Case of the Beautiful Beggar

Chapter 13

It was well after ten o’clock that evening when Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of Mason’s office.

Della Street opened the door.

A bedraggled Paul Drake, his face oily with weariness, came in, slumped into a chair, said, “I tried to make it sooner. I knew you people wanted to go home, but it’s been one hell of a job.”

“What did you find out?” Mason asked.

“Something that the police have been suppressing,” Drake said. “I found out how they really knew about the barbiturates.”

“How come?”

Drake said, “In the bathroom in the apartment where they found the man lying dead — Unit 21 of the motel — they found a tumbler, one of those heavy glass tumblers that go with motel rooms, you know the kind they wrap up in a wax paper package with an antiseptic label.”

Mason nodded.

“Inside the tumbler was the glass tube of a toothbrush case and a little white powder,” Drake said “Lieutenant Tragg treated the glass for fingerprints.”

“Did he get any?”

“He got some prints. Probably those of Horace Shelby, but they don’t know for sure.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“Someone had used the glass tube of the toothbrush case to grind up some sleeping pills, using the tumbler as an impromptu mortar, and the toothbrush case as an improvised pestle.”

“How do they know about the toothbrush case having been used as a pestle?”

“Some of the powder had been ground into the rounded end of the glass case hard enough so it stuck there.”

“Tragg’s a thorough cuss,” Mason said.

Drake nodded.

“What was the powder?” Mason asked.

“It’s a barbiturate preparation called Somniferone. It’s a combination preparation that is very quick in its action and is combined with another barbiturate derivative which is more lasting. The result is a combination which takes effect quickly and lasts a long time.”

“How’d they get it identified?” Mason asked.

“One of these X-ray analytical machines. Tragg got fingerprints from the glass and then rushed the whole thing up to the police laboratory.”

“All right,” Mason said, “I can see you’re leading up to something. Hand it to me.”

“Somniferone,” Drake said, “is the barbiturate that was prescribed for Horace Shelby by the doctor who was called in by Borden Finchley after they moved in. He is the same doctor who prescribed the sedative for Daphne to take with her on her long ocean voyage and just before she left they filled the prescription for her. She had a whole three months’ supply of Somniferone.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“The police don’t know it yet, but they’re investigating,” Drake said. “They’re getting on the right track.”

“What’s the right track?”

“Your client,” Drake said. “That girl certainly can put on an act. She poses as little Miss Sweetness, little Miss Innocence, but she’s a deep one.”

“What did she do?”

“She went to a Chinese restaurant. She got some Chinese food. She went to Unit 21. She took her sleeping pills and ground them up in the glass tumbler with the toothbrush case. She invited Ralph Exeter in for a conference.- She drugged his food, dumped all the food that was uneaten down the toilet and washed out the pasteboard containers. After he slipped into a drugged sleep, she disconnected the gas pipe so the gas was on, and left. She knew that, one way or another, she wasn’t going to be bothered any more with Ralph Exeter.”

Mason shook his head. “I won’t buy it, Paul.”

“You don’t have to buy it,” Drake said. “The police are going to buy it.”

“She bought the Chinese food for Horace Shelby,” Mason said.

“No she didn’t,” Drake said. “Shelby was long gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve found a cabdriver who received a call to pick up a passenger at the street corner where the Northern Lights Motel is located.

“He went there. An elderly man, who seemed somewhat confused, was waiting. He got in the cab and seemed a little uncertain about where he wanted to go. He started for the Union Station then changed his mind and said he’d go to the airport. The cab took him to the airport. The man seemed to be loaded with cash. He took a roll of bills from his pocket. A hundred-dollar bill was the smallest he had. The cabdriver had to go with him into the airport to get the bill changed.”

“That man was Horace Shelby. The description fits.”

“The time element?” Mason asked.

“The time element was a good hour before Daphne went to the Chinese restaurant, got the food in pasteboard containers then went to the Northern Lights Motel.”

