Perry Mason frowned. "Shuster?" he said. "Why, he's a damned jurybriber—a pettifogger. He poses as a big trial lawyer, but he's a bigger crook than the people he defends. Any damn fool can win a case if he has the jury bribed. What the devil does he want?"

"He wishes to see you in regard to a letter you wrote. His clients are with him—Mr. Samuel C. Laxter and Mr. Frank Oafley."

Abruptly Perry Mason laughed. "The caretaker's cat, eh?" he asked.

She nodded.

Mason pulled the file of mail over toward him.

"Well," he said, "as a matter of professional courtesy, we won't keep Mr. Shuster waiting. We'll take a quick run through this important stuff and see if there are any telegrams to be sent out."

He looked at a folder, and frowned. "What's this?" he asked.

"Quotations from the N.Y.K. Line on a deluxe single stateroom on the Asamu Maru—stops at Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai and Hong Kong."

"Who made the inquiry?"

"I did."

He pulled a letter from the pile of mail, stared at it, and said, "The Dollar Steamship Company—quotations on a deluxe single stateroom on the President Coolidge— Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Manila."

Della Street continued to look demurely at her notebook.

Perry Mason laughed, and pushed the pile of mail away.

"We'll let it wait," he said, "until after we've disposed of Shuster. You sit right there and if I nudge your knee, start taking notes. Shuster's a pretty slippery customer. I wish he'd have his teeth fixed."

She raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

" Franklin teeth," he told her, "and they leak."

" Franklin teeth?" she asked.

"Yes, aircooled, you know. If there's anything in reincarnation, he must have been a Chinese laundryman in a prior existence. Every time he snickers, he sprays his audience, like a Chinese laundryman sprinkling clothes. He has a fondness for shaking hands. Personally I don't like him, but you can't insult him. I suppose the situation calls for some show of professional courtesy; but, if he tries to slip anything over on me, I'm going to forget the ethics of the situation and kick him out."

"The cat," she said, "must feel flattered—so many busy attorneys putting in their time deciding whether he's going to get his muddy feet on a bedspread."

Perry Mason laughed outright. "Go ahead," he said, "rub it in! Oh, well, I'm in for it now. Shuster will try to egg his clients into a fight, and I'll either have to back up or play into his hands. If I back up, he makes his clients believe he's browbeaten me into submission, and charges them a good fee. If I don't back up, he tells them their whole inheritance is involved and soaks them a percentage. That's what I get for running that bluff about a forfeiture of the inheritance."

"Mr. Jackson could talk with them," she suggested.

Perry Mason grinned goodnaturedly. "Nope, Jackson isn't accustomed to having his face sprinkled. I've met Shuster before. Let's get them in."

He lifted the telephone, said to the girl at the desk, "Send Mr. Shuster in."

Della Street made one last appeal, "Oh, please, Chief, let Jackson handle it. You'll get into an argument, and the first thing we'll know, you'll be putting in all of your time fighting over a cat."

"Cats and corpses," Mason remarked. "If it isn't one it seems to be another. I've been fighting over corpses for so long, a good live cat will be a welcome diversion from…"

The door opened. A blonde with wide blue eyes said in a lifeless voice, "Mr. Shuster, Mr. Laxter, Mr. Oafley."

The three men pushed the doorway into the room. Shuster, smallboned and active, was in the lead, bustling about like a sparrow peering under dead leaves. "Good morning, Counselor, good morning, good morning. Going to be warm today, isn't it?" He bustled across the room, hand outstretched. His lips twisted back, disclosing a mouthful of teeth, between each of which was a welldefined space.

Mason, seeming to tower high above the little man, extended a reluctant hand and said, "Now let's get these people straight. Which is Laxter and which is Oafley?"

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, of course," Shuster said. "This is Mr. Laxter—Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. He's the executor of the will—a grandson of Peter Laxter."

A tall man with dark skin, smoldering black eyes and hair which had been carefully marcelled, smiled with that oily affability which speaks of poise rather than sincerity. A large creamcolored Stetson hat was held in his left hand.

"And this is Frank Oafley. Frank Oafley is the other grandson, Counselor."

Oafley was yellowhaired and thicklipped. His face seemed unable to change its expression. His eyes had the peculiar watery blue tint of raw oysters. He had no hat.

He said nothing.

"My secretary, Miss Street," Perry Mason remarked. "If there's no objection, she'll be here during the conference and take such notes as I may wish."

Shuster chuckled moistly. "And if there is any objection, I suppose she'll stay here anyway, eh? Ha, ha, ha. I know you, Counselor. Remember, it isn't as though you were dealing with someone who didn't know you. I know you well. You're a fighter. You're to be reckoned with. It's a matter of principle with my clients. They can't knuckle under to a servant. But they've got a fight on their hands. I told them you were a fighter, I warned them. They can't say I didn't warn them!"

"Sit down," Mason said.

Shuster nodded to his clients, indicating the chairs which they were to take. He sank in the big overstuffed leather chair himself and seemed almost lost in the space of it. He crossed his legs, pulled down his cuffs, adjusted his tie, beamed at Mason and said, "You can't make it stick. It's a matter of principle with us. We'll fight to the last ditch. But it's a serious matter, all right."

"What's a serious matter?" Mason asked.

"Your contention about that being a condition in the will."

"And what's the matter of principle?" Mason inquired.

"Why," Shuster remarked, showing surprise, "the cat, of course. We can't stand it. But, more than that, we can't stand to have this caretaker start dictating. He's too officious already. You understand, when a person can't discharge his hired help, it doesn't take long for that help to get completely out of hand."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Mason asked, letting his eyes shift from Shuster's face to the faces of the two grandchildren, "that you folks are making a mountain out of a molehill? Why don't you let poor Ashton keep his cat? The cat won't last forever and Ashton won't either. There's no reason for spending a lot of money on lawyers, and…"

"Not so fast, Counselor, not so fast," Shuster broke in, sliding forward on the smooth leather of the chair until he sat on the very edge of it. "It's going to be a hard fight; it's going to be a bitter fight. I've warned my clients of that. You're a resourceful man. You're a sly man. If you don't mind the expression, I'll say you're a cunning man. Lots of us would take that as a compliment; I take that as a compliment myself. Lots of times my clients say, 'Shuster is cunning. Do I get sore? I don't! I say that's a compliment."

Della Street glanced at Perry Mason, her eyes showing amusement. Mason's face was momentarily becoming more granitehard.

Shuster went on, speaking rapidly, "I warned my clients that Winifred was going to try to break the will. I knew that she'd try it by every means in her power, but she couldn't claim the grandfather was of unsound mind, and there's no question of undue influence. So she had to get something she could tie to, and she picked on Ashton and his cat."

There was anger in Mason's voice. "Look here, Shuster, cut out this flimflamming. All I want is to have the caretaker left with his cat. Your clients don't need to spend any money fighting. The amount that it's costing just to have this conference would more than pay for all the bedspreads the cat could soil in ten years."