The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4

by Erle Stanley Gardner

"I think," he said, "that I'm going out and talk with this Clinton Forbes, alias Clinton Foley."

  "Well," Drake told him, "every man to his taste. You may have your hands full. He's got the reputation for being a belligerent customer, and having the devil's own temper. I found that out in checking back on his career in Santa Barbara."

  Mason nodded absently.

  "That's one thing they can't ever say about you," Drake remarked. "They can't ever say you haven't got guts. You go out of your way in order to get into trouble."

  Perry Mason shook his head, paused for a moment, then walked back to his desk, sat down and picked up the telephone.

  "Della," he said, "get me Clinton Foley on the line. His residence is 4889 Milpas Drive. I want to talk with him personally."

  "What's the idea?" asked Drake.

  "I'm going to make an appointment with him. I'm not going to chase all the way out there, only to find that I've run up a taxi bill."

  "If he knows you're coming, he'll have a couple of bouncers waiting to throw you out," the detective warned.

  "Not after I get done talking with him, he won't," Mason said grimly.

  Paul Drake sighed and lit a cigarette.

  "A fool for a fight," he said.

  "No, I'm not," Mason told him. "But you overlook the fact that I'm representing my clients. I'm a paid gladiator. I have to go in and fight; that's what they hire me for. Any time I get weak kneed so I don't have guts enough to wade in and fight, I've unfitted myself to carry on my profession, at any rate, the branch of it that I specialize in. I'm a fighter. I'm hired to fight. Everything I got in the world, I got through fighting."

  The telephone rang, and Mason scooped up the receiver.

  "Mr. Foley on the line," Della Street's voice said.

  "Okay," Mason told her.

  There was the click of the connection, and then Foley's voice, vibrant with booming magnetism.

  "Yes, hello, hello."

  "Mr. Foley," said the lawyer, "this is Perry Mason, the attorney. I want to talk with you."

  "I have nothing whatever to discuss with you, Mr. Mason," Foley said.

  "I wanted to talk with you about the affairs of a client who lived in Santa Barbara," said Perry Mason.

  There was a moment of silence. The buzzing noise of the wire was all that could be heard. Then Foley's voice came, pitched a note lower.

  "And what was the name of this client?" he asked.

  "Well," Mason told him, "we might agree on a tentative name of Forbes."

  "Man or woman?" asked Foley.

  "A woman - a married woman. Her husband had run off and left her."

  "And what did you want to see me about?" Foley demanded.

  "I'll explain that to you when I see you."

  "Very well, when will you see me?"

  "As soon as convenient."

  "Tonight at eight-thirty?"

  "Can you make it any earlier?"

  "No."

  "Very well, I will be at your place at nine o'clock tonight," said Mason, and slid the receiver back on the hook.

  Paul Drake shook his head lugubriously.

  "You do take the damnedest chances," he said. "You'd better have me go out there with you."

  "No," Mason told him, "I'm going out there alone."

  "All right," the detective said, "let me give you a tip, then. You'd better go prepared for trouble. That man's in a dangerous mood."

  "What do you mean prepared for trouble?"

  "Carry a gun," the detective said.

  Perry Mason shook his head.

  "I carry my two fists," he said, "and my wits. I fight with those. Sometimes I carry a gun, but I don't make a practice of it. It's bad training. It teaches one to rely entirely on a gun. Force should only be a last resort."

  "Have it your own way," Drake remarked.

  "How about the housekeeper?" said Mason. "You haven't told me about her yet."

  "The housekeeper didn't change her name."

  "You mean she was with Forbes before he became Foley?"

  "That's right. Her name is Mrs. Thelma Benton. Her husband was killed in an automobile accident. She was employed as a private secretary to Forbes when he was in Santa Barbara. She accompanied him on his trip. But here's the funny thing: apparently Mrs. Cartright didn't know that Thelma Benton had been employed by Forbes as a secretary. The young woman came with them as a housekeeper, and Mrs. Cartright never knew she'd been Forbes' secretary."

  "That's strange, isn't it?"

  "Not particularly. You see, Forbes had an office in Santa Barbara where he transacted his business. Naturally he was rather secretive about it, because he was getting his affairs turned into cash. Evidently the secretary suspected a good deal, and he didn't want to leave her behind, or she didn't want to be left behind, I don't know which. She went with them when they left."

  "How about the Chinese cook?"

  "He's a new addition. They picked him up here."

  Perry Mason shrugged his broad shoulders.

  "The whole thing sounds goofy," he said. "I'll tell you a lot more about it tonight, however. You'd better be in your office, Paul, so I can call you if I want any information.

