The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  CHAPTER III

  DELLA STREET had Perry Mason's morning mail opened when he pushed open the door of the outer office with a cheery "Good morning. What's new, Della?"

  "A lot of the usual stuff," she said, "and one that isn't usual."

  "We'll save the cake until last," he told her, grinning. "What's the usual stuff?"

  "One of the jurors on that last case," she said, "wants to talk over a corporation matter with you. A couple more rang up to congratulate you on the way you handled the case. There's a man who's been trying to get an appointment and won't tell me the details of what it's about. It's got something to do with some mining stock be bought. There are letters asking about minor matters..."

  He made a wry face and a sweeping gesture of dismissal with his hand, then grinned at her.

  "Kick 'em all out, Della," he said. "I don't like routine. I want excitement. I want to work on matters of life and death, where minutes count. I want the bizarre and the unusual."

  She looked at him with eyes that held a tender solicitude. "You take too many chances, Chief," she protested. "Your love of excitement is going to get you into trouble some day. Why don't you simply handle trial work instead of going out and mixing into the cases the way you do?"

  His grin was boyish.

  "In the first place," he said, "I like the excitement. In the second place, because I win my cases by knowing the facts. I beat the prosecution to the punch. It's lots of fun... What's the unusual thing, Della?"

  "That's plenty unusual, Chief," she said. "It's a letter from this man who was in here yesterday."

  "What man?"

  "The man who wanted to see you about the howling dog."

  "Oh," said Mason, grinning, "Cartright, eh? Wonder if he slept last night."

  "This letter," she reported, "came special delivery. It must have been mailed some time during the night."

  "Something more about the dog?" he asked.

  "He enclosed a will," she said, lowering her voice and looking furtively about the outer office as though afraid that some one might overhear her, "and ten one thousand dollar bills."

  Perry Mason stood staring down at her with his forehead washboarded, his eyes squinted.

  "You mean ten thousand dollars in currency?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Sent through the mail?"

  "Through the mail."

  "Registered?"

  "No, just special delivery."

  "I," said Perry Mason, "will be damned."

  She got up from behind the desk, walked over to the safe, opened the safe, unlocked the inner compartment, and took out the envelope and handed it to him.

  "And you say there's a will?"

  "A will."

  "A letter with it?"

  "Yes, a short letter."

  Perry Mason fished out the ten one thousand dollar bills, looked them over carefully, whistled under his breath, folded them and put them in his pocket. Then he read the letter aloud.

  DEAR MR. MASON:

  I saw you during that last murder trial. I'm convinced you're honest and I'm convinced you're a fighter. I want you to fight on this case. I'm enclosing ten thousand dollars and I'm enclosing a will. The ten thousand dollars is a retainer. You get your fee under the will. I want you to represent the beneficiary named in that will and fight for her interests all the way through. I know now why the dog howled.

  I'm drawing up this will, the way you told me a will like this could be made. Perhaps you won't have any occasion to probate the will or fight for the beneficiary. If you don't, you've got the ten thousand dollars, plus the retainer I gave you yesterday.

  Thanks for the interest you've taken in my case.

  Sincerely yours,

  ARTHUR CARTRIGHT.

  Perry Mason shook his head dubiously and took the folded bills from his pocket.

  "I'd sure like to keep that money," he said.

  "Keep it!" exclaimed Della Street. "Why, of course you'll keep it. The letter shows what it's for. It's a legitimate retainer, isn't it?"

  Perry Mason sighed and dropped the money onto her desk.

  "Crazy," he said. "The man's crazy as a loon."

  "What makes you think he's crazy?" she asked.

  "Everything," he told her.

  "You didn't think so last night."

  "I thought he was nervous and perhaps sick."

  "But you didn't think he was crazy."

  "Well, not exactly."

  "You mean the reason you think he's crazy, then, is because he sent you this letter."

  Perry Mason grinned at her.

  "Well," he said, "Dr. Charles Cooper, the alienist who handles the commitments on the insanity board, remarked that the payment of a cash retainer was certainly a departure from the normal these days. This man has paid two of them within twenty-four hours, and he sent ten thousand dollars through the mail in an unregistered letter."

  "Perhaps he didn't have any other way to send it," suggested Della Street.

  "Perhaps," he told her. "Did you read the will?"

  "No, I didn't. The letter came in, and when I saw what it was, I put it in the safe right away."

  "Well," Mason told her, "let's take a look at the will."

  He unfolded the sheet of paper which was marked on the outside: LAST WILL OF ARTHUR CARTRIGHT.

  His eye ran along the writing, and he slowly nodded.

  "Well," he said, "he's made a good holographic will. It's all in his handwriting - signature, date and everything."

  "Does he leave you something in the will?" asked Della Street curiously.

