Perry Mason met Della Street 's smiling eyes with a grin. "Go on," he said; "say, 'I told you so. "
She shook her head. "Fight that little shyster off his feet!" she said.
Mason looked at his watch. "Ring up Paul Drake and ask him to be here at two thirty."
"And Ashton?" she asked.
"No," he told her. "Ashton's got enough to worry about. I think this is going to be a matter of principle all around."
Chapter 3
The clock on Perry Mason's desk showed two thirtyfive. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, sat crosswise in the big leather chair, his knees draped over one arm, the small of his back propped against the other. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving an expression of droll humor to his face. It was as though he were on the point of breaking into a smile. His eyes were large, protruding, and glassy.
"What's the grief this time?" he asked. "I didn't know there'd been another murder."
"It isn't a murder, Paul, it's a cat."
"A what?"
"A cat, a Persian cat."
The detective sighed and said, "All right, then, it's a cat. So what?"
"Peter Laxter," Mason said, "probably a miser, had a house in the city that he wouldn't live in. He stayed in his country place at Carmencita. The place burned up, and Laxter burned up with it. He left three grandchildren: Samuel C. Laxter and Frank Oafley, who inherit under his will, and a granddaughter, Winifred Laxter, who was left out in the cold. His will contained a provision that Charles Ashton, his caretaker, was to be given a perpetual job during his lifetime. Ashton had a cat. He wanted to keep the cat with him. Sam Laxter told him to get rid of the cat. I sympathized with Ashton, wrote Laxter a letter and told him to leave the cat alone. Laxter went to Nat Shuster. Shuster saw a chance to horn in on a big fee, so he sold Laxter on the idea I was trying to break the will; demanded a lot of impossible conditions from me in order to effect a settlement, and when I didn't agree to them because I couldn't, he made the most of my refusal. I presume he's collected a fat retainer."
"What do you want?" Drake inquired.
"I'm going to break that will," Mason said grimly.
The detective lit a cigarette and said, in his slow drawl, "Going to break the will over a cat, Perry?"
"Over a cat," Mason admitted, "but really I'm going to break Shuster, as well as the will. Shuster's been setting himself up as a bigtime criminal lawyer. I'm tired of it. He's a shyster, a suborner of perjury and a jurybriber. He's a disgrace to the profession, and he gets us all into disrepute. My God, Paul, whenever he has a client he not only tries to get that client off, but he deliberately frames evidence, so it will point to some innocent party, in order to make his own case look better. He's been boasting around town that if he ever runs up against me, he's going to show just how smart he is. I'm sick of him."
"Have you got a copy of the will?" Drake asked.
"No, not yet. I'm having a copy made from the probate records."
"Has it been admitted to probate?"
"I understand it has. It can be contested, however, after probate as well as before."
"Where do I come in?"
"First, find Winifred. Then dig up everything you can about Peter Laxter, and everything you can about the two grandchildren who inherit the property."
"Shall I go at it in the routine way, or do you want action?" Drake asked.
"I want action."
Drake's glassy eyes surveyed Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "There must be a lot of money in cats," he remarked.
Mason's face was grave. "I'm not certain but what there is going to be a chance to make some money, Paul. Evidently Peter Laxter was a miser. He didn't trust too much in banks. Shortly before his death, he cashed in securities to the tune of about a million dollars. After his death, the heirs couldn't find the million."
"Suppose it burnt up in the house with him?" Drake asked. "He'd have had it in currency, you know."
"It may have," Mason admitted. "Again, it may not. When Ashton left my office, some man was shadowing him—a man who was driving a new green Pontiac."
"Know who this chap was?"
"No, I saw him from the window. I couldn't see his face. I saw a light felt hat and a dark suit. The Pontiac was a sedan. Of course, there may be nothing to it; again, there may be. At any rate, it's going to be a swell break for Winifred Laxter, because I'm going to smash that will for her. Shuster has been talking about what he was going to do to me if he ever got in court against me, and I'm going to give him a chance to make good."
