The Case of the Howling Dog   ::   Гарднер Эрл Стенли

On the other side of the desk, a huge figure struggled from a chair and turned to face Perry Mason inquiringly.

The man was over six feet in height, broad of shoulder, deep of chest, long of arm. His waist had put on a little flesh, but not enough to detract from the athletic figure. He was, perhaps, forty years old, and when he spoke, his voice was resonant.

"I presume you're Perry Mason," he said, "Mr. Cartright's lawyer?"

Perry Mason nodded curtly, stood with his feet spread apart, his head thrust slightly forward, his eyes staring at the man in cold appraisal.

"Yes," he said, "I'm Cartright's lawyer."

"I'm Mr. Clinton Foley, his neighbor," said the man, extending a hand and smiling graciously.

Perry Mason took two steps forward, took the hand, and turned to Dorcas after a perfunctory handshake.

"Sorry if I kept you waiting, Pete, but this is important. I can explain it to you a little later. I've got to find out what it's all about."

"There's nothing that it's all about," said Dorcas, "except that I'm busy, and you took up a lot of my time yesterday afternoon about a howling dog who didn't howl, and now it turns out your man's crazy as a loon."

"What makes you think he's crazy?" asked Mason.

"What made you think he was crazy?" said Dorcas irritably. "You thought so yesterday. You telephoned and said you thought he was crazy and wanted me to have a doctor here to look him over."

"No," Mason said slowly, "don't get me wrong on that, Dorcas. I knew the man was in a very bad state of nerves. I wanted to find out whether that was all there was to it, that's all."

"Yes, you did," Dorcas said, with heavy sarcasm. "You thought he was crazy, and you wanted to find out before you got your neck in a noose."

"What do you mean, get my neck in a noose?" demanded Mason.

"You know what I mean," Dorcas told him. "You came in here with a man who wanted to get out a warrant for the arrest of a wealthy and prominent citizen. Naturally, you wanted to be certain that there wasn't going to be any comeback. That's what you were retained for. That's the reason you didn't get a warrant, but did get a notification asking Mr. Foley to come in. Well, he's here now, and what he tells me is plenty."

Perry Mason stared fixedly at Pete Dorcas until the steely eyes of the deputy district attorney lowered under Mason's direct gaze.

"When I came in here," Mason said slowly, "I came in here because I wanted to give you a fair deal, and because I wanted to get one. I told you my man was nervous. He told me he was nervous. He said the continued howling of the dog made him nervous. There's an ordinance on the books against maintaining a nuisance with a noisy animal. My client is entitled to the protection of that law, even if it does happen that a man who's got some political pull…"

"But the dog didn't howl," Dorcas exclaimed irritably. "That's just the point."

Foley's voice interposed on the discussion.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "may I say a word?"

Perry Mason didn't even turn to him, but continued to stare steadily at the deputy district attorney. Dorcas, however, looked up, his face showing relief.

"Certainly," he said, "go right ahead."

"You'll pardon me, I'm certain, Mr. Mason," said Foley, "if I speak frankly. I know that you want to get at the facts. I understand your position in this matter and want to commend you upon the fair way you have gone about protecting the interests of your client."

Perry Mason turned slowly toward him, sized him up with uncordial eyes that swept up and down the big frame of the man.

"Forget it," he said, "go ahead and explain."

"This man, Cartright," said Foley, "is undoubtedly mentally deranged. He has rented the adjoining house. I feel quite certain that the owners of the house do not know the sort of tenant with whom they are dealing. Cartright has one servant, a deaf housekeeper. He has no friends, apparently; no acquaintances. He stays around his house virtually all of the time."

"Well," said Perry Mason belligerently, "that's his privilege, isn't it? Maybe he doesn't like the neighborhood."

Dorcas got to his feet.

"Now listen, Mason," he said, "you can't…"

"Gentlemen, please," said Foley. "Let me explain. Let me handle this. Please, Mr. Dorcas. I understand Mr. Mason's attitude. He thinks that I have brought political influence to bear, and that the interests of his client are being jeopardized."

"Well," said Mason, "haven't you?"

"No," said Foley, smiling amiably. "I have merely explained the facts to Mr. Dorcas. Your client, as I have said, is a very peculiar man. He lives virtually the life of a hermit, yet he continually spies on me out of the windows of his house, he has a pair of binoculars, and he watches every move I make."

Dorcas hesitated for a moment, then dropped back into his swivel chair, shrugged his shoulders, and lit a cigarette.

"Go on," said Perry Mason, "I'm listening."

"My Chinese cook," said Foley, "was the one who first called it to my attention. He noticed the lenses of the binoculars. Understand me, please, Mr. Mason. I consider only that your client is mentally deranged and doesn't know what he is doing. Also, please understand that I have ample witnesses to substantiate everything I am going to say."

"All right," said Mason, "what are you going to say?"

"I am going," Foley said, with dignity, "to complain about the constant espionage. It makes it difficult for me to keep my servants. It is annoying to me and to my guests. The man snoops around and stares at me through binoculars. He never has the lights on the upper floor of his house turned on. He constantly parades through the dark rooms at night, with his binoculars in his hand, snooping and spying on everything that I do. He is a dangerous neighbor."

"Well," Mason said, "it's no crime for a man to look through binoculars, is it?"

"That isn't the point," Dorcas said, "and you know it, Mason. The man is insane."

"What makes you think he's insane?" Mason demanded.

"Because," said Dorcas, "he has reported a howling dog, and the dog didn't howl."

"You've got a dog, haven't you?" Mason asked Foley.

"Certainly," said Foley, still keeping his conciliatory manner.

"And you mean to say he doesn't howl?"

"Never."

"Didn't howl a couple of nights ago?"

"No."

"I've talked it over with Dr. Cooper," said Dorcas, "and he tells me that if there is a delusion of persecution, coupled with the hallucination of a howling dog, and the fear that there is going to be a death in the neighborhood, present in your client's mind, he may develop homicidal mania at almost any moment, and without warning.