"Well," he said, "as a matter of professional courtesy, we won't keep Mr. Shuster waiting. We'll take a quick run through this important stuff and see if there are any telegrams to be sent out."

He looked at a folder, and frowned. "What's this?" he asked.

"Quotations from the N.Y.K. Line on a deluxe single stateroom on the Asamu Maru - stops at Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai and Hong Kong."

"Who made the inquiry?"

"I did."

He pulled a letter from the pile of mail, stared at it, and said, "The Dollar Steamship Company - quotations on a deluxe single stateroom on the President Coolidge - Honolulu, Yokohama, Kobe, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Manila."

Della Street continued to look demurely at her notebook.

Perry Mason laughed, and pushed the pile of mail away.

"We'll let it wait," he said, "until after we've disposed of Shuster. You sit right there and if I nudge your knee, start taking notes. Shuster's a pretty slippery customer. I wish he'd have his teeth fixed."

She raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Franklin teeth," he told her, "and they leak."

"Franklin teeth?" she asked.

"Yes, air-cooled, you know. If there's anything in reincarnation, he must have been a Chinese laundryman in a prior existence. Every time he snickers, he sprays his audience, like a Chinese laundryman sprinkling clothes. He has a fondness for shaking hands. Personally I don't like him, but you can't insult him. I suppose the situation calls for some show of professional courtesy; but, if he tries to slip anything over on me, I'm going to forget the ethics of the situation and kick him out."

"The cat," she said, "must feel flattered - so many busy attorneys putting in their time deciding whether he's going to get his muddy feet on a bedspread."

Perry Mason laughed outright. "Go ahead," he said, "rub it in! Oh, well, I'm in for it now. Shuster will try to egg his clients into a fight, and I'll either have to back up or play into his hands. If I back up, he makes his clients believe he's browbeaten me into submission, and charges them a good fee. If I don't back up, he tells them their whole inheritance is involved and soaks them a percentage. That's what I get for running that bluff about a forfeiture of the inheritance."

"Mr. Jackson could talk with them," she suggested.

Perry Mason grinned good-naturedly. "Nope, Jackson isn't accustomed to having his face sprinkled. I've met Shuster before. Let's get them in."

He lifted the telephone, said to the girl at the desk, "Send Mr. Shuster in."

Della Street made one last appeal, "Oh, please, Chief, let Jackson handle it. You'll get into an argument, and the first thing we'll know, you'll be putting in all of your time fighting over a cat."

"Cats and corpses," Mason remarked. "If it isn't one it seems to be another. I've been fighting over corpses for so long, a good live cat will be a welcome diversion from..."

The door opened. A blonde with wide blue eyes said in a lifeless voice, "Mr. Shuster, Mr. Laxter, Mr. Oafley."

The three men pushed the doorway into the room. Shuster, small-boned and active, was in the lead, bustling about like a sparrow peering under dead leaves. "Good morning, Counselor, good morning, good morning. Going to be warm today, isn't it?" He bustled across the room, hand outstretched. His lips twisted back, disclosing a mouthful of teeth, between each of which was a well-defined space.

Mason, seeming to tower high above the little man, extended a reluctant hand and said, "Now let's get these people straight. Which is Laxter and which is Oafley?"

"Yes, yes, yes, of course, of course," Shuster said. "This is Mr. Laxter - Mr. Samuel C. Laxter. He's the executor of the will - a grandson of Peter Laxter."

A tall man with dark skin, smoldering black eyes and hair which had been carefully marcelled, smiled with that oily affability which speaks of poise rather than sincerity. A large cream-colored Stetson hat was held in his left hand.

"And this is Frank Oafley. Frank Oafley is the other grandson, Counselor."

Oafley was yellow-haired and thick-lipped. His face seemed unable to change its expression. His eyes had the peculiar watery blue tint of raw oysters. He had no hat.

He said nothing.

"My secretary, Miss Street," Perry Mason remarked. "If there's no objection, she'll be here during the conference and take such notes as I may wish."

Shuster chuckled moistly. "And if there is any objection, I suppose she'll stay here anyway, eh? Ha, ha, ha. I know you, Counselor. Remember, it isn't as though you were dealing with someone who didn't know you. I know you well. You're a fighter. You're to be reckoned with. It's a matter of principle with my clients. They can't knuckle under to a servant. But they've got a fight on their hands. I told them you were a fighter, I warned them. They can't say I didn't warn them!"

"Sit down," Mason said.

