Judas Cat (20 page)

“Did the boy take them into the house?”

“I think he’d take them from him on the porch … Here’s Chuck now. Maybe he can tell you something. Chuck, when was the last time you stopped at Mr. Mattson’s?”

“A week, Monday,” the boy said. “Hi, Alex.”

“Did the old man ever talk to you, Chuck?” Alex asked.

“Not much. Once I told him I was raising rabbits. Every time I went up after that he’d ask me ‘how many this week, boy?’ Then once he asked me to bring one over for him to see it. We took it out to that back yard of his, and he was like a regular old kid watching it jump around, the way he’d cock his head and laugh.”

Andy had captured the movement of the rabbit in his toys, Alex thought. “He always had his cat with him, didn’t he?”

“All the time.”

“It was friendly?”

“Sure. It rubbed up against my leg a lot of times.”

“Did it look like it was well taken care of?”

“Sleek as snow. Fat, too. I’ll bet it was the laziest cat in town.”

Alex glanced at Mrs. Durkin. She looked as though she were about to deluge him with questions. “Thanks an awful lot,” he said, and escaped out the door. Chuck followed him a few stores down the street.

“Alex, I didn’t want to say it in front of Mrs. Durkin because I’m not supposed to give anybody a ride in the truck. But one night, I gave him a ride out to Old Lady Liston’s place. I was telling him once about all the animals she kept, and he just asked me outright to take him there. I dropped him there about seven o’clock and picked him up on my last trip to that end of town.”

“Thanks, Chuck,” Alex said.

He had heard Mrs. Liston’s name mentioned once before recently. Maude had said she called. No one paid much attention to Mrs. Liston in Hillside. She was “queer,” and they let it go at that. It was funny Mabel hadn’t noticed Chuck. He would take precautions, of course. If Mabel knew it, it would get back to Mrs. Durkin in a hurry. It was probably on one of Mabel’s nights out. The old man must have learned her club and sewing habits better than he knew the time of day. Alex called Waterman about it when he got back to the office. Then he and Joan left for Riverdale.

A
LEX WAS SURPRISED AT
the location of the lawyer’s office. It was in one of a series of rambling, run-down buildings that should have been condemned long ago. Before the war many of the rooms were unoccupied, and Alex remembered them as the center of a gambling rash that broke out after every election. It was almost a tradition for the county to be wide open. That section of Riverdale was referred to as Little Barbary. As he climbed the slanting stairs, Alex thought of what a lark it had been during his college days for the fellows to get in here. The smell of stale beer still clung to the dim passageways.

Gautier had suite number 3. The first door was marked “land office,” and the name and sign of a chiropodist was on the second. Outside the lawyer’s office he could hear the steady rhythm of an experienced typist. Opening the door, he saw that the office was unlike the rest of the building. It was neat and freshly painted. The secretary was working in the outer room which was really part of the first, separated only by rows of filing cabinets. “Mr. Whiting?” the girl asked.

But the lawyer was already out the door to meet him. Alex liked his cordiality. He was a squat dark man in his late forties. His movements were alert, authoritative. He smiled easily, showing beautiful teeth.

“Sorry I was in court when you called,” he said. “Sorry I was in court at all on a day like this. Sticky as flypaper.” He led Alex into the front office. It was bright and comfortable, with two Daumier prints on the wall, and the inevitable certificate of one who had passed the state bar examinations. He motioned Alex into a big leather chair and offered him a cigarette. “You know, you and your girl were the first people I ever saw walk away winners from one of those carnival devices?”

“That a fact?” Alex said, unaware that he had picked up the phrase from Waterman.

“Yes,” the lawyer said. “Well, what can I do for you?”

It seemed to Alex that everyone knew his business these days and the question surprised him. “I was wondering if you were ever retained by a man named Andrew Mattson.”

“Andrew Mattson?” the lawyer repeated. “The name’s familiar.”

Alex was tired of being pumped for information. He waited. Gautier smiled.

“Your father publishes the Hillside
Sentinel,
doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s retired now. I’ve inherited the job.”

“He was quite a battler in his day. Is it a family tradition?”