“All right,” Mason said, “that’s circumstantial evidence, but we haven’t got all the evidence yet, Paul. Daphne didn’t have any motive for killing Ralph Exeter.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Drake said. “She was more resentful of Ralph than of anyone in the crowd. She regarded Borden Finchley as her uncle and Borden’s wife as her aunt. Exeter was the one who was making the trouble, putting on all the pressure, and she knew it.”

“What about Borden Finchley?” Mason asked. “Where was he while all this was going on?”

“Borden Finchley has an alibi. So does his wife, Elinor.”

“You’ve checked?”

“I’ve checked. Of course, it’s a husband and wife affair in part, but there’s some independent corroboration. The Finchley’s were moving all of Daphne’s things out of her room, taking an inventory of every garment, every jar of toilet preparations, every paper. They were at it for three hours.

“The housekeeper was downstairs most of the time, crying over what was happening. Mrs. Finchley came downstairs for something and gave the housekeeper a tongue-lashing and sent her home.”

Mason said, “There were men from Las Vegas who were interested, Paul. When I made my first visit to the Goodwill Sanitarium, a man came up to the car and asked me if I was the doctor the Court had appointed to examine Horace Shelby. I told him I wasn’t. The man hurriedly walked away, got into a car which was parked some distance ahead and drove off.

“I couldn’t make out the license number but I could see it was a Nevada license plate. I could tell by the colors. I didn’t want to be too obvious about trying to follow him, because I felt they might be watching in the rear-view mirror, so I made a play of starting to go to the sanitarium then changing my mind. I took out after them to try and get the license number. I never did find them. I must have lost them at an intersection.”

“Could be, all right,” Drake said, “but at the time your client was in Unit 21 at the Northern Lights Motel apparently taking food to Horace Shelby, Horace Shelby had been long gone.”

“No question about the time element?”

Drake shook his head. “No question.”

Mason said, “All right, Paul, we’re going to have a showdown with Daphne. She’s held out on me too often and too much.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get her on the phone,” he said.

Della Street checked the number on the card she had, sent her fingers spinning over the dial, gave the number of Daphne’s room and said, “I’d like to speak with Miss Shelby, please.”

She waited a moment, then said, “The poor kid’s probably asleep. She’s certainly had a day.”

“Poor kid, my eye,” Drake said. “That girl is probably up to some skulduggery right now.”

The three of them sat waiting in tense expectancy.

After a while, Della Street said, “Are you certain, you’re ringing the right room, Operator? Would you mind trying it again just to make sure?”

Again there was a period of silence and Della Street said, “Thank you, we’ll call later. No message.”

She hung up the telephone and said, “No answer. She’s either not in her room or...”

Her voice trailed away into silence.

Perry Mason got up from his chair, nodded to Drake. “Okay, folks,” he said, “let’s go.”

“One car?” Drake asked, as they descended in the elevator.

“Taxicab,” Mason said tersely. “I don’t want a parking problem when we get there, and we can get plenty of cabs in front of the hotel when we want to come back.”

They emerged from Mason’s office building, found a cab parked at the cabstand a few steps from the entrance and the three of them piled in.

Mason gave the driver the name of Daphne’s hotel, and the driver made a quick run, getting there within a matter of seven or eight minutes.

The lawyer gave him a liberal tip, entered the hotel and with complete assurance walked to the elevator, said, “Seventh floor,” to the elevator operator, and when they left the elevator the lawyer turned to the left, strode down the corridor.

The elevator doors closed.

Mason waited until the operator had moved the cage from the seventh floor before looking at the numbers on the rooms, then turned abruptly. “Wrong direction,” he said. “I didn’t want the elevator boy to know we weren’t oriented.”

“What’s the number?” Drake asked.

“Seven eighteen,” Mason said.

They retraced their steps, found 718.

There was a sign on the door, DO NOT DISTURB.

Della Street said, “Let’s take one thing into consideration. The poor kid was up all last night, working in that sanitarium. She’s gone for thirty-six hours without sleep. It’s only natural she should put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door and go to bed.”

