"No, Chief," she said. "I rang the place every ten minutes for more than an hour, and no one answered."
"All right," he said, "I guess no one's going to answer. It seems that Foley's wife ran off with our client."
"What?" she exclaimed.
"Fact," he told her. "The woman left a note telling Foley all about it. He's furious and is going to arrest Cartright. He and Pemberton are on their way up to the district attorney's office to try and get out a warrant."
"What grounds can they get a warrant on?" asked Della Street. "I thought there could only be a civil action for that."
"Oh, they'll find some crime that they can pin on him," said Perry Mason cheerfully. "It won't be anything that'll hold water, but it'll be enough to save their faces. You see, Cartright evidently used this excuse about the howling dog to decoy Foley away from the house. When Foley went up to the district attorney's office this morning, Cartright skipped out with Foley's wife. Naturally, the district attorney's office won't like that. It will make a funny story for the newspapers."
"Are the newspapers going to get hold of it?" asked Della Street.
"I don't know. I can't tell too much about it right now, but I'm going to work on the case, and I just wanted to let you know that you didn't need to try to get Cartright any more."
"You'll be in the office soon?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said, "it'll be a little while."
"Going to see the district attorney?" she inquired.
"No," he told her, "you can't get me anywhere until I show up or telephone again. But here's something I want you to do. Ring up Drake's Detective Bureau and get Paul Drake to drop anything he's got and come to my office. Have him waiting there when I return. I think it's going to be important as the very devil, so be sure that Drake delegates anything he's working on now, and that he's there in person."
"I'll do that," she said. "Anything else, Chief?"
"That's all," he said. "Be seeing you. 'Bye."
He hung up the receiver, walked from the little closet where the telephone was placed, and encountered the hostile eyes of the housekeeper.
"Mr. Foley said that I was to show you out," she remarked.
"That's all right," Mason told her. "I'm going out, but you might pick up twenty dollars if you wanted to make a little pocket money."
"I don't want to make any pocket money," she said. "My orders were to show you out."
"If," said Perry Mason, "you could find me a photograph of Mrs. Clinton Foley, it might be worth twenty dollars to you. It might even be worth twenty-five dollars.
Her face did not change expression.
"My orders," she said coldly, "were to show you out."
"Well," said Perry Mason, "would you mind telling Mr. Foley on his return that I tried to bribe you to get a picture of his wife?"
"My orders," she said, "were to show you out."
There was the sound of a bell jangling its summons. Mrs. Benton frowned, then looked at Perry Mason, and, for a moment, the mask of her manner dropped from her. There was feminine petulance in her tone.
"Will you please leave?" she said.
"Sure," said Perry Mason, "I'm going."
She escorted him to the front door, and, as they walked through the hall, the bell rang twice more.
"Shall I get you a taxicab?" she asked.
"No," said Mason, "don't worry about me."
Abruptly, she turned to him.
"Why," she asked, "are you so anxious to get a picture of Mrs. Foley?"
"Just wanted to see what she looks like," Perry Mason retorted cheerfully.
"No, that wasn't it. You had some reason."
As Mason was about to answer, the bell rang again, and there was the sound of knuckles banging against the wood.
The young woman gave an exclamation of annoyance, and hurried toward the door. As she opened it, three men pushed their way into the hallway.
"Clinton Foley live here?" asked one of the men.
"Yes," said Mrs. Benton.
Perry Mason stepped back into the shadows of the hallway.
"Got a Chinese cook working here, haven't you? Fellow named Ah Wong?"
"Yes."
"All right, get him. We want to see him."
"He's in the kitchen."
"All right, go ahead and get him. Tell him we want to see him."
"But who are you?"
"We're officers - immigration officers. We're checking up on the Chinks. We've got a hot tip he's an illegal entry. Go and get him."
"I'll tell him," she said, and turning on her heel, almost ran past Perry Mason.
The three men, heedless of Mason's presence, walked closely behind her.
After a moment, Perry Mason turned and followed them through the living room, dining room, and into the kitchen. He paused in the serving pantry, and heard the voices of the officers.
"All right, Ah Wong," said one of the men, "where's your certificate? You catchum chuck jee?"
"No savvy," said the Chinese.
"Oh, yes, you savvy," said the man. "Where your papers? Where your chuck jee? You heap catchum plenty fast."
"Heap no savvy," said the Chinese, with a wail of despair in his voice.
There was a good-natured laugh, the sound of a scuffle, then the man's voice said: "All right, Ah Wong, you come along with us. You show us where you sleep. You show us your things. You savvy? We help you look for chuck jee."
