The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  The Case Of The Howling Dog

  ( Perry Mason - 4 )

  Erle Stanley Gardner

  Arthur Cartwright's official complaint about a neighbor's noisy dog leads Perry Mason and his associates into a case involving a poisoned police dog, a missing wife, and murder.

  E S Gardner - Perry Mason 04 - Howling Dog

  CHAPTER I

  DELLA STREET held open the door to the inner office, and spoke in the tone which a woman instinctively uses in speaking to a child or a very sick man.

  "Go right in, Mr. Cartright," she said. "Mr. Mason will see you."

  A broad-shouldered, rather heavy-set man, of about thirty-two, with haunted brown eyes, walked into the office, and stared at the sober countenance of Perry Mason.

  "You're Perry Mason," he asked, "the lawyer?"

  Mason nodded.

  "Sit down," he said.

  The man dropped into the chair Mason had indicated with a gesture, mechanically reached for a package of cigarettes, took one out, conveyed it to his lips, and had the package half way back to his pocket before he thought to offer one to Perry Mason.

  The hand that held the extended package of cigarettes trembled, and the lawyer's knowing eyes stared for a moment at the quivering hand before he shook his head.

  "No," he said, "thank you, I've got my own brand."

  The man nodded, hurriedly put the package of cigarettes back in his pocket, struck a match, and casually leaned forward, so that his elbow was resting on the arm of the chair, steadying the hand which held the match as he lit the cigarette.

  "My secretary," said Perry Mason, in a calm tone of voice, "told me that you wanted to see me about a dog and about a will."

  The man nodded. "A dog and a will," he repeated mechanically.

  "Well," said Perry Mason, "let's talk about the will first. I don't know much about dogs."

  Cartright nodded. His hungry brown eyes were fastened upon Perry Mason with the expression of a very sick man looking at a competent physician.

  Perry Mason took a pad of yellow foolscap from a drawer in his desk, picked up a desk pen, and said: "What's your name?"

  "Arthur Cartright."

  "Age?"

  "Thirty-two."

  "Residence?"

  "4893 Milpas Drive."

  "Married or single?"

  "Do we need to go into that?"

  Perry Mason held the pen poised above the foolscap while he raised his eyes to regard Cartright with steady appraisal.

  "Yes," he said.

  Cartright held the cigarette over an ashtray, and tapped the ashes from the end with a hand that shook as though with the ague.

  "I don't think it makes any difference in the kind of a will I'm drawing up," he said.

  "I've got to know," Perry Mason told him.

  "But I tell you it won't make any difference, on account of the way I'm leaving my property."

  Perry Mason said nothing, but the calm insistence of his very silence drove the other to speech.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Wife's name?"

  "Paula Cartright, age twenty-seven."

  "Residing with you?" asked Mason.

  "No."

  "Where does she reside?"

  "I don't know," said the man.

  Perry Mason hesitated a moment, and his quiet, patient eyes surveyed the haggard countenance of his client. Then he spoke soothingly.

  "Very well," he said, "let's find out a little more about what you want to do with your property before we go back to that. Have you any children?"

  "No."

  "How did you want to leave your property?"

  "Before we go into that," said Cartright, speaking rapidly, "I want to know if a will is valid no matter how a man dies."

  Perry Mason nodded his head, wordlessly.

  "Suppose," said Cartright, "a man dies on the gallows or in the electric chair? You know, suppose he's executed for murder, then what happens to his will?"

  "It makes no difference how a man dies; his will is not affected," Mason said.

  "How many witnesses do I need to a will?"

  "Two witnesses under certain circumstances," Mason said, "and none under others."

  "How do you mean?"

  "I mean that if a will is drawn up in typewriting, and you sign it, there must be two witnesses to your signature, but in this state, if a will is written entirely in your handwriting, including date and signature, and there is no other writing or printing on the sheet of paper, save your own handwriting, it does not need to have any witnesses to the signature. Such a will is valid and binding."

  Arthur Cartright sighed, and his sigh seemed to be one of relief. When he spoke, his voice was more quiet, less jerky.

  "Well," he said, "that seems to clear that point up."

  "To whom did you want your property to go?" asked Perry Mason.

  "To Mrs. Clinton Foley, living at 4889 Milpas Drive."

  Perry Mason raised his eyebrows.

  "A neighbor?" he asked.

  "A neighbor," said Cartright, in the tone of voice of one who wishes to discourage comment.

  "Very well," said Perry Mason, and then added: "Remember, Cartright, you're talking to a lawyer. Don't have secrets from your lawyer. Tell me the truth. I won't betray your confidences."

  "Well," Cartright said impatiently, "I'm telling you everything, ain't I?"