  "Okay," Drake told him, "and I don't mind telling you that I'm going to have men outside, watching the house. You know, we've got a tail on Foley, and I'm just going to double it, so that if there's any trouble, all you've got to do is to kick out a window, or something, and the men will come in."

  Perry Mason shook his head with the impatient gesture of a prizefighter shaking hair from in front of his eyes.

  "Hell!" he said. "There isn't going to be any trouble."

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE big house silhouetted itself against the star-studded sky. There was a wind blowing from the south, with a hint of dampness, giving promise of a cloudiness later on in the evening.

  Perry Mason looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was exactly eight-thirty.

  He glanced behind him to see the tail light of the taxi-cab vanishing around a corner. He saw no trace of any watchers who were on duty. With steady, purposeful steps, he climbed the stairs from the cement walk to the porch, and walked to the front door of the house.

  Perry Mason found the doorbell, pressed his thumb against it.

  There was no answer.

  He waited a moment, then rang again, with the same result.

  Perry Mason looked at his watch, frowned impatiently, took a few steps along the porch, paused, came back, and pounded on the door. There was still no answer.

  Perry Mason stepped to the door, looked down the corridor and saw a light coming from the door of the library. He pushed his way down the corridor and knocked on the library door.

  There was no answer.

  He turned the knob and shoved the door open.

  The door moved some eighteen inches, then struck against something - an object which was heavy, yet yielding.

  Perry Mason eased through the opening in the door, stared at the object which had blocked the door. It was a police dog, lying on his side, with a bullet hole in his chest and another in his head. Blood had trickled from the bullet wounds, along the floor, and when Mason had pushed the door open, moving the body, the stains had smeared over the hardwood floor.

  Mason raised his head and looked around the library. At first he saw nothing. Then, at the far end of the room, he saw a blotch of shadow, from which protruded something grayish, which proved, on closer inspection, to be the clutching hand of a man.

  Perry Mason walked around the table and switched on one of the floor lamps so that he could see into the corner.

  Clinton Foley was stretched at full length on the floor.

  One arm was outstretched, the hand clutched tightly. The other hand was doubled under the body.

  The man wore a dressing gown of brown flannel, and had slippers on his bare feet. From the body was seeping a pool of red which reflected the floor lamp from its viscid surface.

  Perry Mason did not to
uch the body. He leaned forward and saw that there was an athletic undershirt showing beneath the bathrobe, where it had fallen open at the neck.

  He noticed, also, an automatic lying on the floor some six or eight feet from the body.

  He turned back to look at the dead man, and saw then that there was something white showing on his chin. He bent forward and observed that it was a spot of caked lather. Part of the right side of the face had been freshly shaven. The evidences of the razor strokes were plainly visible.

  Perry Mason walked to the telephone from which he had called his office on the occasion of his prior visit, and dialed the number of Paul Drake's office. After a moment, he heard Paul Drake's drawling voice on the telephone.

  "Mason talking, Paul," said Perry Mason. "I'm out here at Foley's house. Can you get in touch with the men you have watching the house out here?"

  "They're going to call in in five minutes," said Drake. "I'm having them make reports every fifteen minutes. There are two men on the job. One of them goes to the telephone every fifteen minutes."

  "All right," Perry Mason said, "as soon as those men telephone, get them to come to your office at once."

  "Both of them?" asked Paul Drake.

  "Both of them," Mason said.

  "What's the big idea?" asked Drake.

  "I'll come to that in a minute," said Mason. "I want both of those men off the job and called into your office where I can talk with them. Do you get that?"

  "Okay," Drake said, "I've got that. Anything else?"

  "Yes. I want you to double your efforts to find Cartright and Mrs. Cartright."

  "I've a couple of agencies working on that now. I'm expecting a report almost any minute."

  "All right, get two more agencies working on it. Put up a reward. Anything you can. Now, here's something else."

  "Okay," Drake said, "shoot."

  "I want you to find Mrs. Forbes."

  "You mean the wife that was left behind in Santa Barbara?"

  "Yes."

  "I think I'm getting a line on her, Perry. I've had some reports that look hot. I think she's going to be turned up almost any minute. I've got men working on some live leads there."

  "All right, put on more men. Do anything you can."

  "I get you," drawled Drake. "Now tell me what's happened. What's the idea of all the commotion? You had your appointment with Foley at eight thirty. It's now eight thirty-eight, and you say you're telephoning from his house. Did you reach some understanding with him?"

  "No."

  "Well," said Drake, "what happened?"

  "I think," Mason told him, "it will be better if you don't know anything about that until you've followed out my instructions."

  "Okay," Drake said. "When will I see you?"