“Also it’s only natural that she should wake up to answer the telephone,” Mason said.

“Perhaps not if she’s sleeping the sleep of exhaustion,” Della Street said.

Mason’s knuckles banged on the door.

The lawyer waited for a moment then knocked loudly for a second time. There was no answer.

Mason said, “Della, I hate to ask you to do this, but I want to see the inside of that room.

“Go down on the elevator, leave the hotel then re-enter, walking boldly up to the clerk’s desk and ask him for the key to 718.

“If you have just the right amount of assurance, just the right poise, he’ll hand the key to you. If he asks you your name, tell him Daphne Shelby. If he goes any further and asks for identification, tell him who you are, tell him I’m waiting up here that Daphne is my client that I’m afraid she’s been drugged or perhaps murdered and is not answering the door because she can’t answer the door.

“If it comes to that, ask the house detective to accompany you up here.”

“Chief, do you really think she’s—”

“How do I know?” Mason said. “We’ve had one murder. We could have two. What I’m telling you now is the attitude you’re to adopt with the house detective if necessary. Tell him I’m waiting up here with a private detective. That will take you off the spot for trying to get the key to another person’s room.”

Della Street nodded.

“Think you can do it?” Mason asked.

“I can make one of the best attempts that you ever saw,” she said, smiling.

“Try to leave the lobby unostentatiously so the clerk won’t notice you going out. When you come in, just ask for the key.”

“But suppose Daphne has the key with her?”

“These hotels nearly always have two keys to a room in the pigeonhole, and a third key in a drawer that they can open in case the other keys are lost.”

Della Street said, “You’ll be here?”

“We’ll be here,” Mason said.

Della Street walked to the elevator, rang the button, and a moment later was taken down.

Mason, simply as a matter of precaution, tapped on the door again. When he had no answer, he turned, leaned against the wall with his shoulders and hips, elevated his right foot so that it was flat against the wall and said to the detective, “We have more damned complications.”

“Depending, of course, on what has happened,” Drake said.

“No matter what’s happened,” Mason said, “we’ve got complications. If she’s in and doesn’t answer the door or the telephone, we’ve probably got a corpse — or perhaps someone who has been drugged with a barbiturate. In that case our only hope is that we can rush her to the hospital and save her life.

“If she isn’t in her room, we’ve got real problems.”

“Such as what?”

“Suppose Lieutenant Tragg wants to question her. He told her not to leave town, to keep herself available for questions. If she’s not in her room, Tragg will regard that as flight, and in this state, flight is evidence of guilt.”

“Oh, oh!” Drake said.

They waited for some four or five minutes, and then the elevator stopped again at the seventh floor. The doors slid back, and Della Street nodded her thanks to the operator and started walking rapidly toward them.

“Do any good?” Mason asked.

By way of answer, Della Street exhibited the key with the metallic oval tag fastened to it by a ring.

She fitted the key in the door.

“Better let me do this,” Mason said, stepping forward. “If the door is bolted from the inside, it means we’ve got a major problem. If it isn’t bolted, I’m her attorney and I’d better be the one that opens the door.”

The key clicked back the latch. Mason tentatively tried the door, turned the knob, pushed against the door, then put his shoulder against it.

Mason turned to the others.

“That does it,” he said. “It’s bolted from the inside.”

“That means she’s in there?”

The lawyer nodded.

Drake said, “Let’s get the house detective.”

“We’ll try one more time,” Mason said.

This time his knuckles pounded a double tattoo on the panels of the door.

“All right,” Mason said, “we’ve got to get the detective and force the door. We...”

The lawyer broke off as there was the sound of a bolt being moved on the inside of the door.

The bolt on the inside of the door slid all the way back, and the door opened.

Daphne Shelby in a sheer nightgown stood sleepily regarding them.

“What... I’m dizzy... Help... She collapsed to the floor.

Della Street ran to her side.