"You can't make Shuster sore by fighting," the detective said. "That's what he wants. You fight to get results for your clients; Shuster fights to collect fees from his."
"He can't collect fees if his clients have lost their money," Mason said. "A prior will leaves everything to Winifred. If I break this will, the other will stand up and take its place."
"Going to have Winifred as your client?" Drake asked.
Mason shook his head, said doggedly, "I've got a cat for a client. I may want Winifred as a witness."
Drake slid his legs over the smooth leather of the chair, got to his feet.
"Knowing you as I do," he said, "I presume that means you want lots of action."
Mason, nodding grimly, said, "And I want it fast. Get me information on every angle you can uncover, property, soundness of mind, undue influence, everything."
As Drake closed the exit door behind him, Jackson gave a perfunctory knock and entered the office bearing several typewritten sheets of legalsized paper.
"I've had a copy of the will made, and have gone over it carefully," he said. "The provision about the cat is rather weak. It certainly isn't a condition relating to the vesting of the inheritance, and it may not even be a charge upon the estate. It's probably just the expression of a wish on the part of the testator."
Mason's face showed disappointment. "Anything else?" he asked.
"Apparently Peter Laxter drew the will himself. I understand he practiced law for several years in some eastern state. It's pretty much of an ironclad job, but there's one peculiar paragraph in it. We might be able to do something with that paragraph in a contest."
"What is it?" Mason asked.
Jackson picked up the will and read from it: "During my lifetime I have been surrounded with the affectionate regard not only of those who were related to me, but those who apparently hoped that fortuitous circumstance would include them in my bounty. I have never been able to ascertain how much was intended to pave the way for an inheritance under my will. If the latter is the case, I am afraid my legatees are doomed to disappointment, because the extent of my estates will doubtless be disappointing to them. However, I have one thought to offer in the nature of a condolence and at the same time, a suggestion. While those who waited impatiently for my passing merely in order to share in my estate are doomed to disappointment, those who had a genuine affection for me are not."
Jackson ceased reading and looked owlishly across at Perry Mason.
Mason scowled and said, "What the devil is he getting at? He disinherited Winifred, and he left all of his property to two grandchildren, share and share alike. There's nothing in this paragraph which could change that."
"No, sir," Jackson agreed.
"He secreted something like a million dollars in cash shortly before his death, but even if that is discovered, it would still pass as a part of his estate."
"Yes, sir."
"Unless," Mason said, "he'd made a gift of some sort before his death. And in that event, the property would be owned by the person to whom it had been given."
"It's a peculiar provision," Jackson remarked noncommittally. "He might have made a gift in trust, you know."
Mason said slowly, "I can't help thinking of the sheaf of currency Charles Ashton had in his pocket when he offered me a retainer… However, Jackson, if Peter Laxter gave Ashton money… well, there's going to be one hell of a fight over it—trust or no trust."
> "Yes, sir," Jackson agreed.
Mason, nodding slowly, picked up the telephone which connected with Della Street's office, and, when he heard her voice on the wire, said, "Della, get hold of Paul Drake and tell him to include Charles Ashton in his investigations. I want particularly to find out about Ashton's financial affairs—whether he has any bank account; whether he's filed any income tax return; whether he owns any real property; whether he has any money out at interest; how much he's assessed for on the assessment roll, and anything else Paul can find out."
"Yes, sir," Della Street said. "You want that information in a hurry?"
"In a hurry."
"The Dollar Line said they'd hold a reservation until tomorrow morning at ten thirty," Della Street remarked in tones of cool efficiency, and then slid the receiver back on the hook, terminating the connection, leaving Perry Mason grinning into a dead transmitter.
Chapter 4
The office workers had long since gone home. Perry Mason, his thumbs tucked in the armholes of his vest, paced the floor steadily. On the desk in front of him was a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Peter Laxter.
