“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.”
She turned to face him, fighting back a wobbly feeling in her knees.
“You know perfectly well to what office I am referring,” Della Street said, managing to keep firmness in her voice.
Lieutenant Tragg was not in the least impressed. He announced, “I am referring to the office of the district attorney. And you may as well bring the kitten along. Not only does it seem to be too careless to be left alone, but it may be a bit of very significant evidence.”
Chapter 19
Perry Mason soaked up slumber. The consciousness of broad daylight knifed its way through to his brain. He sat up in bed long enough to look at his watch, fling the pillows into a new position, and drop back with a sense of languid comfort. He started drifting comfortably down into the welcome warmth of nerve-healing oblivion... The ringing of the buzzer on his doorbell irritated him into consciousness.
Mason decided to ignore the summons. He turned over, frowning in the determination of his concentration... damn the doorbell anyway... probably someone wanting to sell something. Why hadn’t he shut it off... The bell again... well, let them ring. He wouldn’t pay any attention to it.
Again and again the bell rang. Mason found that his very determination to sleep was marshaling his faculties into wakefulness. He heard quick steps in the corridor, then knuckles banging imperatively on his door.
With an exclamation of irritation, Mason climbed out of bed, unlocked the door and jerked it open.
Paul Drake stood on the threshold, grinning at him. “How do you like it?” he asked.
Mason said, “Damn it. I don’t like it. Come in.”
Drake followed the lawyer into his apartment, selected the most comfortable chair, twisted himself into a pretzel of comfort, and lit a cigarette. “Nice place you have here.”
“Isn’t it,” Mason said sarcastically.
Drake said, “A little chilly. I’ll close this window. The breeze is coming in through there. Sunlight’s pouring in through the other one. It’s eleven-thirty, Perry.”
“What the devil do I care what time it is?”
Drake tried to blow a smoke ring, watched the blue clouds of smoke drift out into the shaft of sunlight, and said, “You’re always getting me up around the middle of the night, when you and Della have been out making whoopee — and seem to think it’s fun. Thought I’d interfere with your sleep just so you can see how it feels.”
Mason, pulling the covers over his bare toes, grinned at the poetic justice of Drake’s position, said, “It feels like hell,” and reached for a cigarette.
“Thought you’d like a report of what’s going on.”
Mason tapped the end of the cigarette, carefully moistened the end with his tongue, lit a match, and said, “As soon as I finish with this cigarette, I’m going to throw you out and go back to sleep.”
He placed the match to the end of the cigarette.
“Lots of things have been happening,” Drake said. “Those bullets all came from the same gun.”
“That’s nothing new.”
“Tragg’s turned the whole police force upside down. He’s working on every angle of the case, squeezing out every last bit of information.”
“I’m glad he is.”
“The doctors give Jerry Templar nine chances out of ten to pull through. He stood the operation in fine shape.”
“That’s good.”
“The kitten that was poisoned was taken down to the gardener’s house for safekeeping — chap by the name of Thomas Lunk.”
Mason said, “Uh huh.”
“Lunk’s disappeared. So has the kitten.”
Mason said, “Listen, Paul. I can keep abreast of the current developments by reading the newspapers. I wanted you to get some angles everybody didn’t know about, not trail along a few steps behind the police.”
Drake went on as though he hadn’t even heard Mason’s remark, “Chap by the name of George Alber seems to stand ace-high with Her Majesty, Matilda Shore. Seems as though Matilda thinks Alber and Helen Kendal should get spliced. Alber thinks so too. Alber’s going places. He’s going to amount to something in the world. He’s attractive and magnetic. Helen is throwing herself away on a man who isn’t at all worthy of her. Aunt Matilda may leave her dough to Alber if Helen isn’t a good girl.”