The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde

20

Mason’s fingers spun the dial of the telephone to the division marked “Operator.”

“Hello, hello, Operator!” Mason said. “Hello, this is an emergency. Get me the Police Department! Put through the call at once... Hello, hello, Police Headquarters? Let me talk with Lieutenant Tragg.”

“He isn’t in,” the voice at the other end of the line said.

“Who’s on duty in Homicide?”

“Sergeant Holcomb.”

“Put Sergeant Holcomb on the line. This is Perry Mason. This is an emergency!”

A moment later Holcomb’s voice said, “Yeah, what is it?”

“This is Perry Mason, Sergeant Holcomb. I want to get a police car on the job immediately.”

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Listen, get this straight. I’ve found out the reason Mildred Danville was murdered, and I think I know who murdered her. Now in order to keep another murder from being committed, it’s going to be necessary to rush a police car to the house of Jason Bartsler at once. Put enough men in the place to see that nothing happens until I get there.”

“Well, ain’t you smart!” Holcomb said. “And I suppose after we lead with our chins on this, you’ll have some newspaper reporters out there and spill your story to them and make it look as though the Police Department placed a lot of credence in it. Nothing doing, Mason. You paddle your own canoe. As far as this department is concerned, we know who killed Mildred Danville and why.”

“Look here, Holcomb,” Mason said patiently, “I can’t outline my theory to you over the telephone, but I’m telling you just as sure as you’re sitting there, that if you don’t get men out to Jason Bartsler’s place, a murder is going to be committed.”

“Okay,” Holcomb said, “if it is, we’ll remember that you seemed to have been mixed up in it, and you can explain to the grand jury ‘how you knew so much about it and why you’re not an accessory. Why don’t you go there yourself, if you’re in such a hurry?”

“Someone’s stolen my car,” Mason said.

“Well, now... ain’t... that... too... bad! Ha, ha, ha! Good-by, Mason.”

Mason slammed up the telephone as he heard the click at the other end of the line. He hesitated a moment, then looked around for a telephone book, couldn’t find one, dialed Information and said, “Give me the number of Jason Bartsler’s residence, please. It’s highly important.”

“Just a moment — how do you spell the last name?”

“B-a-r-t-s-l-e-r, and please rush it.”

“Just a moment.”

It was some fifteen seconds later that a voice said, “His number is Westgate 9643.”

Mason said, “Thank you,” and was dialing the number with frantically hurrying fingers.

A few moments later a voice asked, “What number are you calling, please?”

“Westgate nine six four three.”

“Just a moment.”

Again there was a delay, then the voice said, “That line seems to be out of order. I am reporting it. Will you call a little later, please?”

Mason’s forefinger slammed down the pronged cradle in which the receiver rested, clearing the line for another call, called a taxi company. “This is an emergency,” he said. “Can you send a taxicab out to eleven ninety-one Killman Boulevard immediately?”

“I’m sorry, we have no cabs available for calls in that district.”

“This is an emergency. This is a matter of life and death, and...”

“We hear that so often,” the girl said in a bored voice. “If the matter has such urgency, you had better call the police, or an ambulance. I think I can have a cab out for you in thirty minutes, if that will do.”

“It won’t do,” Mason said savagely.

“Very well. Good-by.”

Mason dialed the number of Drake’s Detective Agency and when he had Drake’s night operative on the line, said, “This is Perry Mason. Where’s Paul?”

“He telephoned in that he was eating dinner. He has someone...”

“Oh, Lord!” Mason groaned. “Any idea where he is?”

“Yes. He left a phone number where I could reach him if there was anything of any particular importance.”

Mason said, “Get a call through to him. Tell him to burn the road up getting out to eleven ninety-one Killman Boulevard, I’ll be waiting for him. Wait a minute. Is there anyone there in the office who can get out here quicker than that?”

“No, Mr. Mason, I don’t think there is. I think Mr. Drake...”

“All right, get Paul. Now listen. Anita Dorset is with him, and they’re entertaining a man by the name of Thurston at dinner. Tell Paul to have Anita stay with Thurston, and for him to jump in the car and get out here, and to step on it.”