"No savvy, no savvy," wailed the Chinese. "Maybe so you callum somebody make inte'plet whassa malla."
"Forget it and come along."
"No savvy. You catchum inte'pleta."
A man laughed. "He savvies, all right," he said. "Look at his face."
Perry Mason heard the housekeeper's voice raised in protest.
"Can't you wait until Mr. Foley returns? I know that he'll do anything he can for Ah Wong. He's very wealthy, and he'll pay any fine, or put up any bail..."
"Nothing doing, sister," said one of the men. "We've been looking for Ah Wong for a while and there isn't enough money in the mint to keep him here. He's in the laboring class, and he's smuggled in from Mexico. He's headed back for China right now. Come on, Ah Wong, get your things packed."
Perry Mason turned around, tiptoed back the way he had come, and let himself out the front door. He walked down the stairs from the porch to the sidewalk, walked briskly along the sidewalk until he came to the house on the north, where Arthur Cartright lived. He turned in at the cement walk which ran across a well-kept lawn, ran up the steps, to the front porch, and pressed his thumb against the button of the doorbell. He could hear the bell jangling from the interior of the house, but could hear no sounds of motion. He pounded on the panels of the door with his knuckles, and received no answer. He moved along the porch until he came to a window, and tried to peer in the window, but the curtains were drawn. He returned to the door and rang the bell.
There were faint sounds of motion from the interior of the house, then shuffling steps, and a curtain was pulled back from a small, circular window in the center of the door. A thin, tired face peered out at him, while weary, emotionless eyes studied him.
After an interval, a lock clicked back, and the door opened.
Perry Mason was facing a gaunt woman of fifty-five, with faded hair, eyes that seemed to have been bleached of color, a thin, determined mouth, a pointed jaw and long, straight nose.
"What do you want?" she asked, in the even monotone of one who is deaf.
"I want Mr. Cartright," said Perry Mason in a loud voice.
"I can't hear you; you'll have to speak a little louder."
"I want Mr. Cartright, Mr. Arthur Cartright," Mason shouted.
"He isn't here."
"Where is he?"
"I don't know; he isn't here."
Perry Mason took a step toward her, placed his mouth close to her ear.
"Look here," he said, "I'm Mr. Cartright's lawyer. I've got to see him at once."
She stepped back and
studied him with her weary, faded eyes, then slowly shook her head.
"I heard him speak of you," she said. "I knew he had a lawyer. He wrote you a letter last night, then he went away. He gave me the letter to mail, did you get it all right?"
Mason nodded.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Perry Mason," he shouted.
"That's right," she said. "That's the name that was on the envelope."
Her face was entirely placid, without so much as the faintest flicker of an expression. Her voice maintained the same even monotone.
Perry Mason moved toward her once more, placed his lips close to her ear, and yelled: "When did Mr. Cartright go out?"
"Last night about half past ten."
"Did he come back after that?"
"No."
"Did he take a suitcase with him?"
"No."
"Had he been packing any of his things?"
"No, he burned some letters."
"Acted as though he was getting ready to go away somewhere?"
"He burned letters and papers, that's all I know."
"Did he say where he was going when he went out?"
"No."
"Did he have a car?"
"No, he hasn't a car."
"Did he order a taxicab?"
"No, he walked."
"You didn't see where he went?"
"No, it was dark."
"Do you mind if I come in?"
"It won't do you any good to come in. Mr. Cartright isn't here."
"Do you mind if I come in and wait until he comes back?"
"He's been out all night. I don't know that he's going to come back."
"Did he tell you he wasn't coming back?"
"No."
"Are your wages paid?"
"That's none of your business."
"I'm his lawyer."
"It's still none of your business."
"You don't know what was in the letter you were given to mail to me last night?"
"No, that's none of my business. You mind your business and I'll mind mine."
"Look here," said Perry Mason, "this is important. I want you to go through the house and see if you can find anything that will help me. I've got to find Arthur Cartright. If he's gone somewhere, I've got to find where he's gone. You've got to find something that will give me a clew. I want to know whether he went by train, whether he went by automobile or whether he went by airplane. He must have made some reservations, or done something."
"I don't know," said the woman. "That's none of my business. I clean up the house for him, that's all. I'm deaf. I can't hear things that go on."
"What's your name?" asked Perry Mason.
"Elizabeth Walker."
"How long have you known Mr. Cartright?"
"Two months."
"Do you know anything about his friends? Do you know anything about his family?"
"I know nothing except about keeping the house."
"Will you be here later on?"
"Of course I'll be here. I'm supposed to stay here. That's what I'm paid for."
