"That's right—a cat by the name of Clinker—it was just a kitten then."

"Oh, hell," Mason said disgustedly.

"As near as I can figure out," Drake went on, "from the time Ashton discovered his halfbrother until Clammert died a couple of days later, Ashton had spent something like five hundred dollars in hospital and doctors' bills. He paid everything out in cash. The nurse said he had a big sheaf of bills he carried in his wallet. Now, then, where the hell did Charles Ashton get that money?"

Mason made a grimace. "Shucks, Paul, I didn't want you to dig up facts that would put my client in a spot; I wanted you to dig up something that would put Sam Laxter in a spot."

"Well," Drake remarked in his dry, expressionless voice, "they're some of the pieces in the puzzle picture. I'm hired to get the pieces; you're hired to put them together. If they're going to make the wrong kind of picture when they're put together, you can always lose some of the pieces so no one else can find them."

Mason chuckled, then said thoughtfully, "Why the devil did Ashton want it so Clammert could go to that safety deposit box?"

"Well, the only thing I could think of," Drake said, "was that if Clammert got well Ashton intended to give him money but didn't intend to have any personal contact, so he arranged to give Clammert a key to a safety deposit box into which he'd put money from time to time and Clammert could take it out."

"That doesn't make sense," Mason said, "because Clammert would have to sign his name to get access to the box and the signature that Ashton turned in as being that of Clammert couldn't have been made by Clammert because Clammert was unconscious."

"Okay," Drake said, "you win. That's what I meant when I said the facts were the pieces in the puzzle. I get them and you put them together."

"Did anyone using Clammert's name ever go to the safety deposit boxes?" Mason asked.

"No, Clammert's never been near the box. Ashton went to it several times. He went to it yesterday, and he went to it today. While the clerks didn't want to talk about it, I gathered the impression they thought Ashton had pulled out a wad of dough from those safety boxes either yesterday or today, or both."

"How do they know what a man takes out?"

"Ordinarily they don't, but one of the clerks saw Ashton stuffing currency into a satchel."

Perry Mason laughed. "In most cases," he said, "we can't find out any facts at all until after we've gone through a lot of preliminary work. In this case they pour into our laps."

"Did your client tell you about the Koltsdorf diamonds?" Drake wanted to know.

"Gosh," Mason remarked, "I feel like the interlocutor at a minstrel show. No, Mr. Drake, Mr. Ashton did not tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds. What about the Koltsdorf diamonds?… Now, Paul, that's your cue to tell me about the Koltsdorf diamonds."

The detective chuckled. "The Koltsdorf diamonds are about the only jewels Peter Laxter ever fell for. Lord knows how he came by them. They were some of the stones smuggled out of Russia by the old aristocracy. Peter Laxter showed them to a few friends. They were large, brilliant diamonds."

"What about them?"

"Some of this other stuff," Drake said, "such as the currency, bonds, and all that, might have burnt up when the house was burned. It wouldn't have been possible to find even a trace of them. But the Koltsdorf diamonds haven't been found."

"Diamonds in the wreckage of a burnt house could hide pretty well," Mason said dryly.

"They've taken that wreckage to pieces with a finetooth comb, sifted ashes and done all sorts of things. But the diamonds can't be located. A distinctive ruby ring which Peter Laxter always wore on his left hand was found on the body, but no diamonds."

"Tell me the rest of it," Mason demanded. "Has Ashton shown up with those diamonds?"

"No, not that I've been able to find out. But he's done other peculiar things that are just as incriminating. For instance, shortly before the fire, Laxter had been dickering for a piece of property. He'd taken Ashton out with him to look the property over. A couple of days ago, Ashton called on the owner of that property and made an offer. The offer was for cash on the nail."

"It was refused?"

"Temporarily, yes, but I think the deal's still open."

Mason, frowning thoughtfully, said, "Looks like I'm stirring up a mare's nest. Laxter might have cached his property and Ashton might have had an inside track. In that event he probably wouldn't feel obligated to hand Sam Laxter the coin on a silver platter. Guess we're due for a talk with Ashton."

Drake said tonelessly, "The two grandchildren have been pretty wild, particularly Sam. Oafley's the quiet, unsociable sort. Sam went in for speedy automobiles, polo ponies, women, and all that sort of stuff."

"Where'd the money come from?"

"From the old man."

"I thought the old man was a miser."

"He was tighter than a knot in a shoelace except with his grandchildren; he was very liberal with them."

"How much was he worth?"

"No one knows. The inventory of the estate…"

"Yes," Mason said, "I checked over the inventory of the estate. Apparently the only things that were left were the frozen assets. The other stuff hasn't been discovered yet."

"Unless Ashton discovered it," Drake commented.

"Let's not talk about that," Mason said. "I'm interested right now in cats."

"The day before the fire there was a hell of a fight out at the house. I can't find out exactly what it was, but I think this nurse can tell us. I've talked with the servants. They froze up. I hadn't got around to the nurse yet… Here's her apartment."

"What's her name—Durfey?"

"No—DeVoe—Edith DeVoe. According to the reports I get, she isn't a bad looker. Frank Oafley was pretty much interested in her when she was taking care of the old man, and he's been seeing her off and on since."

"Intentions honorable?" Mason asked.

"Don't ask me; I'm just a detective—not a censor of morals. Let's go."

Mason paid off the cab. They rang a bell, and, when a buzzer had released the door catch, entered the outer door and walked down a long corridor to a ground floor apartment. A redhaired woman with quick, restless eyes, swift, nervous motions, and a wellmodeled figure which was set off to advantage by her clothes, met them at the door of the apartment. Her face showed disappointment. "Oh," she said, "I was expecting… Who are you?"

Paul Drake bowed, and said, "I'm Paul Drake. This is Mr. Mason, Miss DeVoe."

"What is it you want?" she asked. Her speech was very rapid. The words seemed almost to run together.

"We wanted to talk with you," Mason said.

"About some employment," Paul Drake hastened to add. "You're a nurse, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, we wanted to talk with you about some work."

"What sort of a position?"

"I think we could talk it over better if we stepped inside," Drake ventured.

She hesitated a moment, looked up and down the corridor, then stepped back from the door and said, "Very well, you may come in, but only for a few minutes."

The apartment was clean and well cared for as though she had just finished a careful housecleaning. Her hair was perfectly groomed. Her nails were well kept. She wore her clothes with the manner of one who is wearing her best.

Drake sat down, relaxing comfortably, as though he intended to stay for hours.

Mason sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair. He looked at the detective and frowned.

"Now this employment may not be exactly the kind of a job you had in mind," Drake said, "but there's no harm talking it over. Would you mind telling me what your rates are by the day?"

"Do you mean for two or three days, or…"

"No, just one day."

"Ten dollars," she said crisply.