"All right," Mason said, pushed back his swivel chair and walked to the door which led to the outer office. As his powerful shoulders swung the door hack, Arthur Cartright was lighting a second cigarette with a hand that quivered so it was necessary for him to steady it with the other hand.
Mason walked into the outer office.
Della Street, his secretary, twentyseven, swiftly capable, looked up at him and smiled with the intimacy which comes from thorough understanding.
"Cuckoo?" she said.
"I don't know," Perry Mason said; "I'm going to find out. Get me Pete Dorcas on the telephone. I'm going to put the whole deal up to him."
The girl nodded. Her fingers whirred the dial of a telephone into swift action. Perry Mason strode to a window and stood with his feet planted far apart, his broad shoulders blotting out the light, his eyes staring moodily down into the concrete canyon from which came the blaring sounds of automobile horns, the rumble of traffic. The afternoon light, striking his rugged features, gave the face a weatherbeaten appearance.
"Here he is," said Della Street.
Perry Mason turned, took two rapid strides, scooped up a telephone from a desk in the corner of the room, as Della Street 's capable fingers plugged the call in on that line.
"Hello, Pete," said Mason. "This is Perry Mason. I'm bringing a man down to see you, and I want to explain it to you in advance."
Pete Dorcas had a rasping, highpitched voice, the voice of an office lawyer who has perfected himself in the mastery of technicalities, and is constantly explaining them to others who require argument in order to become convinced.
"Congratulations, Perry, on your victory. It was well thought out. I told the trial deputy there was a weak point in that case on the time element, and I warned him that if he went before a jury and couldn't explain that call about the stolen automobile, he'd lose his case."
"Thanks," said Mason laconically. "I get the breaks, that's all."
"Yes, you do," said Dorcas. "You make the breaks, that's why you get them. It suits me all right. I told these fellows they were skating on thin ice. Now how about this man that you're bringing down? What does he want?"
"He wants a complaint."
"On what?"
"On a howling dog."
"On a what?"
"That's right, a howling dog. I think there's a county ordinance against keeping a dog that howls in any congested area, whether it's incorporated as a city or not."
"There is some such ordinance; nobody pays any attention to it. That is, I've never had anything to do under it."
"All right," Mason said, "this is different. My client is either going crazy, or has gone crazy."
"On account of the howling dog?" asked Dorcas.
"I don't know; that's what I want to find out. If he's in need of treatment, I want him to have treatment. If he's worked up to the verge of a nervous collapse, I want to see that he gets a break. You understand that a howling dog might be just annoying to one person, and might drive a man of another temperament into insanity."
"I take it," Dorcas said, "you're going to bring him down here?"
"Yes, I'm going to bring him down there, and I want you to have a doctor present; one of the alienists who sits on insanity cases. Don't introduce him as a doctor, but introduce him as an assistant of some sort, and let him hear the conversation and perhaps ask a question or two. Then, if this man needs medical treatment, let's see that he gets it."
"Suppose he doesn't want it?"
"I said," Mason remarked, "that we should see that he gets it."
"You'd have to sign a complaint and have a commitment issued in order to do that," Dorcas pointed out.
"I know that," Mason said. "I'm willing to sign a complaint, myself, if the man needs medical treatment. I want to know, that's all. If he's crazy, I want to do what's best for him. If he isn't, I want to see that he gets action right away. I'm trying to represent his best interests, do you get me?"
"I got you," Dorcas remarked.
"Be there in fifteen minutes," said Mason, and hung up.
He was putting on his hat as he opened the door of the inner office, and nodded to Cartright.
"All right," he said, "he's waiting for us in the office. Have you got a car, or do we go in a taxicab?"
"We go in a taxicab," Cartright told him. "I'm too nervous to drive."
Chapter 2
Pete Dorcas uncoiled his lean length from behind a battered desk, stared at Arthur Cartright with steely eyes, and acknowledged Perry Mason's introduction with the usual formula of pleasure. He half turned and indicated a short, paunchy individual, whose face held what seemed, at first glance, to be merely bubbling good nature. Only a second glance disclosed the wary watchfulness which lurked back of the twinkle in the gray eyes.
"Meet Mr. Cooper," he said, "my assistant."
The paunchy individual smiled his pleasure, came forward and shook hands with Cartright. The twinkling eyes studied Cartright's face in swift appraisal. The man held Cartright's hand for an appreciable interval after he had completed the perfunctory handshake.
"Well," said Mason, "I guess we're all ready to go; is that right?"
"All ready," said Dorcas, sitting down back of his desk.
He was tall, lean, high checked and baldheaded, and there was a mental alertness about him which made his audience restless.
"It's about a dog," said Perry Mason. "Clinton Foley, residing at 4889 Milpas Drive, his house adjoining that of Mr. Cartright here, has a police dog that howls."
"Well," said Dorcas, grinning, "if a dog is entitled to one bite, he should be entitled to one howl."
Arthur Cartright did not smile. His hand shot to his pocket, pulled out a package of cigarettes, then, after a moment's hesitation, dropped the package back in the pocket.
Cooper's twinkling eyes, watching Cartright in constant appraisal, lost their expression of bubbling good humor for a moment, then once more started to twinkle.
"This man has got to be arrested," said Cartright. "The howling has got to be stopped. You hear? It's got to be stopped!"
"Sure," said Perry Mason, "that's what we're here for, Cartright. Go ahead and tell them your story."
"There's no story to tell; the dog howls, that's all."
"Constantly?" asked Cooper.
"Constantly. That is, I don't mean constantly, I mean he howls regularly at intervals, you know the way a dog howls. Damn it! No dog howls all the time. He howls, and then he stops, and then he howls again."
"What makes him howl?" asked Cooper.
"Foley makes him howl," said Cartright positively.
"And why?" asked Cooper.
"Because he knows it gets my goat. Because he knows it gets his wife's goat. It means a death in the neighborhood, and his wife is sick. I tell you he's got to stop it! That dog has got to be stopped."
Dorcas thumbed through the index of a leatherbacked book, then said in a querulous, high pitched voice:
"Well, there's an ordinance against it, an ordinance providing that if any one keeps any dog, cow, horse, chickens, rooster, guinea hen, fowl, animal or other livestock of any sort, nature or description within a congested area whether the same be incorporated or unincorporated, under such circumstances that a nuisance is created, it is a misdemeanor."
"What more do you want?" asked Cartright.
Dorcas laughed.
"I don't want any more of anything," he said. "Personally I don't like howling dogs and I don't like crowing roosters. This ordinance was originally enacted to keep dairies and livery stables out of the congested districts. Milpas Drive is an exclusive residential district. There's some rather expensive homes out there. What's your address, Mr. Cartright?"