"No," Pemberton said, "we're going to see them all. How about the Chinese cook? Is he home?"
"Certainly," Foley answered. "Keep right on the driveway if you want to, and we'll have him come out to his room. You'll probably want to see where he sleeps. It's over the garage."
"You're building an addition on that?"
"On the garage, not on the room," Foley said. "It's only the one story. The cook has his apartments on top of the garage."
"How about a chauffeur?" asked Pemberton.
"I presume the place was originally intended as a chauffeur's apartment," Foley admitted, "but I don't keep a chauffeur. What driving I do, I do personally."
"Well, then," Pemberton said, "let's talk with the Chink. That suit you, Mason?"
"Anything suits me," said Mason. "Only I want to have you talk with my client before you go."
"Oh, sure. That his place over there, Foley?"
"That's it; the one on the north."
The car slid along the driveway and came to a stop in front of the building where men were laboring with a sudden zeal which indicated a desire to impress the owner of the property, and, perhaps, forestall any complaint as to the manner in which the work had dragged along.
"Just go up here," said Foley, "and I'll get Ah Wong."
Pemberton started up a flight of stairs which hugged the concrete side of the building, then paused as there was the sound of a door banging and a woman's voice said: "Oh, Mr. Foley, I must see you at once. We've had trouble…"
The words became inaudible as the woman lowered her voice, on seeing the officer's car.
Bill Pemberton hesitated, then turned and walked to ward the back of the residence.
"Something about the dog, Foley?" he asked.
"I don't know," Clinton Foley said.
A young woman, attired in a housedress and apron, with her right hand and arm bandaged, walked rapidly toward Foley.
She was, perhaps, twentyseven or twentyeight. Her hair was slicked back on her head. Her face was without makeup, and she gave the impression of homely efficiency, yet it would have needed but a few deft touches of makeup, a change of clothes, and a fingerwave, to have made her quite beautiful.
Bill Pemberton looked at her with narrowing eyes.
"My housekeeper," Foley explained.
"Oh," said Pemberton significantly.
Foley whirled, started to say something, then paused and waited until the woman came to him.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Prince bit me," she said. "He was sick."
"How did it happen?"
"I don't know, but I think he'd been poisoned. He was acting queerly. I remembered what you'd said about putting salt on the back of his tongue if he ever gave any sign of sudden illness, so I took a handful of salt and put it on the back of his tongue. He closed his teeth and bit me."
Foley looked at the bandaged hand.
"Bad?" he asked.
"No," she said, "I don't think so."
"Where is he now?"
"I shut him in your bedroom after the salt had done its work. But I thought you should know — about the poison I mean."
"Is he better now?"
"He seems to be all cured."
"Was he having spasms?"
"No, he was lying and shivering. I spoke to him two or three times, and he didn't seem to take any interest. He seemed in sort of a stupor."
Foley nodded, turned to Pemberton.
"Mrs. Benton," he said, "this is Mr. Pemberton, a deputy sheriff, and this is Mr. Perry Mason, a lawyer. These gentlemen are investigating a charge that has been made by neighbors."
"A charge by neighbors?" asked Mrs. Benton, stepping back, and letting her eyes grow wide with surprise.
"Yes, a charge that we're maintaining a nuisance here."
"How's that?" she inquired.
"About the dog," Foley said. "There's a claim made that…"
"Just a moment," said Pemberton. "Let me do the talking, please."
The young woman looked at Pemberton, then at Foley. Foley nodded, and Pemberton said: "This dog is a police dog whose name is Prince?"
"Yes, sir."
"And he lives here in the house?"
"Yes, sir, of course. He's Mr. Foley's dog."
"How long has he been here?"
"We've been here for about a year."
"And the dog has been with you all of that time?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, has the dog been howling?"
"Howling? No, sir. He barked once yesterday when a peddler came to the door, but there hasn't been any howling."
"How about nights? Has he done any howling at night?"
"No, sir."
"Barking?"
"No, sir."
"You're certain about that?"
"Of course, I'm certain."
"Has the dog been acting strangely?"
"Well," she said, "he looked to me as though he'd been poisoned, and I tried to give him some salt. That's what Mr. Foley told me to do under those circumstances. Perhaps I shouldn't have done it. Perhaps he was just having some sort of a spasm, but…"
"That isn't what I mean," said Pemberton. "I mean has the dog shown any unusual symptoms, aside from this matter of poisoning?"
"No, sir."
Pemberton turned to Perry Mason.
"Suppose there's any chance this client of yours tried to poison the dog, Mason?"
"Not a chance in the world," said Perry Mason positively.
"Understand," said Foley hastily, "I'm not making any accusations against Mr. Cartright. I don't think he's the type that would poison a dog — however, he's really not responsible."
"Well," said the young woman positively, "I don't know where he got it from, but somebody gave him some poison. I'm willing to swear to that. He was a sick dog until after I gave him the salt, and then he got better."
"What does salt do?" asked Pemberton of Foley.
"It's a powerful and immediate emetic," Foley said.
Pemberton looked back at the girl.
"And you're willing to swear that the dog hasn't been howling?"
"Of course I am."
"If he had howled, would you have heard him?"
"Yes."
"Where do you sleep, in the house?"
"Yes, on the upper floor."
"And who else is in the house?"
"There's Ah Wong, the cook, but he sleeps out over the garage. And then there's Mrs. Foley."
"I think, officer," said Foley, "that it will, perhaps, be better for you to talk with my wife, and she can tell you…"
"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Benton, "I didn't want to tell you in front of these gentlemen, but your wife isn't here."
Foley stared at her with eyes that showed incredulous surprise.
"Isn't here?" he said. "Good heavens, girl, she couldn't have gone out! She's recovering from influenza."
"Nevertheless, she went out," said Mrs. Benton.
"How did she go? The cars aren't gone."
"In a taxi."
"Good heavens!" said Foley. "The woman will kill herself. What's the idea of going out when she's just recovering from influenza?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Did she say where she was going? Was she going shopping, calling, or what? Did she receive any messages? Was there something urgent? Come on, speak up! Don't be so mysterious."
"She left you a note, sir."
"A note?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Upstairs in her room. She left it on the dresser and asked me to see that you received it."
Foley stood staring at the woman, his forehead puckered, his eyes suddenly hard.
"Look here," he said, "you're keeping something from me."
The young housekeeper lowered her eyes.
"She took a suitcase with her," she said.
"A suitcase?" Foley exclaimed. "Was she going to a hospital?"
"I don't know. She didn't say. She simply left the note."
Foley looked at the deputy sheriff.
"May I be excused for a moment?" he asked.