“Very well, Mr. Mason.”

Mason hung up the telephone, started pacing the floor.

Della Street entered the room carrying the baby in her arms. “Look, Chief, isn’t he cute?”

Mason nodded perfunctory acknowledgment, said, “All ready to travel?”

“Yes. I’ve bundled him up all nice and warm.”

Mason said, “We’ve got to get out of here, and there’s no way of getting out. Mrs. Kennard stole my automobile and probably went for reinforcements. I can’t get any action out of the police, and the taxi companies won’t send a cab out here. Everyone has pulled that life-and-death stuff on them until they’re tired of it... Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Della. I’ll do it the hard way if I can’t do it the easy way.”

He once more dialed Operator, said, “Connect me with Police Headquarters at once, please.”

“Hello,” Mason said as soon as he had an answer. “This is Jason Bartsler. I’m at my residence at 2816 Pacific Heights Drive. There’s a masked man trying to get in the back door. Send radio officers out right away.”

The man at the other end of the line seemed strangely unexcited. “What’s your telephone number, Mr. Bartsler?”

“Westgate 9643,” Mason snapped.

“A masked man, you say?”

“Yes.”

“You see him?”

“Yes. Hurry! Send men out, or he’ll get away.”

“This is Mr. Jason Bartsler?”

“Yes.”

“You’re talking from your phone there at that number?”

“Yes. For heaven sake, send somebody out here! What’s the idea?”

“Sorry,” the voice said, “but you hang up and I’ll call you right back for a confirmation. Orders just received from Sergeant Holcomb not to pay any attention to any calls from your telephone unless they were verified. Seems as though some lawyer is trying to stampede the police into rushing a car out there so he can get some publicity for his theory on a murder case. You understand, Mr. Bartsler. Just hang up and I’ll call you back. Westgate 9643. Okay, hang up.”

Mason slammed the phone up and cursed under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” Della asked.

“That damn fool Holcomb,” Mason stormed. “So darned afraid that I’m going to slip a fast one over on him by planting some evidence and having him discover it under such dramatic circumstances that it’ll make the newspapers.”

“What,” Della asked, “do we do?”

“Paul Drake’s on his way out here, or should be if he’s got his stomach full. Lord, I hope he doesn’t get the call just as he’s being served the steak. Switch out the lights, Della.”

“You mean all the lights?”

“All the ones that are here. You take your end of the room. I’ll take this end.”

Mason picked out one light switch and Della Street turned out a floor light.

“There are lights in those other rooms,” she said.

“That’s all right,” Mason told her, “just turn out the lights here.”

“What’s the idea?”

“We’d be too good targets for anyone who wanted to shoot through a window.”

“Good heavens, Chief! Do you mean there’s that much danger?”

“There may be,” Mason said. “I don’t know just what we’re getting into, but I’m beginning to get the whole picture now.”

Della Street said, “Get over on the davenport. I’m coming over and sit beside you. There, there, Robert. It’s all right. This is Della Street. She is a friend of your mother’s. Do you want to go and see Mother?”

This brought fresh wails from the child. “I want my mommie,” he sobbed.

“You’ve been on a visit?” Mason asked.

“I want my mommie,” the childish treble repeated somewhat sleepily.

Della Street said, “Come on, Chief. Tell me what’s happening.”

Mason said, “The whole case was laid out like a pattern, and I didn’t see it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I failed to take into consideration one thing so simple that it escaped my attention.”

“What?”

“The time element.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Mason said, “Go back to the night of the twenty-fifth. Diana came home from her automobile ride. It was something after ten o’clock.”

“Well, what of it? I mean why is that significant?”

