Perry Mason crossed toward the telephone. "If that's someone asking for Mr. Mason," he said, "I'm here and will talk on the telephone."

The woman handed him the receiver. "It's Miss Winifred Laxter," she said.

Mason said «Hello» and heard Winifred's voice, hysterical with excitement. "Thank God I was able to reach you. I didn't know where to get you so I called for Ashton to leave a message for you. Something terrible has happened. You must come at once."

Mason's voice was guarded. "I'm rather occupied here at present. Could you tell me generally what has happened?"

"I don't know, but Douglas is in serious trouble… You know Douglas, you met him… Douglas Keene."

"And what has happened to him?"

"I don't know, but I must see you at once."

"I'll leave here," Mason told her, "within ten minutes. That's the best I can do. There's another matter here I'm interested in. Where will I find you?"

"I'll be at the waffle place. There won't be any lights on—just open the door and come in."

Mason said crisply, "Okay, I leave here in ten minutes."

Mason hung up the receiver as Shuster, leaving Brandon at the door, crossed the hallway with quick, nervous strides. He grabbed the lapel of Mason's coat.

"You can't do it!" he said. "You can't get away with it! It's outrageous. I'll have you brought up before the Grievance Committee. It's pettifogging."

Mason placed the flat of his hand against the man's chest, pushed him out at arm's length and said, "You should go in the lecture business, Shuster. No one could ever accuse you of delivering a dry lecture."

Mason pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face. Shuster jumped about as excitedly as a terrier barking at a steer. "You knew you couldn't break the will; that will is as good as gold. So what did you do? You started in trying to frame up a murder charge on my clients. You can't make it stick! You and your caretaker are going to find yourselves in plenty of trouble. Plenty of trouble! You hear me? You…"

He broke off as District Attorney Burger, accompanied by Tom Glassman, reentered the room. Burger's features were puzzled. "Mason," he said, "do you know anything about diamonds your client Ashton has?"

Mason shook his head. "We can ask him," he suggested.

"I think we want to talk with him," Burger said. "Apparently he's mixed up in this thing."

Mason nodded.

Shuster said, "A damned outrage! A frameup! Mason cooked this up in order to bust the will."

Mason's smile was tolerant as he remarked, "I told you, Shuster, that I always hit in an unexpected place."

"Do you wish me to call the caretaker?" the flabby woman in the wrapper asked, as Oafley, in bathrobe and slippers, shuffled into the room.

"Who are you?" Burger inquired.

"The housekeeper," Oafley interposed. "Mrs. Pixley."

"I think we'll go and interview the caretaker without giving him previous notice," Burger announced.

"Look here," Mason said. "In view of the circumstances, don't you think it would be fair to let me know just what it is you're after?"

"Come along," Burger said, "and you'll find out, but don't interrupt to ask questions or give advice."

Shuster darted around the table. "You've got to watch him," he warned. "He's hatched up this whole business."

"Dry up," Tom Glassman said over his shoulder.

"Go on," Burger said to Mrs. Pixley; "show us the way."

The woman moved along the hallway, her bedroom slippers slopping against her heels as she walked. Paul Drake fell into step beside Perry Mason. Oafley dropped behind, for a word with Shuster. Burger held Sam Laxter's arm.

"Funnylooking character—the housekeeper," Drake remarked in a low voice. "All soft except her mouth and it's hard enough to make up for everything."

"Underneath that softness," Mason said, his eyes appraising the woman's figure, "is a great deal of strength. Her muscles are cased in fat, but she's plenty husky. Notice the way she carries herself."

The woman led the way down a flight of stairs to a basement. She opened a door, crossed a cement floor, paused in front of another door, and said, "Shall I knock?"

"Not unless it's locked," Burger told her.

She turned the knob of the door and stepped to one side, pushing open the door.

Mason couldn't see the interior of the room but he could see her face. He saw light from the inside of the room strike her features. He saw the flabby flesh of her face freeze in an expression of wild terror. He saw the hard lips sag open, and then heard her scream.

Burger jumped forward. The housekeeper swayed, flung up her hands, and her knees sagged as she slid to the floor. Glassman jumped through the door into the caretaker's room. Oafley caught the housekeeper by the armpits. "Steady," he said. "Take it easy. What's the trouble?"

Mason pushed past them into the room.

Charles Ashton's bed was by an open window in the basement. The window opened almost directly at street level. It had been propped open with a stick, the opening being some four or five inches, just enough to enable a cat to slip through easily.

Directly beneath the window was the bed, covered with a white counterpane and on this white counterpane was a series of muddy cat tracks, tracks which covered not only the spread, but appeared on the pillow as well.

Lying in the bed, his face an unpleasant thing to behold, was the dead body of Charles Ashton. It needed but one look at the bulging eyes and protruding tongue to enable these experts in homicide to realize the manner in which the man had died.

Burger whirled to Glassman.

"Keep the people out of this room," he warned. "Get the homicide squad on the telephone. Don't let Sam Laxter out of your sight until this thing has been cleaned up. I'll stay here and look around. Get started!"

Glassman whirled, thrust his shoulder against Perry Mason. "On your way," he said.

Mason left the room. Glassman slammed the door shut. "Let me get to the telephone. Oafley, don't try to leave the place."

"Why should I try to leave the place?" Oafley demanded indignantly.

"Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements! Don't make any statements!" Shuster pleaded hysterically. "Keep quiet! Let me do the talking. Can't you understand? It's a murder! Don't talk with them. Don't have anything to do with them. Don't…"

Glassman stepped forward belligerently. "You can either keep your face closed," he said, "or I'll button up your lips so they'll stay shut for a while."

Shuster scuttled away from him like a squirrel climbing a tree, chattering continuously. "No statement. No statement at all. Can't you understand that I'm your lawyer? You don't know what these people have said about you. You don't know what accusations they've made. Keep quiet. Let me do the talking for you."

"There's no necessity for such talk," Oafley said to Shuster. "I'm just as anxious to help clean this thing up as the officers are. You're hysterical. Shut up!"

The party climbed the stairs. Perry Mason, dropping behind, put his lips close to Paul Drake's ear. "Stick around, Paul," he said, "and see what happens. Get an eyeful if you can and an earful if you can't."

"You're ducking?" Drake asked.

"I'm ducking," Mason said.

At the head of the stairs leading from the cellar, Glassman hurried toward a telephone. Perry Mason turned to the right, crossed a kitchen, unlocked a door, crossed a screened porch, descended a flight of stairs, and found himself in the rainy night.