"A cat?" Mason asked.

"Yes, a Persian cat."

Mason's eyes were twinkling as he said, "Tell her to come in."

"And that was true about the police getting the cat from my place," she said. "They told the manager they had to search my apartment. They got a passkey from her."

"Did they have a warrant?" Mason asked.

"I don't think so."

Mason, smoking his cigarette, said thoughtfully, "It puts you in something of a hole, Della. I'm sorry I didn't think they'd look out there. Sergeant Holcomb is getting better and better—or worse and worse—whichever you want to call it."

"Why does he hate you so much?"

"Simply because he thinks I'm shielding murderers. He's all right; he's just zealous. I don't blame him. And you must admit my manner toward him is a little irritating at times."

"I'll say it is."

Mason looked up at her and grinned. "Purposely irritating," he said. "Send Winifred in, and wait in your office. You might listen in."

She opened the door and beckoned. Winifred Laxter entered, a big gray Persian cat on her arm. Her chin was up, her eyes defiant. There was a pugnacious set to her head.

Perry Mason looked her over with amused tolerance.

"Sit down," he told her.

"I lied to you," she said, standing by the side of the desk.

"About the cat?" he asked, looking at the Persian.

She nodded. "That cat wasn't Clinker—this is Clinker."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"I telephoned Uncle Charles, the caretaker, you know, and told him I wanted him to get rid of Clinker, that I wanted him to let me keep Clinker. He refused. So then I suggested as a next best thing that we could fool Sam Laxter into thinking he'd parted with Clinker. I told him to keep Clinker under cover and I'd send Douglas Keene out with another cat that would look like Clinker. He could use this other cat as a double and let it be very much in evidence, then, if Sam was going to poison any cat, he'd poison the other cat. Don't you see?"

Perry Mason, watching her shrewdly, said, "Sit down and tell me about it."

Her eyes were apprehensive. "Do you believe me?"

"Let's hear the rest of it."

She sat down on the edge of the overstuffed leather chair. The cat struggled to free itself. She held it tightly, smoothing the fur of its forehead, scratching it behind the ears.

"Go on," Mason said.

When she saw that the cat was quiet once more, she said, "Douglas Keene went out there. He took the cat out with him. He waited for some little time for Ashton to show up. Then, he came back to me for instructions. He left the cat with me."

"Why did you tell me that cat was Clinker?"

"Because I was afraid other people would say Douglas had taken Clinker with him, and I wanted to see if you thought that would be too serious. In other words, I wanted to get your reactions."

Mason was laughing now. The cat squirmed restlessly.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mason said, "let the cat down. Where did you get him?"

She stared steadily at him and then said defiantly, "I don't know what you're talking about. This cat is Clinker. He's very much attached to me."

The cat jumped to the floor.

"It would be a good story," Mason said with a voice that was almost judicial in its complete detachment. "It would help me out of a jam and it would be a swell out for Della Street. The cats sure look alike. But you couldn't get away with it. They'd find out sooner or later where you got the cat. There might be a big difference of opinion as to whether it was Clinker or wasn't Clinker. But in the long run it would put you on a spot, and you're not going to get put on a spot."

"But it is Clinker. I went out there and found him. He'd been frightened to death—poor cat—all the noise and excitement and finding his master dead, and everything…"

"No," Mason told her, "I'm not going to let you do it, and that's final. I suppose the papers are on the street and you've read that the police found Clinker in my secretary's apartment."

"They found the cat they thought was Clinker."

Mason said goodnaturedly, "Baloney! Take your cat and go on back to your waffle parlor. Is Douglas Keene going to get in touch with me and give himself up?"

"I don't know," she said with tears in her eyes.

The cat, arching its back, started exploring the office. "Kitty—kitty, come, kitty," Winifred pleaded.

The cat paid no attention to her. Mason's eyes were sympathetic as he stared at the tearstricken countenance. "If Douglas gets in touch with you," he said, "tell him how important it is that he back my play."

"I don't know that I will. You ddddidn't have to go ahead and ssssay that. Suppose they should convict him and hang him for mmmmurder?"

Mason crossed to her side, patted her on the shoulder.

"Won't you have some confidence in me?" he asked.

She raised her eyes.

"Don't you think you've got to take the responsibility of this thing," Mason told her soothingly. "Don't go out picking up cats and figuring how you can work out an alibi for Douglas. You just dump all of that onto my shoulders and let me carry the load. Will you promise that you'll do that?"

Her lips quivered for a moment, then straightened. She nodded her head.

Mason gave her shoulder one last pat, crossed the office to where the cat was sniffing about, picked it up, and carried it back to Winifred and put it in her arms.

"Go home," he said, "and get some sleep."

He held the corridor door open for her. When he had closed it, Della Street stood in the doorway of his private office.

Mason grinned at her. "A dead game kid," he said.

Della Street nodded her head slowly.

Mason said, "How'd you like to cut corners, Della?"

"What do you mean?"

"How'd you like to go on a honeymoon with me?"

She stared at him, eyes growing wide. "A honeymoon?" she asked.

Mason nodded.

"Why… oh…"

He grinned at her. "Okay," he said, "but first lie down there on the couch and get some sleep. If Douglas Keene rings in on the telephone, tell him that he must back my play. You can put up a stronger talk than I could. I'm going down to Paul Drake's office for a little while."

Chapter 14

Perry Mason, seated in Paul Drake's office, said, "Paul, I want you to turn your men loose on the new car agencies and find out if a new car has recently been sold to a Watson Clammert."

"Watson Clammert," Drake said. "Where the devil have I heard that name before?"

Mason grinned as he waited for Drake's recollection to function. Suddenly the detective said, "Oh, yes, I remember. He's the person who shared a lock box with Charles Ashton."

"I presume the police have gone into that lock box," Mason said.

"Yes, and found it practically empty. They only found some of the paper wrappers used by banks in bundling bills of large denomination. Evidently Ashton had pulled out the bills and left the wrappers behind."

"Ashton or Clammert?" Mason inquired.

"Ashton. The bank records show that Clammert never did go to the safety deposit box. He's nothing but a name signed upon the card, so far as the bank knows."

"How much money do the police figure was taken from the box?"

"They don't know. It may have been a lot. Ashton was seen by one of the attendants stuffing bills into a suitcase."

"Did you check into that automobile accident Laxter had?" Mason asked.

"Yes. He was crowded into a telephone pole, just as he said—some drunken driver whipped around a corner."

"Any witnesses?"

"A few people heard the crash."

"Get their names?" Mason asked.

"Yes. They saw the tracks where Laxter had put on his brakes and skidded. They say he was on his side of the road at the time. He seemed excited, but perfectly sober."