The Case Of The Howling Dog pm-4

by Erle Stanley Gardner

  Mason ceased talking for a minute and frowned while the receiver made squawking noises. Then he said in a conciliatory tone: "That's all right, Sergeant. Keep your shirt on. I'm not making any dissertation on the law; I'm simply telling you so that you'll understand that which I'm going to tell you now. It happens that I've just found out that a Checker cab, number 86-C, took a woman to Clinton Foley's house at about twenty-five minutes past seven. The woman was there for about fifteen or twenty minutes. The woman left a handkerchief in the taxicab. Now that handkerchief undoubtedly is evidence. That handkerchief is now in my possession. I'm not at liberty to explain to you how it came in my possession, but it's here, and I'm going to send it over to police headquarters... all right, you can send over for it if you want. I won't be here, but my secretary, Della Street, will be here, and she'll give it to you... yes, the taxicab driver can undoubtedly identify it... I can tell you this much: the woman who rode in the taxicab dropped a handkerchief, or left it in the cab. The driver found it. Later on, the handkerchief came into my possession. I can't tell you how I got it... No, damn it, I can't tell you that... No, I won't tell you that... I don't give a damn what you think. I know my rights. That handkerchief is evidence, and you're entitled to it, but any of the knowledge that I have received from a client is a sacred communication, and you can't drag it out of me with all the subpoenas on earth."

  He slammed the receiver back on the hook, tossed the handkerchief over to Della Street.

  "When the officers come," he said, "give them this, and don't give them anything else except a sweet smile. Keep any information you have to yourself."

  "What happened?" she asked.

  Perry Mason stared at her steadily.

  "If you insist on knowing," he said, "Clinton Foley was murdered between seven-thirty and eight o'clock tonight."

  Paul Drake pursed his lips into a silent whistle.

  "In one way," he said, "you haven't surprised me, and in another you have. When I first heard about those sirens, I figured that's what might have happened. Then, when I saw the stuff you were doing, I figured even you wouldn't take those kind of chances on a murder rap."

  Della Street's eyes turned not to Perry Mason, but to Paul Drake.

  "Is it that bad, Paul?" she asked.

  The detective started to say something, then caught his breath and was silent.

  Della Street walked to Perry Mason's side and looked up at him.

  "Chief," she said, "is there anything I can do?" His eyes softened as he looked down at her.

  "This is something I've got to work out alone," he said.

  "Are you going to tell the police," she asked, "about the man who wanted to know what effect it would have on his will if he was executed for murder?"

  Perry Mason stared steadily at her.

  "We," he said, "aren't going to tell the police anything other than what we've already told them."

  Paul Drake snapped out words with unaccustomed vehemence:

  "Perry," he said, "you've taken enough chances on this thing. If the person who murdered Clinton Foley consulted you beforehand, you've got to go to the police and..."

  "The less you know about this situation," Mason said, "the fewer chances you'll be taking."

  The detective's voice was lugubrious.

  "I know too darn much already," he said.

  Mason turned to Della Street.

  "I don't think they'll question you," he said slowly, "if you tell them that I left you this handkerchief to give to them and that that's all you can tell them about it."

  "Don't worry about me, Chief," she said. "I can take care of myself, but what are you going to do?"

  "I'm going out," he said, "and I'm leaving right now."

  He strode to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at the pair in the office.

  "The things I've done," he said, "are all going to click together and make sense and they're also going to make one hell of a commotion. I've got to take chances. I don't want either of you to take any chances. I know just how far I can go; you don't. Therefore, I want you to follow instructions and stop."

  Della Street's voice was quavering with worry.

  "Are you sure you know where to stop, Chief?" she asked.

  "Shucks," rasped Paul Drake, "he never knows where to stop."

  Perry Mason jerked the door open.

  "Where are you going from here, Perry?" asked the detective.

  Mason's smile was serenely untroubled.

  "That," he said, "is something it might be better for you not to know."

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  CHAPTER XIV

  PERRY MASON caught a cruising cab in front of the office.

  "Get me to the Broadway Hotel on Forty-second Street," he said, "and make it snappy."

  He settled back in the cushions and closed his eyes while the cab threaded its way through the streets that were now almost deserted. When the cab pulled up in front of the Broadway Hotel, Perry Mason tossed the driver a bill, strode across the lobby to the elevators, as though going upon important business. He got out at the mezzanine, called the room clerk, and said: "Will you give me the number of the room assigned to Mrs. Bessie Forbes?"

