He walked directly across the strip of dry grass which had evidently been a lawn at one time, until lack of care and the long Southern California dry spell had forced it to give up the struggle for existence. The parrot, in a bell-shaped cage on the screen porch, executed a peculiar double shuffle on the round perch of the cage. His feet fairly streaked back and forth in excitement as he squawked, “Come in and sit down. Come in and sit down. Hello, hello. Come in and sit down.”
Mason said, “Hello, Polly,” and went up close to the screen.
“Hello, Polly,” the bird replied.
Mason pointed at the parrot. “Oh, oh,” he said.
“What?” Drake asked.
“Look at the right foot. One of the toes is gone,” Mason said.
The parrot, as though mocking him, burst into high, shrill laughter; then, evidently in high good humor, preened his glossy, green feathers, smoothing them carefully between the upper hooked beak and the surface of the black-coated tongue. Abruptly, the bird turned its wicked glittering eyes on Perry Mason. It ruffled its feathers as though showing great excitement and suddenly squawked, “Put down that gun, Helen! Don’t shoot! Squawk. Squawk. My God, you’ve shot me!”
The parrot paused and cocked its head on one side as though seeking by a survey of the three startled faces lined up in front of the screen to estimate the sensation its words had produced.
“Good Lord,” Drake said. “Do you suppose...”
He broke off as a woman’s voice said, “Good evening. What was it you wanted, please?”