Shuster nodded to his clients, indicating the chairs which they were to take. He sank in the big overstuffed leather chair himself and seemed almost lost in the space of it. He crossed his legs, pulled down his cuffs, adjusted his tie, beamed at Mason and said, "You can't make it stick. It's a matter of principle with us. We'll fight to the last ditch. But it's a serious matter, all right."

"What's a serious matter?" Mason asked.

"Your contention about that being a condition in the will."

"And what's the matter of principle?" Mason inquired.

"Why," Shuster remarked, showing surprise, "the cat, of course. We can't stand it. But, more than that, we can't stand to have this caretaker start dictating. He's too officious already. You understand, when a person can't discharge his hired help, it doesn't take long for that help to get completely out of hand."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Mason asked, letting his eyes shift from Shuster's face to the faces of the two grandchildren, "that you folks are making a mountain out of a molehill? Why don't you let poor Ashton keep his cat? The cat won't last forever and Ashton won't either. There's no reason for spending a lot of money on lawyers, and..."

"Not so fast, Counselor, not so fast," Shuster broke in, sliding forward on the smooth leather of the chair until he sat on the very edge of it. "It's going to be a hard fight; it's going to be a bitter fight. I've warned my clients of that. You're a resourceful man. You're a sly man. If you don't mind the expression, I'll say you're a cunning man. Lots of us would take that as a compliment; I take that as a compliment myself. Lots of times my clients say, 'Shuster is cunning.' Do I get sore? I don't! I say that's a compliment."

Della Street glanced at Perry Mason, her eyes showing amusement. Mason's face was momentarily becoming more granite-hard.

Shuster went on, speaking rapidly, "I warned my clients that Winifred was going to try to break the will. I knew that she'd try it by every means in her power, but she couldn't claim the grandfather was of unsound mind, and there's no question of undue influence. So she had to get something she could tie to, and she picked on Ashton and his cat."

There was anger in Mason's voice. "Look here, Shuster, cut out this flimflamming. All I want is to have the caretaker left with his cat. Your clients don't need to spend any money fighting. The amount that it's costing just to have this conference would more than pay for all the bedspreads the cat could soil in ten years."

Shuster's head bobbed up and down eagerly. "That's what I've told them all along. Counselor. A poor compromise is better than a good lawsuit. Now, if you're willing to compromise, we are."

"On what basis?" Mason inquired.

Shuster recited his proposed compromise with a glibness which showed much rehearsal. "Winifred signs an agreement that she won't contest the will. Ashton signs a paper that he knows that the will is genuine; that it was executed by the old man when he was of sound and disposing mind and memory, and then Ashton can keep his cat."

Mason's voice was edged with irritation. "I don't know anything about Winifred," he said. "I've never met her and haven't talked with her. I can't ask her to sign anything."

Shuster glanced triumphantly at the two clients. "I told you he was clever," he said. "I told you it was going to be a fight."

"Winifred doesn't enter into it," Mason said. "Now let's come down to earth and talk sense. All I'm interested in is this damned cat."

There was a moment of silence, broken by Shuster's moist chuckle.

Sam Laxter, glancing at the growing rage of Mason's features, took a hand in the conversation. "Of course, you'll admit you threatened to invalidate my inheritance. I know that wouldn't have come from Ashton. We've been expecting Winifred to contest the will."

There was something smoothly ingratiating in his tone, a suave smirking of the vocal cords which made his voice seem like the smile of a courtesan.

"All I want," Mason said, "is to have that cat left alone."

"And you'll have Winifred sign a complete waiver?" Shuster asked.

Mason faced him. "Don't be a damn fool," he said. "I'm not representing Winifred. I haven't anything to do with her."

Shuster rubbed his hands gleefully. "We couldn't settle on any other basis. It's a matter of principle with us. Personally, I don't think that's a condition in the will, but it's open to controversy."

Mason got to his feet, like an angry bull turning to face a yapping terrier.

"Now listen," he said to Shuster, "I don't like to lose my temper unless someone's paying for it, but you've gone far enough."

Shuster chuckled. "Clever!" he said. "Very clever. Cunning."

Mason took a step toward him. "You know damn well I'm not representing Winifred. You know that the letter of mine meant exactly what it said, but you knew you couldn't kid your clients into paying big fees over a cat, so you dragged in this will-contest business. You laid this egg, and you've brought your clients in to see it hatched. Not knowing Winifred and not representing her, I naturally can't get her signature to anything. You've frightened your clients into believing they've got to get Winifred's signature to a release. That's laying the foundation for a nice fat fee for you."