“She met Mrs. Kennard. Mrs. Kennard had just driven up. Diana went upstairs. She found Carl in her room. They had an argument. Carl very calmly, very efficiently popped her one in the eye and then walked out. Diana got a little hysterical. She put cold compresses on her face. Then she took a bath, soaked her swollen feet, dried herself, put on her shoes because she had neglected to take her slippers into the bathroom with her, put on a housecoat, and then had the altercation with Mrs. Bartsler which resulted in her running downstairs. She put on her coat which was in the coat closet, then started out and heard voices. She felt she was pretty conspicuous with her swollen eye, and waited in the closet for some ten or fifteen minutes for the coast to clear so she could see Mr. Bartsler. Then after ten or fifteen minutes when she thought everything was all right, she opened the door to step out and found Bartsler and Glenmore just escorting Mrs. Kennard to the door. She didn’t want to be conspicuous, have Mrs. Kennard see her black eye so she hurried out of the door ahead of everyone, and walked down to the corner drugstore. That was when she decided she’d go to her apartment and spend the night there. She found she didn’t even have telephone money with her, so she started walking. She got to the apartment and didn’t have her key. She wouldn’t ring the manager to get her up and be admitted with a passkey because she was so painfully conscious that she was wearing a long fur coat, a housecoat underneath that, her shoes and nothing else. So she went to the bus depot and waited for Mildred to return to the apartment. From time to time, she’d call Mildred with a nickel she’d borrowed from a total stranger.”

“Well?” Della asked as Mason ceased talking.

Mason said, “Fit that together, Della. Put the time element together. Patch that up with what we know now, and you’ll see why it’s so absolutely, utterly imperative for us to get to Jason Bartsler’s place and...”

At the sound of the name the childish cries began again.

“Yes, dear,” Della said. “You mustn’t talk now. You must close your eyes and go sleepy-by.”

“Turn on the light.”

“No it’s your bedtime.”

“I want my mommie.”

“After a while, perhaps, dear.”

“And Auntie Mildred.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’re a nice lady.”

“Well, now you go to sleep.”

“I want the mans to tell me a story.”

“No,” Della Street said, “the man is busy now. He’s thinking,”

“Why?”

“Because he’s thinking.”

“What for?”

“About lots of very important things. You must keep quiet now.”

“Tell me a story.”

“I don’t know any stories, honey.”

“Tell about Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“I don’t know it very well.”

“My mommie knows all about Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“Yes, dear. But you mustn’t talk now.”

“Turn on the light.”

“No, we have to be in the dark. Would you like to take a ride in an automobile after awhile?”

Mason got up and walked over to the darkened window. He raised the shade, looked out into the yard.

“Chief, hadn’t you better come away from that window?”

“I want to see Drake when he comes,” Mason said. “Providing he comes. Good Lord! What’s holding him up? Isn’t he... Wait a minute. Here are some headlights — coming around the corner... Now wait a minute, Della. Sit tight. We’re not absolutely certain this is Paul Drake. Hold everything. I want to get those lights out in the hall. I don’t want to go to the door and stand silhouetted against the light.”

Mason jerked open the door to the lighted corridor, switched out the lights, then walked cautiously to the front door. He turned the knob, opened it a few inches.

Paul Drake’s characteristic figure, moving now with a rapidity which seemed altogether foreign to his lazy, drawling, good nature, debouched from the car and sprinted up the walk.

Mason called over his shoulder, “Okay, Della, come on. Make it snappy!”

Mason pulled the door open, said, “’Lo, Paul. Got a gun?”

“Gosh no, Perry. What’s the matter?”

“Never mind. Let’s get going. Della has the baby. Careful not to stumble, Della.”

“What’s the matter with the lights?” Drake asked. “There’s lights on at the back of the house. Can’t you turn these...”

“No, no,” Mason said sharply. “No lights, Paul. Let’s get out of here!”

“What is this, a kidnapping?”

“Next thing to it,” Mason said. “Okay, Della, let me help you down the stairs. Careful now... You get in the back seat... Okay, Paul, get in that door. I’ll drive.”

“You would!” Drake groaned. “You’ll wreck the bus! This thing isn’t accustomed to your type of driving. You let me...”

“Get in on that side,” Mason ordered sharply. “I’m driving.”

Drake sighed, climbed in the right-hand door. Mason jerked open the left-hand door, slid in behind the steering wheel, slammed the door shut, stepped on the starter, and had the car in second gear almost before the motor had caught.