The telephone rang. Mason scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard Paul Drake's voice saying, "Have you had anything to eat?"
"Not yet. I don't care much about eating when I'm thinking."
"How'd you like to listen to a report?" the detective asked.
"Swell."
"It isn't complete yet, but I've got most of the high spots."
"All right, suppose you come in."
"I think I can work it to better advantage if you'll join me," Drake said. "I'm down on the corner of Spring and Melton Streets. There's a waffle joint down here and we can have a bite to eat. I haven't had any dinner and my stomach thinks I'm on a hunger strike."
Mason frowningly regarded the will on his desk.
"Okay," he said, "I'll come down."
He switched out the lights, took a cab to the place Drake had indicated, and stared into the detective's popeyes. "You look as though you had something up your sleeve, Paul. There's a catlickingthecream expression on your face."
"Is there? I could use a little cream."
"What's new?"
"I'll tell you after we eat. I refuse to talk this stuff on an empty stomach… My God, Perry, snap out of it. You'd think this was another murder case, the way you're prowling around on it. It's just a case involving a damned cat. I'll bet you didn't get over fifty dollars out of it as a fee, did you?"
Mason laughed, and said, "Ten, to be exact."
"There you are," Drake remarked, as though addressing an imaginary audience.
"The fee has nothing to do with it," Mason said. "A lawyer has a trust to his client. He can set any fee he pleases. If the client doesn't pay it, the lawyer doesn't need to take the business; but if a client pays it, it doesn't make any difference whether it's five cents or five million dollars. The lawyer should give the client everything he has."
"You couldn't practice law on that sort of theory unless you were a damned individualist, Perry… Here's the waffle joint. Come on in."
Mason stood in the doorway, looking dubiously into the lighted interior. A young woman, with dark hair, laughing eyes, and full, red lips, was presiding over a battery of waffle irons. The only customer in the place paid his check. She rang up the money in the cash register, flashed him a bright smile, and started wiping off the counter.
"I don't think I want a waffle," Mason said.
The detective, taking him by the arm, gently pushed him through the door, saying, "Sure, you want a waffle."
They seated themselves at the counter. Dark eyes flashed to their faces as the full, red lips gave a quick smile.
"Two waffles," Drake said, "stripped with bacon."
The young woman's hands became a blur of swift efficiency as she poured waffle dough and spread strips of bacon on a hot plate.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"Coffee," Drake said.
"Now?" she asked.
"Now."
She drew two cups of coffee, placed them, with a little pitcher of cream at each plate. She produced paper napkins, arranged silverware, put down glasses of water and butter.
Drake raised his voice, while steam simmered up from the waffle irons.
"Do you think you can bust Pete Laxter's will, Perry?"
"I don't know," Mason admitted. "There's something queer about that will. I've been stewing over the thing for three hours."
"Seems funny that he'd have disinherited his favorite grandchild," the detective went on in a loud voice. "Sam Laxter went in for bright lights, and dissipation. The old man didn't like it. Oafley is a secretive, nonsocial duck. The old man didn't care much for him. He's too damned negative."
The young woman behind the counter turned the bacon, flashed them a swift glance.
"It takes a lot to bust a will, doesn't it?" Drake persisted.
"An awful lot," Mason admitted wearily, "if you try to break it on the ground of undue influence, or unsoundness of mind. But I'm telling you, Paul, I'm going to break that will."
A plate banged down on the counter explosively. Mason raised perplexed eyes to encounter a flushed countenance, straight determined lips, blazing black eyes. "Say," the girl said, "what kind of a game is this? I'm making my own way without asking odds of anyone, and you came…"
Paul Drake waved a hand with the studied nonchalance of one who is creating a sensation, but wishes to make it appear it is all in the day's work.
"Perry," he said, "meet Winifred."
