The Case of the Howling Dog

"Are you going to tell the police," she asked, "about the man who wanted to know what effect it would have on his will if he was executed for murder?"

Perry Mason stared steadily at her.

"We," he said, "aren't going to tell the police anything other than what we've already told them."

Paul Drake snapped out words with unaccustomed vehemence:

"Perry," he said, "you've taken enough chances on this thing. If the person who murdered Clinton Foley consulted you beforehand, you've got to go to the police and…"

"The less you know about this situation," Mason said, "the fewer chances you'll be taking."

The detective's voice was lugubrious.

"I know too darn much already," he said.

Mason turned to Della Street.

"I don't think they'll question you," he said slowly, "if you tell them that I left you this handkerchief to give to them and that that's all you can tell them about it."

"Don't worry about me, Chief," she said. "I can take care of myself, but what are you going to do?"

"I'm going out," he said, "and I'm leaving right now."

He strode to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at the pair in the office.

"The things I've done," he said, "are all going to click together and make sense and they're also going to make one hell of a commotion. I've got to take chances. I don't want either of you to take any chances. I know just how far I can go; you don't. Therefore, I want you to follow instructions and stop."

Della Street 's voice was quavering with worry.

"Are you sure you know where to stop, Chief?" she asked.

"Shucks," rasped Paul Drake, "he never knows where to stop."

Perry Mason jerked the door open.

"Where are you going from here, Perry?" asked the detective.

Mason's smile was serenely untroubled.

"That," he said, "is something it might be better for you not to know."

The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter 14

Perry Mason caught a cruising cab in front of the office.

"Get me to the Broadway Hotel on Fortysecond Street," he said, "and make it snappy."

He settled back in the cushions and closed his eyes while the cab threaded its way through the streets that were now almost deserted. When the cab pulled up in front of the Broadway Hotel, Perry Mason tossed the driver a bill, strode across the lobby to the elevators, as though going upon important business. He got out at the mezzanine, called the room clerk, and said: "Will you give me the number of the room assigned to Mrs. Bessie Forbes?"

"Eight ninetysix," said the room clerk.

"Thanks," said Mason. He hung up the telephone, went to the elevator, got off at the eighth floor, walked to room 896 and rapped on the door.

"Who is it?" asked Bessie Forbes's frightened voice.

"Mason," Perry Mason said in a low tone. "Open the door."

A bolt clicked, and the door opened. Mrs. Forbes, now fully clothed in a street costume, stared at him with eyes that showed fright, but were rigidly steady.

Perry Mason walked in and closed the door behind him.

"All right," he said, "I'm your lawyer. Now tell me exactly what happened tonight."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean about the trip you made to see your husband."

She shuddered, looked about her, motioned Perry Mason to a seat on the davenport. She came and sat down beside him, and twisted her fingers around a handkerchief. She was redolent of cheap perfume.

"How did you know I went out there?" she asked.

"I guessed it," he said. "I figured that you were about due to put in an appearance. I couldn't figure any woman who answered your description, who would make the kind of a call on Clinton Foley that you made, and then the description the taxi driver gave fitted you right down to the ground."

"Yes," she said slowly, "I went out there."

"I know you went out there," he said impatiently. "Tell me what happened."

"When I got there," she said slowly, "the door was locked. I had a passkey. I opened the door and walked in. I wanted to see Clint without giving him time to prepare for my visit."

"All right," he said. "What happened? You went in there and then what happened?"

"I went in," she said, "and found him dead."

"And the dog?" asked Perry Mason.

"Dead."

"I don't suppose that you've got any way of showing that you didn't do the killing?"

"They were both dead when I got there," she said.

"Had they been dead long?"

"I don't know; I didn't touch them."

"What did you do?"

"I felt so weak I sat down in a chair. At first, all I could think about was running away. Then I remembered that I would have to be careful. I knew that I might be suspected of having done the shooting."

"Was the gun lying on the floor?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes," she said, "the gun was lying on the floor."

"It wasn't your gun?"

"No."

"Did you ever have a gun like that?"

"No."

"Never saw that gun before?"

"No, I tell you I didn't have a thing to do with it. My God! won't you believe me? I couldn't lie to you. I'm telling you the truth."

"All right," he said; "we'll let it go at that. You're telling me the truth then. So what did you do?"