Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Careless Kitten

Dr. Blakely, making a quick diagnosis, reached for a hypodermic needle.

“It isn’t — isn’t rabies, is it?” Helen asked.

“Probably poison,” he said. “Here, hold the cat’s head. Hold him tightly by the neck and shoulders. Hold firmly now. Don’t let go if he starts fighting.”

He inserted the hypodermic needle, carefully regulated the amount of fluid which he injected, withdrew the needle, and said, “Temporarily, we’ll put him in this cage. The kitten’s going to eject the contents of its stomach. In that way, we’ll get rid of any poison which remains. How long ago was it when you first observed any symptoms?”

“I don’t think it could possibly have been over five or ten minutes,” Helen said. “It didn’t take us over three minutes to get here, and... well, perhaps ten minutes ago.”

“We stand a good chance,” Dr. Blakely said. “Nice little kitten. Hope we can save it.”

“You think it’s poison?”

“I think so. The treatment isn’t going to be particularly pleasant. You’ll think the animal is suffering even more than it is. You two had better wait out in the office. If I need any more help, I’ll call you.”

He drew on a pair of thick leather gloves.

“You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?” Helen asked.

He shook his head. “I can let you know more in a few minutes. It had been playing out in the yard, hadn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember distinctly, but I think the kitten had been in the living room all the time.”

“Well, we’ll find out more about it after a while. Go sit down and wait.”

Out in the waiting room, Gerald Shore settled himself in a chair, fished a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, bit off the end and struck a match. The flame, which was held in his cupped hands, illuminated the sensitive outlines of his features, the sweep of a high, contemplative forehead, kindly, tolerant eyes, about which were little crow’s-feet of humor, a mouth which was uncompromising and determined without being too stern.

“Nothing we can do now, Helen. May as well sit down and take it easy. We’ve done everything we can.”

They sat silently for several minutes, Helen’s mind tumbling around between that strange telephone call and Amber Eyes and poison, and what she should do about her Uncle Franklin. In spite of what he had said, she wanted to confide in Uncle Gerald but she hesitated. Gerald Shore was quite evidently lost in thought, his mind occupied with a problem that plainly required concentration.

Abruptly he said, “Helen, as I told you a few days ago, we’re going to do something about Franklin’s will immediately. Matilda has been hanging on to what belongs to us long enough.”

“Perhaps we ought to wait — just a little,” Helen murmured uncertainly.

“We’ve waited long enough.”

He saw that Helen was hesitating, trying to make up her mind to speak or to keep silent.

“Well,” he asked, “what is it?”

Helen suddenly made up her mind with a rush. “I... I had a queer experience today,” she blurted out.

“What?”

“A man telephoned.”

Gerald chuckled. “I’d say it was queerer if any man who knew your number hadn’t telephoned you. If I weren’t your uncle and...”

“Don’t be ridiculous! This man said— Oh, it just doesn’t sound plausible. It can’t be true!”

“If you’d be just a little more explicit,” Gerald murmured encouragingly.

Helen’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “He said he was Franklin Shore. He seemed to recognize my voice, wanted to know if I recognized his.”

Gerald Shore’s face showed baffled, incredulous surprise.

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed.

“It’s true.”

“Helen, you’re excited. You...”

“Uncle Gerald, I swear it.”

There was a long pause.

“When did the call come in?” Gerald asked finally.

“Just a few minutes before you came to the house.”

“Some impostor, of course, trying to...”

“No. It was Uncle Franklin.”

“Look here, Helen, did you — that is, was there anything familiar about his voice?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t be sure of the voice — but it was Uncle Franklin, all right.”

Her Uncle Gerald frowned at the tip of his cigar. “It’s impossible! What did he say?”

“He wants me to meet him tonight at the Castle Gate Hotel — that is, I’m to see a man named Henry Leech there, and Henry Leech will take me to Uncle Franklin.”

Gerald Shore relaxed. “That settles it. Obviously an impostor after money. We’ll go to the police and set a trap for your friend.”

Helen shook her head. “Uncle Franklin told me to see that well-known lawyer, Perry Mason, tell him the whole story and bring him to the meeting tonight.”

Gerald Shore stared at her blankly. “It’s the damnedest thing I ever heard. What does he want with Perry Mason?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look here,” Gerald said somewhat sternly, “you don’t know that was Franklin talking, do you, Helen?”

“Well—”

“Then stop referring to that person as Franklin. That might affect the legal situation. All you know is, you heard a man’s voice over the telephone. That man told you he was Franklin Shore.”

“He said things that proved it.”

“What?”

“A lot of things out of my childhood that only Uncle Franklin would know about: the time the kitten got up on the roof of the house and couldn’t get down, and he rescued it; all about the New Year’s party when I was thirteen and sneaked the punch and got tipsy. No one ever knew about that except Uncle Franklin. He followed me up to my room, and was so perfect about it. He just sat down and started talking. Even when I developed a laughing jag, he pretended not to notice. He told me that he didn’t agree with Matilda’s idea of bringing me up, that I was getting to be a big girl, and would have to experiment about life myself, but that it would be better if I learned how dangerous drink was — and learned to gauge just how much I could take. And maybe for a few years it would be better if I didn’t drink at all. And then he got up and walked out.”

Gerald’s brows were level with thought. “And this person told you all about that when he called?”

Helen nodded.

Gerald Shore got up from the chair, walked over toward the window, stood with his hands in his pockets. Outwardly he seemed calm and thoughtful. Only the rapid little puffs of cigar smoke which emerged from his mouth showed nervousness.

“What happened after that?” he asked.

“Then Uncle Franklin — this man, whoever he was — asked me to get Perry Mason and be at the Castle Gate Hotel at nine o’clock and to ask for Henry Leech.”

“But, good heavens, Helen, if it was Franklin who was talking over the telephone, why in the world didn’t he come home and...”

“That’s what I kept wondering about, and then I thought perhaps — well, you know, if he’d gone away with some other woman... I guess he wants to pave the way for coming back and probably wants someone to sound out Aunt Matilda on how she’ll feel.”

“But why didn’t he call me? I’m his brother. I’m a lawyer. Why did he call you?”

“I don’t know. He said I was the only one who could help him. Perhaps he tried to reach you and couldn’t.”

“And what happened after that? How did the conversation terminate?”

“He acted as though something had surprised him, as though someone had come in the room or something. He gave a quick little exclamation and hung up the telephone very abruptly.”

“He asked you not to tell anyone?”