The Case of the Howling Dog

"Good girl," Mason said, "and you gave him the name of Agnes Brownlie?"

"Yes. And the address, Breedmont Hotel — just like you told me."

"All right," Perry Mason said, "you get one hundred and fifty dollars now, and one hundred and fifty dollars a little later. You understand that you're not to say a word about this."

"Of course."

Perry Mason counted out the money.

"You want a receipt?" she asked.

"No," he told her.

"When do I get the other hundred and fifty?"

"When the job's finished."

"What else have I got to do?"

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps you'll have to go to court and testify."

"Go to court and testify?" she said. "Over what?"

"Over exactly what happened."

"Not tell any lies?"

"Certainly not."

"How soon will you know?" she asked.

"Probably in a couple of weeks. You've got to keep in touch with me. That's all. You'd better get out of here now, because I don't want you to be seen around the office."

She extended her hand. "Thanks a lot for the work, Mr. Mason," she said. "It's appreciated."

"You don't know how much I appreciate what you've done," he told her.

It was evident that there was a vast change in the lawyer's manner, a relief that was disclosed in his bearing. He turned to Della Street, as the door of the outer office closed on Mae Sibley.

"Get police headquarters," he said, "and get Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line."

"It's pretty late," she reminded him.

"That's all right. He works nights."

Della Street got the connection through, then looked up at her employer.

"Here's Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line," she said.

Perry Mason strode to the telephone. He was smiling as he picked up the receiver.

"Listen, Sergeant," he said; "I've got some information for you. I can't give it all to you, but I can give you some of it… Yes, some of it is professional confidence, and I can't give you that. I think I understand the duties of an attorney and the rights and liabilities of an attorney. An attorney is supposed to guard the confidences of his client, but he's not supposed to compound a crime. He's not supposed to suppress any evidence. He can keep anything that his client tells him to himself, provided it's something that was necessary to a preparation of the case he's handling or related to the advice he's giving a client…"

Mason ceased talking for a minute and frowned while the receiver made squawking noises. Then he said in a conciliatory tone: "That's all right, Sergeant. Keep your shirt on. I'm not making any dissertation on the law; I'm simply telling you so that you'll understand that which I'm going to tell you now. It happens that I've just found out that a Checker cab, number 86C, took a woman to Clinton Foley's house at about twentyfive minutes past seven. The woman was there for about fifteen or twenty minutes. The woman left a handkerchief in the taxicab. Now that handkerchief undoubtedly is evidence. That handkerchief is now in my possession. I'm not at liberty to explain to you how it came in my possession, but it's here, and I'm going to send it over to police headquarters… all right, you can send over for it if you want. I won't be here, but my secretary, Della Street, will be here, and she'll give it to you… yes, the taxicab driver can undoubtedly identify it… I can tell you this much: the woman who rode in the taxicab dropped a handkerchief, or left it in the cab. The driver found it. Later on, the handkerchief came into my possession. I can't tell you how I got it… No, damn it, I can't tell you that… No, I won't tell you that… I don't give a damn what you think. I know my rights. That handkerchief is evidence, and you're entitled to it, but any of the knowledge that I have received from a client is a sacred communication, and you can't drag it out of me with all the subpoenas on earth."

He slammed the receiver back on the hook, tossed the handkerchief over to Della Street.

"When the officers come," he said, "give them this, and don't give them anything else except a sweet smile. Keep any information you have to yourself."

"What happened?" she asked.

Perry Mason stared at her steadily.

"If you insist on knowing," he said, "Clinton Foley was murdered between seventhirty and eight o'clock tonight."

Paul Drake pursed his lips into a silent whistle.

"In one way," he said, "you haven't surprised me, and in another you have. When I first heard about those sirens, I figured that's what might have happened. Then, when I saw the stuff you were doing, I figured even you wouldn't take those kind of chances on a murder rap."

Della Street 's eyes turned not to Perry Mason, but to Paul Drake.

"Is it that bad, Paul?" she asked.

The detective started to say something, then caught his breath and was silent.

Della Street walked to Perry Mason's side and looked up at him.

"Chief," she said, "is there anything I can do?" His eyes softened as he looked down at her.

"This is something I've got to work out alone," he said.