"
He nodded and patted her shoulder with his free hand, holding the big Persian cat in his left arm.
"I haven't much," she said. "I'm building up a good business here. I can make my living, and I can make more than my living. I'll pay you by the month. I'll give you anything that I make. You can have the business and I'll run it for you without any salary except just what I need to eat, and I can live on waffles and coffee, and…"
"We'll talk that over later," Mason interrupted. "The thing to do now is to find out where we stand. If Douglas Keene is guilty, the thing for him to do is to plead guilty, and plead whatever extenuating circumstances there may be."
"But he's not guilty. He isn't; he can't be."
"All right, if he isn't, then the thing for you to do is to get rid of this damned cat. Otherwise, you'll be tied up with the murder. Do you understand?"
She nodded silently.
"I've got to have a box or something to carry the cat in."
She ran to the closet and picked up a big hatbox. She jabbed her finger through the pasteboard top, making little breathing holes.
"I'd better put him in," she said, "he'll understand if I do it…Clinker, this man is going to take you with him. You must go with him and be a nice cat."
She put the cat in the box, stroked it for a moment or two, then gently put on the cover. She whipped a piece of string about the cover, tied it, and handed the box to Perry Mason.
The lawyer, holding the hatbox by the string, smiled reassuringly at her, and said, "Stay right here. Remember, don't answer questions. You'll hear from me after a while."
She held open the door of the bedroom. Mason walked to the outer door, opened it, and pushed his way out into the wind and rain. The cat in the box stirred uneasily.
Mason put the hatbox on the seat of the convertible coupe, climbed in behind the wheel and started the motor. The cat meowed a faint protest.
Mason spoke to the cat reassuringly, drove the car for several blocks, then swung in close to the curb by an allnight drugstore. He parked the car, got out, and picking up the hatbox, walked into the drugstore, where the clerk eyed him curiously.
Mason put the box down on the floor of the telephone booth and dialed the number of Della Street 's apartment. After a few moments, he heard her voice, thick with sleep.
"Okay, kid," he said, "snap out of it. Put cold water on the face, throw on a few clothes, and be ready to open the door of your apartment when I give you a ring. I'm coming out."
"What time is it?"
"Somewhere around one o'clock."
"What's happened?" she asked.
"I can't tell you about it over the telephone."
Her voice showed that she was now fully awake. "Good Lord, Chief, I thought you only worked all night on murder cases. Now you're doing it on a cat case. How in the world can you get into trouble with a cat?"
"I do," he said cryptically, "I can; I have," and, chuckling, hung up the receiver.
Chapter 9
Della Street, with a robe thrown over silk pajamas, sat on the edge of her bed and watched Perry Mason untying the cord around the hatbox.
"Getting me out of bed at one o'clock in the morning to show me the latest in hats?" she inquired.
The lawyer, sliding the string off the cover, said, "It simply shows how easy it is to become accustomed to environment. He was raising hell in the telephone booth."
He pulled the cover from the box. Clinker got to his feet, arched his back in a long stretch, yawned, sniffed the air, raised his forepaws to the edge of the hatbox, and leapt out onto the bed. He sniffed Della Street inquiringly, then curled into a fluffy ball by the side of her leg.
"If you're going in for a collection," she said, "it might be easier to use postage stamps. They take up less room."
She ran her fingers around the cat's ears.
"I think that's something of a compliment," Mason told her, "the way he takes to you. As I remember it, there are few people he likes."
"Going to use him as a playmate for the caretaker's cat?" she asked.
"He is the caretaker's cat."
"Why not leave him with the caretaker, then?"
"The last time I saw the caretaker, he was dead. His face wasn't pretty. There were muddy cat tracks all over his bed."
She stiffened to attention. "Who did it?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Who do the police think did it?"
"I don't know. I don't think they do, yet."
"Who will they think did it by the time they get that far?"
"Several people might be interested in the caretaker. There's some evidence indicating the caretaker had something like a million dollars in currency in his possession. Some of it may have been locked in a safety deposit box; again, the safety deposit box may have been a blind. People will do a lot for a million dollars. Then there are some rather valuable diamonds. Ashton may have had them. I've located the green Pontiac that followed Ashton from our office. It's in the garage at Peter Laxter's town house."
"Whom do we represent?"
"The boy friend of a girl who runs a waffle parlor."
"Any retainer?"
"Do you like waffles?" he countered.
Her eyes showed anxiety. "Look here, Chief, you're not going to get mixed up in a murder case without first getting a fee?"
"I guess I've done it."
"Why don't you sit in your office and wait for clients to come to you after they get arrested, and then go into court and defend them? You're always out on the firing line, taking chances. How did you get this cat?"
"It was given to me."
"By whom?"
"The waffle girl. But we're supposed to forget that."
"You mean you want me to keep the cat here?"
"That's it."
"Under cover?"
"As much as you can. Or, if you have some friend who can keep it, it might be better than to have it here. The police may be looking for it. I have an idea the cat is going to figure in that murder."
"Please," she pleaded, "don't jeopardize your professional standing mixing into this case. Let it go. Sail on that liner for the Orient. After someone gets arrested go ahead and defend him if you want to, but don't get involved in the case itself."
There was something maternal and tender in her eyes.
Perry Mason reached out, possessed himself of her right hand, and patted it.
"Della," he said, "you're a good kid. But the stuff you want just isn't in the cards. I could get a swell rest on that liner to the Orient for just about three days, and then the inactivity would drive me crazy. I want to be working at high speed. I'm going to get ten times as much kick out of this as I would out of a trip to the Orient."
"You're going to handle the case?"
"Yes.