“Hold your hats,” Drake said grimly to Della Street. “Here we go!”

The car lurched away from the curb, gathered momentum, screamed around the corner and leapt forward as Mason slammed it back into high gear.

“Hang on to that baby, Della,” Mason warned.

“I’m hanging,” Della said.

The child cried delightedly and held on to Della for dear life.

“Shut up,” Paul Drake called back over his shoulder. “You’re too young to know the facts of life, or what this goof at the wheel is capable of doing. For the love of Mike, Perry, have a heart. Where are we going?”

“Jason Bartsler’s residence.”

“Provided the bus holds together that long and nothing gets in our way,” Drake said half humorously. “If you really want to save tires for me, Perry, just take those other corners on two wheels. It’ll go faster that way — like a bicycle — and it’ll save wear and tear on the other two... Hey, you! I didn’t really mean it. For the love of Mike, Perry. Take it easy! Slow down!”

From the back seat Della Street heaved a sigh of relief. “Well,” she said, “that’ll be the last corner until just before we get to the Bartsler house.”

The little boy shrieked with delight. “Whee-eee-ee,” he cried.

“Speak for yourself, son,” Drake said over his shoulder.

Della Street laughed, but her laugh was nervous.

Drake said, “When the office telephoned me, Perry, they gave me some new information about that letter. Mildred got a kid on a bicycle to deliver it, gave him half a dollar. He told his folks when he read about the murder. He saw her picture and thought he recognized it, then when he read the address... My Gosh, Perry, take it easy!”

Mason held the throttle down close to the floorboard, piloted the car with smooth skill, disregarding boulevard stops as well as traffic signals, winding in and out through what little traffic there was on the boulevard. The youngster in the back seat insisted upon standing up, and Della Street was kept busy holding him steady. Paul Drake held on in grim silence.

From behind them came the blaze of a red spotlight, the sound of a siren.

Drake turned around, said laconically, “Okay, Perry, you’ve got a customer.”

Mason poured throttle into the motor. “It’s only another four or five blocks. We haven’t time to stop and explain.”

The police car behind roared into speed, accelerating as Mason was accelerating. The sound of the siren became a high- pitched screaming that froze traffic in its tracks, gave Mason more of an opportunity to urge his car into even greater speed.

The police car gained and then gained no more. The two cars raced along the boulevard keeping their respective distances.

“They’re going to start shooting at tires pretty quick,” Drake said. “It isn’t so bad when they shoot at the driver. They always go high; but when they shoot at a wheel they invariably hit a passenger.”

Mason said, “Brace yourself. This is the corner.”

He swung wide, pressed his foot on the brake pedal, released it, pressed again, released, then leaned against the wheel.

The tires burnt long skid marks into the pavement. The scream of friction-burnt rubber was audible above the noise of the siren. The car skidded, straightened with a neck-snapping jerk as the wheels once more gripped the pavement. The car went forward like an arrow. Another two blocks and Mason swung in to the curb and slammed on the brake.

Behind them, the police car screamed to a stop. Mason had the door open, was running up the walk toward the residence of Jason Bartsler.

From the police car came a gruff command. “Halt, or we’ll let you have it.”

Mason turned. “Hurry up, you damn fool,” he shouted. “We’re trying to prevent a murder.”

The officer remained obdurate. “Halt, or I’ll give you a load of buckshot!”

Mason paused. From the interior of the house sounded the roar of a shot.

A half second later another shot crashed out. A bullet smashed through a big plate glass window in the front of the house, leaving a hole from which radiated jagged cracks.

Mason beckoned to the men in the police car. “Hurry up,” he shouted, “bring that gun!”

A third shot crashed out from the inside of the house.

Della Street screamed at — Paul Drake, “Do something!” Then releasing her hold on the child, she was running toward the police car. “It’s Perry Mason, the lawyer. He’s trying to prevent a murder!”

“It’s Mason, all right,” a voice from the interior of the car carried to Della Street’s ears.

Paul Drake slid out from the car. “Better keep an eye on the kid, Della,” he said, and started running toward the back of the house.

