"Where do I come in?"

"First, find Winifred. Then dig up everything you can about Peter Laxter, and everything you can about the two grandchildren who inherit the property."

"Shall I go at it in the routine way, or do you want action?" Drake asked.

"I want action."

Drake's glassy eyes surveyed Perry Mason in expressionless appraisal. "There must be a lot of money in cats," he remarked.

Mason's face was grave. "I'm not certain but what there is going to be a chance to make some money, Paul. Evidently Peter Laxter was a miser. He didn't trust too much in banks. Shortly before his death, he cashed in securities to the tune of about a million dollars. After his death, the heirs couldn't find the million."

"Suppose it burnt up in the house with him?" Drake asked. "He'd have had it in currency, you know."

"It may have," Mason admitted. "Again, it may not. When Ashton left my office, some man was shadowing him—a man who was driving a new green Pontiac."

"Know who this chap was?"

"No, I saw him from the window. I couldn't see his face. I saw a light felt hat and a dark suit. The Pontiac was a sedan. Of course, there may be nothing to it; again, there may be. At any rate, it's going to be a swell break for Winifred Laxter, because I'm going to smash that will for her. Shuster has been talking about what he was going to do to me if he ever got in court against me, and I'm going to give him a chance to make good."

"You can't make Shuster sore by fighting," the detective said. "That's what he wants. You fight to get results for your clients; Shuster fights to collect fees from his."

"He can't collect fees if his clients have lost their money," Mason said. "A prior will leaves everything to Winifred. If I break this will, the other will stand up and take its place."

"Going to have Winifred as your client?" Drake asked.

Mason shook his head, said doggedly, "I've got a cat for a client. I may want Winifred as a witness."

Drake slid his legs over the smooth leather of the chair, got to his feet.

"Knowing you as I do," he said, "I presume that means you want lots of action."

Mason, nodding grimly, said, "And I want it fast. Get me information on every angle you can uncover, property, soundness of mind, undue influence, everything."

As Drake closed the exit door behind him, Jackson gave a perfunctory knock and entered the office bearing several typewritten sheets of legalsized paper.

"I've had a copy of the will made, and have gone over it carefully," he said. "The provision about the cat is rather weak. It certainly isn't a condition relating to the vesting of the inheritance, and it may not even be a charge upon the estate. It's probably just the expression of a wish on the part of the testator."

Mason's face showed disappointment. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Apparently Peter Laxter drew the will himself. I understand he practiced law for several years in some eastern state. It's pretty much of an ironclad job, but there's one peculiar paragraph in it. We might be able to do something with that paragraph in a contest."

"What is it?" Mason asked.

Jackson picked up the will and read from it: "During my lifetime I have been surrounded with the affectionate regard not only of those who were related to me, but those who apparently hoped that fortuitous circumstance would include them in my bounty. I have never been able to ascertain how much was intended to pave the way for an inheritance under my will. If the latter is the case, I am afraid my legatees are doomed to disappointment, because the extent of my estates will doubtless be disappointing to them. However, I have one thought to offer in the nature of a condolence and at the same time, a suggestion. While those who waited impatiently for my passing merely in order to share in my estate are doomed to disappointment, those who had a genuine affection for me are not."

Jackson ceased reading and looked owlishly across at Perry Mason.

Mason scowled and said, "What the devil is he getting at? He disinherited Winifred, and he left all of his property to two grandchildren, share and share alike. There's nothing in this paragraph which could change that."

"No, sir," Jackson agreed.

"He secreted something like a million dollars in cash shortly before his death, but even if that is discovered, it would still pass as a part of his estate."

"Yes, sir."

"Unless," Mason said, "he'd made a gift of some sort before his death. And in that event, the property would be owned by the person to whom it had been given."

"It's a peculiar provision," Jackson remarked noncommittally. "He might have made a gift in trust, you know."

Mason said slowly, "I can't help thinking of the sheaf of currency Charles Ashton had in his pocket when he offered me a retainer… However, Jackson, if Peter Laxter gave Ashton money… well, there's going to be one hell of a fight over it—trust or no trust."

"Yes, sir," Jackson agreed.

Mason, nodding slowly, picked up the telephone which connected with Della Street's office, and, when he heard her voice on the wire, said, "Della, get hold of Paul Drake and tell him to include Charles Ashton in his investigations. I want particularly to find out about Ashton's financial affairs—whether he has any bank account; whether he's filed any income tax return; whether he owns any real property; whether he has any money out at interest; how much he's assessed for on the assessment roll, and anything else Paul can find out."

"Yes, sir," Della Street said. "You want that information in a hurry?"

"In a hurry."

"The Dollar Line said they'd hold a reservation until tomorrow morning at ten thirty," Della Street remarked in tones of cool efficiency, and then slid the receiver back on the hook, terminating the connection, leaving Perry Mason grinning into a dead transmitter.

The office workers had long since gone home. Perry Mason, his thumbs tucked in the armholes of his vest, paced the floor steadily. On the desk in front of him was a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Peter Laxter.

The telephone rang. Mason scooped the receiver to his ear, and heard Paul Drake's voice saying, "Have you had anything to eat?"

"Not yet. I don't care much about eating when I'm thinking."

"How'd you like to listen to a report?" the detective asked.

"Swell."

"It isn't complete yet, but I've got most of the high spots."

"All right, suppose you come in."

"I think I can work it to better advantage if you'll join me," Drake said. "I'm down on the corner of Spring and Melton Streets. There's a waffle joint down here and we can have a bite to eat. I haven't had any dinner and my stomach thinks I'm on a hunger strike."

Mason frowningly regarded the will on his desk.

"Okay," he said, "I'll come down."

He switched out the lights, took a cab to the place Drake had indicated, and stared into the detective's popeyes. "You look as though you had something up your sleeve, Paul. There's a catlickingthecream expression on your face."

"Is there? I could use a little cream."

"What's new?"

"I'll tell you after we eat. I refuse to talk this stuff on an empty stomach… My God, Perry, snap out of it. You'd think this was another murder case, the way you're prowling around on it. It's just a case involving a damned cat. I'll bet you didn't get over fifty dollars out of it as a fee, did you?"

Mason laughed, and said, "Ten, to be exact."

"There you are," Drake remarked, as though addressing an imaginary audience.

"The fee has nothing to do with it," Mason said. "A lawyer has a trust to his client. He can set any fee he pleases. If the client doesn't pay it, the lawyer doesn't need to take the business; but if a client pays it, it doesn't make any difference whether it's five cents or five million dollars. The lawyer should give the client everything he has."