"No," said Cartright, "I mean that the howling dog is in Clinton Foley's house."
"I see," Mason remarked. "Suppose you tell me all about it, Cartright."
Cartright pinched out the end of the cigarette, got to his feet, walked rapidly to the window, stared out with unseeing eyes, then turned and paced back toward the lawyer.
"Look here," he said, "there's one more question about the will."
"Yes?" asked Mason.
"Suppose Mrs. Clinton Foley really shouldn't be Mrs. Clinton Foley?"
"How do you mean?" Mason inquired.
"Suppose that she's living with Clinton Foley, as his wife, but isn't married to him?"
"That wouldn't make any difference," Mason said slowly, "if you described her in the will as 'Mrs. Clinton Foley, the woman who is at present living with Clinton Foley at 4889 Milpas Drive, as his wife. In other words, the testator has a right to leave property to whom he wishes. Words of description in a will are valuable only so far as they explain the intention of the testator.
"For instance, there have been many occasions when men have died, willing property to their wives, and it has turned out they were not legally married. There have been cases where men have left property to their sons, when it has turned out that the person was not really his son…"
"I don't care anything about all that stuff," said Arthur Cartright irritably. "I'm just asking you about this one particular case. It wouldn't make any difference?"
"It wouldn't make any difference," Mason said.
"Well, then," said Cartright, his eyes suddenly cunning. "Suppose that there should be a real Mrs. Clinton Foley. What I mean is, suppose Clinton Foley had been legally married and had never been legally divorced, and I should leave the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley?"
Perry Mason's tone of voice was that of one soothing groundless fears.
"I have explained to you," he said, "that the intention of the testator governs. If you leave your property to the woman who is now residing at that address, as the wife of Clinton Foley, it is all that is necessary. But do I understand that Clinton Foley is living?"
"Of course he's living. He's living next door to me."
"I see," Mason said cautiously, feeling his way, and making his voice sound casual. "And Mr. Clinton Foley knows that you intend to leave your property to his wife?"
"Certainly not," flared Cartright. "He doesn't know anything of the sort. He doesn't have to, does he?"
"No," Mason said, "I was just wondering, that's all."
"Well, he doesn't know it, and he's not going to know it," said Cartright.
"All right," Mason told him, "that's settled. How about the dog?"
"We've got to do something about that dog."
"What do you want to do?"
"I want Foley arrested."
"On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that he's driving me crazy. A man can't keep a dog like that. It's part of a deliberate plan of persecution. He knows how I feel about a howling dog. He's got that dog, and he's taught it to howl. The dog didn't used to howl, he's just started howling the last night or two. He's doing it to irritate me and to irritate his wife. His wife is sick in bed, and the dog howls. It means death in the neighborhood."
Cartright was speaking rapidly now, his eyes glittering feverishly, his hands gesticulating, aimlessly pawing at the air.
Mason pursed his lips.
"I think," he said slowly, "that I'm not going to be able to handle the matter for you, Cartright. I'm exceptionally busy right now. Just got out of court from a murder case, and…"
"I know, I know," said Cartright, "you think I'm crazy. You think it's just some little piece of business. I tell you it isn't. It's one of the biggest pieces of business you ever handled. I came to you because you have been trying that murder case. I've followed it. I've been in court listening to you. You're a real lawyer. You were one jump ahead of the district attorney in that case from the time it started. I know all about it."
Perry Mason smiled slowly.
"Thanks for your good opinion, Cartright," he said, "but you can understand my work is mostly trial work. I have specialized on trials. Drawing a will is not exactly in my line, and this matter of the howling dog seems to be something that can be adjusted without a lawyer…"
"No, it can't," Cartright said. "You don't know Foley. You don't know the type of a man you're dealing with. Probably you think there isn't going to be enough money in it to pay you for your time, but I'm going to pay you. I'm going to pay you well."
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a wellfilled wallet, opened it and jerked out three bills with trembling hand. He started to hand the bills to the lawyer, but they slipped from his fingers when his hand was half way across the desk, and fluttered to the blotter.
"There's three hundred dollars," he said. "That's for retainer. There'll be more when you get finished — lots more. I haven't been to the bank and got my cash yet, but I'm going to get it. I've got it in a safety deposit box — lots of it."
Perry Mason didn't touch the money for a moment. The tips of his firm capable fingers were drumming noiselessly on the desk.
"Cartright," he said slowly, "if I act as your lawyer in this thing, I am going to do what I think is for your own good and for your best interests, do you understand that?"
"Of course I understand it, that's what I want you to do."
"No matter what it is," warned Mason, "if I think it's for your best interests I'm going to do it."
"That's all right," Cartright told him, "if you'll just agree to handle the thing for me."
Perry Mason picked up the three one hundred dollar bills, folded them, put them in his pocket.
"Very well," he said, "I'll handle it for you. Now you want Foley arrested, is that right?"
"Yes."
"All right," Mason said, "that isn't going to be particularly complicated. You simply swear to a complaint, and the magistrate issues a warrant of arrest. Now, why did you want to retain me in that connection? Did you want me to act as special prosecutor?"
"You don't know Clinton Foley," doggedly repeated Arthur Cartright. "He'll come back at me. He'll file a suit against me for malicious prosecution. Perhaps he's just trained the dog to howl so that he can get me to walk into a trap."
"What kind of a dog is it?" Mason asked.
"A big police dog."
Perry Mason lowered his eyes and watched the tips of this drumming fingers for a moment, then looked up at Cartright with a reassuring smile.
"Legally," he said, "it's always a good defense to a suit for malicious prosecution if a person consults an attorney in good faith and puts all of the facts before him and then acts on the advice of that attorney. Now I'm going to put you in a position where no one can ever recover in a suit for malicious prosecution. I'm going to take you to a deputy in the district attorney's office, one who has charge of such matters. I'm going to let you talk with that deputy and tell him the whole story, — about the dog I mean. You don't need to tell him anything about the will. If he decides that a warrant should be issued, that's all there is to it. But I must warn you to tell the whole story to the district attorney. That is, give him all of the facts. State them fairly and completely, and then you'll have a perfect defense to any suit Foley might file."
Cartright sighed his relief.
"Now," he said, "you're talking sense. That's just exactly the kind of advice I want to pay for. Where do we find this deputy district attorney?"
"I'll have to telephone for an appointment," said Mason. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'll go see if I can get him on the telephone. Sit right here and make yourself at home. You'll find cigarettes there in the case, and…"
"Never mind that," Cartright said, making a swift motion toward his pocket, "I've got my own cigarettes here. Go right ahead and get that appointment. Let's do it right now. Let's get it over with as soon as possible. I can't stand another night of that howling dog."