  Perry Mason's eyes and voice were both serene.

  "I don't know," he said. "This was something that I was telling you. Now go ahead and tell me about your will."

  "That's all of it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean just that. The property all goes to Mrs. Clinton Foley; every bit of it."

  Perry Mason put the pen back in its receptacle, and the fingers of his right hand made little drumming noises on the top of the desk. A wary appraisal was evident in his glance.

  "Well, then," he said, "let's hear about the dog."

  "The dog howls," said Cartright.

  Perry Mason's nod was sympathetic.

  "He howls mostly at night," Cartright said, "but sometimes during the day. It's driving me crazy. I can't stand that continual howling. You know, a dog howls when there's a death due to occur in the neighborhood."

  "Where is the dog?" asked Mason.

  "In the house next door."

  "You mean," asked Perry Mason, "that the house where Mrs. Clinton Foley lives is on one side of you, and the house that has the howling dog is on the other side?"

  "No," said Cartright, "I mean that the howling dog is in Clinton Foley's house."

  "I see," Mason remarked. "Suppose you tell me all about it, Cartright."

  Cartright pinched out the end of the cigarette, got to his feet, walked rapidly to the window, stared out with unseeing eyes, then turned and paced back toward the lawyer.

  "Look here," he said, "there's one more question about the will."

  "Yes?" asked Mason.

  "Suppose Mrs. Clinton Foley really shouldn't be Mrs. Clinton Foley?"

  "How do you mean?" Mason inquired.

  "Suppose that she's living with Clinton Foley, as his wife, but isn't married to him?"

  "That wouldn't make any difference," Mason said slowly, "if you described her in the will as 'Mrs. Clinton Foley, the woman who is at present living with Clinton Foley at 4889 Milpas Drive, as his wife.' In other words, the testator has a right to leave property to whom he wishes. Words of description in a will are valuable only so far as they explain the intention of the testator.

  "For instance, there have been many occasions when men have died, willing property to their wives, and it has turned out they were not legally married. There have b
een cases where men have left property to their sons, when it has turned out that the person was not really his son..."

  "I don't care anything about all that stuff," said Arthur Cartright irritably. "I'm just asking you about this one particular case. It wouldn't make any difference?"

  "It wouldn't make any difference," Mason said.

  "Well, then," said Cartright, his eyes suddenly cunning. "Suppose that there should be a real Mrs. Clinton Foley. What I mean is, suppose Clinton Foley had been legally married and had never been legally divorced, and I should leave the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley?"

  Perry Mason's tone of voice was that of one soothing groundless fears.

  "I have explained to you," he said, "that the intention of the testator governs. If you leave your property to the woman who is now residing at that address, as the wife of Clinton Foley, it is all that is necessary. But do I understand that Clinton Foley is living?"

  "Of course he's living. He's living next door to me."

  "I see," Mason said cautiously, feeling his way, and making his voice sound casual. "And Mr. Clinton Foley knows that you intend to leave your property to his wife?"

  "Certainly not," flared Cartright. "He doesn't know anything of the sort. He doesn't have to, does he?"

  "No," Mason said, "I was just wondering, that's all."

  "Well, he doesn't know it, and he's not going to know it," said Cartright.

  "All right," Mason told him, "that's settled. How about the dog?"

  "We've got to do something about that dog."

  "What do you want to do?"

  "I want Foley arrested."

  "On what grounds?"

  "On the grounds that he's driving me crazy. A man can't keep a dog like that. It's part of a deliberate plan of persecution. He knows how I feel about a howling dog. He's got that dog, and he's taught it to howl. The dog didn't used to howl, he's just started howling the last night or two. He's doing it to irritate me and to irritate his wife. His wife is sick in bed, and the dog howls. It means death in the neighborhood."

  Cartright was speaking rapidly now, his eyes glittering feverishly, his hands gesticulating, aimlessly pawing at the air.

  Mason pursed his lips.

  "I think," he said slowly, "that I'm not going to be able to handle the matter for you, Cartright. I'm exceptionally busy right now. Just got out of court from a murder case, and..."

  "I know, I know," said Cartright, "you think I'm crazy. You think it's just some little piece of business. I tell you it isn't. It's one of the biggest pieces of business you ever handled. I came to you because you have been trying that murder case. I've followed it. I've been in court listening to you. You're a real lawyer. You were one jump ahead of the district attorney in that case from the time it started. I know all about it."

  Perry Mason smiled slowly.

  "Thanks for your good opinion, Cartright," he said, "but you can understand my work is mostly trial work. I have specialized on trials. Drawing a will is not exactly in my line, and this matter of the howling dog seems to be something that can be adjusted without a lawyer..."

