Then he set fire to the house. Carbon monoxide is normally found in the blood of persons who have expired in burning buildings. It was a beautiful case of murder, and apparently the only witness is this redheaded nurse who caught him in the act, and the only reason she's alive today is that Sam Laxter thinks she doesn't realize the significance of what she saw. Or perhaps he doesn't know she saw the tube leading from the exhaust to the pipe."
The detective pulled a stick of chewing gum from his pocket, and said, "What do we do next?"
"We get in touch with the district attorney," Mason replied. "He's always claimed that a criminal lawyer uses his intelligence to keep murderers from paying the penalties of their crime. Now I'm going to fool him by showing him a perfect murder case I've uncovered, where his own men have fallen down on the job."
"It seems like such a thin skeleton of evidence on which to hang a murder accusation," the detective objected.
"There's nothing thin about it," Mason retorted. "Notice that the time was about quarter past ten at night. It had been dark for several hours. The garage doors were closed. Sam Laxter pretended he'd been drunk when he brought his car into the garage. But he must have left the car, gone to the sliding doors, closed them, and then climbed back in the car and kept the motor running. He must have attached the flexible tubing to his exhaust pipe and then must have arranged to feed it into the pipe which ran to his grandfather's room. Then all he had to do was to start the motor. Probably he didn't need to keep it running very long. If I remember my forensic medicine correctly, the exhaust gas of motor cars produces carbon monoxide at the rate of one cubic foot per minute per twenty horsepower. The average garage can be filled with deadly fumes in five minutes from running an ordinary automobile. Exposure to an atmosphere containing as little as twotenths of one percent of the gas will cause a fatal result in time. The post mortem indications are a bright, cherryred blood. The gas affects the blood so that it can't distribute oxygen to the tissues, and these indications are customarily found in the blood of one who has died in a burning house.
"We'll hand it to Samuel C. Laxter for being damned clever. If it hadn't been for the fortuitous circumstances of that nurse happening on him, he'd have committed a perfect murder."
"You're putting this whole thing in the hands of the district attorney?" Drake ventured, his eyes rolling toward Perry Mason, his face utterly devoid of expression.
"Yes."
"Hadn't you better find out just where your client stands in this thing first?"
Mason said slowly, "No, I don't think so. If my client has done wrong, I'm not going to try and shield him. I'm employed to see that he keeps his cat, and, by God, he's going to keep that cat. If he's found money that belongs to the estate and has embezzled it, that's an entirely different matter. And don't overlook the fact that Pete Laxter may have made a valid gift of that money to Ashton before his death."
"Baloney," the detective remarked. "Pete Laxter didn't expect to die; therefore, there was no reason for him to give away his money."
"Don't be to too certain," Mason said. "He had some reason for turning his property into cash. But let's quit speculating about that, Paul. The main thing in handling a lawsuit is to keep the other man's client on the defensive, not to get yours in a position where he has to do a lot of explaining. However, I'll give Ashton a buzz and tell him that I think his cat is safe."
The detective laughed. "Talk about using a tengauge shotgun to kill a canary," he said, "we certainly are getting into a lot of ramifications in order to keep a cat alive."
"And," Mason said, "in order to show Nat Shuster that he can't cut corners with me and get away with it. Don't forget that angle, Paul."
"There's a public telephone in the drugstore around the corner," Drake said.
"Okay, Paul, let's telephone Ashton and telephone the district attorney."
They strolled around the corner. Mason dropped a dime in, dialed the number listed under the name of Peter Laxter, and asked for Charles Ashton. It took several minutes before he heard Ashton's rasping voice on the telephone.
"This is Perry Mason talking, Ashton. I don't think you need to worry any more about Clinker."
"Why not?" Ashton asked.
"I think that Sam Laxter is going to have his hands full," Mason explained. "I think he'll be kept quite well occupied. Don't say anything just yet to any of the servants, but I think there's a possibility Sam Laxter may be summoned to the district attorney's office to answer some questions."
The caretaker's voice was harshly strident. "Can you tell me what about?"
"No. I've told you everything I can. Just keep it under your hat."
There was growing uneasiness manifest in the tones of Ashton's voice. "Wait a minute, Mr. Mason. I don't want you to go too far in this thing. There are some reasons why I don't want the district attorney messing around asking questions."
Mason's tone was one of finality. "You employed me to see your cat wasn't poisoned. I'm going to do just that."
"But this is something else," Ashton said. "I want to see you about it."
"See me tomorrow then. In the meantime, give Clinker a dish of cream with my compliments."
"But I must see you, if the district attorney's going to start an investigation."
"Okay, see me tomorrow, then," Mason told him, and hung up. He made a wry grimace as he turned from the telephone booth and faced the detective.
"These damn cat cases," he said, "are more bother than they're worth. Let's go hunt up the district attorney."
"Sound as though he had a guilty conscience?" Drake asked.
Mason shrugged his shoulders. "My clients never have guilty consciences, Paul. And, after all, don't forget my real client is the cat."
Drake chuckled and said, "Sure, I understand, but just as a side line I sure would like to know where Ashton got that money… Listen, Perry, it's starting to rain. I'd prefer to use my car if we're going places."
Mason, thumbing through the telephone directory for the residence number of the district attorney, said, "Sorry, Paul, we're going places, but you won't have a chance to get your car—we'll be moving too fast… I'll get out my convertible. We can use that."
Drake groaned. "I was afraid of that. You drive like hell on wet roads."
Chapter 6
There was something suggestive of a huge bear about Hamilton Burger, the district attorney.