  "Eight ninety-six," said the room clerk.

  "Thanks," said Mason. He hung up the telephone, went to the elevator, got off at the eighth floor, walked to room 896 and rapped on the door.

  "Who is it?" asked Bessie Forbes's frightened voice.

  "Mason," Perry Mason said in a low tone. "Open the door."

  A bolt clicked, and the door opened. Mrs. Forbes, now fully clothed in a street costume, stared at him with eyes that showed fright, but were rigidly steady.

  Perry Mason walked in and closed the door behind him.

  "All right," he said, "I'm your lawyer. Now tell me exactly what happened tonight."

  "What do you mean?" she asked.

  "I mean about the trip you made to see your husband."

  She shuddered, looked about her, motioned Perry Mason to a seat on the davenport. She came and sat down beside him, and twisted her fingers around a handkerchief. She was redolent of cheap perfume.

  "How did you know I went out there?" she asked.

  "I guessed it," he said. "I figured that you were about due to put in an appearance. I couldn't figure any woman who answered your description, who would make the kind of a call on Clinton Foley that you made, and then the description the taxi driver gave fitted you right down to the ground."

  "Yes," she said slowly, "I went out there."

  "I know you went out there," he said impatiently. "Tell me what happened."

  "When I got there," she said slowly, "the door was locked. I had a passkey. I opened the door and walked in. I wanted to see Clint without giving him time to prepare for my visit."

  "All right," he said. "What happened? You went in there and then what happened?"

  "I went in," she said, "and found him dead."

  "And the dog?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Dead."

  "I don't suppose that you've got any way of showing that you didn't do the killing?"

  "They were both dead when I got there," she said.

  "Had they been dead long?"

  "I don't know; I didn't touch them."

  "What did you do?"

  "I felt so weak I sat down in a chair. At first, all I could think about was running away. Then I remembered that I would have to be careful. I knew that I might be suspected of having done the shooting."

  "Was the gun lying on the floor?" asked Perry Mason.

  "Yes," she said, "the gun was lying on the floor."

  "It wasn't your gun?"

  "No."

  "Did you ever have a gun like that?"

  "No."

  "Never saw that gun before?"

  "No, I tell you I didn't have a thing to do with it. My God! won't you believe me? I couldn't lie to you. I'm telling you the truth."

  "All right," he said; "we'll let it
go at that. You're telling me the truth then. So what did you do?"

  "I remembered," she said, "that the taxi driver had gone to telephone Arthur Cartright. I thought that Arthur would come over, and I knew that Arthur would know what to do."

  "Did it ever occur to you that Arthur Cartright might have been the one who did the shooting?"

  "Of course it did, but I knew that he wouldn't come over if he had been the one to do the shooting."

  "He might have come over and blamed it on you."

  "No, Arthur isn't that kind."

  "Okay, then," Perry Mason said. "You sat down and waited for Cartright, and then what happened?"

  "After a while," she said, "I heard the taxicab come back. I don't know how long it was. I had lost all track of time. I was all broken up."

  "All right," he told her, "go on from there."

  "I went out, got into the taxicab and drove back to the vicinity of my hotel. Then I got out. I figured that no one would ever be able to trace me. I don't know how you found out about it."

  "Did you know," said Perry Mason, "that you left a handkerchief in the taxicab?"

  She stared at him with eyes that kept getting wider and more terrified.

  "Good God, no!" she said.

  "You did," he told her.

  "Where is the handkerchief?"

  "The police have it."

  "How did they get it?"

  "I gave it to them."

  "You what?"

  "I gave it to them," he said. "It came into my possession, and I didn't have any alternative but to surrender it to the police."

  "I thought you were acting as my lawyer."

  "I am."

  "That doesn't sound like it. Good God, that's the worst evidence that they could get hold of! They'll be able to trace me through that handkerchief."

  "That's all right," Perry Mason told her. "They're going to trace you anyway, and they're going to question you. When they question you, you can't afford to lie to them. And you can't afford to tell them the truth. You're in a jam, and you've got to keep quiet. Do you understand that?"

  "But that's going to prejudice everybody against me - the police, the public, and everybody."

  "All right," he told her, "that's what I'm coming to. Now, I had to surrender that handkerchief to the police because it was evidence. The police are on my trail in this thing and they'd like to catch me doing something that would make me an accessory after the fact. They're not going to have that pleasure. But you've got to use your wits in order to get yourself out of this mess.

