"Now, when Clinton Foley first took that house at 4889 Milpas Drive, he had the police dog. Find out how long he'd had it, where he got it, how old the dog was. Find out everything about it, and, particularly, about the howling."
"I've already got some of that information," the detective said. "Forbes had had the dog for years. When Forbes left Santa Barbara he took the dog with him. That was one of the things he couldn't bear to leave behind. He was attached to the dog — so was his wife, for that matter."
"All right," said Perry Mason. "I want evidence to show all about that dog. I want witnesses who can come here and testify about him. I want witnesses who have known that dog from a pup. Go to Santa Barbara. Get the neighbors who would have heard the dog if he'd ever howled at night. Get affidavits from them. Some of them we'll want as witnesses. Spare no expense."
"All over a dog?" asked Paul Drake.
"All over a dog," Perry Mason said, "who didn't howl in Santa Barbara, but who did howl here."
"The dog's dead," the detective reminded him.
"That doesn't affect the importance of the evidence," Mason said.
The telephone rang. Mason picked up the receiver.
"One of Mr. Drake's detectives on the line, and he wants to report to him at once," Della Street said. "He says its important."
Perry Mason turned the receiver over to Paul Drake.
"One of the men with some more information, Paul."
Drake slid over to the edge of the chair arm, lifted the receiver to his ear and drawled a lazy "Hello."
The receiver made swift metallic noises, and a look of surprised incredulity came over Drake's face.
"You're sure about that?" he asked at length.
The receiver made more noises.
Drake said, "I'll be damned," and hung up the telephone. He looked at Perry Mason with eyes that still showed startled surprise.
"Know who that was?" he asked.
"One of your men?" asked Mason.
"Yes," said Drake, "one of my men who's covering the police headquarters, picking up tips from newspaper reporters, and all that stuff. Do you know what he told me?"
"Naturally," said Perry Mason, "I do not. Go ahead and spill it."
"He told me," said Paul Drake, "that the police have positively identified the gun that was found in Foley's house; the gun that killed the police dog and Foley."
"Go ahead," Mason said. "How did they identify it?"
"They identified it by tracing the numbers and getting the report on sales. They've found out definitely and positively who bought that gun."
"Spill it," Mason said; "go ahead and tell me. Who bought it?"
"The gun," said Paul Drake slowly, his eyes watching Perry Mason's face in concentrated scrutiny, "was purchased in Santa Barbara, California, by Bessie Forbes, two days before her husband ran away with Paula Cartright."
Perry Mason's face became wooden. He stared at the detective in expressionless appraisal for nearly ten seconds.
"Well," said Drake, "what have you got to say?"
Perry Mason's eyes half closed.
"I'm not going to say anything," he said. "I'm going to take back something that I did say."
"What?"
"When I told you that at the proper moment I could bust that case against Bessie Forbes wide open."
"I," said Drake, "am doing a lot of mind changing, myself."
"It's all right," Mason said slowly. "I still think I can bust that case wide open, but I don't know."
He picked up the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear with a slow, deliberate motion, and when he heard Della Street 's voice, said, "Della, get me Alex Bostwick, the city editor of The Chronicle. Get him on the line, personally. I'll wait."
The expression of surprise gradually faded from Paul Drake's eyes, and his face resumed once more its look of droll humor.
"Well," he said slowly, "that hands me a jolt. I'm commencing to think you either know more about this case than I thought you did, or else that you're crazy like a fox. Maybe it was a good thing Mrs. Forbes didn't rush out and make a lot of explanations to the police."
"Perhaps," Perry Mason said softly, then turned to the telephone. "Hello… this Bostwick? Hello, Alex, Perry Mason talking. I've got a hot tip for you. You always claimed that I never gave you tips so that your men could dig up a scoop. Here's one that's a pippin. Have a reporter go out to 4893 Milpas Drive. It's the residence of a man named Arthur Cartright. He'll find a housekeeper there who is deaf and cranky. Her name's Elizabeth Walker. If your reporter will draw her out, he'll find that she knows who murdered Clinton Foley… yes, Clinton Forbes, who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley…
"Yes, she knows who did the killing…
"No, it wasn't Bessie Forbes. You get her to talk…
"All right, if you insist. She'll tell you that it was Arthur Cartright, the man for whom she works, and who has mysteriously disappeared. That's all. Goodby."
Perry Mason slid the receiver back on the hook and turned to Paul Drake.
"God! Paul," he said, "but I hated to do that."
Chapter 16
The room in the jail, set aside for conferences between attorneys and clients, contained no furniture other than a long table running the length of the room, flanked with chairs on either side. Midway along the table, stretching entirely through the table to the floor, and up to a height of five feet above the table, was a heavy wire screen.
An attorney and his client could sit on opposite sides of the table. They could see each other's faces, hear plainly what was said; but they could not touch each other; nor could they pass any object through the screen. The visiting room had three doors. One of them opened from the jailor's office to the side of the room where attorneys were admitted; one opened from the jailor's office to the side where prisoners were admitted, and one led from the prisoners' side of the room to the jail.
Perry Mason sat in a chair at the long table, and waited impatiently. His fingers made little drumming sounds upon the battered table top.
After a few moments the door from the jail opened and a matron walked into the room, with Mrs. Forbes on her arm.
Bessie Forbes was whitefaced, but calm. Her eyes held a haunting expression of terror, but her lips were clamped together in a firm, determined line. She looked about the room, and then saw Perry Mason, as the attorney got to his feet.
"Good morning," he called.
"Good morning," she said, in a firm, steady voice, and walked over to the table.
"Take that seat across from me," said Perry Mason.
She sat down and tried a smile. The matron withdrew through the door which went to the jail. The guard peered curiously through the steel cage, then turned away. He was entirely out of earshot. Attorney and client were alone.
"Why," said Perry Mason, "did you lie to me about the gun?"
She looked about her with a haunted, hunted look, then moistened her lips with the extreme tip of her tongue.
"I didn't lie," she said. "I had just forgotten."
"Forgotten what?" he asked.
"Forgotten about purchasing that gun."
"Well, then," he said, "go ahead and tell me about it."
She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words carefully.
"Two days before my husband left Santa Barbara," she said, "I found out about his affair with Paula Cartright. I got a permit from the authorities to keep a gun in the house, went down to a sporting goods store, and bought the automatic."
"What did you intend to do with it?" he asked.
"I don't know," she said.
"Going to use it on your husband?"
"I don't know."
"Going to use it on Paula Cartright?"
"I don't know, I tell you. I just acted on an impulse. I think, perhaps, I was just going to run a bluff."