The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  "All right," the lawyer said. "Did you deliver the message?"

  "No, I didn't. I couldn't get anybody to answer the telephone. I tried three times, and then I came back. I waited a minute or two, and the Jane came out and I took her back."

  "Where did you pick her up?"

  "I was cruising around at Tenth and Masonic Streets, and I picked her up there. She had me take her back to the same place I picked her up."

  "What's your name?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Marson - Sam Marson, sir, and I live at the Bellview Rooms. That's on West Nineteenth Street."

  "You haven't turned in that handkerchief yet?" asked Perry Mason.

  Marson fished in his side coat pocket, took out a dainty square of lace, held it up and sniffed appreciatively.

  "That's the perfume," he said.

  Perry Mason reached for the handkerchief, smelled of it, then handed it across to Paul Drake. The detective smelled of it and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Let Della take a whiff, and see if she can tell us what the perfume is," Perry Mason said.

  Drake passed the handkerchief over to Della. She smelled it, then handed it back to Drake, looked at Perry Mason and nodded.

  "I can tell," she said.

  "Well, what is it?" said Paul Drake.

  Perry Mason shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  Drake hesitated for a moment, then dropped the handkerchief into the side pocket of his coat.

  "We'll take care of the handkerchief," he told the cab driver.

  Perry Mason's voice was suddenly edged with impatience.

  "Wait a minute, Drake," he said. "I'm running this show. Give the man back his handkerchief. You don't own it."

  Drake looked at Perry Mason with puzzled incomprehension upon his face.

  "Go on," the lawyer said, "give it back. He's got to keep it for a while and see if she calls for it."

  "Shouldn't I turn it in to the Lost and Found Department?" asked the cab driver, reaching for the handkerchief and putting it in his pocket.

  "No," said Perry Mason, "not right away. Keep it for a while. I have an idea the same woman will probably show up and demand the handkerchief. When she does, ask her for her name and address, see? Tell her that you've got to make a report to the company, because you said over the telephone you had the handkerchief to surrender, and you'd have to find out the woman's name and address, or something like that. See?"

  "Okay, I see," said the cab driver. "Anything else?"

  "I think that's all," Mason told him. "We can reach you if we need you."

  "You taking down everything I say?" asked the driver, looking over at the notebook in front of Della Street.

  "Taking down the questions and answers," Perry Mason assured him casually. "So that I can show my client I've been on the job. It makes a difference, you know."

  "Sure," said the cab driver, "we've all got to live. How about the meter?"

  "One of the boys will go down with you and pay off the meter," Perry Mason said. "Be sure you take good care of that handkerchief, and be sure you get the name and address of the woman who claims it."

  "Sure," said the cab driver, "that's a cinch."

  He left the room and, at a nod from Paul Drake, the two detectives went with him.

  Perry Mason turned to Della Street.

  "What perfume, Della?" he asked.

  "It just happens," said Della Street, "that I can tell you the name of that perfume, and I can also tell you that the young woman who wore it isn't a working girl - not unless she worked in pictures. I've got a friend in the perfume department of one of the big stores, and she let me smell a sample, just the other day."

  "All right," said Mason; "what is it?"

  "It's Vol de Nuit," said Della Street.

  Perry Mason got to his feet, started pacing the office, head thrust forward, thumbs hooked in the arm holes of his vest. Abruptly he whirled on Della Street.

  "All right," he said, "get this friend of yours, and get a bottle of that perfume. Never mind what it costs. Bust into the store if you have to. Get that just as soon as you can, and then come back to the office and wait until you hear from me."

  'You got something in mind, Perry?" asked Paul Drake.

  Mason nodded wordlessly.

  "I don't want to say anything," said Drake, choosing his words carefully, and speaking with that characteristic drawl which gave the impression of a man to whom all forms of excitement had become a matter of routine, "but it seems to me that you're skating on thin ice. I'd like to know more what the sirens were doing, screaming out toward that Foley residence, before you got mixed into this thing too deep."

  Mason studied Drake steadily for several seconds, and then said, "Were you going to tell me how to practice law?"

  "I might tell you," said Paul Drake, "how to keep out of jail. I don't know law, but I know thin ice when I see it."

  "A lawyer," said Perry Mason slowly, "who wouldn't skate on thin ice for a client ain't worth a damn."

  "Suppose you break through?" Drake asked.

  "Listen," Mason told him, "I know what I'm doing." He walked to the desk, took his forefinger and drew it along the blotter.

  "There's the line of the law," he said. "I'm going to come so damn close to that line that I'm going to rub elbows with it, but I'm not going to go across it. That's why I want witnesses to everything I do."

