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“But when they ask me how you knew about the murder what shall I tell them?”

Mason grinned, and said, “Tell them you employ a lawyer to answer questions for you, that you don’t want to start answering his questions for him. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, smiling.

Mason picked up his hat, started for the door.

She came over to stand with her hand on the doorknob. “You’re nice.”

“Thanks.”

Abruptly she raised her lips. “Good night,” she said.

As Mason bent to kiss her, her arm moved up around his neck, then her fingers were at the back of his head pulling the hair, pressing his head down to hers.

Then suddenly she released her hold, stepped back and looked at him with eyes that were dark with emotion.

“You are nice,” she half whispered.

“Thank you,” Mason said, and slipped out into the corridor.

It was two or three seconds before he heard the door close behind him and he had taken three more steps before he heard the bolt shoot angrily into place.

Chapter 11

WHEN PERRY MASON ENTERED HIS OFFICE AT NINE-THIRTY Tuesday morning Della Street said, “Dorley Alder is out there.” “What’s new?”

“Drake has a report here-a lot of stuff-mostly an elaboration of what he told you last night.”

“That’s fine. Give me a resume and then I’ll see Dorley Alder.”

“Apparently the dog was raising Cain at the time of the murder,” Della said, “but when the police got there, the dog was lying quiet in the closet The maid said that the dog had been trained to lie there, and when he was shut up in the closet he knew that was where he was supposed to stay.

“Police thought the murderer might still be on the island, or hiding in the house somewhere, and they wanted to use the dog to track her down. They asked the maid if she could control the dog, and the maid said she didn’t think so and wasn’t anxious to try. She said the dog had been fairly friendly with her, but that no one except George Alder was permitted to feed or go near him, and while the dog would tolerate her while Alder was around, the dog was always shut up when Alder wasn’t there, and she didn’t want any part of the animal.”

“And the dog was quiet all this time?”

“You mean while the police were moving around?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the way I understand it from Drake’s report,” Della said.

“And how did they know he’d been raising Cain when the murder was committed?”

“Well,” Della said, “the police finally decided to open the door a crack, hold a rope with a noose in it get the dog out of there and see if perhaps the maid could make him track down the person who had committed the murder. In the event the dog wasn’t tractable, they’d have the rope around his neck.

“So, they opened the closet door, the dog lunged against the opening, came through like a shot, knocked one of the policemen over and tore out of the house, running nose to the ground.”

“And trailed the murderer?” Mason asked, interested.

“No,” said Della. “He tried to get away, ran to the closed gate in the bridge, and started scratching, trying to get out through the gate.”

Mason said, That would be a pretty good indication the murderer had gone that way, Della.”

“Apparently she couldn’t have. The servant ran out and closed the gate behind her, and was absolutely certain that no one crossed the bridge, nor could anyone have swum from the mainland across to the island. There’s a sheer brick wall on both sides.”

Mason frowned thoughtfully.

“Now, then, getting back to the way they know the dog was raising Cain when the murder was committed,” Della said. “When the police looked inside the closet, they found that the door was all scratched up and blood streaks on the door indicated the dog must have torn one of his claws loose trying to get out. He probably went into a frenzy when he realized his master was in danger.”

“The dog hadn’t clawed the door before?” Mason asked, interested.

“Never. The maid said that this closet had been fixed up as the dog’s own. There was a mattress in there, a pan of water, and all the dog trappings. And of course there was ventilation which came in from a high window that was heavily barred. The dog had learned to stay in there quietly when he was put in there. Now, then, that’s the story. You’d better see Mr. Alder.”

She started for the doorway to bring Dorley Alder into the office, then paused. “Did you see your client last night?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everything under control?”

“Everything except the client.”

“How come?”

“She was very grateful for all I was doing for her.”

“She should be grateful.”

“She had been in bed,” Mason said. “She put on a housecoat.”

“And then?” Della Street asked.

“Then,” Mason said, “she commented on how brown her leg was, pointing out to me what a nice sun tan she’d managed to get despite the fact that she was a working girl. It sounded like a stall.”

“Well, what of it?” Della Street asked. “Didn’t she have a right to be proud of her sun tan?”

“And when I left,” Mason went on, “she came over to hold the door open for me and her good night was slightly more affectionate than I had anticipated.”

Della Street laughed. “Perhaps the poor gal thinks she can use some influence to determine the amount of your fee.”

“It’s a legitimate deduction from all the circumstances,” Mason said.

“You mean a deduction from the facts, or a deduction from the fee?”

He said, “You’re too sharp for me this morning. Did you sleep?”

“After two aspirin and two hours of tossing.”

“Drake hasn’t found anything of Caimen Monterrey, has he?”

“Not yet. He did find out something though that he’s not supposed to know. He can’t tell us how he learned it-through some contacts of his.” “What?”

“The box 123J. That was George S. Alder.”

Mason paused to think that over, then nodded thoughtfully. “Of course. That was Alder’s logical move. He realized what he was up against as soon as he saw this letter in the bottle. He knew that he had to find Carmen. And perhaps through her find some way of discrediting some of Minerva Danby’s statements. Okay, Della, go bring Dorley Alder in and well see what he wants.”

Dorley Alder entered the office as Della Street held the door open. He wasted no time in preliminaries. “Mason, this is a damn bad business.”

“It is for a fact.”

Alder said, “My nephew was a bachelor and apparently I’m the next of kin upon whom the responsibilities fall in such a case.”

Mason nodded, keeping his face without expression.

Dorley Alder seated himself in the big client’s chair, said, “What will happen with this case against Dorothy Fenner now, Mr. Mason?”

“I presume it’ll be dismissed. There won’t be any complaining witness, no one to testify what, if any, articles were missing.”

Dorley said, “Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason, that the authorities might try to implicate Dorothy Fenner in the murder?”

“It’s a possibility,” Mason said, his voice showing casual unconcern. “We’re dealing with a county sheriff, of course —and anything may happen. However, if they try to throw suspicion on the Fenner girl they’ll wind up making themselves ludicrous.”

Dorley Alder took a leather-backed notebook from his pocket, said, “I told you that you’d made an ally. I’ll now prove it. The gun with which my nephew was shot was his own gun.”