Officers ran past Della. One of them rushed up the front steps, at the door, another one circled around the house.

Two more shots came from the interior of the house in rapid succession. Mason flung his weight against the door, and was thrown back. The officer at the door raised the butt of his sawed-off shotgun, brought it down hard against the sash of a window which opened onto the front porch. The glass crashed in. and the officer kicked out the jagged pieces that remained in the bottom of the pane, then jumped through the window into the lighted interior of the house.

Mason came through behind the officer so fast that their shadows mingled.

From the rear of the house came a sharp command, the cracking sound of a pistol shot, then the heavy boom of a sawed- off shotgun and silence.

There were lights in the living room which Jason Bartsler Used as his office. The doors were opened.

Mason said, “This way.”

“Wait a minute!” the officer said. “Take it easy. We open the front door first.”

“No, no. This way. There’s a body in there.”

The officer looked, following the direction indicated by Mason’s finger.

The shoulder and arm of a man who lay sprawled on the floor were visible through the door. The hand held an automatic.

The officer hesitated, moved forward, holding the sawed-off shotgun in readiness.

A voice sounded from the back window. “Hey, Bill, a man tried to beat it out this way. This guy, Paul Drake, grabbed him, but couldn’t hold him. The man broke loose just as I came up. I yelled at him to stop and he took a shot at me. I poured buckshot into him. He managed to get through the back yard into the alley. I hit him all right. He’s left a trail of blood.”

“Go get him!” the officer barked. “What’s holding you back?”

“Thought I’d let you know.”

“All right, I know! Stay with him! There’s a body in here.”

They entered the room.

The figure of Jason Bartsler was sprawled at full length on the rug of the living room. From a leg which was crumpled in under him emerged a slow welling stream of red.

Mason dropped to his knees, felt for Bartsler’s wrist.

“Pulse all right,” Mason said. “Look him over for wounds. Turn him over.”

“Get that gun out of his hand,” the officer demanded.

Mason turned Bartsler over. The gun slipped from nerveless fingers. The lawyer’s hands ripped aside the robe which covered the pajamas, pulled back the coat part of the pajamas. The officer, still holding the sawed-off shotgun in one hand pulled down the lower part of the pajamas with the other.

A bullet had entered just above Jason Bartsler’s right knee and had gone out through the calf of the leg. It seemed to be the only wound on the man’s body.

Mason bent and sniffed the muzzle of the automatic. It had been freshly fired.

“Fainted from the shock,” Mason said. “Looks as though the bullet hit the joint. Let’s get him up on that couch and get some brandy down him.”

“Say,” the officer commanded without moving to comply with Mason’s request, “suppose you do a little talking. What’s coming off here?” He went to the front door, unlocked it, returned.

Mason said, “Someone tried to kill Jason Bartsler.”

“Looks to me like Jason Bartsler tried to kill someone else.”

“We’ll let him tell you about it,” Mason said, “when he regains consciousness. Come on, let’s get him up on that davenport.”

The officer helped Mason lift the wounded man up on the davenport. Mason found some brandy, moistened Bartsler’s lips with it, held it under his nostrils, said to the officer, “Better get an ambulance, hadn’t you?”

Another siren sounded outside the door, quavered into silence as the car moved in to park at the curb.

“Sounds like an ambulance now,” the officer said.

“I don’t know how it got here unless it was mind reading,” Mason pointed out.

Bartsler’s eyelids fluttered. Mason slipped a hand under Bartsler’s head. “Take a drink of this.”

Mason tilted the brandy down the man’s throat. Bartsler swallowed, coughed, then reached for the glass. “Did I get him?” he asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Mason said.

Heavy steps sounded on the porch. Men rushed pell-mell into the room, caught sight of the occupants and stopped. Lieutenant Tragg looked at the radio officer, at the figure on the davenport, at Mason. “What’s happened?” he demanded.

Mason said, “Frank Glenmore tried to kill Jason Bartsler. I think we got here in time. One of the radio officers shot Glenmore as he went out the back door.”