"How long will you stay if Mr. Cartright doesn't retturn?"
"I'll stay until my time's up."
"When will that be?"
"That," she said, "is my business, Mr. Lawyer. Good-by." She slammed the door with a force which shook the house.
Perry Mason stood staring at the door for a moment, with a half smile on his face. Then he turned and walked down the steps from the porch. As he reached the sidewalk, he felt the peculiar tingling sensation of the hairs at the base of his neck which caused him to whirl suddenly and stare.
He was in time to see heavy drapes slip back into place over a window in the house of Clinton Foley. He could not see the face that had been staring at him from that window.
CHAPTER VI
PAUL DRAKE was a tall man with drooping shoulders, a head that was thrust forward, eyes that held an expression of droll humor. Long experience with the vagaries of human nature had made him take everything, from murder down, with a serene tranquillity.
He was waiting in Perry Mason's office, when Mason returned.
Perry Mason smiled at Della Street, and said to the detective: "Come right in, Paul."
Drake followed him into the inner office.
"What's it all about?"
"I'll give it to you short and snappy," said Mason. "A man named Cartright, living at 4893 Milpas Drive, complains that a chap named Clinton Foley, living at 4889 Milpas Drive, has a dog that howls. Cartright is nervous, perhaps a little bit unbalanced. I take him to Pete Dorcas to get a complaint and arrange to have Dr. Charles Cooper look him over. Cooper diagnoses it as manic depressive psychosis; nothing serious. That is, it's functional, rather than organic. I insist that the continued howling of a dog can be very serious to a man of such nervous instability. Dorcas writes Foley a summons to appear and show cause why a warrant shouldn't be issued.
"Foley gets the summons, shows up at the district attorney's office this morning, and I go over. Foley claims the dog hasn't been howling. Dorcas is ready to commit Cartright as insane. I put up a fight, and claim Foley's lying about the dog. He offers to take us to witnesses to prove the dog didn't howl. We go out to his house. His wife has been sick in bed. He's got a housekeeper who's a good-looking Jane, but tries to make herself look older than she is, and uglier. The dog is a police dog they've had for about a year. The housekeeper reports somebody poisoned the dog early in the morning. She gave him a bunch of salt, got him to throw up the poison, and saved his life. The dog, apparently, was having spasms. He bit her on the right hand and arm. She's wearing a bandage that looks as though a physician had put it on, so it seems the bite was pretty serious, or else she was afraid the dog was mad. She says the dog hasn't been howling. The Chink cook says the dog hasn't been howling.
"Foley goes to talk with his wife, and finds she's gone. The housekeeper says she left a note. Foley gets the note, and it's a note telling him that she doesn't really love him; that it was just one of those fatal fascinations, and all that line of hooey a woman springs when she's falling out of love with some man, and into love with another. She says that she's leaving with the man next door, and that she really loves him."
Drake's expression of droll humor broadened into a grin.
"You mean she ran away with the crazy guy next door that thought the dog was howling?"
"That seems to be the sketch. Foley claims Cartright made up the complaint about the howling dog out of whole cloth and worked it as a scheme to get him away from his house so that Cartright would have a clear field to walk away with Mrs. Foley."
Drake chuckled.
"And Foley still claims Cartright's crazy!" he exclaimed.
Perry Mason grinned.
"Well," he said, "he wasn't claiming the man was crazy quite so strong when I left."
"How did it affect him?" asked the detective.
"That's the funny thing," said Mason. "I'd swear he was putting it on too thick. He either wasn't as broken up as he pretended to be, or else there was something that he was trying to cover up. I think he's had an affair with his housekeeper. I think the wife intimated as much in the note. At any rate, he's been playing around. He's one of these big, dominant men with a vibrant voice and a strong personality. He's got a great deal of poise, and seemed to have quite a bit of control over his temper. He was magnanimous and broad-minded when he was up in the district attorney's office, trying to get Cartright committed. He claimed that he wanted to do it only because he thought Cartright needed treatment. He said that he'd put up with a lot of espionage before making a complaint.
"Now, a man of that type wouldn't fly off the handle the way he did, under ordinary circumstances, when he found that his wife was gone - not a man of his type. He isn't a one-woman man. He's the kind who plays the field."
"Maybe it's something about Cartright that he hates," Drake suggested.
"That's exactly the point that I'm coming to," the l
awyer told him. "The woman's note indicated that she had known Cartright and had been acquainted with him. Cartright moved into the house about two months ago. Foley has been in his place for about a year, and there's some stuff about it I can't understand.
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