The Case of the Howling Dog

"Della," he said, "I hold in that hand the weapon which will strike the chains from the wrists of Bessie Forbes, and send her out into the world a free woman, but I have got to use that weapon in a certain way. I have got to strike at just the right time, and in just the right manner. Otherwise, I will simply dull the edge of my weapon and leave the woman worse off than she is now."

Della Street looked at him with eyes that contained a glint of admiration.

"I love to hear you talk that way," she said. "It thrills me when that tone comes into your voice."

"All right," he said, "keep it under your hat. I hadn't intended to tell you — now you know."

"And you promise me you're going to use that weapon?" she asked.

"Of course I'm going to use it," he said. "I'm representing Bessie Forbes, and I'm going to see that she gets the best I can give her."

"But," she said, "why not strike now? Isn't it easier to beat a case before it's been built up?"

He shook his head patiently.

"Not this case, Della," he said. "It's a stronger case against her than any one realizes. That is, a shrewd man can make a strong case of it. I don't dare to strike until I know the full strength of that case. I can only strike once. I've got to do it so dramatically that it will make the one blow sufficient. I've got to get the public interested in Bessie Forbes first. I've got to build up sympathy for her.

"Do you know what it means to build up sympathy for a woman who is charged with murder? If you get off on the wrong foot, the newspapers send special reporters out to interview her as a tiger woman, as a lioness. They write columns of drivel about the feline grace with which she moves, the leonine glint that comes in her eyes, the hidden ferociousness which lurks under a soft exterior.

"Right now I'm making a bid for public interest. I'm making a bid for public sympathy. I want the public to read the newspapers and realize that here is a woman of refinement who has been thrown in jail, charged with murder; who can establish her innocence, and who wants to do it, but who is prevented by the orders of an attorney."

"That will make sympathy for the woman, all right," Della Street pointed out, "but it's going to put you in a bad light. The public will think you're simply grandstanding for the purpose of getting a big fee out of the trial."

"That's what I want the public to think," he told her.

"It's going to hurt your reputation."

He laughed mirthlessly.

"Della," he said, "just a moment ago you were picking on me because I wasn't doing enough for the woman. Now you've switched around and are jumping on me because I'm doing too much."

"No," she said, "that isn't right. You can do it in another way. You don't need to sacrifice your reputation in order to protect her."

He moved toward the inner office.

"I wish to God I didn't," he said, "but there's no other way. Get Paul Drake on the 'phone and tell him to come in here; I want to see him."

Della Street nodded, but made no move toward the switchboard until after Perry Mason had closed the door of his inside office. Then she picked up the telephone.

Perry Mason flung his hat on the top of a bookcase and started pacing the floor. He was still pacing the floor when Della Street opened the door and said: "Here's Paul Drake."

"Send him in," Mason told her.

Paul Drake regarded Perry Mason with eyes that held his usual lazy twinkle.

"Gosh, guy," he drawled, "don't you ever sleep?"

"Why?" asked Perry Mason.

"I crossed your back trail last night. Or rather, my men did," Drake told him.

"I got a couple of hours sleep," Mason said, "and a good Turkish bath and a shave. That's all I need when I'm working on a case."

"Well," said Drake, dropping into a big leather chair and sliding his knees around so that his legs hung over the arm, "give me a cigarette and tell me what's new."

Mason handed him a package of cigarettes, held a match for him.

"You want lots of service," he said.

"So do you," Drake remarked. "You've got every private detective agency in the country boiling in a turmoil. I've had more telegrams of misinformation and immaterial facts than you could digest in a week."

"Have you found any trace of Arthur Cartright or Paula Cartright?" asked Mason.

"Not a trace. They've vanished from the face of the earth. What's more, we've covered every taxicab agency in the city, talked with every taxicab driver, and we can't find any one who made the trip out to 4889 Milpas Drive that morning, when Mrs. Cartright left Foley's place."

"You don't know what kind of a taxicab it was?"

"No. Thelma Benton says it was a taxicab. She's certain of that, but we can't find the taxicab."

"Perhaps the driver is lying," Mason said.

"Perhaps, but it isn't likely."

Mason sat down behind his desk and made drumming motions with his fingers on the surface of the desk.

"Paul," he said, "I can beat that case against Bessie Forbes."