  Perry Mason looked up from the paper and chuckled.

  "My, but you're getting mercenary this morning," he said.

  "If you could see the way bills keep coming in, you'd be mercenary too. Honestly, I don't see how there can be any depression, the way you spend money."

  "I'm just keeping it in circulation," he told her. "There's just as much money in the country as there ever was - more in fact, but it doesn't circulate as rapidly. Therefore, nobody seems to have any."

  "Well," she told him, "yours circulates fast enough. But tell me about the will, or is it any of my business?"

  "Oh, it's your business, all right," he told her. "One of these days I may get bumped off, the way I work up my cases, and you'll be the only one that knows anything about my business affairs. Let's see. He leaves his property to the beneficiary, and then he leaves me a one-tenth interest in his estate, to be paid to me when the estate is finally distributed, upon condition that I have faithfully represented the woman who is the principal beneficiary, in every form of legal matter which may arise, incident to the will, growing out of his death, or in anywise connected with her domestic relationships."

  "Takes in a lot of territory, doesn't he?" said Della Street.

  Perry Mason nodded his head slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was meditative.

  "That man," he said, "either wrote that will at the dictation of a lawyer, or else he's got a pretty good business mind. It isn't the kind of a will a crazy man would write. It's logical and coherent. He leaves his property, nine-tenths to Mrs. Clinton Foley, and one-tenth to me. He provides..."

  Suddenly Perry Mason broke off and stared at the document with eyes that slowly widened in surprise.

  "What is it?" asked Della Street. "Anything serious; a defect in the will?"

  "No," said Mason slowly, "it's not a defect in the will, but it's something peculiar."

  Abruptly he strode across the office to the door which opened into the outer corridor, and locked it.

  "We're not going to bother with visitors for a while, Della," he told her, "not until we get this straightened out."

  "But what is it?" she asked.

  Perry Mason lowered his voice.

  "Yesterday," he said, "when the man was in, he asked me particularly about leaving the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley, and wanted to know what the effect of the will would be if it should turn out that the woman
who posed as Mrs. Foley, wasn't really Mrs. Foley."

  "Meaning that she wasn't married to Clinton Foley?" asked Della Street.

  "Exactly," said Mason.

  "But isn't she living with Mr. Foley out there in an exclusive neighborhood?"

  "Exactly," Mason said, "but that doesn't prove anything. There have been cases where..."

  "Oh, yes, I know," said Della Street. "But it does seem strange that a man would live in a neighborhood like that with a woman who posed as his wife."

  "There might be reasons for it. Those things happen every day. Perhaps a former wife who won't get a divorce, herself, and won't let the man get one. Perhaps the woman has a husband. There might be any one of a dozen things."

  She nodded slow affirmation. "You've got me curious now. What about the will?"

  "Well," said Mason, "when he was in yesterday he brought up this question about leaving the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley if it should turn out that the woman wasn't Mrs. Clinton Foley at all, but was merely posing as Mrs. Foley. From the way he spoke, I felt quite certain that he had reason to believe the woman was not Mrs. Foley, so I explained to him that it would be all right for him to leave the property to the party named, describing her as being the woman who at present resided with Clinton Foley, at 4889 Milpas Drive."

  "Well," asked Della Street, "did he do it?"

  "He did not," said Perry Mason. "He left his property to Mrs. Clinton Foley, the lawfully wedded wife of Clinton Foley, said Clinton Foley at present residing at 4889 Milpas Drive in this city."

  "Then that makes it different?" asked Della Street.

  "Of course it makes it different," he said. "It makes it different all the way through. If it should turn out that the woman who is living with him at that address isn't his wife, she wouldn't take under the will. The will distributes the property to the lawfully wedded wife of Clinton Foley, and the description of the residence relates to Clinton Foley rather than his wife."

  "Do you suppose he misunderstood you?" asked Della Street.

  "I don't know," frowned the lawyer. "He didn't seem to misunderstand me on anything else, and he's been clear enough in everything he's done. Look up Cartright in the telephone book. He lives at 4893 Milpas Drive. He'll have a telephone. Get him on the telephone at once. Tell him it's important."

  She nodded and reached for the telephone, but an incoming call tripped the buzzer on the switchboard before her fingers closed about the receiver.

  "See who it is," said Mason.

  She plugged in the line, said: "Office of Perry Mason," then listened for a moment, and nodded.

  "Just a minute," she said, and cupped her palm over the mouthpiece.

  "It's Pete Dorcas," she said, "the deputy district attorney. He says he wants to talk to you right away about that Cartright case."

  "All right," said Mason, "put him on."

  "In your office?" she asked.

  "No, this telephone's all right," he told her, "and listen in on the conversation. I don't know just what it's going to be, but I want a witness."

