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The Case of the Howling Dog :: Гарднер Эрл Стенли
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"Well," said Drake, "we haven't had any luck on tracing Mrs. Forbes yet. Naturally, she felt quite a bit disgraced and she left Santa Barbara, but we don't know where she went. You know how a woman would feel about those things, particularly when a man didn't give her any warning, but simply disappeared and took a friend's wife with him."
Mason nodded slowly, and reached for his hat.
"I think," he said, "that I'm going out and talk with this Clinton Forbes, alias Clinton Foley."
"Well," Drake told him, "every man to his taste. You may have your hands full. He's got the reputation for being a belligerent customer, and having the devil's own temper. I found that out in checking back on his career in Santa Barbara."
Mason nodded absently.
"That's one thing they can't ever say about you," Drake remarked. "They can't ever say you haven't got guts. You go out of your way in order to get into trouble."
Perry Mason shook his head, paused for a moment, then walked back to his desk, sat down and picked up the telephone.
"Della," he said, "get me Clinton Foley on the line. His residence is 4889 Milpas Drive. I want to talk with him personally."
"What's the idea?" asked Drake.
"I'm going to make an appointment with him. I'm not going to chase all the way out there, only to find that I've run up a taxi bill."
"If he knows you're coming, he'll have a couple of bouncers waiting to throw you out," the detective warned.
"Not after I get done talking with him, he won't," Mason said grimly.
Paul Drake sighed and lit a cigarette.
"A fool for a fight," he said.
"No, I'm not," Mason told him. "But you overlook the fact that I'm representing my clients. I'm a paid gladiator. I have to go in and fight; that's what they hire me for. Any time I get weak kneed so I don't have guts enough to wade in and fight, I've unfitted myself to carry on my profession, at any rate, the branch of it that I specialize in. I'm a fighter. I'm hired to fight. Everything I got in the world, I got through fighting."
The telephone rang, and Mason scooped up the receiver.
"Mr. Foley on the line," Della Street 's voice said.
"Okay," Mason told her.
There was the click of the connection, and then Foley's voice, vibrant with booming magnetism.
"Yes, hello, hello."
"Mr. Foley," said the lawyer, "this is Perry Mason, the attorney. I want to talk with you."
"I have nothing whatever to discuss with you, Mr. Mason," Foley said.
"Well," said Drake, "we haven't had any luck on tracing Mrs. Forbes yet. Naturally, she felt quite a bit disgraced and she left Santa Barbara, but we don't know where she went. You know how a woman would feel about those things, particularly when a man didn't give her any warning, but simply disappeared and took a friend's wife with him."
Mason nodded slowly, and reached for his hat.
"I think," he said, "that I'm going out and talk with this Clinton Forbes, alias Clinton Foley."
"Well," Drake told him, "every man to his taste. You may have your hands full. He's got the reputation for being a belligerent customer, and having the devil's own temper. I found that out in checking back on his career in Santa Barbara."
Mason nodded absently.
"That's one thing they can't ever say about you," Drake remarked. "They can't ever say you haven't got guts. You go out of your way in order to get into trouble."
Perry Mason shook his head, paused for a moment, then walked back to his desk, sat down and picked up the telephone.
"Della," he said, "get me Clinton Foley on the line. His residence is 4889 Milpas Drive. I want to talk with him personally."
"What's the idea?" asked Drake.
"I'm going to make an appointment with him. I'm not going to chase all the way out there, only to find that I've run up a taxi bill."
"If he knows you're coming, he'll have a couple of bouncers waiting to throw you out," the detective warned.
"Not after I get done talking with him, he won't," Mason said grimly.
Paul Drake sighed and lit a cigarette.
"A fool for a fight," he said.
"No, I'm not," Mason told him. "But you overlook the fact that I'm representing my clients. I'm a paid gladiator. I have to go in and fight; that's what they hire me for. Any time I get weak kneed so I don't have guts enough to wade in and fight, I've unfitted myself to carry on my profession, at any rate, the branch of it that I specialize in. I'm a fighter. I'm hired to fight. Everything I got in the world, I got through fighting."
The telephone rang, and Mason scooped up the receiver.
"Mr. Foley on the line," Della Street 's voice said.
"Okay," Mason told her.
There was the click of the connection, and then Foley's voice, vibrant with booming magnetism.
"Yes, hello, hello."
"Mr. Foley," said the lawyer, "this is Perry Mason, the attorney. I want to talk with you."
"I have nothing whatever to discuss with you, Mr. Mason," Foley said.