The cat jumped to the floor.

"It would be a good story," Mason said with a voice that was almost judicial in its complete detachment. "It would help me out of a jam and it would be a swell out for Della Street. The cats sure look alike. But you couldn't get away with it. They'd find out sooner or later where you got the cat. There might be a big difference of opinion as to whether it was Clinker or wasn't Clinker. But in the long run it would put you on a spot, and you're not going to get put on a spot."

"But it is Clinker. I went out there and found him. He'd been frightened to death - poor cat - all the noise and excitement and finding his master dead, and everything..."

"No," Mason told her, "I'm not going to let you do it, and that's final. I suppose the papers are on the street and you've read that the police found Clinker in my secretary's apartment."

"They found the cat they thought was Clinker."

Mason said good-naturedly, "Baloney! Take your cat and go on back to your waffle parlor. Is Douglas Keene going to get in touch with me and give himself up?"

"I don't know," she said with tears in her eyes.

The cat, arching its back, started exploring the office. "Kitty - kitty, come, kitty," Winifred pleaded.

The cat paid no attention to her. Mason's eyes were sympathetic as he stared at the tear-stricken countenance. "If Douglas gets in touch with you," he said, "tell him how important it is that he back my play."

"I don't know that I will. You d-d-d-didn't have to go ahead and s-s-s-say that. Suppose they should convict him and hang him for m-m-m-murder?"

Mason crossed to her side, patted her on the shoulder.

"Won't you have some confidence in me?" he asked.

She raised her eyes.

"Don't you think you've got to take the responsibility of this thing," Mason told her soothingly. "Don't go out picking up cats and figuring how you can work out an alibi for Douglas. You just dump all of that onto my shoulders and let me carry the load. Will you promise that you'll do that?"

Her lips quivered for a moment, then straightened. She nodded her head.

Mason gave her shoulder one last pat, crossed the office to where the cat was sniffing about, picked it up, and carried it back to Winifred and put it in her arms.

"Go home," he said, "and get some sleep."

He held the corridor door open for her. When he had closed it, Della Street stood in the doorway of his private office.

Mason grinned at her. "A dead game kid," he said.

Della Street nodded her head slowly.

Mason said, "How'd you like to cut corners, Della?"

"What do you mean?"

"How'd you like to go on a honeymoon with me?"

She stared at him, eyes growing wide. "A honeymoon?" she asked.

Mason nodded.

"Why... oh..."

He grinned at her. "Okay," he said, "but first lie down there on the couch and get some sleep. If Douglas Keene rings in on the telephone, tell him that he must back my play. You can put up a stronger talk than I could. I'm going down to Paul Drake's office for a little while."

PERRY MASON, SEATED IN PAUL DRAKE'S OFFICE, SAID, "Paul, I want you to turn your men loose on the new car agencies and find out if a new car has recently been sold to a Watson Clammert."

"Watson Clammert," Drake said. "Where the devil have I heard that name before?"

Mason grinned as he waited for Drake's recollection to function. Suddenly the detective said, "Oh, yes, I remember. He's the person who shared a lock box with Charles Ashton."

"I presume the police have gone into that lock box," Mason said.

"Yes, and found it practically empty. They only found some of the paper wrappers used by banks in bundling bills of large denomination. Evidently Ashton had pulled out the bills and left the wrappers behind."

"Ashton or Clammert?" Mason inquired.

"Ashton. The bank records show that Clammert never did go to the safety deposit box. He's nothing but a name signed upon the card, so far as the bank knows."

"How much money do the police figure was taken from the box?"

"They don't know. It may have been a lot. Ashton was seen by one of the attendants stuffing bills into a suitcase."

"Did you check into that automobile accident Laxter had?" Mason asked.

"Yes. He was crowded into a telephone pole, just as he said - some drunken driver whipped around a corner."

"Any witnesses?"

"A few people heard the crash."

"Get their names?" Mason asked.

"Yes. They saw the tracks where Laxter had put on his brakes and skidded. They say he was on his side of the road at the time. He seemed excited, but perfectly sober."

"Where had he been before that?"

Drake said slowly, "I'm checking on that, Perry. When the police first talked with him they were investigating the death of Peter Laxter, the grandfather, and later on the death of Ashton, the caretaker. Laxter had a perfectly good alibi on Ashton's death. He'd left the house about nine o'clock and hadn't returned. Ashton was murdered between ten and eleven."

Mason nodded.

"Later on, Shuster did the talking. He gives Laxter an alibi."

"He does?"

Drake nodded. "Shuster says Laxter was in his office."

"Talking about what?"

"Shuster refuses to state."

"What a sweet alibi that is," Mason said scornfully.

"Wait a minute, Perry, I think it checks."

