“I saw the house was dark, so I barged up on the steps and rang the doorbell, big as life. No one answered. I kept leaning against the doorbell, and couldn’t hear it ring, so I started to knock, and then I noticed that the front door wasn’t quite closed. Believe me, Chief, I wished I’d been a mind reader right then and known what you wanted me to do. But, after a while, I pushed the door open and went in.”
“Turn on the lights?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“There was no one in the house. The bed in the front bedroom hadn’t been made. In the back bedroom...”
“Wait a minute. How did you get into the back bedroom? Through the kitchen or the connecting bathroom?”
“The connecting bathroom.”
“Now be sure about this, Della. Were the doors between the two bedrooms open?”
“Yes, about halfway open — that is, the first door was about half open. The door from the bathroom to the back bedroom was all the way open. There was a window in the back bedroom that opened on an alley. That window was raised, and the wind was coming through there, gently blowing the curtains.”
“How about the door from the bedroom into the kitchen?”
“It was open just an inch or two.”
“Did you go through that?”
“No. I went into the kitchen by going back through the front bedroom and the living room. But let me tell you about the front bedroom first. Drawers had been pulled out of the bureau and clothes from the closet were piled on the floor.”
Mason said, “I know. Let’s get back to the kitchen. Did you look in the pantry?”
“Yes.”
“Was the pantry door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
“Did you turn on a light in the pantry?”
“No. I opened the door, and enough light came in from the kitchen so I could see there was no one in the pantry. I wanted to make sure — I thought perhaps Franklin Shore had heard the bell ring and decided to hide, just in case it might be someone whom he didn’t want to see.”
“Did you notice any flour on the floor around the flour can in the pantry?”
“No — but I wouldn’t have noticed it unless there’d been quite a bit of flour on the floor, because the light was back of me and I was only searching to make certain someone wasn’t hiding in there.”
“Feel pretty shaky?”
“I’ll say! Chills were chasing one another up and down my spine. If Franklin Shore had been standing in that pantry, he’d have scared the boots off me.”
Mason finished the coffee, got up to put the cup and saucer over on the table. He slipped out of his overcoat, stretched his long arms, then lowered them to shove his hands down deep in his pockets. From the little kitchen, the kitten “miaowed” a peremptory command to be readmitted to the room which contained human companionship. Della Street opened the door, and the kitten, its stomach bulging with warm milk, marched awkwardly into the room, made a little throaty noise of satisfaction, jumped up on the davenport, and settled down, curling its forepaws in under its chest. The alert interest slowly left its eyes, and, after a moment, they closed enough so white membranes could be seen at the corners as the kitten settled down to purring slumber.
Mason, still standing, jerked his head toward the kitten.
“Where was Amber Eyes when you came in?”
“Curled up on the sheets right in the middle of the bed in the front bedroom.”
“Near the center of the bed?”
“Yes. The bed sags a little, and there was a low place right near the center. The kitten was curled up, fast asleep.”
Mason took his hands from his pockets, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and started pacing the floor.
“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.
Chapter 18
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.