  "What are you going to do?" asked Drake.

  "Plenty," said Perry Mason. "Get your hat; we're going to go places."

  "Such as?" Drake wanted to know.

  "The Breedmont Hotel," said Perry Mason.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE seventh floor of the Breedmont Hotel was a wide vista of polished doors. The corridor was wide and spacious, well lit with a soft light that came from indirect lighting fixtures. The carpet in the corridor was deep and springy.

  "What was the room number?" asked Perry Mason.

  "764," Drake told him. "It's around the corner, here."

  "Okay," the lawyer said.

  "What do you want me to do?" Drake asked.

  "Keep everything shut except your eyes and your ears, unless I give you a tip to cut in on the conversation," Mason said.

  "I get you," Drake remarked. "Here's your door."

  Perry Mason knocked on it.

  For several seconds there was no sound from the interior of the room. Mason knocked again, and then there was the rustle of motion, the sound of a bolt clicking, and a high-pitched feminine voice, speaking with nervous rapidity, said, "Who is it?" The door opened a bare crack.

  "An attorney who wants to see you on a matter of importance," Perry Mason said in a low voice.

  "I don't want to see any one," said the high-pitched voice, and the door started to close.

  Perry Mason's foot blocked the door, just before the latch clicked into position.

  "Come on, Paul," he said, and put his shoulder to the door.

  A woman gave a high, hysterical scream, struggled for a moment, and then the door abruptly yielded.

  The two men walked into the hotel bedroom as a partially clad woman staggered off balance, stared at them in white-faced panic, and abruptly snatched a silk kimono from the back of a chair.

  "How dare you!" she blazed.

  "Close the door, Paul," said Perry Mason.

  The woman gathered the robe around her, walked determinedly to the telephone.

  "I," she said, "am about to telephone to the police."

  "Never mind about that," Perry Mason told her. "The police will be here soon enough."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You know what I'm talking about," Perry Mason said. "You're about at the end of your rope - Mrs. Bessie Forbes."

  At the name, the woman stood stiff and erect, staring at them with eyes that were dark with panic.

  "Good God!" she said.

  "Exactly," said Perry Mason. "Sit down now, and talk sense. We've got just a few minutes to talk, and I've got to tell you a lot. Yo
u've got to listen and cut out all this monkey business."

  She dropped into a chair, and her excitement was such that the dressing gown fell open and remained unnoticed, disclosing the gleam of a bare shoulder, the luster of a sheer silk stocking.

  Perry Mason stood with his feet planted apart, his shoulders squared, and snapped words at the woman, as though they had been missiles.

  "I know all about you," he said. "There's no need to make any denial or go for any heroics or hysterics. You were the wife of Clinton Forbes. He left you in Santa Barbara and ran away with Paula Cartright. You tried to follow them. I don't know what your object was. I'm not asking you that, yet. Cartright located Clinton Forbes before you did. Forbes was living on Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley. Cartright got the house adjoining him, but didn't make his identity known. He was pretty well broken up. He was watching all the time, trying to find out whether Forbes was making his wife happy.

  "I don't know just when you found out about it, or just how you found out about it, but it wasn't very long ago that you got wise to the whole situation.

  "Now then, here's the funny thing. I'm a lawyer. You may have read of me. I've tried a few murder cases, and I expect to try some more. I specialize on criminal trial work on the big cases. My name's Perry Mason."

  "You!" she said, in a tone of breathless interest. "You? You're Perry Mason?"

  He nodded.

  "Oh!" she breathed. "Oh, I'm so glad."

  "Forget all that," he said, "and remember we've got an audience. I'm going to tell you a lot of stuff while I've got a witness here. You're going to listen and do nothing else. Do you get me?"

  "Yes," she said, "I guess I understand what you want, all right, but I'm so glad to see you. I wanted..."

  "Shut up," he told her, "and listen."

  She nodded.

  "Cartright," said Perry Mason, "came to my office. He acted strangely. He wanted to make a will. We won't talk about the terms of that will - not yet. But with the will came a letter and a retainer. The letter instructed me to protect the interests of the wife of the man who was living at 4889 Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley. Now get that, and get it straight. He didn't tell me to protect the woman who was going under the name of Mrs. Foley at 4889 Milpas Drive, but he told me to protect the lawfully wedded wife of the man who was going under the name of Clinton Foley, at that place."

  "But did he understand just what he was doing? He wouldn't -"

  "Shut up," Mason said. "Time's precious. I've got a witness to listen to what I say to you. I know what that's going to be. But I may not want a witness to what you say to me, because I don't know what you're going to say. Understand? I'm a lawyer, trying to protect you.