Mason's face showed such unmistakably genuine surprise that the indignation faded from Winifred Laxter's eyes. "Didn't you know?" she asked.
Mason shook his head.
She pointed to the sign on the outside of the place. "You should have known from the sign Winnie's Waffles. "
"I didn't read the sign," Mason said. "My friend brought me in here. What was the idea, Paul, trying to make a grandstand, or pull a rabbit from the hat, or something?"
Drake, caressing his coffee cup with the tips of his fingers, gave a slow smile. "I wanted you two to get acquainted. I wanted my friend here to see how you ran the place, Miss Laxter. Most people would think an heiress couldn't turn to running a waffle kitchen."
"I'm not an heiress."
"Don't be too sure," Drake told her. "This is Perry Mason, the lawyer."
"Perry Mason," she repeated slowly.
Her eyes widened slightly.
"Heard of him?" Drake asked.
"Who hasn't?" she said, and colored.
"I wanted to ask you some questions about your grandfather," Mason said. "I employed Mr. Drake to locate you."
She opened the waffle iron, took out two crisply brown waffles. Moving with swift efficiency, she poured melted butter on the waffles, set out a pitcher of syrup, handed each a waffle and strips of goldenbrown bacon on a side dish.
"A little more coffee?" she asked.
"No, this will be fine," Mason assured her.
He put syrup on the waffle, cut into it, and his face showed surprise as he conveyed a piece to his mouth.
Paul Drake, at his side, chuckled and said, "I don't know what the case is worth to you, Perry, but these waffles are a pretty good fee in themselves."
"Where did you learn how to make these waffles?" the lawyer wanted to know.
"I studied cooking, and Grandpa used to like these waffles. When I found myself out on my own, I figured it would be a good plan to make waffles. Things are rather quiet now, but an hour ago there was a rush, and after the theater, there'll be another big rush. Then, of course, there's a big trade in the morning."
"Who handles the morning trade?" Mason asked.
"I do."
"And the aftertheater trade?"
She nodded. "I'm working for myself, not employing anyone, so there's no law to keep me from working as long as I want to."
Drake nudged Mason's leg under the table and said, out of the side of his mouth,
"Get a load of the bird looking in the window."
Mason raised his eyes.
Nat Shuster, his lips twisted back from his separated teeth, was jerking his head up and down in an effusive salutation. As soon as he realized Mason had seen him, he walked on past the window.
Mason saw the puzzled expression on Winifred Laxter's face.
"Know him?" he asked.
"Yes. He's a customer. Been eating here for two or three days now. He had me sign a paper tonight."
Mason slowly placed his knife and fork by the side of his plate. "Oh," he said, "he had you sign a paper, did he?"
"Yes. He said he was a friend and that he knew I'd want to help carry out Grandfather's intentions; that even if I hadn't been remembered in the will, he knew that I'd be broadminded enough to realize Grandpa could do what he wanted to with his property; that unless the other two grandchildren could cut some red tape, they'd have to wait quite a while to get everything cleaned up, but I could cut some of the red tape and help them out if I'd sign a paper."
"What sort of a paper was it?"
"I don't know. It was something that said I knew Grandpa wasn't crazy, that I was satisfied with the will and wouldn't do anything to contest it… But of course I wouldn't have done that anyway."
Drake looked at Perry Mason significantly.
"Did he pay you anything?" Mason asked.
"He insisted on giving me a dollar. He walked out and left it on the counter. I laughed at him and told him I didn't want anything at all; but he said I'd have to take the dollar to make it legal. He was very nice. He said he liked the waffles and was going to advertise the place among his friends and send me a lot of customers."
Perry Mason started in once more on his waffle. "Yes," he said slowly, "he would."
Winifred Laxter rested her hands on the shelf supporting the battery of waffle irons. "I take it," she said, "I've been trimmed. Is that right?"
Mason looked searchingly into her eyes. Drake was the one who answered the question. He nodded and said, "In a big way."
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