Shuster came up out of his chair. "That's slander!" he screamed.

Mason face the two grandsons. "Listen," he said, "I'm not your guardian. I'm not going to break my neck trying to save your money. If you two want to give that cat a home, say so now; that's all there'll be to it. If you don't I'll make Shuster earn his fees by dragging you into the damnedest fight you've ever been in. I'm not going to be used as a bugaboo to frighten you two into sticking a fat fee on Shuster's desk and have him do nothing but rub his hands in order to earn it..."

"Have a care! Have a care!" Shuster shouted, literally dancing about in his indignation. "You can't talk that way. That's a violation of professional ethics. I'll report you to the Grievance Committee. I'll sue you for slander."

"Report, and be damned," Mason said. "Sue and be doubly damned. Take your clients and get out of here. By two o'clock this afternoon you either notify me that cat stays in the house, or you're going to have a fight on your hands - all three of you. And remember one thing about me - when I start fighting I don't hit where the other man's expecting the punch. Now don't say I didn't warn you. Two o'clock this afternoon. Get out."

Shuster pushed forward. "You can't fool me for a minute, Perry Mason. You're using this cat as a blind. Winifred wants to contest the will, and..."

Perry Mason took two quick steps towards him. The little lawyer danced away, turned and scuttled for the doorway. He pulled it open and shot through it.

"We'll fight!" he called back over his shoulder. "I'm just as tough a fighter as you are, Perry Mason."

"Yes," Perry Mason sighed, "you act like it."

Samuel Laxter hesitated for a moment, as though about to say something, then turned and walked out of the office, followed by Oafley.

Perry Mason met Della Street's smiling eyes with a grin. "Go on," he said; "say, 'I told you so.'"

She shook her head. "Fight that little shyster off his feet!" she said.

Mason looked at his watch. "Ring up Paul Drake and ask him to be here at two thirty."

"And Ashton?" she asked.

"No," he told her. "Ashton's got enough to worry about. I think this is going to be a matter of principle all around."

THE CLOCK ON PERRY MASON'S DESK SHOWED TWO thirty-five. Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, sat crosswise in the big leather chair, his knees draped over one arm, the small of his back propped against the other. His mouth turned up at the corners, giving an expression of droll humor to his face. It was as though he were on the point of breaking into a smile. His eyes were large, protruding, and glassy.

"What's the grief this time?" he asked. "I didn't know there'd been another murder."

"It isn't a murder, Paul, it's a cat."

"A what?"

"A cat, a Persian cat."

The detective sighed and said, "All right, then, it's a cat. So what?"

"Peter Laxter," Mason said, "probably a miser, had a house in the city that he wouldn't live in. He stayed in his country place at Carmencita. The place burned up, and Laxter burned up with it. He left three grandchildren: Samuel C. Laxter and Frank Oafley, who inherit under his will, and a granddaughter, Winifred Laxter, who was left out in the cold. His will contained a provision that Charles Ashton, his caretaker, was to be given a perpetual job during his lifetime. Ashton had a cat. He wanted to keep the cat with him. Sam Laxter told him to get rid of the cat. I sympathized with Ashton, wrote Laxter a letter and told him to leave the cat alone. Laxter went to Nat Shuster. Shuster saw a chance to horn in on a big fee, so he sold Laxter on the idea I was trying to break the will; demanded a lot of impossible conditions from me in order to effect a settlement, and when I didn't agree to them because I couldn't, he made the most of my refusal. I presume he's collected a fat retainer."

"What do you want?" Drake inquired.

"I'm going to break that will," Mason said grimly.

The detective lit a cigarette and said, in his slow drawl, "Going to break the will over a cat, Perry?"

"Over a cat," Mason admitted, "but really I'm going to break Shuster, as well as the will. Shuster's been setting himself up as a big-time criminal lawyer. I'm tired of it. He's a shyster, a suborner of perjury and a jury-briber. He's a disgrace to the profession, and he gets us all into disrepute. My God, Paul, whenever he has a client he not only tries to get that client off, but he deliberately frames evidence, so it will point to some innocent party, in order to make his own case look better. He's been boasting around town that if he ever runs up against me, he's going to show just how smart he is. I'm sick of him."

"Have you got a copy of the will?" Drake asked.

"No, not yet. I'm having a copy made from the probate records."

"Has it been admitted to probate?"

"I understand it has. It can be contested, however, after probate as well as before."

"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."