"When I came in here," Mason said slowly, "I came in here because I wanted to give you a fair deal, and because I wanted to get one. I told you my man was nervous. He told me he was nervous. He said the continued howling of the dog made him nervous. There's an ordinance on the books against maintaining a nuisance with a noisy animal. My client is entitled to the protection of that law, even if it does happen that a man who's got some political pull..."
"But the dog didn't howl," Dorcas exclaimed irritably. "That's just the point."
Foley's voice interposed on the discussion.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "may I say a word?"
Perry Mason didn't even turn to him, but continued to stare steadily at the deputy district attorney. Dorcas, however, looked up, his face showing relief.
"Certainly," he said, "go right ahead."
"You'll pardon me, I'm certain, Mr. Mason," said Foley, "if I speak frankly. I know that you want to get at the facts. I understand your position in this matter and want to commend you upon the fair way you have gone about protecting the interests of your client."
Perry Mason turned slowly toward him, sized him up with uncordial eyes that swept up and down the big frame of the man.
"Forget it," he said, "go ahead and explain."
"This man, Cartright," said Foley, "is undoubtedly mentally deranged. He has rented the adjoining house. I feel quite certain that the owners of the house do not know the sort of tenant with whom they are dealing. Cartright has one servant, a deaf housekeeper. He has no friends, apparently; no acquaintances. He stays around his house virtually all of the time."
"Well," said Perry Mason belligerently, "that's his privilege, isn't it? Maybe he doesn't like the neighborhood."
Dorcas got to his feet.
"Now listen, Mason," he said, "you can't..."
"Gentlemen, please," said Foley. "Let me explain. Let me handle this. Please, Mr. Dorcas. I understand Mr. Mason's attitude. He thinks that I have brought political influence to bear, and that the interests of his client are being jeopardized."
"Well," said Mason, "haven't you?"
"No," said Foley, smiling amiably. "I have merely explained the facts to Mr. Dorcas. Your client, as I have said, is a very peculiar man. He lives virtually the life of a hermit, yet he continually spies on me out of the windows of his house, he has a pair of binoculars, and he watches every move I make."
Dorcas hesitated for a moment, then dropped back into his swivel chair, shrugged his shoulders, and lit a cigarette.
"Go on," said Perry Mason, "I'm listening."
"My Chinese cook," said Foley, "was the one who first called it to my attention. He noticed the lenses of the binoculars. Understand me, please, Mr. Mason. I consider only that your client is mentally deranged and doesn't know what he is doing. Also, please understand that I have ample witnesses to substantiate everything I am going to say."
"All right," said Mason, "what are you going to say?"
"I am going," Foley said, with dignity, "to complain about the constant espionage. It makes it difficult for me to keep my servants. It is annoying to me and to my guests. The man snoops around and stares at me through binoculars. He never has the lights on the upper floor of his house turned on. He constantly parades through the dark rooms at night, with his binoculars in his hand, snooping and spying on everything that I do. He is a dangerous neighbor."
"Well," Mason said, "it's no crime for a man to look through binoculars, is it?"
"That isn't the point," Dorcas said, "and you know it, Mason. The man is insane."
"What makes you think he's insane?" Mason demanded.
"Because," said Dorcas, "he has reported a howling dog, and the dog didn't howl."
"You've got a dog, haven't you?" Mason asked Foley.
"Certainly," said Foley, still keeping his conciliatory manner.
"And you mean to say he doesn't howl?"
"Never."
"Didn't howl a couple of nights ago?"
"No."
"I've talked it over with Dr. Cooper," said Dorcas, "and he tells me that if there is a delusion of persecution, coupled with the hallucination of a howling dog, and the fear that there is going to be a death in the neighborhood, present in your client's mind, he may develop homicidal mania at almost any moment, and without warning."
"All right," Mason said; "your mind's made up. So's mine. You're going to commit him, are you?"
"I propose to see that his sanity is inquired into," said Dorcas, with dignity.
"Go ahead," Mason told him. "The same thing that you told me yesterday, I'm telling you today. If you're going to have a man's sanity inquired into, some one has got to sign a complaint. Now who's going to sign the complaint? Are you?"
"I might," Dorcas said.
"Better take it easy," Mason said; "I'm just warning you, that's all."
"Warning me of what?"
"Warning you that if you sign a complaint alleging that my client is insane, you'd better make a much more complete investigation than you've made to date. Otherwise there's going to be some trouble."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," said Foley. "Please let's not have any friction about this. After all, it's merely a matter of doing the right thing by poor Mr. Cartright. I have no feelings against him whatever. He is a neighbor and he has made himself obnoxious, but I feel certain that his conduct is caused by a mental derangement. I desire to have that inquired into, that is all. In the event it appears the man's mind is not deranged, then I shall take steps, naturally, to see that he does not repeat his assertions about my dog and my household."
