"A million dollars in cash?" Mason asked.
"Of course it was in cash," Ashton snapped. "What else would he take it in?"
Perry Mason glanced at Della Street.
"How about Winifred—you say she's disappeared?"
"Yes, she pulled out. I don't blame her. The others treated her shameful."
"How old are the grandchildren?"
"Sam's twentyeight; Frank Oafley's twentysix; Winifred's twentytwo—and a beauty! She's worth all the rest put together. Six months ago the master made a will leaving her everything and cutting off the other two grandchildren with ten dollars each. Then two days before he died, he made this new will."
Mason frowned, and said, "That's hard on Winifred."
Ashton grunted, said nothing.
"Just how much money did you plan to spend in enforcing your rights to keep Clinker?" Mason asked speculatively.
Ashton whipped a billfold from his pocket, pulled out a sheaf of bills.
"I'm not a piker," he said. "Good lawyers come high. I don't want anything but the best. How much is it goin' to cost?"
Mason stared at the thick bundle of bills.
"Where did you get all that money?" he asked curiously.
"Saved it. I don't have any expenses, and I've been saving my salary for twenty years. I've put it in giltedged stuff—stuff that the master recommended—and when the master cashed in, I cashed in."
"On Mr. Laxter's advice?" Mason asked, eyeing his client curiously.
"If you want to put it that way."
"And you're willing to spend your money to keep your cat?"
"I'm willing to spend a reasonable amount of it; I'm not going to throw it away. But I know it costs money to get a good lawyer, and I know I'm not going to get a poor lawyer."
"Suppose," Mason said, "I should tell you it was going to cost you five hundred dollars by way of retainer?"
"That's too much," Ashton said irritably.
"Suppose I should say two hundred and fifty dollars?"
"That's reasonable. I'll pay it."
Ashton started counting bills.
"Wait a minute," Mason said, laughing. "Perhaps it won't be necessary to spend any large amount of money. I was just trying to determine exactly how attached you were to the cat."
"I'm plenty attached to him. I'd spend any reasonable amount to put Sam Laxter in his place, but I'm not going to be stuck."
"What are Laxter's initials?" Mason asked.
"Samuel C."
"Perhaps," Mason told him, "a letter will be all that's necessary. If that's the case, it isn't going to cost you much."
He turned to Della Street.
"Della," he said, "take a letter to Samuel C. Laxter, 3824 East Washington Street. Dear Sir: Mr. Ashton has consulted me—no, wait a minute, Della, better put his initials in there—I've got them here on the memo—Charles Ashton, that's it—has consulted me with reference to his rights under the will of the late Peter Laxter. Under the provisions of that will, you were obligated to furnish Mr. Ashton with a position as caretaker during the period of his ability to work in that capacity.
"It is only natural that Mr. Ashton should wish to keep his cat with him. A caretaker is entitled to pets. This is particularly true in the present case, because the pet was maintained during the testator's lifetime.
"In the event that you should injure Mr. Ashton's pet, it will be necessary for me to contend that you have breached a condition of the will and have, therefore, forfeited your inheritance."
Perry Mason grinned at Della Street. "That should throw a scare into him," he remarked. "If he thinks he's fighting over his entire inheritance instead of just a cat, he'll decide not to take any chances."
He turned to Ashton, nodded reassuringly. "Leave ten dollars with the bookkeeper as a retainer. She'll give you a receipt. If anything develops I'll write to you. If you find out anything, ring up this office and ask for Miss Street—she's my secretary. You can leave any message with her. That's all for the present."
Ashton's gnarled hands tightened about the crutch. He pulled himself to his feet, slipped the crutch under his arm. Without a word of thanks or farewell, he hobbledybanged from the office.
Della Street looked at Perry Mason with surprised eyes.
"Is it possible," she asked, "that this grandson might forfeit his inheritance if he threw out the cat?"
"Stranger things have happened," he answered. "It depends on the wording of the will. If the provision about the caretaker is a condition to the vesting of the inheritance, I might be able to make it stick. But, you understand, all I'm doing now is throwing a scare into Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. I think we'll hear from that gentleman in person. When we do, let me know… That's what I like about the law business, Della—it's so damned diversified… A caretaker's cat!"
He chuckled.
Della Street closed her notebook, started toward her own office, paused at the window to look down at the busy street. "You saved him two hundred and forty dollars," she said, her eyes aimlessly watching the snarl of city traffic, "and he didn't even thank you."
A breath of wind, blowing in through the open window stirred her hair. She bent forward from the waist, leaning out to catch the breeze, filling her lungs with the fresh air.
"Probably he's just peculiar," Mason said. "He certainly is a shriveledup specimen… Don't lean too far out there, Della… You must remember he likes animals, and he's not a young man any more. Regardless of what age he claims, he must be more than seventyfive…"
Della Street straightened. With a quick twist of her lithe body, she turned to face Perry Mason. She was frowning. "It might interest you to know," she said, "that someone is shadowing your catloving client."
Perry Mason shoved back his chair as he got to his feet, strode across the office. He braced himself with one arm on the window ledge, the other around Della Street 's waist. Together, they stared down at the street.
"See?" he said. "That man with the light felt hat. He darted out of a doorway… See, he's getting into that car."
"One of the new Pontiacs," Mason said speculatively. "What makes you think he was following Ashton?"
"The way he acted. I'm certain of it. He jumped out of the doorway… See, the car's barely crawling along—just to keep Ashton in sight."
Ashton hobbled around the corner, to the left. The car followed him, apparently crawling in low gear.
Mason, watching the car in frowning speculation, said, "A million dollars in cash is a whale of a lot of money."
Chapter 2
Morning sun, streaming in through the windows of Perry Mason's private office, struck the calfskin bindings on the shelved law books and made them seem less grimly foreboding.
Della Street, opening the door from her office, brought in a file of mail and some papers. Perry Mason folded the newspaper he had been reading, as Della Street seated herself, pulled out the sliding leaf of the desk, and held her fountain pen poised over an open notebook.
"Lord, but you're chockful of business," Perry Mason complained. "I don't want to work. I want to let down and play hookey. I want to do something I shouldn't. My Lord, you'd think I was a corporation lawyer, sitting at a desk, advising banks and probating estates! The reason I specialized in trial law was because I didn't like the routine, and you're making this business more and more of a job and less and less of an adventure.
"That's what I like about the practice of law—it's an adventure. You're looking behind the scenes at human nature. The audience out front sees only the carefully rehearsed poses assumed by the actors. The lawyer sees human nature with the shutters open."
"If you will insist on mixing into minor cases," she said acidly, with that degree of familiarity which comes from long and privileged association in an office where conventional discipline is subordinated to efficiency, "you'll have to organize your time so you can handle your work. Mr. Nathaniel Shuster is in the outer office waiting to see you."