"Who was murdered?"

"He didn't say."

"How did he think you might be dragged into it?"

"Just through knowing him, I guess. It's all too silly. But I think it's all mixed up with Grandfather's death."

"When did he telephone you?"

"About fifteen minutes before I telephoned you. I tried to locate you every place I could think of—your office and your apartment. When I couldn't get any answer I decided to call Uncle Charles. He'd told me you'd telephoned him something about Sam and the district attorney, and I thought he might hear from you again."

"Did you," Mason asked, "know that your grandfather was murdered?"

She stared at him with wide eyes. "Grandfather? No."

"Did it impress you there was anything peculiar about the manner in which the house burned?"

"Why, no. The fire seemed to have centered right around Grandpa's bedroom. It was a windy night and I thought they blamed the fire on defective electric wiring."

"Let's come back to the cat for a minute," Mason said. "He's been with you ever since around eleven o'clock?"

"Yes—shortly after eleven, I guess it was."

Perry Mason nodded, picked up the cat and held it in his arms.

"Clinker," he said, "how would you like to go for a nice ride somewhere?"

"What do you mean?" Winifred asked him.

Perry Mason, holding the cat, stared steadily at her, and said slowly, "Charles Ashton was murdered sometime tonight. I don't know yet exactly what time. He was strangled, probably after he'd gone to bed. There were muddy cat tracks all over the counterpane and over the pillow; there was even a track on his forehead."

She got to her feet, staring at him with wide eyes. Then she opened bloodless lips and tried to scream.

No sound came.

Perry Mason dropped the cat to the bed, took Winifred in his arms, stroked her hair. "Take it easy," he told her. "I'm going to take the cat with me. If anyone comes to question you, refuse to answer, no matter what the questions are."

She slid from his arms to sit on the bed. It was as though her knees refused to support her weight. There was panic in her face. "He didn't do it," she said. "He couldn't have. I love him. He wouldn't hurt a fly!"

"Can you buck up," Mason asked, "until I can get rid of this cat?"

"What are you going to do with it?"

"I'll find a home for it—some place where we can keep it until things blow over. You see what it means having the cat tracks on the bedspread. It means the cat was there after the murder was committed."

"But it's impossible," she said.

"Of course it's impossible," he told her, "but we've got to make other people see that it's impossible. The question is, can you be brave enough to help me?"

She nodded silently.

Perry Mason picked up the cat and started for the door.

"Listen," she told him, as he put his hands on the knob of the door, "I don't know if you understand, but you must defend Douglas. That's why I telephoned you. You must find him and talk with him. Douglas isn't guilty of murder. You understand what I mean?"

"I understand," he told her gravely.

She came to him and put her hands on his shoulders. "He's clever enough so the officers will never find him… Oh, don't look at me like that. I know you think they can find him, but you don't realize how clever Douglas is. The officers will never, never catch him. And that means he'll be a fugitive as long as he lives unless you clear things up… And I know what it'll mean as far as I'm concerned. They'll figure that he's going to get in touch with me. They'll watch my mail; they'll tap my telephone; they'll do everything, trying to trap Douglas."

He nodded and patted her shoulder with his free hand, holding the big Persian cat in his left arm.

"I haven't much," she said. "I'm building up a good business here. I can make my living, and I can make more than my living. I'll pay you by the month. I'll give you anything that I make. You can have the business and I'll run it for you without any salary except just what I need to eat, and I can live on waffles and coffee, and…"

"We'll talk that over later," Mason interrupted. "The thing to do now is to find out where we stand. If Douglas Keene is guilty, the thing for him to do is to plead guilty, and plead whatever extenuating circumstances there may be."

"But he's not guilty. He isn't; he can't be."

"All right, if he isn't, then the thing for you to do is to get rid of this damned cat. Otherwise, you'll be tied up with the murder. Do you understand?"

She nodded silently.

"I've got to have a box or something to carry the cat in."

She ran to the closet and picked up a big hatbox. She jabbed her finger through the pasteboard top, making little breathing holes.

"I'd better put him in," she said, "he'll understand if I do it…Clinker, this man is going to take you with him. You must go with him and be a nice cat."

She put the cat in the box, stroked it for a moment or two, then gently put on the cover. She whipped a piece of string about the cover, tied it, and handed the box to Perry Mason.

The lawyer, holding the hatbox by the string, smiled reassuringly at her, and said, "Stay right here. Remember, don't answer questions. You'll hear from me after a while."

She held open the door of the bedroom. Mason walked to the outer door, opened it, and pushed his way out into the wind and rain. The cat in the box stirred uneasily.

Mason put the hatbox on the seat of the convertible coupe, climbed in behind the wheel and started the motor. The cat meowed a faint protest.

Mason spoke to the cat reassuringly, drove the car for several blocks, then swung in close to the curb by an allnight drugstore. He parked the car, got out, and picking up the hatbox, walked into the drugstore, where the clerk eyed him curiously.

Mason put the box down on the floor of the telephone booth and dialed the number of Della Street 's apartment. After a few moments, he heard her voice, thick with sleep.

"Okay, kid," he said, "snap out of it. Put cold water on the face, throw on a few clothes, and be ready to open the door of your apartment when I give you a ring. I'm coming out."

"What time is it?"

"Somewhere around one o'clock."

"What's happened?" she asked.

"I can't tell you about it over the telephone."

Her voice showed that she was now fully awake. "Good Lord, Chief, I thought you only worked all night on murder cases. Now you're doing it on a cat case. How in the world can you get into trouble with a cat?"

"I do," he said cryptically, "I can; I have," and, chuckling, hung up the receiver.

Chapter 9

Della Street, with a robe thrown over silk pajamas, sat on the edge of her bed and watched Perry Mason untying the cord around the hatbox.

"Getting me out of bed at one o'clock in the morning to show me the latest in hats?" she inquired.

The lawyer, sliding the string off the cover, said, "It simply shows how easy it is to become accustomed to environment. He was raising hell in the telephone booth."

He pulled the cover from the box. Clinker got to his feet, arched his back in a long stretch, yawned, sniffed the air, raised his forepaws to the edge of the hatbox, and leapt out onto the bed. He sniffed Della Street inquiringly, then curled into a fluffy ball by the side of her leg.

"If you're going in for a collection," she said, "it might be easier to use postage stamps. They take up less room."

She ran her fingers around the cat's ears.

"I think that's something of a compliment," Mason told her, "the way he takes to you. As I remember it, there are few people he likes."

"Going to use him as a playmate for the caretaker's cat?" she asked.

"He is the caretaker's cat."