Jackson had heard the story before. He nodded with courteous attention. In a tone which showed very plainly he thought the troubles of Mr. Ashton had occupied far too much of the time allotted for the morning conference, he inquired, "Shall I tell Mr. Ashton we can't handle it?"
"Has he any money?" Mason inquired.
"I don't think so. Under the will he was left a perpetual job as caretaker. That job pays him fifty dollars a month, and his board and room."
"And he's an old man?" Mason inquired.
"Reasonably so. An old crank, if you ask me."
"But he loves animals," Mason remarked.
"He's very much attached to his cat, if that's what you mean."
Mason nodded slowly, and said, "That's what I mean."
Della Street, more familiar with Mason's moods than the assistant attorney, entered the conversation with the easy familiarity of one who works in an office where there is but little formality.
"You just finished a murder case, Chief. Why not let the assistants handle things while you take a cruise to the Orient? It'll give you a rest."
Mason regarded her with twinkling eyes. "Who the devil would take care of Ashton's cat, then?"
"Mr. Jackson could."
"He won't see Jackson."
"Then let him find some other attorney. The city is overrun with attorneys. You can't afford to take your time to bother with a cat!"
"An old man," Mason said, almost musingly, "a crank probably friendless. His benefactor is dead. The cat represents the only living thing to which he's attached. Most lawyers would laugh the case out of the office. If some lawyer took the case, he wouldn't know where to begin. God knows there's no precedent to guide him.
"No, Della, this is one of those cases that seems so trivial to the lawyer, but means so much to the client. A lawyer isn't like a shopkeeper who can sell his wares or not as he chooses. He holds his talents in trust for the unfortunate."
Della Street, knowing what was to come, nodded to Jackson and said, "You may ask Mr. Ashton to step in."
Jackson gave a halfhearted smile, gathered up his papers and left the room. As the door clicked shut, Della Street 's fingers closed about Perry Mason's left hand.
"You're only taking that case, Chief, because you know he can't afford to pay any other good lawyer to handle it."
Mason, grinning, replied, "Well, you must admit that a man with a shriveled leg, a crabby disposition, a Persian cat, and no money, is entitled to a break once in a while."
The sounds of a crutch and a foot alternated in the long corridor. Jackson held open the door after the manner of one who, having counseled against an unwise act, is very definitely keeping clear of the consequences.
The man who entered the room was wizened with age. He had thin lips, bushy white eyebrows, a bald head, and unsmiling features. "This is the third time I've been in to see you," he said irritably.
Mason indicated a chair. "Sit down, Mr. Ashton. I'm sorry. I've been trying a murder case. What's the name of your cat?"
"Clinker," Ashton said, sitting down in the big, overstuffed, black leather chair, standing his crutch straight in front of him, holding it with both hands.
"Why Clinker?" Mason asked.
The man's lips and eyes remained unsmiling. "A bit of humor."
"Humor?" Mason inquired.
"Yes, I used to have a job firing a boiler. Clinkers get in the way and clutter things up. When I first got the cat, I called him Clinker because he was always in the wayalways cluttering things up."
"Attached to him?" Mason inquired, in a voice which was elaborately casual.
"The only friend I've got left in the world," Ashton said rather gruffly.
Mason raised his eyebrows.
"I'm a caretaker. A caretaker doesn't really work. He just keeps an eye on things. The big house has been closed up for years. The master lived in a place at Carmencita. All I did was just putter around the big place, keep up the yard and sweep off the front steps. Three or four times a year the master had the place thoroughly cleaned; the rest of the time the rooms were all shut, locked, and the shutters drawn."
"No one lived there?"
"No one."
"Why didn't he rent the place?" Mason asked.
"It wasn't his way."
"And he left a will providing for you?"
"That he did. The will keeps me in my job while I'm able to work and takes care of me whenever I can't work."
"The heirs are two grandchildren?"
"Three. Only two are mentioned in the will."
"Tell me about your troubles," Mason invited.
"The master was burned to death when the country home caught fire. I didn't know about it until they telephoned me the next morning. After the death, Sam Laxter took charge. He's a nice boy to look at, and he'll fool you if you let him, but he doesn't like animals and I don't like people who can't get along with animals."
"Who was in the house at the time it burned?" Mason asked.
"Winifredthat's Winifred Laxter. She's a granddaughter. Then there was Sam Laxter and Frank Oafleythey're grandsons. Mrs. Pixley was thereshe's the housekeeper. And there was a nurseEdith DeVoe."
"Anyone else?" Mason asked.
"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur. He's a smooth one. He knows which side of the bread his butter's on, all right. You should see the way he toadies to Sam Laxter."