The Case of the Curious Bride

Chapter 7

Perry Mason frowningly consulted his wristwatch jobbed on impatient thumb against the bell button. After the third ring he turned away from the door and looked at the houses on either side. He saw the surreptitious motion of lace curtains in the adjoining house. Mason gave the bell one more try, then, when he heard no response, crossed directly to the house where he had detected the flicker of interest back of the curtain.

His ring was followed almost immediately by the sound of clumping steps. The door opened and a fleshy woman stared at him with glittering, curious eyes. "You ain't a peddler?" she asked. Mason shook his head. "And if you were one of those college boys getting magazine subscriptions, you wouldn't wear a hat."

The lawyer let his smile become a grin.

"Well," she said in a voice that trickled effortlessly from the end of a glib tongue, "what is it?"

"I'm looking," said Perry Mason, "for Mrs. Montaine."

"She lives next door." Mason nodded, waiting. "Did you try over there?"

"You know I did. You were staring out at me from behind the curtain."

"Well, what if I was? I've got a right to look out of my own window, haven't I? Look here, my man, this is my house bought and paid for…"

Perry Mason laughed. "No offense," he said. "I'm trying to save time, that's all. You're a woman with an observing disposition. You saw me over at Montaine's. I'm wondering if, perhaps, you didn't see Mrs. Montaine when she left?"

"What's it to you if I did?"

"I'm very anxious to get in touch with her."

"You're a friend of hers?"

"Yes."

"Ain't her husband home?"

Perry Mason shook his head.

"Hmm," said the woman. "Must have gone out this morning a lot earlier than usual. I didn't see him, so I thought he was still in bed. They've got money, so he doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to."

"Mrs. Montaine?" asked Perry Mason. "How about her?"

"She was his nurse. She married him for his money. She went away in a taxicab about half an hour ago, maybe a little less."

"How much baggage?" Perry Mason asked.

"Just a light bag," she said, "but there was an expressman came about an hour ago and got a trunk."

"You mean a transfer man?" asked Perry Mason.

"No, it was the express company."

"You don't know when she'll be back?"

"No. They don't confide their plans to me. The way they look at me, I'm just poor folks. You see, my son bought this house and didn't have it all paid for. That was when times were good. He had some kind of a life insurance loan that paid off the house when he died. That was the way Charles was, always kind and thoughtful. Most boys wouldn't have thought of their pa and ma and taken out insurance…"

Perry Mason bowed. "Thank you," he said, "very much. I think you've given me just the information that I want."

"If she comes back, who should I say called?" asked the woman.

"She won't be back," Perry Mason said.

The woman followed him to the edge of the porch. "You mean won't ever be back?" she asked. Perry Mason said nothing but strode rapidly to the sidewalk. "They say his folks don't approve of the match. What's her husband going to do if his father cuts him off without a cent?" the woman called after him.

Mason lengthened his strides, turned, smiled, raised his hat and rounded the corner. He caught a cab at the boulevard. " Municipal Airport," he said. The driver snapped the car into motion. "If," said the lawyer, "there are any fines, I'll pay them." The cab driver grinned, nursed his car into speed, slipped in and out of traffic along the boulevard with deft skill.

"This is as fast as the bus goes?" asked Perry Mason.

"When I'm driving it, it is."

"There's a good tip if you get me there in a rush, buddy."

"I'll get you there just as fast as it's safe to drive," the cab driver rejoined. "I've got a wife and kids and a job…"

He broke off as he slammed his foot on the brake pedal, twisted the steering wheel sharply, as a light sedan whizzed around a corner. "There you are," he called back over his shoulder, "that's what happens when you try to make time, and they don't give us any breaks in the home office. The cab driver is always wrong. We've got to drive our car, and we've got to drive the other fellow's car for him, too. When we get in a smash, we're laid off, and… Say, buddy, do you know you've got a tail?"

Perry Mason straightened to rigid attention. "Don't look around," warned the cab driver. "He's commencing to crowd up on us. It's a Ford coupe. I noticed it a ways back, just after you got in, and I didn't think anything of it, but he's been sticking pretty close to us all through the traffic."