Mason said, “There’s a house physician here. Let’s get him. But first, keep her from going to sleep. Paul, get some cold compresses. Put them on her head and neck.”

Drake said, “Okay, let’s lift her back into bed and—”

“Not bed,” Mason said. “That’s the worst place for her if she’s been drugged. Keep her walking. I’ll take one side, Della can take the other. Keep her moving. Get some cold towels.”

“I’ll get a wrap of some sort,” Della said

She hurried to the closet, came out with a wrap, and the three of them managed to get the garment around the girl. Then Mason and Della started her walking. Drake hurried into the bathroom.

Daphne took one or two steps, then suddenly slumped, moaned and said, “Oh, I’m so sleepy... so, so... so sleepy.”

Drake came hurrying out of the bathroom with a cold towel. He put it on Daphne’s neck, then on her head. “Come on. Daphne,” he said, “keep walking.”

Mason said, “What happened. Daphne?”

“I think I’m poisoned,” she said sleepily.

“I know. What makes you think you’re poisoned?”

“I stopped at the lunch counter. I had some chocolate. That was all I wanted, just a big pot of hot chocolate and some toast. I was so tired. I’d been up all night.”

“I know,” Mason said, “go on.”

“The chocolate tasted funny,” she said, and then added, “I had gone to the telephone and left it there for a minute. I asked the waitress not to take it away. There was a funny-looking woman sitting next to the end...” Abruptly Daphne ceased talking and became a dead weight.

Mason and Della Street got her to her feet. Drake appeared with another cold towel. Mason said, “Get on the phone, Paul. Get the house doctor up here on the double. Tell him we have a sleeping pill case.”

Mason pulled back the robe, shoved the cold towel down Daphne’s spine.

“Ooooh,” she exclaimed, giving a little jump. “That’s cold.”

“It’ll do you good,” Mason said. “Keep walking.”

“I... can’t... walk... I want to lie down and go... sleep.”

“Keep walking,” Mason said. “Keep walking.”

Drake turned from the telephone. “A doctor will be on his way up here inside of a few seconds.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Get Room Service Della, tell them to send up two pots of strong black coffee.”

“Please let me... go...” Daphne said.

“Keep the towels coming, Paul,” Mason ordered.

“No, no,” she protested listlessly, “I’m sopping wet!”

Mason said, “You’ll be wet when we get done here... Paul, fill the bathtub full of water that’s just a little bit warmer than lukewarm. Della Street can see that she gets a tepid bath — just enough to give her a little stimulation and keep her from getting chilled. We want it just a few degrees warmer than body temperature.”

Drake handed Mason two more cold towels, said, “I wish I had four hands.”

Mason kept Daphne walking. Della Street ordered black coffee. From the bathroom was the sound of running water.

Daphne sighed. Her head fell over on Mason’s shoulder and again she slumped.

The lawyer elevated her to her feet.

“Walk,” Mason said, “walk, Daphne. You’ve got to help. You’ve got to walk. I can’t just carry you by your arms. Walk!”

“I can’t feel the floor,” she said. “My feet aren’t touching anything.”

“Do you think the woman sitting next to you put something in your chocolate?”

“It tasted funny, sort of bitter, but I put more sugar in it.”

“Can you describe her? Do you know what she looked like?” Mason asked.

“No... I can’t concentrate... I’m sorry to let you down like this, Mr. Mason.”

Again her legs seemed to buckle. Mason and Della lifted the dead weight.

Mason pulled back his left hand, and with the palm gave Daphne’s rump a sharp slap.

Her back arched as she jerked her hips out of the way.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” she blazed, and then suddenly moaned and again collapsed.

This time neither the lawyer nor Della Street could get her to make any effort to stand on her feet. She simply remained a dead weight.

Mason stood looking down at her with thought-slitted eyes, then said to Della Street, “Let’s put her over on the bed.”

“But she’ll just go into unconsciousness,” Della Street said. “You told us that yourself, Perry.”