  He scooped up the receiver, said "Hello," and heard the voice of Pete Dorcas, edged with impatience, querulous and rasping.

  "I'm afraid, Mason," he said, "that I've got to issue a commitment for your client, Arthur Cartright, on the ground of insanity."

  "What's he done now?" asked Mason.

  "Apparently this howling dog business is all a part of his imagination," Dorcas said. "Clinton Foley has told me enough to make me believe that the man is not only dangerously insane, but that he has a homicidal complex which may cause him to take the law in his own hands and become violent."

  "When did Foley tell you all this?" Mason asked, looking at his wristwatch.

  "Just a few minutes ago."

  "He was there at the office?" asked Mason.

  "He's here right now."

  "All right," Mason said, "hold him there. I've got a right to be heard on this. I'm Cartright's lawyer, and I'm going to see that my client gets a square deal. You hold him there. I'm coming right over."

  He didn't wait to give Dorcas a chance to make any excuses, but slammed the receiver back on the telephone, turned and said to Della Street: "All right, Della, break that connection. Get Cartright on the line. Tell him that I want to see him at once. Tell him to get out of his house and go to some hotel; register under his own name, but don't let any one know where he's going; telephone you the name of the hotel where he's at, and you can telephone me. Tell him to keep away from my office and keep away from his residence until I see him. Tell him it's important. I'm going over to the district attorney's office and see what's happening. This Clinton Foley is making trouble."

  He slipped back the spring lock on the outer door, shot out into the corridor and was half way to the elevator by the time the door check swung the door shut, and the spring latch snapped into position.

  He flagged a cab in front of his office and snapped at the driver: "District attorney's office. Make it snappy and I pay the fines."

  He jumped into the cab, the door slammed, and Perry Mason lurched back against the cushions as the cab lunged into motion. During the drive, he sat with his eyes staring, unseeingly, straight ahead, his forehead puckered with thought. His body swayed mechanically as the cab swung around corners or lurched from side to side in avoiding obstacles.

  When the cab swung into the curb and the driver pulled the slip from the meter, Perry Mason tossed him a five dollar bill and said: "That's all right, buddy." He crossed the sidewalk, went to the ninth floor, said to the girl at the information desk in the district attorney's office: "Pete Dorcas is waiting for me."

  He walked past her, down a long corridor lined with doors, paused before one that had gilt letters on the frosted glass, reading simply: "Mr. Dorcas," and tapped on the door.

  The querulous voice of Pete Dorcas called: "Come in."

  Perry Mason turned the knob and walked into the room.

  Pete Dorcas was sitting behind the desk, an expression of annoyance on his face. On the other side of the desk, a huge figure struggled from a chair and turned to face Perry Mason inquiringly.

  The man was over six feet in height, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, long of arm. His waist had put on a little flesh, but not enough to detract from the athletic figure. He was, perhaps, forty years old, and when he spoke, his voice was resonant.

  "I presume you're Perry Mason," he said, "Mr. Cartright's lawyer?"

  Perry Mason nodded curtly, stood with his feet spread apart, his head thrust slightly forward, his eyes staring at the man in cold appraisal.

  "Yes," he said, "I'm Cartright's lawyer."

  "I'm Mr. Clinton Foley, his neighbor," said the man, extending a hand and smiling graciously.

  Perry Mason took two steps forward, took the hand, and turned to Dorcas after a perfunctory handshake.

  "Sorry if I kept you waiting, Pete, but this is important. I can explain it to you a little later. I've got to find out what it's all about."

  "There's nothing that it's all about," said Dorcas, "except that I'm busy, and you took up a lot of my time yesterday afternoon about a howling dog who didn't howl, and now it turns out your man's crazy as a loon."

  "What makes you think he's crazy?" asked Mason.

  "What made you think he was crazy?" said Dorcas irritably. "You thought so yesterday. You telephoned and said you thought he was crazy and wanted me to have a doctor here to look him over."

  "No," Mason said slowly, "don't get me wrong on that, Dorcas. I knew the man was in a very bad state of nerves. I wanted to find out whether that was all there was to it, that's all."

  "Yes, you did," Dorcas said, with heavy sarcasm. "You thought he was crazy, and you wanted to find out before you got your neck in a noose."

  "What do you mean, get my neck in a noose?" demanded Mason.

  "You know what I mean," Dorcas told him. "You came in here with a man who wanted to get out a warrant for the arrest of a wealthy and prominent citizen. Naturall
y, you wanted to be certain that there wasn't going to be any come-back. That's what you were retained for. That's the reason you didn't get a warrant, but did get a notification asking Mr. Foley to come in. Well, he's here now, and what he tells me is plenty."

  Perry Mason stared fixedly at Pete Dorcas until the steely eyes of the deputy district attorney lowered under Mason's direct gaze.