"How?"

"Jim Brandon, the chauffeur, had been with Laxter. He drove him up to Shuster's office. Around eleven o'clock. Laxter told Brandon to take the car and go on home; that he'd come later. Brandon took the green Pontiac back to the house. That's when he saw Keene. It was shortly after eleven."

Mason started pacing the detective's office, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head thrust forward. At length, he said, in the mumbling monotone of one who is thinking out loud, "Laxter, then, left the house with Jim Brandon in the green Pontiac, but he returned in Ashton's Chevvy. How the hell did he get that Chevvy?"

Drake stiffened to attention. "That's a thought," he said.

Mason said slowly, "Paul, put out a bunch of men to cover the apartment house where Edith DeVoe lived. Talk with all the inmates. See if any of them noticed the Chevvy parked anywhere near the apartment house."

Drake pulled a pad of paper toward him and scribbled a memorandum.

"That would make a swell break," he said, "but it would take more than that to make Sam Laxter the fall guy. You see, the person who murdered Ashton must have killed him between ten and eleven. Then he must have taken Ashton's crutch with him and sawed it up into sections. Then he must have gone to Edith DeVoe's place. Now, if Sam Laxter can prove he was in Shuster's office..."

"If that's the sketch," Mason interrupted, "and Brandon saw Douglas Keene leaving the house carrying the cat, where was Ashton's crutch? Douglas Keene wasn't carrying it with him."

Drake nodded thoughtfully. "That's so," he admitted, "but, of course, Keene could have tossed the crutch out the window that was always left open for the cat, then driven by in his car and picked it up. I tell you, Perry, you've got a tough case here. If Keene doesn't get in touch with you, it's going to put you in a spot. If he surrenders himself, circumstantial evidence is going to hang him in spite of all you can do."

The telephone rang. Drake answered it, and said, "For you, Perry."

Della Street was on the line. Her voice was excited.

"Come on up quick, Chief," she pleaded. "I've just heard from Douglas Keene."

"Where is he?" Mason asked.

"He's at a public pay station. He's going to call back in five minutes."

"Get a line on that stuff, Paul," he said, "and get it fast. I'm going to be on the move from now on." He dashed out of the office, climbed a flight of stairs and ran down the corridor to his own office. "Is he going to give himself up?" he asked Della Street as he rushed into his private office.

"I think so. He seemed sullen, but I think he's okay."

"Did you give him a good argument?"

"I told him the truth. I told him you were doing everything on earth for him and that he simply couldn't let you down."

"What did he say?"

"He sort of grunted, the way a man does when he's going to do what a girl wants him to but doesn't want to let her think she's having her own way."

Mason groaned, and said, "My God, you women!"

The telephone rang.

"Wait a minute before you answer it," Della Street said. "Do you know who's hanging around the street by the office?"

"Who?"

"Your little playmate - Sergeant Holcomb."

Mason frowned. The telephone rang again.

"Serious?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "they'll try to arrest him before he can surrender and claim they nabbed him as a fugitive from justice, and..."

He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello."

A man's voice said, "This is Douglas Keene, Mr. Mason."

Mason's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Where are you now?"

"Out at Parkway and Seventh Streets."

"Have you got a wrist-watch?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What time does it show?"

"Thirteen minutes to eleven."

"Make it closer than that. How are you on seconds? Say 'thirty' when it's twelve minutes and thirty seconds to eleven."

"I've passed that," Keene said. "I'll say eleven when it's just exactly eleven minutes to eleven."

"Be sure and call it right on the dot," Mason said, "because..."

"Eleven!" Douglas Keene interrupted.

Perry Mason held his watch in his hand. "All right," he said, "you're about twenty-five seconds slow, as compared with my time. But don't change your watch. I'll change my watch so it'll be even with yours. Now, listen, they're going to tail me when I leave the place, hoping I'll lead them to you. You walk down toward my office and stand on the corner of Seventh - that's just west of my office building - you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"At exactly ten minutes past eleven," Mason said, "walk out to the corner and catch the first eastbound street car that comes down Seventh Street. Pay your fare, but don't go inside the car. Stand right by the conductor where you can get off the car when I give you the word. I'll get aboard that car, but won't recognize you or speak to you in any way. A girl will drive right alongside the car in a convertible coupe with the rumble seat open. She'll be going at the same rate of speed the car's going. It may be a block or it may be two blocks after I get aboard, but when I yell, 'Jump,' you make a jump for that rumble seat. Can you do it?"

"Sure I can do it."

"Okay, Douglas, can I depend on you?"

"Yes, you can," the young man said in a voice which had lost its sullen tone. "I guess I've made a damn fool of myself. I'll play ball with you."