Tragg sized up the situation swiftly, said to the radio officer, “All right, get out and help your partner. See if you can locate Glenmore. We’ll take care of this. How are you feeling, Bartsler?”

“Pretty shaky,” Bartsler said. “What can we do about that knee?”

“We’ll have an ambulance coming,” Tragg said, and then to Mason, “Sorry we didn’t get here sooner. I’d been out. When I got in, Holcomb told me about your telephone conversation. He thought he’d done something smart; thought you were trying to plant something and use the police to give an air of authenticity.”

“I know.”

Tragg said, “In a way you can’t blame him.” He turned to Bartsler. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Bartsler reached for the second glass of brandy which Mason was extending to him. He said, “Glenmore got a phone call. I heard him talking. He seemed excited. Shortly afterwards I wanted to call and the phone was dead as a door nail. I couldn’t understand it. I looked back of the telephone and found that the wires had been completely cut through. And the minute that happened, I became suspicious. I went to the desk and got out my automatic. But I didn’t suspect Glenmore. I suspected my wife.

“Glenmore came in. He asked me something, and walked around behind the chair... I don’t know what it was that suddenly made me suspicious, but I glanced up into the mirror and saw that he had a gun. I flung myself out of the chair, at the same time reaching for my automatic, and he shot. The shot hit me in the knee and knocked me flat. I still hadn’t been able to get my automatic.

“I was virtually helpless, and I saw Frank taking deliberate aim. I read murder in his eyes. And just then there was the sound of this police siren and tires screaming around the corner, and that rattled Glenmore. He looked apprehensively back over his shoulder and then took a hasty shot. I jerked my body around, and the bullet went past my head and into the floor. I don’t think it missed me an inch. I had my gun out then, and Frank started to run. He turned in the doorway for another shot, and we pumped lead at each other. I don’t know whether I got him or not. I took another flying shot as he turned to run. I think I hit him with that one because he stumbled, caught at the side of the door, turned and shot again. I was crazy with pain and shock. I heard steps and people running, and... I guess I fainted... And that brings you up to date. How did you happen to get here, Mason?”

Mason said, “I figured it out. I knew that Mildred Danville must have taken your grandson from Helen and concealed him somewhere. I had reason to believe it was with a Mrs. J. C. Kennard. You remember she called to see you the night Diana Regis got her black eye?”

“Yes, yes. But she wanted to see me about that mining claim.”

“She did when she got in here,” Mason told him. “But what had happened was that she became suspicious of Mildred Danville. She knew the boy’s name was Robert Bartsler. She looked for a Bartsler in the telephone book, found one, and rang up. Frank Glenmore answered the telephone. She explained to him that she had a child who gave the name of Robert Bartsler, and who had been left by a woman by the name of Mildred Danville, and she wondered if it was all right. Glenmore did some quick thinking. If he could get the possession of that child, it would give him a lot of power. He evidently knew a divorce action was in the offing. It’s conceivable he intended to hold the child for the highest bidder. I don’t know just what your own situation was here, but it’s very evident what Glenmore tried to do. He told Mrs. Kennard to come on down, and when she came to the door he pulled that stall about a mining claim to throw Diana off the track. He hadn’t anticipated an audience when he went to let Mrs. Kennard in.

“Glenmore took Mrs. Kennard into one of the other rooms, talked with her in detail, and made some kind of a deal with her. Then he brought her in here to you, after he’d coached her about a mining claim she was to offer you. I take it Glenmore did most of the talking.”

“He did at that. But where’s my grandson, Mason? If you’ve found him...”

“Take it easy,” Mason said. “I’m coming to that. I want to get the other straight while Lieutenant Tragg is here. As a matter of fact, I should have deduced what happened sooner, because you’ll remember Glenmore said he only talked with her a few minutes before he took her in to see you, and you only talked with her a few minutes. Yet we know that she must have been in the house for some forty-five minutes or longer. And since you talked with her only about five or ten minutes, it’s obvious that Glenmore must have been talking with her in considerable detail.