“I intend to follow his policies.”

“Mattson died last Wednesday, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Old age?”

“That was the coroner’s verdict.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s delicate ground, isn’t it?” the lawyer said.

Alex did not answer. He inhaled his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

“Did you know the old boy would have come into twenty-five thousand dollars today if he had lived?” Gautier asked.

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose twenty-five thousand really meant very much to a man his age. You don’t go on any cruises when you hit the nineties. Still, I suppose it was a nice gesture on the part of old Addison. He left a lump to charity. I was up there. Filed a small claim against the estate. I felt like a flea on an elephant’s ear. The bulk of the estate went to his son and grandchildren. But you didn’t come to talk about the Addisons. Or did you?”

“Addison evidently wasn’t in court when the will was filed,” Alex said, ignoring the question. “He was at the funeral this morning.”

“That was nice of him,” Gautier said. “No. His lawyers represented him. His father and Mattson were old buddies, weren’t they?”

“That’s what it says in the papers,” Alex said, regretting it immediately. He wished he could be noncommittal without being a smart aleck.

“To answer your first question,” Gautier said, “no. I was never retained by Andrew Mattson, but if he had lived, I think he might have retained me. He asked me to visit him today.”

Alex leaned forward. “Did he tell you why?”

“No,” the lawyer said, “he did not.”

Alex wondered if he was telling the truth. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“What brought you to me?” Gautier asked.

“The mail carrier that mailed the letter for him. Andy didn’t write many letters. Do you have any idea why he wrote to you?”

“Nothing definite. I speculated to myself a bit.”

“You aren’t a patent lawyer?” Alex asked suddenly.

“No, that’s a specialty I haven’t gone in for. I handle just about anything else, for example, I get the down-and-outers the sheriff’s boys pick up when they feel like exercise.”

“Oh,” Alex said.

“Charming fellows. Vagrants mostly. Happy out of jail. Happy in it, especially when it rains. Suspended sentences. I had one yesterday. I always go down and talk to them before court. He was telling me about someone rummaging out back of the morgue the night before.”

“That’s not much of a secret now,” Alex said.

Gautier tilted back in the swivel chair and leaned his feet against the waste-paper basket. “I’ve been watching this thing like a hawk,” he said. “I wasn’t happy about losing a client. I didn’t know it till I made inquiries about the body at the morgue. Then I got the tramp’s story. Next I heard about that veterinary’s lab being smashed. I really got interested when I was talking with one of the attendants at the morgue. He was sore as hell. Getting fired over the cat’s disappearance. Said Tobin told him to dispose of it. I asked him if he wanted to sue the county. That was a mistake. He shut up like a clam. The next item was the Addison will with the twenty-five thousand in it for Mattson, and the peculiar timing of the old man’s death. It’s quite a package.”

“A beauty,” Alex said. “More strings than a parachute.”

“Any heirs to Mattson?”

“That’s what we’ve been wondering,” Alex said. He decided against telling the lawyer about Andy’s son.

“If it’s any help to you,” Gautier said, “I’ll volunteer my services.”

“Why?”

The lawyer smiled. “You don’t trust anyone, do you? My reasons are simple, and not altogether altruistic. I’m out to be next state’s attorney, and I’m not particular how I get there. If I can discredit the present outfit, I’ll do it. I’d like to clean out the whole damned county.”

“You’ll need a long life and a stout heart,” Alex said.

“Just like Mattson, eh?” the lawyer said. He unlocked one of the side drawers to his desk and took out an envelope which he handed to Alex. “Here’s the letter he wrote me two weeks ago today.”

It was in a white stamped envelope, the kind to be purchased for four cents in the post office. The letter itself was written on a quarter of a sheet of the drafting paper he had seen in Mattson’s workshop. He could feel his heart beating faster as he looked at it. It was the first time he had seen anything written in Mattson’s hand. The writing was quite steady, and as bold as thunder.

My dear sir:

May I congratulate you at this late date on your excellent fight against corruption in the last county election. Having withdrawn myself from affairs of state and county many years ago I scarcely merit an opinion, even an approving one. But I feel impelled to commend you, nonetheless.