  "Now Arthur Cartright mailed me a substantial retainer, with instructions to protect you and see that your legal rights were safeguarded. I've got the fee, and I propose to earn it. If you don't want my services, all you've got to do is to say so, and I walk out right now."

  "No, no," she said, in a shrill, high-pitched voice. "I want your services. I need them. I want..."

  "All right," Perry Mason said. "Now, then, can you do what I tell you to?"

  "If it isn't too complicated," she said.

  "It's going to be hard," he said, "but it isn't going to be complicated."

  "Very well," she said. "What is it?"

  "If anybody," he told her, "questions you about where you were at any time tonight, or what you were doing, tell them that you can't answer any questions unless your attorney is present, and that I'm your lawyer. Now, can you remember that?"

  "Yes. That won't be hard to do, will it?"

  "It may be," he told her, "and if they ask you how I became your lawyer, or when you hired me, or anything of that sort, simply make the same answer. And make the same answer to all questions. If they ask you what the weather is. If they ask you how old you are. If they ask you what kind of face cream you use, or anything else, make the same answer. Do you understand that?"

  She nodded.

  Perry Mason abruptly walked to the fireplace.

  "What's been burning here?" he asked.

  "Nothing," she said.

  Perry Mason leaned over the fireplace and stirred the ashes in the grate.

  "Smells like some kind of cloth," he said.

  The woman said nothing, but stared at him in white-faced silence.

  Perry Mason picked up a small piece of cloth. It was silk, green, and printed with a brown triangle.

  "Looks like part of a scarf," he said.

  She took a swift step toward him.

  "I didn't know..."

  "Shut up!" he said, whirling on her.

  He took the singed bit of cloth, put it in his vest pocket, then pulled the grate out of the fireplace, and started poking through the ashes. After a moment, he straightened, walked to the dressing table, picked up a bottle of perfume, smelled it, walked swiftly to the wash stand, pulled the cork, and dumped the perfume down the wash stand.

  The woman gasped, moved toward him, and put a restraining hand on his arm.

  "Stop!" she said. "That stuff costs..."

  He whirled on her with eyes that were blazing.

  "It's likely to cost a hell of a lot," he said. "Now listen to this and get it straight: Check out of this hotel. Go to the Broadway Hotel on Forty-second Street. Register under the name of Bessie Forbes. Be careful what you take with you, and be careful what you leave behind. Buy yourself some good cheap perfume, and when I say cheap, I mean cheap. Souse it all over everything you've got. Do you get me?"

  She nodded.

  "Then what?" she asked.

  "Then," he said, "sit tight and don't answer any questions. No matter who asks you a question or what it's about, say you won't do anything until your lawyer is present."

  He turned on the hot water tap, washed out the perfume bottle, kept the hot water running.

  The room gave forth a fragrance of perfume, and Perry Mason turned to Paul Drake.

  "Better smoke, Paul," he said. "A cigar if you've got one."

  Paul Drake nodded, pulled a cigar from his pocket, clipped off the end and struck a match to it. Perry Mason walked across to the windows, raised the windows, and nodded to the woman.

  "Get some clothes on," he said. "My telephone number is Broadway 39251. Make a note of it. Call me if anything happens. Remember that my services aren't going to cost you a cent. They're all paid for. Remember that you're going to answer all questions asked of you, no matter what they may be, with just that one answer, that you can't talk unless your lawyer tells you to.

  "Have you got that straight?"

  She nodded.

  "Have you got guts enough," he asked, "to stand on your two feet, look the world squarely in the eyes, and tell them you won't answer a single question unless your lawyer is there?"

  She lowered her eyes and looked thoughtful.

  "Suppose," she said, "that they tell me that would work against me? That is, isn't it supposed to be an admission of guilt for a person to make a statement like that? Not that I'm guilty of anything, but you seem to think that..."

  "Please," he said, "don't argue with me. Have enough confidence in me to do as I tell you. Will you do that?"

  She nodded.

  "All right," he told her. "That's all, Drake. Come on." He turned, pulled open the door of the room, paused on the threshold to give her a parting instruction.

  "When you check out of here," he said, "don't leave a back trail. Go to the depot and buy a ticket some place. Then switch redcap porters, pick up another taxicab and go to the place I told you and register under the name I told you. You got that straight?"

  She nodded.

  "All right," said Mason. "Come on, Paul."

  The door banged behind them.

  In the corridor Paul Drake looked at Perry Mason.

  "You," he said, "may think that you're keeping on one side of the line, but it looks to me as though you've gone over.

  "Think I'v
e broken through the thin ice, Paul?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Hell," said Paul Drake explosively, "you're in ice water up to your chin right now, and it's getting deeper."