Chapter 8

The electric sign bearing the legend "Winnie's Waffles " was dark. a night light burned over the door. perry mason tried the knob. The door opened. Mason closed the door behind him, walked down the passageway, between counter and booths, until he came to a swinging open door. The room was dark. He heard the sound of a woman sobbing. Mason said, "Hello," and a light switch clicked. A table lamp, with a rose silk shade, gave soft illumination.

A single bed sat against the wall. There were two chairs, a table and a bookcase made by the simple expedient of nailing the wooden cases in which canned goods came into tiers and giving them coats of enamel. The homemade bookcase was well filled with books. A corner of the room had been curtained off to form a closet. A door stood partially open and through it Mason could see the gooseneck connection of a shower. A few framed pictures hung on the wall, and the place, despite the cheapness of its furnishings, had a comfortable, homelike atmosphere. On the table, turned so it faced the bed, was a large framed photograph of Douglas Keene.

Winifred Laxter sat on the bed. Her eyes were red from tears. A big Persian cat sprawled contentedly at her side, its head resting against her leg. It was purring audibly. As the light switched on, the cat turned with that peculiar writhing motion common to felines, and stared at Perry Mason with bright, hard eyes. Then it closed its eyes, stretched out its forepaws, yawned, and once more began to purr.

"What's the trouble?" Mason asked.

The girl indicated the telephone with a little hopeless gesture, as though that gesture explained everything. "And I thought I could laugh at life," she said.

Mason drew up a chair and sat down. He recognized that she was near hysteria, and made his voice casual. "Nice cat."

"Yes, it's Clinker."

Mason raised his eyebrows.

"Doug went out and got it."

"Why?"

"Because he was afraid Sam would poison it."

"When?"

"Around ten o'clock. I sent him."

"Did he talk with Ashton?" Mason asked, making his voice sound elaborately casual.

"No. Ashton wasn't there."

"Mind if I smoke?"

"I'd like one myself. You must think I'm an awful baby."

Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, gravely proffered her one and held a match to the end of the cigarette, when she had placed it between her lips.

"Not at all," he said, lighting his own cigarette. "Pretty lonesome here, isn't it?"

"It hadn't been; it will be."

"Tell me about it any time you're ready," he invited.

"I'm not ready yet." Her voice was stronger now, but there was still that overtone of near hysteria. "I've been sitting here in the dark too long, thinking, thinking…"

"Quit thinking," he said. "Let's just talk. What time did Douglas Keene leave Ashton's place?"

"Around eleven I think. Why?"

"He was there about an hour?"

"Yes."

"Waiting for Ashton to come in?"

"I believe so."

"And then he brought the cat here to you?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"Let's see—when did it start raining? Before eleven or after eleven?"

"Oh, earlier than that—around nine, anyway."

"Can you tell exactly what time it was when Douglas brought you the cat? Have you any way of fixing it definitely?"

"No. I was cooking waffles for the aftertheater trade. Why are you asking me all these questions?"

"I was just trying to make conversation," Mason remarked casually. "You feel as though I'm too much of a stranger to confide in me right now. I'm trying to put you at your ease. Did one of the servants let Douglas in?"

"You mean to the town house? No. I gave Doug my key. I didn't want Sam to know I was taking the cat. Grandfather had given me a key to the house. I'd never turned it back—in fact, I guess there was no one to turn it back to."

"Why didn't you let Ashton know you'd taken the cat? Won't he be worried?"

"Oh, but he knew Doug was coming after Clinker," she said.

"How did he know?"

"I telephoned him."

"When?"

"Before he went out."

"What time did he go out?"

"I don't know, but I talked with him over the telephone and we decided, everything considered, that it might be best for me to keep Clinker for a while. He said he'd be there when Doug arrived, and told me to give Doug my key so Sam wouldn't know."

"But Ashton wasn't there when Douglas arrived?"

"No. Doug waited an hour. Then he took the cat and left."

Mason, leaning back in the chair, studied the cigarette smoke which spiraled upward.

"Clinker always sleeps on Ashton's bed, doesn't he?"

"Yes."

"Any other cats there?"

"Around the house you mean?"

"Yes."

"No. I should say not. Clinker would chase any cat away. He's insanely jealous, particularly of Uncle Charles."

"Uncle Charles?" he asked.

"I sometimes call the caretaker Uncle Charles."

"Rather a peculiar character, isn't he?"

"Peculiar, but he's a fine man when you get to know him."

"Honest?"

"Of course, he's honest."

"Something of a miser, isn't he?"

"He would be if he had anything to save, I guess. He's been around Grandpa so long. Grandpa was always suspicious of banks. When the country went off the gold basis Grandpa nearly died. He'd been hoarding gold, you know. But he went down and turned his gold in and took paper money. It was quite a blow to him. He was upset for weeks."

"He must have been a peculiar chap."

"He was—very peculiar—and yet very lovable. He had a great sense of right and wrong."

"His will wouldn't seem to indicate that."

"No," she said, "I think under all the circumstances, it was the best thing that could have happened. I think I was pretty much hypnotized by Harry."

"Harry?" Mason asked.

"Harry Inman. He was rushing me to death. He seemed one of those straightforward, cleancut, sincere young men, and…"

"He wasn't?" Mason prompted as her voice faded away.

"He most certainly was not. As soon as he found out I wasn't going to get anything under the will, he fell all over himself taking back everything he'd said. I think he was afraid at the last minute I'd try to marry him in order to have someone to look after me."

"He has money?"

"He has a good position. He's making around six thousand a year, in an insurance office."

"Douglas Keene stuck by you, eh?" Mason asked, bringing the subject casually around to the young man whose framed picture stood on the table facing the bed.

"I'll say he stuck by me. He was a brick. He's the most wonderful boy in the world. I never realized just how much there was to him—you know, words don't mean anything—anyone who can talk can use words. Some people can use them better than others. Many insincere people, who have the gift of expressing themselves, can sound more sincere than those who are perfectly loyal."

Mason nodded, waited for her to go on talking.

"I wanted to see you about Douglas," she said. "Something awful has happened and Douglas is afraid I might get involved in it. He's mixed in it himself some way—I don't know just how."

"What's happened?" Mason asked.

"A murder," she told him, and began to sob.

Mason moved over to the bed, sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. The cat looked up at him appraisingly, flattened its ears slightly, then slowly relaxed, but did not resume purring.

"Now take it easy," Mason told her, "and give me the facts."

"I don't know the facts; all I know is that Douglas rang up. He was frightfully excited. He said there'd been a murder and that he wasn't going to let me get dragged into it; that he was going to skip out and that I'd never see him again. He said that I was to say nothing, and answer no question about him."