“However, the deal was fixed up, and Glenmore was sitting pretty. He had you right where he wanted you.”

“The dirty double-crosser,” Bartsler said. “I’d caught him in some financial jugglery that I wanted to straighten out. I’d insisted we call in a certified public accountant, and the man was going to work tomorrow. I didn’t realize how serious the situation must have been.”

Mason said, “Glenmore arranged with Mrs. Kennard to take young Robert and go to live with her sister, taking elaborate precautions to see that she wouldn’t be traced. But when Diana Regis told Mildred Danville how she received her black eye, and mentioned that a matronly woman with a limp had called to see you and was just ringing the doorbell when Diana arrived, Mildred suddenly realized what had happened. The description of Mrs. Kennard was so striking that she knew at once Glenmore must have bribed Mrs. Kennard to sell her out. So Mildred then decided to make peace with Helen Bartsler, and made a ten o’clock appointment to meet Helen. But before Helen kept that appointment, Frank Glenmore got there and silenced Mildred’s lips.”

“How did he know Mildred was wise to him?” Bartsler asked.

“There can be only one explanation,” Mason said. “When Mildred learned through Diana that Glenmore had talked to Mrs. Kennard, she made the fatal mistake of telephoning Glenmore and telling him what she knew. That might have worked if Glenmore’s motives were merely those of greed, but I think we’ll find he has some reason that hasn’t been disclosed as yet for wanting to control Jason Bartsler. His back is to the wall. He’s stopping at nothing. Mildred quite probably invited him to be there at Helen’s house with the baby. Instead he went there prepared to do anything rather than surrender the child until he had what he wanted. Mildred had a gun. She made the mistake of trying to use it. Glenmore got it away from her and in a frenzy of desperation shot her, then he wiped the gun free of fingerprints, took it to Mildred’s apartment and left it in a temptingly obvious place — a place where Diana would be almost certain to touch it.”

“How did he get in?” Tragg asked.

Mason smiled. “A man of Glenmore’s desperation wasn’t to be balked by the lock of an ordinary apartment house door.”

“If that’s the case,” Tragg pointed out, “then Helen must have been lying when she said...”

“Of course she was lying,” Mason interrupted impatiently. “She was trying to save herself and protect her own skin. Things were difficult enough for Helen without any murder complications. There are a lot of angles to this we don’t know as yet, Lieutenant. And there’s no use taking time to go into them now. But when Helen saw it was going to look like rain, she opened the faucet on that cistern...”

“You’ve scored a point there, all right,” Lieutenant Tragg admitted. “One of the officers on Homicide came to me after the session of court this afternoon and told me that he distinctly remembered the faucet on the cistern was open, and running quite a stream.”

Mason nodded. “That’s one of the most important points in the case. It means that Mildred could have been killed before it started raining. She was killed much earlier than you thought.”

“But my grandson,” Bartsler said. “Hang it, I want to see my grandson. Pretty quick some damned intern will be shooting hop into me... I want to see my grandson.”

Mason turned to one of the officers. “Would you mind going out and asking Miss Street who’s waiting in the car outside to bring the little boy in? Tell her it’s all safe now, and we have nothing to conceal from the officers.”

The officer looked to Tragg for confirmation.

“Go ahead,” Lieutenant Tragg said.

Running steps sounded as a man hurried around the walk from the side of the house. They heard the thud of steps on the porch, then the officer of the prowl car dashed into the room, caught Lieutenant Tragg’s eye and nodded, said, “Drake found him in a woodshed next door. You’ll have to make it quick, Lieutenant. Is there a stenographer here?”

Tragg frowned, looked around the circle of faces.

Mason said, “We’ll take the baby. You can take Della Street.”

“You’ll have to hurry,” the officer warned.

Tragg started for the door with quick strides, met Della Street coming in.

“Quick, Miss Street, come with me. Got a pen and notebook in that purse of yours?”

She nodded.

“Your stomach strong enough for a dying statement?”

Again she nodded.

Mason took the little boy from her, caught Della Street’s eye, made a signal warning her to utter silence, then entered the room with young Robert Bartsler.