Dorcas spoke to Perry Mason.
"This isn't getting you anywhere, Perry," he said. "Foley's absolutely within his rights. You know that you brought Cartright here because you wanted to forestall any action for malicious prosecution. If Cartright made a full and complete disclosure of the facts to us, and was authorized to proceed, he acted within his rights. If he distorted or misstated the facts, he did not."
Mason laughed grimly.
"Trying to lay the foundation for a lawsuit, are you?" he asked Foley.
"I am not," Foley said.
"Well, I'm just telling you both something that you've forgotten," Mason remarked, "and that is that no warrant was issued and no complaint was filed. The deputy district attorney decided to write you a letter. That's about the size of it, isn't it, Dorcas?"
"Legally, yes," said Dorcas slowly. "But if it appears the man is insane, something should be done about it."
"All right," Mason said, "all of your ideas about the man's insanity are founded on the statement Foley has made, that the dog didn't howl, isn't that right?"
"Naturally, but Mr. Foley says he has witnesses to substantiate his statement."
"So he says," Mason went on doggedly, "and until you interview those witnesses, you don't know which one of them is crazy. Maybe it's Foley that's crazy."
Foley laughed, but the laugh was mechanical, and his eyes glinted.
"Well, then," Dorcas said, "as I understand it, you want us to investigate further before we do anything, is that right?"
"Naturally," said Mason. "You didn't go any farther on the word of my client, than to write a letter. If you want to write Mr. Cartright a letter, telling him that Mr. Foley says he's crazy, that's all right with me. But if you go ahead on the unsupported word of Mr. Foley, I'm going to stick up for the rights of my client."
Dorcas reached for his desk phone, took down the receiver, and said:
"Sheriff's office."
After a moment, he said: "Let me talk with Bill Pemberton... hello... Bill?... this is Pete Dorcas. Listen, we've got a dispute down here in the office, involving a couple of millionaires out on Milpas Drive. There's a question of a howling dog. One of them says the dog howls; the other one says he doesn't. One of them says the other man's crazy. Perry Mason is retained to represent one of them and demands an investigation. Can you go out there and settle the thing?"
There was a mome
nt of silence, then Dorcas said: "All right, come down to the office right away."
He hung up the telephone and turned to look at Perry Mason with cold eyes.
"Now, then, Perry," he said, "you've started this thing. We're going to make an investigation. If it turns out your man is making false statements, and is mentally deranged we're going to go right through with a commitment, unless you want to find some relative and have the man committed privately."
"Now," said Mason, "you're commencing to talk sense. Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?"
"Tell you what?"
"Tell me that I could find a relative and get the man committed?"
"Well," said Dorcas, "he started the machinery of this office on a criminal matter which seems to have been entirely without foundation. Then Mr. Foley came in and impressed upon us the fact that his safety was being jeopardized..."
"Exactly," said Perry Mason, "that's what I was combating.
"There's no hard feelings, Pete, but I'm representing my client, and when I represent a client, I fight for him - to the last ditch if necessary."
Dorcas sighed and made a gesture with his hands, spreading them out, palm upward on the desk.
"That's one thing about you, Mason," he said, "nobody can ever say you don't represent a client. You're hard to get along with."
"Not when my clients get a square deal," Mason said.
"Your client will get a square deal here," Dorcas told him, "as long as I'm running things. Bill Pemberton is fair, and he's going out and make an investigation."
"I want to go with him," Mason stated.
"Can you go, Mr. Foley?" Dorcas asked.
"When?" asked Mr. Foley.
"Right away," said Mason. "The sooner, the better."
"Yes," said Foley slowly, "I can go."
A figure silhouetted against the frosted glass of the outer door, then the door pushed open, and a raw-boned man, of forty-five years of age, grinned good-naturedly as he walked into the office.
"Hello, everybody," he said.
"Hello, Pemberton," Mason replied.
"Bill," said Dorcas, "shake hands with Mr. Foley. Mr. Foley is one of the parties to the controversy."
The deputy sheriff and Foley shook hands, and then Pemberton extended his hand to Mason.
"Great fight you made on that murder case, Mason," he said. "A nice piece of detective work. I want to compliment you on it."
"Thanks," Mason told him, shaking hands.
"What's this about?" Pemberton inquired of Dorcas.
"A howling dog," said the deputy district attorney, wearily.
"Making a lot of fuss over a howling dog, ain't you?" Pemberton asked. "Why not give him a piece of beefsteak and shut him up?"
"He's shut up already," Foley laughed. "That's the trouble."
