the safety of the window to the courtyard far below.

Tragg grinned. The grin became a chuckle, and, as Della brought the kitten to within reaching distance and clutched it in her hand, the chuckle became a burst of laughter.

Not only did Amber Eyes have no intention of letting go, but terror had locked his claws into the rope so that Della Street had to disengage them as though they had been so many fish hooks.

She held the trembling little body close to her, speaking reassuringly to it, quieting its tear.

“Go on and laugh,” she blazed at Lieutenant Tragg. “I suppose you think it’s funny!”

“I do for a fact,” Tragg admitted. “The cat makes a playful swipe at the rope, and the next thing he knows, he’s flying through the air with the greatest of ease. It must have been a startling sensation for a kitten.”

“Startling,” Della said indignantly. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

“I didn’t know you had a kitten,” Tragg said.

“Indeed. I suppose the police department feels aggrieved that I should have adopted a kitten without consulting it. I suppose if I should tell you that my Aunt Rebecca had sprained her ankle ice skating, you’d call me on the carpet because I let her go out without permission from the police. If you’ll just let me get to the office, I’ll write you a letter ‘Dear Lieutenant Tragg: I have a kitten. Does it meet with your approval?’”

Lieutenant Tragg said, “That is a very effective burst of indignation and sarcasm — but it doesn’t tell me anything about the cat; and it isn’t distracting my attention in the least.”

“Oh, is that so!”

“How long have you had the cat?”

“Not very long.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It isn’t a very old kitten.”

“Have you had it ever since it was born?”

“No.”

“About how long then?”

“Not so very long. Long enough to get to feel attached to it. You know how it is, after an animal has been with you a few weeks — or as far as that’s concerned, even a few minutes, if you love animals, you get to feeling an attachment that...”

“Has the cat been with you a few weeks?” Tragg asked.

“No, I suppose not.”

“Even a few days?”

“I fail to see where this concerns you in any way.”

Tragg said, “Ordinarily, I would say you were quite right, Miss Street, but there are some circumstances which might alter the case.”

“Such as what?” she asked impulsively, and then wished she had kept her mouth shut, realizing that she had given him just the opening he had been angling for.

“Oh,” Tragg said casually, “in case the kitten happened to be the one that belonged to Mrs. Matilda Shore, one that had been poisoned last night.”

“Even so, what would that have to do with it?”

“The question of how that cat came into your possession,” Tragg said, “might be interesting to the police. However, as you suggested, we can talk it over while we’re riding to the office.”

“Yes, I’m late now.”

Tragg’s smile was apologetic. “Perhaps,” he said, “you are not referring to the same office that I am.”