Oafley said without surprise, "Yes, Edith said she saw it quite distinctly."

"Just where is Sam Laxter now?"

"I don't know. He went out."

"How did he go out? His car's in the garage."

"Yes," Oafley said, "his car is. He didn't want to take it out and get it wet. The chauffeur drove him uptown in the Pontiac, then brought the Pontiac back. I don't know how Sam will come back, unless the Chevvy is uptown somewhere."

"The Chevvy?"

"Yes. It's a service car. Ashton usually drives it. We keep it for hauling things and running errands."

"You have a car?" Burger asked.

"Yes, the Buick in the garage is mine."

"And the big Pontiac?"

"That's the car my grandfather bought shortly before his death."

"The cars were saved when the house burned?"

"Yes, the garage was in the corner. It was one of the last things to go."

"In other words, the fire was started at some point removed from the garage?"

"It must have been started near grandfather's bedroom."

"Have you any ideas as to how it was started?"

"Not one… Look here, Mr. Burger. I would much prefer that you talked with Sam about this. My position is rather delicate. After all, Sam's related to me. Frankly, I had heard Edith DeVoe's story before, but I hadn't given it any attention. The carbon monoxide was, of course, a new thought to me. I simply can't believe it's possible. There must be some explanation."

Glassman entered the room carrying the telegram in his left hand. He stood in the doorway and made his report. "It's a genuine telegram all right. It was telephoned in. It was to be signed 'A Friend, but the telephone number of the sender was Exposition 62398. The phone's listed under the name of Winnie's Waffle Kitchen."

Mason got to his feet and said, "Baloney!"

"That will do, Mason," Burger told him. "You keep out of this."

"Like hell I will," Mason retorted. "You can't boss me, Burger. Winifred Laxter never sent that telegram."

Oafley stared at Tom Glassman. "Why," he said, "Winnie wouldn't send a telegram like that. There's some mistake."

"She sent it, all right," Glassman insisted.

"The hell she sent it!" Mason exploded. "It's a cinch to send a telegram over the telephone in someone else's name."

"Yeah," Glassman remarked. "Your clients always have someone conspiring against them."

"She isn't my client," Mason said.

"Just who is your client?"

Mason grinned, and remarked, "I think it's a cat."

There was a moment of silence. The noise of an automobile engine could be heard as a car climbed the incline. Headlights flashed for a moment against the window, then a horn blared its imperative summons. Jim Brandon, entering the room with a tray on which were whiskies and glasses, also syphons of soda, hurriedly set the tray down and started for the door as the horn blared again.

"That's Mister Sam," he said.

Burger caught the man's sleeve as he hurried past. "Don't be in too big a hurry," he suggested.

Glassman strode through the corridor, jerked open the front door just as the horn sounded again. "Go on out, Jim," he said, "and see what's wanted."

Jim Brandon switched on a porch light, stepped out to the porch. Sam Laxter called, "Jim, I've had a bit of an accident. You come and put the car away."

Burger pulled aside some drapes. The brilliant light from the porch illuminated a somewhat antiquated Chevrolet, with a broken windshield, a dented fender, and smashed bumper. Sam Laxter was climbing from the driver's seat. His face was cut. His right arm was bandaged with a bloody handkerchief.

Burger started for the door. Before he reached it, headlights again illuminated the drizzling night. A smoothly purring automobile swung into view, circled the driveway and came to a stop. The door of a big sedan opened. A slender figure jumped to the driveway, turned and ran excitedly toward the house, saw Sam Laxter and came to a surprised stop.

Perry Mason chuckled, and said to Burger, "We have with us none other than our esteemed contemporary, Mr. Nathaniel Shuster. During the course of the next half hour you can endeavor to discover whether he followed Sam Laxter because he knew you were going to be here or merely put in an accidental appearance."

Burger, muttering an exclamation of disgust, strode to the porch.

Shuster called, in a voice which was shrill with excitement, "Have you heard about it? Have you heard about it? Do you know what they're doing? Do you know what happened? They got an order to dig up your grandfather's body. They went out in the cemetery and dug it up."

Sam Laxter's bloodstained countenance showed surprised consternation. Frank Oafley, standing near Burger, said, "What the devil's this?"

"Take it easy," Glassman warned.

"I just found out about the order. I've made an investigation. They dug the body up already. Do you want me to take legal steps to…"

His voice trailed away into silence as he caught sight of Burger's figure standing in the light of the porch.

"Come in, Shuster," Burger said. "You'll get wet standing out there."

Rain glistened on Sam Laxter's face. The cut on his cheek dripped blood, unheeded. His lips were twisting with emotion. "What's the big idea?" he asked.

"I'm just making an investigation," Burger said, "and I wanted to ask you a few questions. Have you any objection?"

"Certainly not," Laxter replied, "but I don't like the way you're going about this thing. What was the idea digging up…"

"Not a question! Not a question!" Shuster shouted. "Not unless I am present, and not unless I tell you you should answer."

"Oh, bosh, Shuster!" Laxter said. "I can certainly answer any question the district attorney wants to put to me."

"Don't be foolish," Shuster screamed. "It's not an investigation by the district attorney, it's stirred up by that busybody, Mason. It's all over this damned cat. Don't answer them. Don't answer anything. The first thing you know, you'll be outside in the cold, and then what? All your inheritance gone. Mason sitting in the saddle. Winifred inheriting your property. The cat laughing…"

"Shut up, Shuster," Burger said. "I'm going to talk with Sam Laxter, and I'm going to talk with him without having to put up with a lot of your insane interruptions. Come in the house, Laxter. Do you need a doctor to dress those wounds?"

"I don't think so," Laxter said. "I skidded and hit a telephone pole. It shook me up a bit and I've got a bad cut on the right forearm, but it only needs washing with a good antiseptic and a clean bandage. I may have a doctor look at it later, but I won't keep you waiting."

Shuster ran toward him. "Please!" he said. "I beg of you! I implore you! Don't do it!"

"Shut up," Burger said once more, taking Sam's arm as Sam walked up the steps toward him.

Laxter and Burger entered the house, closely followed by Glassman. Shuster slowly climbed the stairs, moving like an old man whose every step was an effort.

Mason watched the three men cross the living room and disappear through a door. He entered the living room and sat down. Drake pulled a cigarette from his pocket, sat crosswise on an overstuffed chair and said, "Well, that's that."

Jim Brandon stood in the doorway and said to Shuster, "I don't know if you're supposed to come in or not."

"Don't be silly," Shuster told him, and then lowered his voice, saying something which was inaudible to Mason and the detective. Brandon also lowered his voice. The two men engaged in a conversation conducted in a low monotone.

The telephone rang repeatedly. After several minutes, a fat woman with sleepswollen eyes came shuffling down the corridor, wrapping a bathrobe about her. She picked up the telephone, said «Hello» in a drowsy, uncordial voice, then, her face showing surprise, she said, "Oh, yes, Miss Winifred… Why, I could call him. He's asleep, of course… Tell him to have Mr. Mason call you at once at…"