"Foley will tell you the story on the way out," Dorcas said. "Foley represents one side of the controversy, and Perry represents the folks on the other side. It started out with a complaint over a howling dog, and now it's gone into a question of espionage, homicidal mania, and whatnot. Go on out and find out what it's all about. Talk with witnesses and then make a report to me. I'll take action, depending on what's disclosed by your report."
"Who are the witnesses?" Pemberton asked.
Foley held up his fingers and checked them off.
"To begin with," he said, "there's Cartright, who claims the dog howls, and Cartright's housekeeper. She may claim that she heard the dog howl, but if you'll talk with her, you'll find she's deaf as a post, and couldn't hear it thunder. Then there's my wife, who's been quite ill with influenza, but is getting better now. She's in bed, but she can talk with you. She knows the dog didn't howl. There's Ah Wong, my Chinese manservant, and Thelma Benton, my housekeeper. They can all tell you that the dog didn't howl. Then there's the dog himself."
"The dog going to tell me he didn't howl?" asked Pemberton, grinning.
"The dog can show you that he's quite contented, and that there isn't a howl in his system," smiled Foley, reaching in his pocket and taking out a leather cigar case. "How about a cigar?"
"Thanks," said Pemberton, taking a cigar.
"You?" asked Foley, extending the case to Mason.
"Thanks," said Mason, "I'll stick with my cigarettes."
"I've given this case a lot of time," said Dorcas, suggestively, "and..."
"Okay, Pete," Bill Pemberton boomed good-naturedly, "we're on our way right now. Come on, fellows."
CHAPTER IV
AS the sheriff's car swung into the curb, Bill Pemberton said: "Is that the house?"
"That's it," Foley answered, "but don't park here. Go on in the driveway. I'm putting an addition onto my garage, and the contractors have got things littered up here. They're finishing up this afternoon, and then I won't be troubled with them. It's been a nuisance."
"Whom do we talk with first?" asked Pemberton.
"You can suit yourself," Foley said with dignity, "but I think that after you have talked with my wife, you won't need to bother with any more witnesses."
"No," Pemberton said, "we're going to see them all. How about the Chinese cook? Is he home?"
"Certainly," Foley answered. "Keep right on the driveway if you want to, and we'll have him come out to his room. You'll probably want to see where he sleeps. It's over the garage."
"You're building an addition on that?"
"On the garage, not on the room," Foley said. "It's only the one story. The cook has his apartments on top of the garage."
"How about a chauffeur?" asked Pemberton.
"I presume the place was originally intended as a chauffeur's apartment," Foley admitted, "but I don't keep a chauffeur. What driving I do, I do personally."
"Well, then," Pemberton said, "let's talk with the Chink. That suit you, Mason?"
"Anything suits me," said Mason. "Only I want to have you talk with my client before you go."
"Oh, sure. That his place over there, Foley?"
"That's it; the one on the north."
The car slid along the driveway and came to a stop in front of the building where men were laboring with a sudden zeal which indicated a desire to impress the owner of the property, and, perhaps, forestall any complaint as to the manner in which the work had dragged along.
"Just go up here," said Foley, "and I'll get Ah Wong."
Pemberton started up a flight of stairs which hugged the concrete side of the building, then paused as there was the sound of a door banging and a woman's voice said: "Oh, Mr. Foley, I must see you at once. We've had trouble..."
The words became inaudible as the woman lowered her voice, on seeing the officer's car.
Bill Pemberton hesitated, then turned and walked to ward the back of the residence.
"Something about the dog, Foley?" he asked.
"I don't know," Clinton Foley said.
A young woman, attired in a housedress and apron, with her right hand and arm bandaged, walked rapidly toward Foley.
She was, perhaps, twenty-seven or twenty-eight. Her hair was slicked back on her head. Her face was without make-up, and she gave the impression of homely efficiency, yet it would have needed but a few deft touches of make-up, a change of clothes, and a fingerwave, to have made her quite beautiful.
Bill Pemberton looked at her with narrowing eyes.
"My housekeeper," Foley explained.
"Oh," said Pemberton significantly.
Foley whirled, started to say something, then paused and waited until the woman came to him.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Prince bit me," she said. "He was sick."
"How did it happen?"
"I don't know, but I think he'd been poisoned. He was acting queerly. I remembered what you'd said about putting salt on the back of his tongue if he ever gave any sign of sudden illness, so I took a handful of salt and put it on the back of his tongue. He closed his teeth and bit me."
Foley looked at the bandaged hand.
"Bad?
" he asked.
"No," she said, "I don't think so."
"Where is he now?"
"I shut him in your bedroom after the salt had done its work. But I thought you should know - about the poison I mean."
"Is he better now?"
"He seems to be all cured."
"Was he having spasms?"
The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4 Page 4
