"I'm just keeping it in circulation," he told her. "There's just as much money in the country as there ever was — more in fact, but it doesn't circulate as rapidly. Therefore, nobody seems to have any."
"Well," she told him, "yours circulates fast enough. But tell me about the will, or is it any of my business?"
"Oh, it's your business, all right," he told her. "One of these days I may get bumped off, the way I work up my cases, and you'll be the only one that knows anything about my business affairs. Let's see. He leaves his property to the beneficiary, and then he leaves me a onetenth interest in his estate, to be paid to me when the estate is finally distributed, upon condition that I have faithfully represented the woman who is the principal beneficiary, in every form of legal matter which may arise, incident to the will, growing out of his death, or in anywise connected with her domestic relationships."
"Takes in a lot of territory, doesn't he?" said Della Street.
Perry Mason nodded his head slowly, and when he spoke, his voice was meditative.
"That man," he said, "either wrote that will at the dictation of a lawyer, or else he's got a pretty good business mind. It isn't the kind of a will a crazy man would write. It's logical and coherent. He leaves his property, ninetenths to Mrs. Clinton Foley, and onetenth to me. He provides…"
Suddenly Perry Mason broke off and stared at the document with eyes that slowly widened in surprise.
"What is it?" asked Della Street. "Anything serious; a defect in the will?"
"No," said Mason slowly, "it's not a defect in the will, but it's something peculiar."
Abruptly he strode across the office to the door which opened into the outer corridor, and locked it.
"We're not going to bother with visitors for a while, Della," he told her, "not until we get this straightened out."
"But what is it?" she asked.
Perry Mason lowered his voice.
"Yesterday," he said, "when the man was in, he asked me particularly about leaving the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley, and wanted to know what the effect of the will would be if it should turn out that the woman who posed as Mrs. Foley, wasn't really Mrs. Foley."
"Meaning that she wasn't married to Clinton Foley?" asked Della Street.
"Exactly," said Mason.
"But isn't she living with Mr. Foley out there in an exclusive neighborhood?"
"Exactly," Mason said, "but that doesn't prove anything. There have been cases where…"
"Oh, yes, I know," said Della Street. "But it does seem strange that a man would live in a neighborhood like that with a woman who posed as his wife."
"There might be reasons for it. Those things happen every day. Perhaps a former wife who won't get a divorce, herself, and won't let the man get one. Perhaps the woman has a husband. There might be any one of a dozen things."
She nodded slow affirmation. "You've got me curious now. What about the will?"
"Well," said Mason, "when he was in yesterday he brought up this question about leaving the property to Mrs. Clinton Foley if it should turn out that the woman wasn't Mrs. Clinton Foley at all, but was merely posing as Mrs. Foley. From the way he spoke, I felt quite certain that he had reason to believe the woman was not Mrs. Foley, so I explained to him that it would be all right for him to leave the property to the party named, describing her as being the woman who at present resided with Clinton Foley, at 4889 Milpas Drive."
"Well," asked Della Street, "did he do it?"
"He did not," said Perry Mason. "He left his property to Mrs. Clinton Foley, the lawfully wedded wife of Clinton Foley, said Clinton Foley at present residing at 4889 Milpas Drive in this city."
"Then that makes it different?" asked Della Street.
"Of course it makes it different," he said. "It makes it different all the way through. If it should turn out that the woman who is living with him at that address isn't his wife, she wouldn't take under the will. The will distributes the property to the lawfully wedded wife of Clinton Foley, and the description of the residence relates to Clinton Foley rather than his wife."
"Do you suppose he misunderstood you?" asked Della Street.
"I don't know," frowned the lawyer. "He didn't seem to misunderstand me on anything else, and he's been clear enough in everything he's done. Look up Cartright in the telephone book. He lives at 4893 Milpas Drive. He'll have a telephone. Get him on the telephone at once. Tell him it's important."
She nodded and reached for the telephone, but an incoming call tripped the buzzer on the switchboard before her fingers closed about the receiver.
"See who it is," said Mason.
She plugged in the line, said: "Office of Perry Mason," then listened for a moment, and nodded.
"Just a minute," she said, and cupped her palm over the mouthpiece.
"It's Pete Dorcas," she said, "the deputy district attorney. He says he wants to talk to you right away about that Cartright case."
"All right," said Mason, "put him on."
"In your office?" she asked.
"No, this telephone's all right," he told her, "and listen in on the conversation. I don't know just what it's going to be, but I want a witness."
He scooped up the receiver, said "Hello," and heard the voice of Pete Dorcas, edged with impatience, querulous and rasping.
"I'm afraid, Mason," he said, "that I've got to issue a commitment for your client, Arthur Cartright, on the ground of insanity."
"What's he done now?" asked Mason.
"Apparently this howling dog business is all a part of his imagination," Dorcas said. "Clinton Foley has told me enough to make me believe that the man is not only dangerously insane, but that he has a homicidal complex which may cause him to take the law in his own hands and become violent."
"When did Foley tell you all this?" Mason asked, looking at his wristwatch.
"Just a few minutes ago."
"He was there at the office?" asked Mason.
"He's here right now."
"All right," Mason said, "hold him there. I've got a right to be heard on this. I'm Cartright's lawyer, and I'm going to see that my client gets a square deal. You hold him there. I'm coming right over."
He didn't wait to give Dorcas a chance to make any excuses, but slammed the receiver back on the telephone, turned and said to Della Street: "All right, Della, break that connection. Get Cartright on the line. Tell him that I want to see him at once. Tell him to get out of his house and go to some hotel; register under his own name, but don't let any one know where he's going; telephone you the name of the hotel where he's at, and you can telephone me. Tell him to keep away from my office and keep away from his residence until I see him. Tell him it's important. I'm going over to the district attorney's office and see what's happening. This Clinton Foley is making trouble."
He slipped back the spring lock on the outer door, shot out into the corridor and was half way to the elevator by the time the door check swung the door shut, and the spring latch snapped into position.
He flagged a cab in front of his office and snapped at the driver: "District attorney's office. Make it snappy and I pay the fines."
He jumped into the cab, the door slammed, and Perry Mason lurched back against the cushions as the cab lunged into motion. During the drive, he sat with his eyes staring, unseeingly, straight ahead, his forehead puckered with thought. His body swayed mechanically as the cab swung around corners or lurched from side to side in avoiding obstacles.
When the cab swung into the curb and the driver pulled the slip from the meter, Perry Mason tossed him a five dollar bill and said: "That's all right, buddy." He crossed the sidewalk, went to the ninth floor, said to the girl at the information desk in the district attorney's office: "Pete Dorcas is waiting for me."