Perry Mason raised his eyes and tried to see the road behind him in the rearview mirror. "Wait a minute," the cab driver said, "and I'll give you a break."

He took advantage of a clear stretch in the traffic to raise his hand and adjust his mirror so that Perry Mason could watch the stream of traffic in the road behind him.

"You watch the rear. I'll keep an eye on the front," the driver told him.

Perry Mason's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Boy," he said, "you need a quick eye to spot that fellow."

"Oh, shucks," the cab driver protested, "that's nothing. I have to see what's going on in this racket, or the wife and kids would starve to death. You've got to have eyes in the back of your head. That's all I'm good for, driving a cab, but that's one thing I am good for."

Perry Mason said slowly, "A Ford coupe with a dented fender on the right. Two men in it… Tell you what you do, you swing to the left at the next corner and figureeight around a couple of blocks. Let's just make it sure."

"They'll figure we've spotted them if you figureeight," the driver said.

"I don't care what they figure," Perry Mason rejoined. "I want to smoke them out in the open. If they don't follow us they're going to lose us. If they do follow us, we'll stop and ask them what it's all about."

"Nobody that's likely to start throwing lead around, is it?" the driver inquired apprehensively.

"Nothing like that," Mason said. "They might be private dicks, that's all."

"Trouble with the wife?" the driver inquired.

"As you so aptly remarked," Perry Mason said, "you're an excellent cab driver. That is one of the things that you are good at. In fact, I believe you said that was the one thing you were good at."

The driver grinned. "Okay, chief," he said, "I'll mind my own business. I was just being sociable. Hang on. Here we go to the left."

The cab lurched into a fast turn, slid down a side street. "Hold everything, buddy, we're making another turn to the left." Once more the cab screamed into a wide turn.

"They went by," Perry Mason said. "Pull in close to the curb and stop for a minute. Let's see if they circle down the other street. I was watching them in the mirror. They slowed down at the intersection. They got there just as we made the second turn to the left. They acted for a minute as though they were going to make the turn, and then they passed it up."

The cab driver turned in his seat, chewed gum with rhythmic monotony as he peered through the window in the rear of the cab. "All the time we stand here, we're losing time," he said. "You going to take a plane?"

"I don't know," Perry Mason said, "I want to get some information."

"Uh huh… They ain't coming down any of these side streets."

"Suppose we run down to another boulevard and try for the airport along it. You could run down to Belvedere, couldn't you?"

"Sure, we could. You're the boss."

"Let's go," Mason said.

The driver straightened back in the seat and readjusted the rearview mirror. "You won't want this any more, buddy," he told Perry Mason.

The cab once more clashed through its gears and rattled into speed. The lawyer sank back in the cushions. From time to time, he turned to look thoughtfully back at the road behind him. There was no sign of pursuit.

"Any particular place?" asked the cab driver, as the car turned in to the airport.

"The ticket office," Mason told him.

The cab driver nodded his head in a gesture of indication and said, "There's your boy friends."

A Ford coupe with a dented fender was parked beside the curb at the place where signs painted in red announced there was, "No parking."

"Police, eh?" asked the cab driver.

Mason stared curiously. "I don't know, I'm sure."

"They're dicks or they wouldn't park there," the cab driver remarked positively. "You want me to wait, buddy?"

"Yes," Mason said.

"I'll have to drive down there for a parking place."

"Okay. Go down and park. Wait for me."

Perry Mason walked through the door to the lobby of the airport ticket office, took half a dozen quick strides toward the ticket window, then abruptly halted as he caught sight of a brown coat with a brown fur collar. The coat was catching sunlight in a small enclosed space next to a swinging gate. Beyond this gate was a big trimotored plane glistening in the sunlight. The propellers were clicking over at slow speed. Perry Mason pushed his way through the door. A uniformed official strode toward the gate. A stewardess climbed down from the plane and stood by the steps leading to the fuselage. Perry Mason moved up behind the coated figure. "Don't show any surprise, Rhoda," he said in a low voice.

She seemed to stiffen perceptibly, then slowly turned. Her eyes, dark with apprehension, flashed up at him. There was a quick intake of breath, then she turned away. "You," she said in a voice that would have been inaudible for more than ten feet.