“I know,” Mason said. “Get her over on the bed.”

There was a knock at the door.

Drake opened it.

A professional-appearing man with a black medical bag said, “I’m Dr. Selkirk.”

Mason said, “This young woman seems to have been given an overdose of barbiturates.”

“All right,” Dr. Selkirk said, “we’ll pump her stomach out.”

“And let’s save what we get,” Mason said. “I’m interested.”

“Any container around here?” Dr. Selkirk asked.

Mason said, “There’s a water pitcher.”

“Well, that’ll do if we have to use it.”

Dr. Selkirk said, “We need some coffee.”

“It’s been ordered,” Mason said.

“And we’ll cover her up and keep her warm.”

The physician pumped out the contents of the stomach then listened with a stethoscope at the girl’s chest. He frowned, took her pulse, then went over the pitcher containing the contents of the stomach.

Mason stepped into the bathroom, said to Paul Drake, “Get that water just as ice cold as you can get it, Paul.”

“What?” Drake asked, incredulously.

“Just as cold as you can get it.”

Dr. Selkirk motioned to Perry Mason. “May I see you a minute?” he asked.

Mason moved over to him. Dr. Selkirk lowered his voice, glanced apprehensively over his shoulder to where Della Street was smoothing Daphne’s wet hair back from her forehead.

“There’s something funny about this,” Dr. Selkirk said. “Her pulse is strong and active, her respiration is normal and regular, but there are remains in the stomach contents that are pills, all right.”

“You mean the pills haven’t digested? Did she swallow them in the chocolate?” Mason asked.

“She’s had chocolate within the last hour or so,” Dr. Selkirk said, “but I doubt if the pills were ingested at the same time as the chocolate. I think that they were taken later.”

Mason said, “Would it be all right if I tried an experiment, Doctor?”

“What sort of an experiment?”

Mason raised his voice. “I’ve instructed Mr. Drake here, a private investigator, to fill the bathtub with warm water. I want to...”

Dr. Selkirk started shaking his head.

“I want to keep her from getting chilled by putting her in this warm water,” Mason said.

Dr. Selkirk started to say something.

Mason raised a finger to catch Dr. Selkirk’s attention then closed his eye in an unmistakable wink.

“Come on, Della,” Mason said, “get her in the bathroom. We’ll help you if necessary. Let her soak in that water for about ten minutes.”

“She’ll relax and go right to sleep, probably into a deep stupor,” Dr. Selkirk said.

“Let’s try it, anyway,” Mason said. “We can always pull her out.”

“I’m not going to strip the clothes off her,” Della said angrily. “You should have a nurse if you want—”

“That’s all right,” Mason said, “leave her clothes on, that is, both the robe and the night-dress, just dunk her in that warm water.”

Della said, “You’ll have to help me.”

“I’ll help you,” Mason said.

They picked Daphne up, carried her to the door of the bathroom, swung her around over the bath water.

“Are you awake, Daphne?” Mason asked.

The eyelids fluttered, but there was no other motion.

“All right,” Mason said, “drop her, Della.”

Mason let go of the shoulders, and Della Street let go of the feet. The girl splashed into the bathtub.

There was a shrill scream. Daphne exclaimed, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!” and came up out of the bathtub, pushing, clawing, fighting mad. “That water’s ice cold!” she screamed. “You son of a—”

“All right, Daphne,” Mason interrupted. “It was a good try but it didn’t work. Della will stay in here with you and help get you dry and bring you some clothes from the closet then perhaps you can come out and tell us what this is really all about.”

Mason stepped out and closed the door.

“I’m freezing,” Daphne said as the door closed.

“Get those things off,” Della ordered.

“Put some hot water in that tub. Get me a hot shower. I’m frozen to the bone.”

Drake said, “How the hell did you know, Perry?”

Mason said, “The first two steps she took when we started walking her were perfectly normal steps then she suddenly remembered and took all the spring out of her legs. A moment later, she was a dead weight. Then she came to again and tried it some more. She did a pretty fair job, but she didn’t know just what she was doing.”

