"We'll hand it to Samuel C. Laxter for being damned clever. If it hadn't been for the fortuitous circumstances of that nurse happening on him, he'd have committed a perfect murder."

"You're putting this whole thing in the hands of the district attorney?" Drake ventured, his eyes rolling toward Perry Mason, his face utterly devoid of expression.

"Yes."

"Hadn't you better find out just where your client stands in this thing first?"

Mason said slowly, "No, I don't think so. If my client has done wrong, I'm not going to try and shield him. I'm employed to see that he keeps his cat, and, by God, he's going to keep that cat. If he's found money that belongs to the estate and has embezzled it, that's an entirely different matter. And don't overlook the fact that Pete Laxter may have made a valid gift of that money to Ashton before his death."

"Baloney," the detective remarked. "Pete Laxter didn't expect to die; therefore, there was no reason for him to give away his money."

"Don't be to too certain," Mason said. "He had some reason for turning his property into cash. But let's quit speculating about that, Paul. The main thing in handling a lawsuit is to keep the other man's client on the defensive, not to get yours in a position where he has to do a lot of explaining. However, I'll give Ashton a buzz and tell him that I think his cat is safe."

The detective laughed. "Talk about using a tengauge shotgun to kill a canary," he said, "we certainly are getting into a lot of ramifications in order to keep a cat alive."

"And," Mason said, "in order to show Nat Shuster that he can't cut corners with me and get away with it. Don't forget that angle, Paul."

"There's a public telephone in the drugstore around the corner," Drake said.

"Okay, Paul, let's telephone Ashton and telephone the district attorney."

They strolled around the corner. Mason dropped a dime in, dialed the number listed under the name of Peter Laxter, and asked for Charles Ashton. It took several minutes before he heard Ashton's rasping voice on the telephone.

"This is Perry Mason talking, Ashton. I don't think you need to worry any more about Clinker."

"Why not?" Ashton asked.

"I think that Sam Laxter is going to have his hands full," Mason explained. "I think he'll be kept quite well occupied. Don't say anything just yet to any of the servants, but I think there's a possibility Sam Laxter may be summoned to the district attorney's office to answer some questions."

The caretaker's voice was harshly strident. "Can you tell me what about?"

"No. I've told you everything I can. Just keep it under your hat."

There was growing uneasiness manifest in the tones of Ashton's voice. "Wait a minute, Mr. Mason. I don't want you to go too far in this thing. There are some reasons why I don't want the district attorney messing around asking questions."

Mason's tone was one of finality. "You employed me to see your cat wasn't poisoned. I'm going to do just that."

"But this is something else," Ashton said. "I want to see you about it."

"See me tomorrow then. In the meantime, give Clinker a dish of cream with my compliments."

"But I must see you, if the district attorney's going to start an investigation."

"Okay, see me tomorrow, then," Mason told him, and hung up. He made a wry grimace as he turned from the telephone booth and faced the detective.

"These damn cat cases," he said, "are more bother than they're worth. Let's go hunt up the district attorney."

"Sound as though he had a guilty conscience?" Drake asked.

Mason shrugged his shoulders. "My clients never have guilty consciences, Paul. And, after all, don't forget my real client is the cat."

Drake chuckled and said, "Sure, I understand, but just as a side line I sure would like to know where Ashton got that money… Listen, Perry, it's starting to rain. I'd prefer to use my car if we're going places."

Mason, thumbing through the telephone directory for the residence number of the district attorney, said, "Sorry, Paul, we're going places, but you won't have a chance to get your car—we'll be moving too fast… I'll get out my convertible. We can use that."

Drake groaned. "I was afraid of that. You drive like hell on wet roads."

Chapter 6

There was something suggestive of a huge bear about Hamilton Burger, the district attorney. He was broad of shoulders, thick of neck, and, when he moved, his arms had that peculiar swinging rhythm which speaks for a network of perfectly coordinated muscles rippling under the skin.

"You know, Mason," he said, "I'm anxious to cooperate with you whenever cooperation is possible. I've told you before, and I'll tell you again, that I've a horror of prosecuting an innocent man; but I'll also tell you that I don't like to have anyone use me for a cat'spaw."

Mason sat silent. Paul Drake, sprawled in a chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him, kept his glassy eyes fixed on the toes of his shoes, and managed to look bored.

Burger started pacing the floor, his manner nervous. He flung his head around in a half turn as a bear might sniff the wind, and said, "You're a good lawyer, Mason."

Perry Mason sat quiet.

Burger pivoted on his heel, started walking in the other direction. He said, flinging the words over his shoulder, "But you're a better detective than you are a lawyer. When you turn your mind to the solution of a crime, you ferret out the truth. That doesn't keep you from defending guilty clients."

Mason said nothing.

Burger took one more turn; then stopped abruptly, swung to face Mason, leveled his forefinger and said, "If the people in my office thought that I was going to act on information you had given me, they'd think you were making a cat'spaw of me."

"That," Mason retorted, "is the reason I came to you personally instead of going to your assistants. Here's an opportunity for you to clean up something, and prove that what appeared to be an accidental death was in fact a murder. I'm not asking favors. I'm giving you an opportunity. You can take it or leave it. I'm interested in this thing because of a cat; and if you want to know, I'm making exactly ten dollars as a fee."

Burger pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, tore at the end of it with his teeth, scraped a match along the bricks of the fireplace, and puffed the cigar into smoke. He sighed and said, "All right, Dr. Jason happens to be visiting me this evening. I'm going to call him in. If the thing sounds reasonable to him, we're going to make a whirlwind investigation. I'll know whether I want to go ahead or run for cover by the time the publicity breaks."

Perry Mason lit a cigarette.

"Excuse me just a moment," Burger said. "I'll call Dr. Jason, and I'll telephone Tom Glassman, my chief investigator, and have him come up right away."

As the door closed behind the district attorney, Paul Drake rolled his expressionless eyes toward Perry Mason. The detective's face was wearing its habitual expression of droll humor. "I notice you didn't tell him anything about the peculiar and sudden rise to affluence of your client, Charles Ashton."

"I'm only concerned with reporting such facts as may point to a murder," Mason remarked.

Drake turned his eyes back to stare at his toes.

"If I were a district attorney, I'm not so certain that I'd play along with you, Perry," he remarked.

"Whenever a man plays ball with me, he gets a square deal," Mason insisted.

"Yeah, but God help him if he ever tries to steal second," Drake said lugubriously.

The door of the room opened and Dr. Jason, a tall, rather thin man with brown eyes which were unusually piercing, surveyed the two men.

"Good evening, Mason," he said. "I don't think I know Mr. Drake."