"There are a couple of dicks looking for you," Mason went on in a low voice. "They probably haven't a photograph—just a description. They're watching the people getting aboard the plane. After the plane leaves, they'll search the airport. Go over to that telephone booth. I'll follow you in just a minute."

She slipped unobtrusively from the crowd at the gate, walked with rapidly nervous steps to the telephone booth, entered, and closed the door.

The uniformed attendant slid back the gate. Passengers started to board the plane. Two broadshouldered men appeared from behind the fuselage, scanned each of the passengers with shrewd appraisal. Perry Mason took advantage of their preoccupation to walk with swift strides to the telephone booth. He jerked open the door. "Drop down to the floor, Rhoda," he said.

"I can't. There isn't room."

"You've got to make room. Turn around facing me. Get your back flat against the wall under the shelf that the telephone's on… That's it… Now double up your knees. That's fine."

Perry Mason managed to pull the door closed, stood at the telephone, his eyes making a swift survey of the lobby of the building. "Now listen," he said, "and get this straight. Those dicks either had a tip that you're taking this plane, or else they're covering all exits out of town—airports, railway stations, bus depots and all of that. I don't know them, but they know me, because they recognized me when I left your house and picked up a taxicab. They figured I was going to join you. They tried to tail me for a while, but I shook them, and they came out here. When they see me here, they'll figure that I was to meet you and give you some last minute instructions before you got on the plane, that you missed the plane and I'm telephoning, trying to locate you. I'll let them know after a while that I've seen them and keep in the telephone booth as though I was trying to hide. Do you get the sketch?"

"Yes," she said, her voice drifting up from the floor in mumbling acquiescence.

"All right, they're starting to look around now," Mason said. "I'll be talking over the telephone."

He removed the receiver from the hook but did not deposit a coin. He held his mouth against the mouthpiece of the telephone and talked rapidly, ostensibly to some party on the other end of the wire, in reality, giving swift instructions to Rhoda Montaine. "You were a little fool to try to get away on a plane," he said. "Flight is an indication of guilt. If they'd caught you boarding that plane with a ticket to some other city, they'd have strengthened the case against you. Now you've got to work things in such a way that they can't prove you were guilty of flight."

"How did you know I was here?" she asked.

"The same way they did," he said. "You left your house with some light articles of baggage. You shipped a trunk by express. If you'd been going on a train, you'd have checked the trunk.

"Now you're going to surrender, but not to the police. You're going to surrender to some newspaper that will get an exclusive story."

"You mean you want me to tell them my story?"

"No," Mason said. "We'll simply let them think you're going to tell them your story. You'll never have a chance."

"Why?"

"Because the detectives will grab you just as soon as you put in an appearance and before you have a chance to talk."

"Then what?"

"Then," he said, "keep silent. Don't tell any one anything. Tell them that you won't talk unless your attorney is present. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"All right," he told her, "I'm going to telephone the Chronicle. These birds have got me spotted now, but they don't know that I've seen them. I'm going to telephone the Chronicle, and then I'm going to let them know that I've seen them and turn my back, pretending to hide. That'll make them think I'm expecting you here, and waiting for them to leave before I go out of the booth. They'll get some place where they can watch me and stick around waiting for me to come out, or for you to join me."

He dropped a coin in the telephone, gave the number of the Chronicle and, after a moment, asked for Bostwick, the city editor. There was the sound of a man's voice on the wire, and Mason said, "How would you fellows like to have the exclusive story of Rhoda Montaine, the woman who had the two o'clock appointment with Gregory Moxley this morning?… You could also have the credit for taking her into custody… Yes she would surrender to Chronicle reporters. Sure, this is Perry Mason. Of course I'm going to represent her. All right, now get this straight. I'm here at the Municipal Airport. Naturally I don't want any one to know that I'm here or that Mrs. Montaine is here. I'm in a telephone booth. You have a couple of reporters come to the telephone booth and I'll see that Rhoda Montaine surrenders herself to them… I can't guarantee what's going to happen after that. That's up to you, but, at least, your paper can get on the street with the news that Rhoda Montaine surrendered to the Chronicle. But get this straight. You can't have it appear that the Chronicle ran her to earth as she was trying to get away. It's got to be a surrender… That's right, she's going to play it that way. She surrenders to the Chronicle. You can be the first on the street with it.