I assume that you have courage as well as ambition, and therefore, I am asking that you visit me two weeks from today at eight o’clock in the evening. I do not know that I shall be able to compensate you for your services at your usual rates, but I am sure you will feel yourself amply paid in the importance of the project I have in mind.

Most sincerely,

Andrew Mattson (signed)

August 6, 1948

“You wouldn’t call that a foggy mind by any stretch, would you?” Gautier said when Alex looked up.

“Ah, no. Whatever Andy was, it wasn’t foggy.” He handed the letter back to the lawyer. “Have you done any guessing as to what he wanted you for?”

“I haven’t guessed out loud,” Gautier said. “I’ll tell you that. The most obvious guess would be that it concerned the Addisons. But it could have been almost anything.”

“Old Addison came to see him once a year at least,” Alex said. “Was anybody by the name Turnsby mentioned in the will?”

The lawyer glanced up at the clock on his desk. “It will be in the afternoon paper,” he said. He called to his secretary and asked her to go down for a couple of them. “No. I don’t think there was. But it’s a very old name in the county. Often mentioned in property litigations. Matter of fact, they once owned the property where Addison Industries are now. Did you know that?”

“No,” Alex said. “I didn’t know that.”

Presently Gautier’s secretary returned with the papers.

“Sixty million dollars,” Alex said. “A fair savings.”

“Just a small town boy making good,” Gautier said.

There were several grants to scientific institutions, one to the art museum at Jackson. Andrew Mattson was the only outsider mentioned. The bulk of the estate went to George Addison and his children.

Alex got up and went to the window. Joan was sitting in the car waiting for him across the street. She had walked over from the Riverdale Library.

“Sit down for a minute,” Gautier said. “If you don’t want to answer these questions, say so. I presume you weren’t satisfied with the coroner’s verdict. What made you decide to take the cat from in back of the morgue?”

“I thought something was wrong with it, and the coroner didn’t satisfy us with his explanation.”

“How did you know it would be there?”

“I didn’t. I just took the chance.”

“Why did you decide to take it to Barnard?”

“He’s the only vet I know. And he’s got a good reputation as a research man.”

“Who knew you were seeing him?”

“Nobody.”

“Would you mind telling me what happened from the time Tobin got to Mattson’s place until you found out Barnard’s lab had been smashed up?”

Alex gave Gautier the information he had asked for. He threw in the incident of the second package and its disappearance from the car trunk.

“Somebody was looking for something. No doubt about that,” the lawyer said. “How well do you know Barnard?”

“I’ve known him since I was a kid. And Dad worked with him when we had a typhoid epidemic.”

“I know his record, too,” Gautier said. “Did he give you any information on the cat?”

“Not much.”

“Did you check the call that took him out of the house that morning?”

“It was legitimate.”

“Then somebody was timing it pretty slick. If he didn’t have any information for you, Whiting, it looks kind of strange to me. It doesn’t seem logical he wouldn’t at least have taken a look at his specimens before leaving the house. I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. Suppose somebody told him to keep clean of the whole thing. Maybe threatened his life or his family’s. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Possible,” Alex said. Waterman thought Barnard was afraid of something, too.

“I’m not saying that’s what happened at all,” Gautier said. “I wondered if you’d thought about it.”

“We have,” Alex said, getting up.

“You asked me if I was a patent lawyer. I’ve got a friend in that end of the practice exclusively. He’s up in Jackson if you’d like his name.”

There was not much time, Alex thought. Altman was putting the heat on. There was a patent library in Jackson. “It’s just a hunch,” he said. He took the notes Joan had made for him and showed them to Gautier. “Mattson was evidently interested in these things. I thought maybe the patent story might tell us why.”

“Let me call Willard Renny on them. I might get faster action than you.”

“All right,” Alex said. “I’d appreciate it. I don’t suppose you’d part with that letter?”

“If it ever figures in court, I’ll be glad to loan it,” Gautier said. “But I’m kind of proud of it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Alex said, shaking hands with him. “I wish he’d written it to me.”

“L
EARN ANYTHING?” JOAN ASKED
as Alex climbed into the car beside her.