"
"No. I should say not. Clinker would chase any cat away. He's insanely jealous, particularly of Uncle Charles."
"Uncle Charles?" he asked.
"I sometimes call the caretaker Uncle Charles."
"Rather a peculiar character, isn't he?"
"Peculiar, but he's a fine man when you get to know him."
"Honest?"
"Of course, he's honest."
"Something of a miser, isn't he?"
"He would be if he had anything to save, I guess. He's been around Grandpa so long. Grandpa was always suspicious of banks. When the country went off the gold basis Grandpa nearly died. He'd been hoarding gold, you know. But he went down and turned his gold in and took paper money. It was quite a blow to him. He was upset for weeks."
"He must have been a peculiar chap."
"He was—very peculiar—and yet very lovable. He had a great sense of right and wrong."
"His will wouldn't seem to indicate that."
"No," she said, "I think under all the circumstances, it was the best thing that could have happened. I think I was pretty much hypnotized by Harry."
"Harry?" Mason asked.
"Harry Inman. He was rushing me to death. He seemed one of those straightforward, cleancut, sincere young men, and…"
"He wasn't?" Mason prompted as her voice faded away.
"He most certainly was not. As soon as he found out I wasn't going to get anything under the will, he fell all over himself taking back everything he'd said. I think he was afraid at the last minute I'd try to marry him in order to have someone to look after me."
"He has money?"
"He has a good position. He's making around six thousand a year, in an insurance office."
"Douglas Keene stuck by you, eh?" Mason asked, bringing the subject casually around to the young man whose framed picture stood on the table facing the bed.
"I'll say he stuck by me. He was a brick. He's the most wonderful boy in the world. I never realized just how much there was to him—you know, words don't mean anything—anyone who can talk can use words. Some people can use them better than others. Many insincere people, who have the gift of expressing themselves, can sound more sincere than those who are perfectly loyal."
Mason nodded, waited for her to go on talking.
"I wanted to see you about Douglas," she said. "Something awful has happened and Douglas is afraid I might get involved in it. He's mixed in it himself some way—I don't know just how."
"What's happened?" Mason asked.
"A murder," she told him, and began to sob.
Mason moved over to the bed, sat down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. The cat looked up at him appraisingly, flattened its ears slightly, then slowly relaxed, but did not resume purring.
"Now take it easy," Mason told her, "and give me the facts."
"I don't know the facts; all I know is that Douglas rang up. He was frightfully excited. He said there'd been a murder and that he wasn't going to let me get dragged into it; that he was going to skip out and that I'd never see him again. He said that I was to say nothing, and answer no question about him."
"Who was murdered?"
"He didn't say."
"How did he think you might be dragged into it?"
"Just through knowing him, I guess. It's all too silly. But I think it's all mixed up with Grandfather's death."
"When did he telephone you?"
"About fifteen minutes before I telephoned you. I tried to locate you every place I could think of—your office and your apartment. When I couldn't get any answer I decided to call Uncle Charles. He'd told me you'd telephoned him something about Sam and the district attorney, and I thought he might hear from you again."
"Did you," Mason asked, "know that your grandfather was murdered?"
She stared at him with wide eyes. "Grandfather? No."
"Did it impress you there was anything peculiar about the manner in which the house burned?"
"Why, no. The fire seemed to have centered right around Grandpa's bedroom. It was a windy night and I thought they blamed the fire on defective electric wiring."
"Let's come back to the cat for a minute," Mason said. "He's been with you ever since around eleven o'clock?"
"Yes—shortly after eleven, I guess it was."
Perry Mason nodded, picked up the cat and held it in his arms.
"Clinker," he said, "how would you like to go for a nice ride somewhere?"
"What do you mean?" Winifred asked him.
Perry Mason, holding the cat, stared steadily at her, and said slowly, "Charles Ashton was murdered sometime tonight. I don't know yet exactly what time. He was strangled, probably after he'd gone to bed. There were muddy cat tracks all over the counterpane and over the pillow; there was even a track on his forehead."
She got to her feet, staring at him with wide eyes. Then she opened bloodless lips and tried to scream.
No sound came.
Perry Mason dropped the cat to the bed, took Winifred in his arms, stroked her hair. "Take it easy," he told her. "I'm going to take the cat with me. If anyone comes to question you, refuse to answer, no matter what the questions are."
She slid from his arms to sit on the bed. It was as though her knees refused to support her weight. There was panic in her face. "He didn't do it," she said. "He couldn't have. I love him. He wouldn't hurt a fly!"
"Can you buck up," Mason asked, "until I can get rid of this cat?"
"What are you going to do with it?"
"I'll find a home for it—some place where we can keep it until things blow over. You see what it means having the cat tracks on the bedspread. It means the cat was there after the murder was committed."
"But it's impossible," she said.
"Of course it's impossible," he told her, "but we've got to make other people see that it's impossible. The question is, can you be brave enough to help me?"
She nodded silently.
Perry Mason picked up the cat and started for the door.
"Listen," she told him, as he put his hands on the knob of the door, "I don't know if you understand, but you must defend Douglas. That's why I telephoned you. You must find him and talk with him. Douglas isn't guilty of murder. You understand what I mean?"
"I understand," he told her gravely.
She came to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "He's clever enough so the officers will never find him… Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you think they can find him, but you don't realize how clever Douglas is. The officers will never, never catch him. And that means he'll be a fugitive as long as he lives unless you clear things up… And I know what it'll mean as far as I'm concerned. They'll figure that he's going to get in touch with me. They'll watch my mail; they'll tap my telephone; they'll do everything, trying to trap Douglas.