  "Now here's what you do: The police are going to come here. They're going to ask you all sorts of questions. You tell them that you won't answer any questions unless your lawyer is present. Tell them that your lawyer has advised you not to talk. Don't answer any questions whatever. You understand that?"

  "Yes, that's what you told me before."

  "Think you can do it?"

  "I guess so."

  "You've got to do it," he said. "There are a lot of loose angles about this thing I can't check up on. I don't want you to tell anything until I know the entire story, and know how the facts fit in."

  "But it's going to prejudice the public. The newspapers will say that I refuse to talk."

  Perry Mason grinned.

  "Now," he said, "you're commencing to get down to brass tacks. That's what I came to see you about. Don't tell the police anything. Don't tell the newspapers anything. But do tell them both that you want to talk, but that I won't let you. Tell them that I have told you you can't say a word. Tell them that you want to. Tell them that you want to explain. Tell them that you'd like to call me up and talk with me; that you think you can get my permission to talk, and all that sort of stuff. They'll give you a telephone and let you talk with me. You plead with me over the telephone for permission to talk. Tell me that you'd like to explain at least what you're doing here in the city; what happened in Santa Barbara; what your plans were. Beg with me, plead with me. Get tears in your voice. Do anything you want to. But I'll sit tight and tell you that the minute you tell anybody anything, you've got to get another lawyer. Do you understand that?"

  "Do you think that will work?" she asked.

  "Sure it'll work," he said. "The newspapers have got to have something for a story. They'll try to get something else. If they can't get anything else, they'll pick on that and spread it all over the front page that you want to tell your story, and I won't let you."

  "How about the police? Will they release me?"

  "I don't know."

  "Good heavens! You don't mean I'm going to be arrested? My God! I can't stand that! I could probably stand being questioned if they questioned me here in my room. But if they took me down to the jail, down to police headquarters, and questioned me, I'd go crazy. I simply can't stand anything like that, and I can't afford to be put on trial. You don't suppose there's any chance I'm going to be put on trial, do you?"

  "Now, look here," he told her, getting to his feet and standing facing her, his eyes steady and insistent. "Don't pull that stuff with me. It doesn't get you anywhere. You're in a jam, and you know it. You went into your husband's house. You let yourself in with a passkey. You found him dead on the floor. You realized that he'd been murdered. There was a gun there. You didn't notify the police. You went to a hotel and registered under an assumed name. If you think you can pull a stunt like that, and not get taken down to police headquarters, you're crazy."

  She started to cry.

  "Tears aren't going to do you any good," he said, with brutal frankness.

  "There's only one thing that'll do you any good, and that's using your noodle and following the instructions I give you. Don't ever admit that you were at the Breedmont Hotel, or that you were ever registered anywhere under an assumed name. Don't admit anything except that you have retained me, and that you won't answer any questions or make any statements unless I am present and advise you to do so. The only exception you make to that is to complain bitterly to the newspapers that you want to tell your story, and that I won't let you. Do you get all that?"

  She nodded.

  "All right," Mason said. "That disposes of the preliminaries. Now, there's one other thing..."

  Knuckles sounded imperatively on the door of the room.

  "Who knows you're here?" asked Perry Mason.

  "No one," she said, "except you."

  Perry Mason motioned her to keep silent. He stood staring at the door in frowning concentration.

  The knocks were repeated, this time louder and with a peremptory impatience.

  "I think," said Perry Mason, in a low tone of voice, "that you've got to get yourself together. Remember, what they do with you is entirely up to you. If you can keep your head, I can do you some good."

  He walked to the door, twisted the bolt and opened it. Detective Sergeant Holcomb, flanked by two men, stared at Perry Mason in amazed surprise.

  "You!" said the officer. "What are you doing here?"

  "I," said Perry Mason, "am talking with my client, Bessie Forbes, widow of Clinton Forbes who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive under the name of Clinton Foley. Does that answer your question?"

  Sergeant Holcomb pushed into the room.

  "You're damn right it does," he said, "and I know now where you got that handkerchief. Mrs. Forbes, you're under arrest for the murder of Clinton Forbes, and I want to warn you that anything you say may be used against you."

  Perry Mason stared with grim-faced hostility at the officer.

  "That's all right," he said, "she won't say anything."

  CHAPTER XV

  PERRY MASON entered his office, freshly shaved, eyes clear, step springy, to find Della Street engrossed with the morning newspapers.

  "Well, Della," he said, "what's the news?"

  She stared at him with a puzzled frown on her face.