“Not a thing,” Mason said. “That’s something the police are working on tooth and nail... How much do you know about the case, Paul?”
“Not very much more than what I’ve read in the papers,” Drake said, “but one of my friends, who’s in the newspaper game, was asking me something about weapons.”
“What did he want to know?” Mason asked.
“Something about the murder gun.”
“What about the gun?”
“It’s some sort of a trick weapon,” Drake said. “One of those short-barreled guns, with a trigger which folds back out of the way. It’s small enough to be carried anywhere.”
“What caliber?”
“A forty-one.”
“Try and find out about ammunition for it,” Mason said. “See if the shells are carried in stock... No, forget it. The police will do all that. You stick to parrots, Paul. Cover all pet stores. Find out about parrot sales during the last week or two.”
Paul Drake, whose efficiency as a detective depended in large part upon the fact that he looked so completely innocuous, closed his leather-backed notebook and dropped it into his pocket. He surveyed Perry Mason with slightly protruding eyes, the expression of which was habitually masked by a glassy film.