“What about these stomach contents?” Dr. Selkirk asked.

“Forget them,” Mason said. “Flush them down the toilet and send me your bill. Doctor. I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer. I’ve found out all I want to know.”

“That was pretty strenuous treatment, a girl who expects to be immersed in warm water suddenly finding herself plunged into a bathtub full of ice cold water...”

“I felt there’d be a reaction.” Mason grinned. “But I didn’t think it would be quite as...”

He broke off as knuckles sounded on the door.

Dr. Selkirk looked questioningly at Mason.

“This is the girl’s room,” Mason said hastily. “I don’t think we should answer the door.”

The knocking became peremptory. Lieutenant Tragg’s voice called out, “Open up. This is the law!”

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

Dr. Selkirk said, “I’m house physician here at the hotel. We have to recognize a summons of that sort.”

He walked across and opened the door.

Tragg showed surprise. “Is a Miss Daphne Shelby in here?” he asked. And then, suddenly catching sight of Perry Mason, said, “Well, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing here?”

Mason said, “Miss Shelby is ill. She’s been poisoned with barbiturates. Della Street is with her in the bathroom. I want to talk with her when she comes out.”

“And I want to talk with her,” Lieutenant Tragg said.

He turned to Dr. Selkirk. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Selkirk, the house physician.”

“What’s the matter with her?”

Mason said, “You have treated her as a professional man, Doctor. You should have the consent of the patient, I believe, before answering that question.”

Dr. Selkirk hesitated.

Tragg said, “Don’t let that sharp lawyer bamboozle you. Did she call you?”

“Somebody called me from this room,” Dr. Selkirk said.

“You’re the house physician?”

“Yes.”

“You’re representing the hotel,” Tragg said. “What’s the matter with her?”

“I... I’m not prepared to state at this moment.”

Tragg walked over to the pitcher which was on the floor by the bed.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Contents we pumped out of her stomach.”

“What are these pink things?” Tragg asked.

“Pills. Pills which have become partially dissolved.”

“Somebody tried to give her a drug?” Tragg asked.

“That was the reason I had the stomach contents pumped out,” Dr. Selkirk said, then hesitated.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Tragg said.

“However,” Dr. Selkirk went on, “I would say that those pills had been ingested within the last fifteen minutes. We’ve been here almost that long. It is my considered professional opinion that those pills were ingested just before she opened the door to let these gentlemen in.”

A triumphant smile spread over Tragg’s face.

“Now that,” he said, “is exactly the type of evidence I was looking for. I didn’t know whether we’d find it so easy, but —

“Well, what do you know!”

Mason said, “Are you absolutely certain of your diagnosis, Doctor?”

Dr. Selkirk grinned. “You seemed to be absolutely certain of yours.”

Mason stepped to the door of the bathroom, said, “Lieutenant Tragg is here. He’s going to ask some questions, Daphne, and I don’t want you to answer a single question, not a word.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Tragg said, “tactics such as those are going to be responsible for making a lot of trouble for this young lady.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“I’ll take her up to Headquarters.”

“Under arrest?”

“Possibly.”

“You won’t take her from here unless you do arrest her,” Mason said and then added, “And if you arrest her, your face is going to be awfully red if you have to back up in the light of subsequently discovered evidence.”

Tragg thought things over for a moment, then walked over to the most comfortable chair in the room and seated himself.

“Doctor,” he said to Dr. Selkirk, “I don’t want you to talk with anyone until I’ve had a chance to ask you some questions about this case. You may as well go now, if you think there’s no danger.”

“No danger whatever,” Dr. Selkirk said. “Her pulse is strong and regular, just a little rapid. Apparently she’s under some excitement. Her heartbeat is strong and clear. Her respiration is perfect. The pupils of her eyes react normally. Her stomach has been pumped out, and any barbiturates she may have taken will perhaps help her to get a good night’s sleep, but they aren’t in the least dangerous.”

