"I carry my two fists," he said, "and my wits. I fight with those. Sometimes I carry a gun, but I don't make a practice of it. It's bad training. It teaches one to rely entirely on a gun. Force should only be a last resort."
"Have it your own way," Drake remarked.
"How about the housekeeper?" said Mason. "You haven't told me about her yet."
"The housekeeper didn't change her name."
"You mean she was with Forbes before he became Foley?"
"That's right. Her name is Mrs. Thelma Benton. Her husband was killed in an automobile accident. She was employed as a private secretary to Forbes when he was in Santa Barbara. She accompanied him on his trip. But here's the funny thing: apparently Mrs. Cartright didn't know that Thelma Benton had been employed by Forbes as a secretary. The young woman came with them as a housekeeper, and Mrs. Cartright never knew she'd been Forbes' secretary."
"That's strange, isn't it?"
"Not particularly. You see, Forbes had an office in Santa Barbara where he transacted his business. Naturally he was rather secretive about it, because he was getting his affairs turned into cash. Evidently the secretary suspected a good deal, and he didn't want to leave her behind, or she didn't want to be left behind, I don't know which. She went with them when they left."
"How about the Chinese cook?"
"He's a new addition. They picked him up here."
Perry Mason shrugged his broad shoulders.
"The whole thing sounds goofy," he said. "I'll tell you a lot more about it tonight, however. You'd better be in your office, Paul, so I can call you if I want any information.
"Okay," Drake told him, "and I don't mind telling you that I'm going to have men outside, watching the house. You know, we've got a tail on Foley, and I'm just going to double it, so that if there's any trouble, all you've got to do is to kick out a window, or something, and the men will come in."
Perry Mason shook his head with the impatient gesture of a prizefighter shaking hair from in front of his eyes.
"Hell!" he said. "There isn't going to be any trouble."
Chapter 8
The big house silhouetted itself against the starstudded sky. There was a wind blowing from the south, with a hint of dampness, giving promise of a cloudiness later on in the evening.
Perry Mason looked at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was exactly eightthirty.
He glanced behind him to see the tail light of the taxicab vanishing around a corner. He saw no trace of any watchers who were on duty. With steady, purposeful steps, he climbed the stairs from the cement walk to the porch, and walked to the front door of the house.
Perry Mason found the doorbell, pressed his thumb against it.
There was no answer.
He waited a moment, then rang again, with the same result.
Perry Mason looked at his watch, frowned impatiently, took a few steps along the porch, paused, came back, and pounded on the door. There was still no answer.
Perry Mason stepped to the door, looked down the corridor and saw a light coming from the door of the library. He pushed his way down the corridor and knocked on the library door.
There was no answer.
He turned the knob and shoved the door open.
The door moved some eighteen inches, then struck against something — an object which was heavy, yet yielding.
Perry Mason eased through the opening in the door, stared at the object which had blocked the door. It was a police dog, lying on his side, with a bullet hole in his chest and another in his head. Blood had trickled from the bullet wounds, along the floor, and when Mason had pushed the door open, moving the body, the stains had smeared over the hardwood floor.
Mason raised his head and looked around the library. At first he saw nothing. Then, at the far end of the room, he saw a blotch of shadow, from which protruded something grayish, which proved, on closer inspection, to be the clutching hand of a man.
Perry Mason walked around the table and switched on one of the floor lamps so that he could see into the corner.
Clinton Foley was stretched at full length on the floor.
One arm was outstretched, the hand clutched tightly. The other hand was doubled under the body.
The man wore a dressing gown of brown flannel, and had slippers on his bare feet. From the body was seeping a pool of red which reflected the floor lamp from its viscid surface.
Perry Mason did not touch the body. He leaned forward and saw that there was an athletic undershirt showing beneath the bathrobe, where it had fallen open at the neck.
He noticed, also, an automatic lying on the floor some six or eight feet from the body.
He turned back to look at the dead man, and saw then that there was something white showing on his chin. He bent forward and observed that it was a spot of caked lather. Part of the right side of the face had been freshly shaven. The evidences of the razor strokes were plainly visible.
Perry Mason walked to the telephone from which he had called his office on the occasion of his prior visit, and dialed the number of Paul Drake's office. After a moment, he heard Paul Drake's drawling voice on the telephone.
"Mason talking, Paul," said Perry Mason. "I'm out here at Foley's house. Can you get in touch with the men you have watching the house out here?"
"They're going to call in in five minutes," said Drake. "I'm having them make reports every fifteen minutes. There are two men on the job. One of them goes to the telephone every fifteen minutes."
"All right," Perry Mason said, "as soon as those men telephone, get them to come to your office at once."
"Both of them?" asked Paul Drake.
"Both of them," Mason said.
"What's the big idea?" asked Drake.
"I'll come to that in a minute," said Mason. "I want both of those men off the job and called into your office where I can talk with them. Do you get that?"
"Okay," Drake said, "I've got that. Anything else?"
"Yes. I want you to double your efforts to find Cartright and Mrs. Cartright."
"I've a couple of agencies working on that now. I'm expecting a report almost any minute."
"All right, get two more agencies working on it. Put up a reward. Anything you can. Now, here's something else."
"Okay," Drake said, "shoot."
"I want you to find Mrs. Forbes."
"You mean the wife that was left behind in Santa Barbara?"
"Yes."
"I think I'm getting a line on her, Perry. I've had some reports that look hot. I think she's going to be turned up almost any minute. I've got men working on some live leads there."
"All right, put on more men. Do anything you can."
"I get you," drawled Drake. "Now tell me what's happened. What's the idea of all the commotion? You had your appointment with Foley at eight thirty. It's now eight thirtyeight, and you say you're telephoning from his house. Did you reach some understanding with him?"
"No."
"Well," said Drake, "what happened?"
"I think," Mason told him, "it will be better if you don't know anything about that until you've followed out my instructions."
"Okay," Drake said. "When will I see you?"
"I don't know. I've got some formalities to go through with. It may be some little time before you see me. But get the men who are watching the house, and keep them under cover. Lock them in your office, if you have to. Don't let any one interview them until I get there. Do you understand that?"
"Okay. I wish you'd tell me what it's all about."
"You'll find out later, but keep those men sewed up tight."
"I'll have 'em on ice," Drake promised.
Perry Mason hung up the 'phone, then dialed the number of police headquarters.
A bored masculine voice answered.
"Police headquarters?" asked Mason.
"Yes."