  "No, it can't," Cartright said. "You don't know Foley. You don't know the type of a man you're dealing with. Probably you think there isn't going to be enough money in it to pay you for your time, but I'm going to pay you. I'm going to pay you well."

  He reached in his pocket, pulled out a well-filled wallet, opened it and jerked out three bills with trembling hand. He started to hand the bills to the lawyer, but they slipped from his fingers when his hand was half way across the desk, and fluttered to the blotter.

  "There's three hundred dollars," he said. "That's for retainer. There'll be more when you get finished - lots more. I haven't been to the bank and got my cash yet, but I'm going to get it. I've got it in a safety deposit box - lots of it."

  Perry Mason didn't touch the money for a moment. The tips of his firm capable fingers were drumming noiselessly on the desk.

  "Cartright," he said slowly, "if I act as your lawyer in this thing, I am going to do what I think is for your own good and for your best interests, do you understand that?"

  "Of course I understand it, that's what I want you to do."

  "No matter what it is," warned Mason, "if I think it's for your best interests I'm going to do it."

  "That's all right," Cartright told him, "if you'll just agree to handle the thing for me."

  Perry Mason picked up the three one hundred dollar bills, folded them, put them in his pocket.

  "Very well," he said, "I'll handle it for you. Now you want Foley arrested, is that right?"

  "Yes."

  "All right," Mason said, "that isn't going to be particularly complicated. You simply swear to a complaint, and the magistrate issues a warrant of arrest. Now, why did you want to retain me in that connection? Did you want me to act as special prosecutor?"

  "You don't know Clinton Foley," doggedly repeated Arthur Cartright. "He'll come back at me. He'll file a suit against me for malicious prosecution. Perhaps he's just trained the dog to howl so that he can get me to walk into a trap."

  "What kind of a dog is it?" Mason asked.

  "A big police dog."

  Perry Mason lowered his eyes and watched the tips of this drumming fingers for a moment, then looked up at Cartright with a reassuring smile.

  "Legally," he said, "it's always a good defense to a suit for malicious prosecution if a person consults an attorney in good faith and puts all of the facts before him and then acts on the advice of that attorney. Now I'm going to put you in a position where no one can ever recover in a suit for malicious prosecution. I'm going to take you to a deputy in the district attorney's office, one who has charge of such matters. I'm going to let you talk with that deputy and tell him the whole story, - about the dog I mean. You don't need to tell him anything about the will. If he decides that a warrant should be issued, that's all there is to it. But I must warn you to tell the whole story to the district attorney. That is, give him all of the facts. State them fairly and completely, and then you'll have a perfect defense to any suit Foley might file."

  Cartright sighed his relief.

  "Now," he said, "you're talking sense. That's just exactly the kind of advice I want to pay for. Where do we find this deputy district attorney?"

  "I'll have to telephone for an appointment," said Mason. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll go see if I can get him on the telephone. Sit right here and make yourself at home. You'll find cigarettes there in the case, and..."

  "Never mind that," Cartright said, making a swift motion toward his pocket, "I've got my own cigarettes here. Go right ahead and get that appointment. Let's do it right now. Let's get it over with as soon as possible. I can't stand another night of that howling dog."

  "All right," Mason said, pushed back his swivel chair and walked to the door which led to the outer office. As his powerful shoulders swung the door hack, Arthur Cartright was lighting a second cigarette with a hand that quivered so it was necessary for him to steady it with the other hand.

  Mason walked into the outer office.

  Della Street, his secretary, twenty-seven, swiftly capable, looked up at him and smiled with the intimacy which comes from thorough understanding.

  "Cuckoo?" she said.

  "I don't know," Perry Mason said; "I'm going to find out. Get me Pete Dorcas on the telephone. I'm going to put the whole deal up to him."

  The girl nodded. Her fingers whirred the dial of a telephone into swift action. Perry Mason strode to a window and stood with his feet planted far apart, his broad shoulders blotting out the light, his eyes staring moodily down into the concrete canyon from which came the blaring sounds of automobile horns, the rumble of traffic. The afternoon light, striking his rugged features, gave the face a weather-beaten appearance.

  "Here he is," said Della Street.

  Perry Mason turned, took two rapid strides, scooped up a telephone from a desk in the corner of the room, as Della Street's capable finger
s plugged the call in on that line.

  "Hello, Pete," said Mason. "This is Perry Mason. I'm bringing a man down to see you, and I want to explain it to you in advance."

  Pete Dorcas had a rasping, high-pitched voice, the voice of an office lawyer who has perfected himself in the mastery of technicalities, and is constantly explaining them to others who require argument in order to become convinced.