Tragg went over to the writing desk, folded a piece of stationery so it came to a sharp point and started fishing the pills out of the liquid in the water pitcher.

“Rather a dirty job,” he said, “but I think this is going to be evidence, the sort of evidence I’ve been looking for.”

Della Street called out from the bathroom, “Will you hand me in the clothes that are on the chair by the bed?”

Mason crossed over to the chair, picked up the clothes which had been piled helter-skelter on the chair, knocked on the bathroom door.

Della Street opened it a crack, and Mason passed the clothes in.

Tragg said, “Perry, I’m going to take this girl down to Headquarters. If I have to, I’ll arrest her on suspicion of murder. I have enough evidence to justify what I’m doing.”

“Go right ahead,” Mason said, “but I’ll instruct her to answer no questions unless I’m present. This girl has been up all night. Why don’t you let her have a night’s sleep and interrogate her tomorrow?”

“We will,” Tragg promised, “but she’s going to have that night’s sleep where we can be pretty darned sure she doesn’t gobble another dose of sleeping pills.”

“Have it your own way,” Mason said.

Tragg looked at him thoughtfully and said, “There’s something going on in that brain of yours, Perry. What is it?”

Mason said, “Simply the feeling that you’re making trouble for yourself, taking irrevocable steps before you’re sure of what you’re doing.”

“You worry about your problems and I’ll worry about mine,” Tragg said.

After a few minutes, Della Street and Daphne emerged from the bathroom.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” Lieutenant Tragg said, “but you’re going to have to go up to Headquarters. I’m going to keep you tonight where I can be sure I can put my finger on you in the morning. I’ve promised Perry Mason that I’m going to let you get a night’s sleep and I will, but I’m also going to see to it that you don’t take any more sleeping pills.”

“Now, how many did you take?”

“Don’t answer any questions,” Mason said.

Tragg sighed. “All right,” he said, “bring your things. I’m not going to try to search your purse here, but I warn you that when we get to the detention ward all of your possessions will be searched. Then you’ll be given prison clothes and no sleeping pills.”

Daphne, her head erect, her eyes flashing, marched toward the door, turned to Perry Mason and said, “Mr. Smarty Pants! You with your cold water!”

Mason warned, “Be your age, Daphne. I’m trying to help you. Your own efforts are amateurish.”

“Well, yours are thoroughly professional and disgusting,” she snapped.

Lieutenant Tragg listened curiously. “All right, Daphne,” he said, at length, “let’s go.”

They left the room.

Perry Mason said in a low voice, “Keep your key, Della.”

They all rode down in the elevator. Tragg hustled Daphne across the lobby and into a police car.

Mason said hurriedly, “Let’s go back up to Daphne’s room. Hurry!”

“Why?” Drake asked.

“Why do you think Daphne took those sleeping pills?” Mason asked.

“To arouse sympathy to make it appear someone else was passing out the drugs?”

Mason shook his head. “We trapped her when we knocked on the door. She didn’t dare come to the door until she’d jumped out of her clothes into a nightie, gulped down some sleeping pills and decided to put on the act.”

“Why?” Della Street asked.

“To keep us from speculating on what she’d been doing while we were knocking on the door and waiting.”

“What had she been doing?”

“Unless I miss my guess very much indeed,” Mason said, “she had been visiting with her Uncle Horace Shelby in the adjoining room.

“She had to get out of that room, lock the connecting door, get her clothes off, get on a nightie, get into bed, gulp down a few sleeping pills and then come staggering to the door and put on the act of being drugged so no one would suspect the real reason she didn’t answer the door when we first knocked.”

“That’s a wild hunch,” Della Street said.

Mason grinned. “Perhaps it is, but we’re going back to Daphne’s room, knock on the connecting door leading to the next room and see what happens. And while I’m knocking on that door, Paul, you’re going to be standing in the corridor so in case Uncle Horace tries to slip out, you’ll be in a position to nab him... Come on, let’s go.”