"
Mason said goodnaturedly, "Baloney! Take your cat and go on back to your waffle parlor. Is Douglas Keene going to get in touch with me and give himself up?"
"I don't know," she said with tears in her eyes.
The cat, arching its back, started exploring the office. "Kitty—kitty, come, kitty," Winifred pleaded.
The cat paid no attention to her. Mason's eyes were sympathetic as he stared at the tearstricken countenance. "If Douglas gets in touch with you," he said, "tell him how important it is that he back my play."
"I don't know that I will. You ddddidn't have to go ahead and ssssay that. Suppose they should convict him and hang him for mmmmurder?"
Mason crossed to her side, patted her on the shoulder.
"Won't you have some confidence in me?" he asked.
She raised her eyes.
"Don't you think you've got to take the responsibility of this thing," Mason told her soothingly. "Don't go out picking up cats and figuring how you can work out an alibi for Douglas. You just dump all of that onto my shoulders and let me carry the load. Will you promise that you'll do that?"
Her lips quivered for a moment, then straightened. She nodded her head.
Mason gave her shoulder one last pat, crossed the office to where the cat was sniffing about, picked it up, and carried it back to Winifred and put it in her arms.
"Go home," he said, "and get some sleep."
He held the corridor door open for her. When he had closed it, Della Street stood in the doorway of his private office.
Mason grinned at her. "A dead game kid," he said.
Della Street nodded her head slowly.
Mason said, "How'd you like to cut corners, Della?"
"What do you mean?"
"How'd you like to go on a honeymoon with me?"
She stared at him, eyes growing wide. "A honeymoon?" she asked.
Mason nodded.
"Why… oh…"
He grinned at her. "Okay," he said, "but first lie down there on the couch and get some sleep. If Douglas Keene rings in on the telephone, tell him that he must back my play. You can put up a stronger talk than I could. I'm going down to Paul Drake's office for a little while."
Chapter 14
Perry Mason, seated in Paul Drake's office, said, "Paul, I want you to turn your men loose on the new car agencies and find out if a new car has recently been sold to a Watson Clammert."
"Watson Clammert," Drake said. "Where the devil have I heard that name before?"
Mason grinned as he waited for Drake's recollection to function. Suddenly the detective said, "Oh, yes, I remember. He's the person who shared a lock box with Charles Ashton."
"I presume the police have gone into that lock box," Mason said.
"Yes, and found it practically empty. They only found some of the paper wrappers used by banks in bundling bills of large denomination. Evidently Ashton had pulled out the bills and left the wrappers behind."
"Ashton or Clammert?" Mason inquired.
"Ashton. The bank records show that Clammert never did go to the safety deposit box. He's nothing but a name signed upon the card, so far as the bank knows."
"How much money do the police figure was taken from the box?"
"They don't know. It may have been a lot. Ashton was seen by one of the attendants stuffing bills into a suitcase."
"Did you check into that automobile accident Laxter had?" Mason asked.
"Yes. He was crowded into a telephone pole, just as he said—some drunken driver whipped around a corner."
"Any witnesses?"
"A few people heard the crash."
"Get their names?" Mason asked.
"Yes. They saw the tracks where Laxter had put on his brakes and skidded. They say he was on his side of the road at the time. He seemed excited, but perfectly sober."
"Where had he been before that?"
Drake said slowly, "I'm checking on that, Perry. When the police first talked with him they were investigating the death of Peter Laxter, the grandfather, and later on the death of Ashton, the caretaker. Laxter had a perfectly good alibi on Ashton's death. He'd left the house about nine o'clock and hadn't returned. Ashton was murdered between ten and eleven."
Mason nodded.
"Later on, Shuster did the talking. He gives Laxter an alibi."
"He does?"
Drake nodded. "Shuster says Laxter was in his office."
"Talking about what?"
"Shuster refuses to state."
"What a sweet alibi that is," Mason said scornfully.
"Wait a minute, Perry, I think it checks."
"How?"
"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur, had been with Laxter. He drove him up to Shuster's office. Around eleven o'clock. Laxter told Brandon to take the car and go on home; that he'd come later. Brandon took the green Pontiac back to the house. That's when he saw Keene. It was shortly after eleven."
Mason started pacing the detective's office, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head thrust forward. At length, he said, in the mumbling monotone of one who is thinking out loud, "Laxter, then, left the house with Jim Brandon in the green Pontiac, but he returned in Ashton's Chevvy. How the hell did he get that Chevvy?"
Drake stiffened to attention. "That's a thought," he said.
Mason said slowly, "Paul, put out a bunch of men to cover the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived. Talk with all the inmates. See if any of them noticed the Chevvy parked anywhere near the apartment house."
Drake pulled a pad of paper toward him and scribbled a memorandum.
"That would make a swell break," he said, "but it would take more than that to make Sam Laxter the fall guy. You see, the person who murdered Ashton must have killed him between ten and eleven. Then he must have taken Ashton's crutch with him and sawed it up into sections. Then he must have gone to Edith DeVoe's place. Now, if Sam Laxter can prove he was in Shuster's office…"
"If that's the sketch," Mason interrupted, "and Brandon saw Douglas Keene leaving the house carrying the cat, where was Ashton's crutch? Douglas Keene wasn't carrying it with him."
Drake nodded thoughtfully. "That's so," he admitted, "but, of course, Keene could have tossed the crutch out the window that was always left open for the cat, then driven by in his car and picked it up. I tell you, Perry, you've got a tough case here. If Keene doesn't get in touch with you, it's going to put you in a spot. If he surrenders himself, circumstantial evidence is going to hang him in spite of all you can do."
The telephone rang. Drake answered it, and said, "For you, Perry."
Della Street was on the line. Her voice was excited.
"Come on up quick, Chief," she pleaded. "I've just heard from Douglas Keene."
"Where is he?" Mason asked.
"He's at a public pay station. He's going to call back in five minutes."
"Get a line on that stuff, Paul," he said, "and get it fast.