  "I don't know. I've got some formalities to go through with. It may be some little time before you see me. But get the men who are watching the house, and keep them under cover. Lock them in your office, if you have to. Don't let any one interview them until I get there. Do you understand that?"

  "Okay. I wish you'd tell me what it's all about."

  "You'll find out later, but keep those men sewed up tight."

  "I'll have 'em on ice," Drake promised.

  Perry Mason hung up the 'phone, then dialed the number of police headquarters.

  A bored masculine voice answered.

  "Police headquarters?" asked Mason.

  "Yes."

  "All right, get this and get it straight.

  "This is Perry Mason, attorney at law. I am talking from the house of Clinton Foley at 4889 Milpas Drive. I had an appointment with Mr. Foley at eight thirty this evening. I came to the house, and found the door ajar. I repeatedly rang the bell and no one answered. I walked into the corridor, came to the library and found Clinton Foley dead. He's been shot twice, or perhaps more than that, with an automatic, at close range."

  The voice came over the wire with sudden crisp interest. "What's that number - 4889 Milpas Drive?"

  "That's right."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Perry Mason."

  "Perry Mason, the lawyer?"

  "That's right."

  "Who's with you, anybody?"

  "No."

  "Who else is in the house?"

  "No one that I know of."

  "Well, then, stay right there. Don't touch anything. Don't let any one in. If there's any one else in the house, make them stay there. We're sending the Homicide Squad right out."

  Perry Mason hung up the telephone, reached for a cigarette, thought better of it, put the case back in his pocket and walked back into the library. He made a hurried search of the library, then pushed his way through a door which opened from the rear of the library. He found that it opened into a bedroom. There was a light burning in the bedroom, and a suit of evening clothes was laid out on the bed.

  Mason walked across the room and into a bathroom. On a shelf above the washbowl in the bathroom was a safety razor, shaving cream and a brush, to which lather still clung. The safety razor had been used.

  Around a water pipe, leading to the bathtub, was a dog chain, and near the dog chain was a pan of water. On the other side was another pan which was empty. Perry Mason knelt and looked at that empty pan. The bottom of it was smeared with a greasy substance, and around the edges of the pan there were two or three particles of what appeared to be a canned dog food.

  The far end of the chain terminated in a spring catch, so devised that a person need only press the prongs of the catch together, to spread the jaws and liberate a dog who might be chained to it.

  Mason walked back to the library, ignored the corpse of the man, went to the body of the police dog. There was a collar around the neck, a collar which was shiny with age, and which bore a silver plate. On the silver plate, the words, "PRINCE. PROPERTY OF CLINTON FOLEY, 4889 MILPAS DRIVE," had been engraved. There was also a ring in the collar, in which the jaws of the spring catch on the end of the dog chain in the bathroom would have fitted.

  Mason was careful to touch nothing, but moved about the room cautiously. He went back to the bedroom, through the bedroom to the bathroom, and made a second inspection.

  Underneath the bathtub, he caught sight of a towel. He pulled out the towel, and noticed that it was still damp. He raised the towel to his nostrils, smelled it, and caught the odor of shaving cream.

  As he straightened and pushed the towel back into the position where he had found it, he heard the sound of a siren in the distance, and the noise made by the exhaust of a police car.

  Perry Mason walked through the library, into the corridor, noticing, as he did so, that there was barely room for him to squeeze through the door, without moving the body of the dog still further along the hardwood floor.

  He walked along the corridor to the front door, and met the officers as they came pounding up on the porch.

  CHAPTER IX

  BRIGHT incandescents beat pitilessly down upon Perry Mason's face.

  On his right, seated at a little table, a shorthand reporter took down everything Mason said.

  Across from Mason, Detective Sergeant Holcomb stared at Mason, with eyes that showed a combination of puzzled bewilderment, and a vast irritation. Seated around in the shadows were three men of the homicide squad.

  "You don't need to pull all that hokum," said Perry Mason.

  "What hokum?" Sergeant Holcomb asked.

  "All this business of the bright lights, and all of that. You aren't confusing me any."

  Sergeant Holcomb took a deep breath.

  "Mason," he said, "there's something about this that you're holding back. Now, we want to know what it is. A murder's been committed, and you're found prowling around the place."

  "In other words, you think I shot him, is that it?" Mason countered.

  "We don't know what to think," Holcomb said irritably. "We do know that you represented a client who gave every indication of showing incipient homicidal mania. We know that you occupied an adverse posi
tion all the way along the line to Clinton Foley, the murdered man. We don't know what you were doing out there. We don't know how you got in the house. We don't know just who it is you're trying to shield, but you're sure as hell trying to shield somebody."

  "Maybe I'm trying to shield myself," Perry Mason remarked.