The Case of the Lame Canary

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Any student of character will concede that outstanding examples of class run contrary to type. The best detectives look like clerks. The best gamblers look like bankers. And nothing in Perry Mason’s appearance indicated that his agile brain, unconventional methods, and daring technique made him the city’s most feared and respected trial lawyer.

Seated in his office, he regarded the young woman who sat in the big leather chair, holding a caged canary in her lap. His steady eyes held none of the gimlet qualities so frequently associated with cross-examiners, but were, instead, filled with patience, touched with sympathy. His rugged features might have been carved from granite.

“That canary,” he said, with the quiet insistence of one who will continue to repeat his statements until he has scored his point, “has a sore foot.”

The young woman shifted the cage from her lap to the floor, as though trying to keep the lawyer from seeing too much. “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, and then added by way of explanation, “he’s a little frightened.”

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