"No, I can't put her on the telephone and I can't give you her story. I can't even guarantee that you'll get a story. How much more do you want for nothing? You can get an extra ready and have it on the street as soon as your men telephone a release. Frankly, Bostwick, I'm afraid the detectives are going to grab her before your men get a chance to interview her, and she isn't going to say very much to detectives right now… Okay, get your extra ready. Start your boys out here and I'll give you some of the highlights on the situation. Now, mind you, I don't want to be quoted in this. I'll simply give you bits of information that you can get for yourself. Rhoda Montaine married a chap named Gregory Lorton some years ago. You'll find the marriage license in the Bureau of Vital Statistics. Gregory Lorton was none other than Gregory Moxley, otherwise known as Gregory Carey, the man who was murdered.

"A week or so ago, Rhoda Lorton married Carl W. Montaine. Montaine is the son of C. Phillip Montaine, a multimillionaire of Chicago. The family's not only respectable but high hat. In the application for a marriage license, Rhoda Lorton described herself as a widow. Gregory Moxley showed up and started to make trouble. Rhoda had been living with a Nell Brinley at one twentyeight East Pelton Avenue. Moxley sent telegrams to Rhoda at that address, telling her certain things. If you can get those telegrams either from the police files or from the files of the telegraph company, you can use them. Otherwise you can't. Nell Brinley will admit that she received telegrams… That's all I can tell you, Bostwick. You'll have to make up a story from that. You can start running down those angles so that you can have something to put in the special edition you throw on the streets… Yes, she'll surrender herself at the airport. The reason she came to the airport is because I told her to meet me here… No, that's all I can tell you. I've given you all the dope I can. Goodby."

The receiver was still squawking protests as Perry Mason slammed it back on the hook. He turned around as though to leave the telephone booth, looked through the glass, caught sight of one of the detectives, paused, turned his shoulder so that it concealed as much of his face as possible, lowered his head, picked up the telephone receiver and pretended once more to be telephoning.

"They've spotted me, Rhoda," he said, "and know that I've spotted them. They're going to give me a chance to walk into the trap now. They'll get under cover somewhere."

"Aren't they likely to come in here?" she asked in a muffled voice.

"No," he said, "it's you they want. They've got nothing on me. They figure it's a cinch you're going to meet me here and that I'm waiting for you, that I'm trying to keep under cover until they leave. They'll stick around in plain sight for a while and then pretend to leave, figuring that will draw me out in the open."

"How did they know about me?" she asked.

"Your husband," he said.

She gave a quick gasp. "But my husband doesn't know anything!" she said. "He was asleep."

"No, he wasn't," Mason told her. "You slipped some Ipral tablets into his chocolate, but he was too foxy for you and didn't drink the chocolate. He pretended to be asleep and heard you go out and heard you come back. Now go ahead and tell me what happened."

Her voice sounded indistinct as it drifted up from the lower part of the telephone booth. Perry Mason, with the receiver pressed against his ear, cocked his head slightly so that he could hear her words.

"I had done something awful," she said. "Gregory knew about it. It was something that would put me in jail. Not that I was so frightened about going to jail, but it was on account of Carl. His parents thought Carl had married beneath him—a woman who was little better than a street walker. I didn't want to have anything happen that would give Carl's father a chance to say, 'I told you so, and I didn't want to have my marriage to Carl annulled."

"You aren't telling me very much," Mason said, ostensibly into the telephone.

"I'm trying to tell you the best I can," she wailed, her voice sounding as though she were about ready to start sobbing.

"You haven't got any too much time," Mason warned her, "so don't waste any of it feeling sorry for yourself and crying."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself and I'm not going to waste time crying," she snapped back at him.

"Your voice sounded like it."

"Well, you try sitting down here, with your head pushed up against a metal telephone box and your knees pushed up against your chin, with a man's feet tramping all over your dress, and you'd talk like that too."

Perry Mason indulged in a chuckle. "Go on," he told her.

"Gregory was in trouble. I don't know just what kind of trouble. He's always in a jam of some sort. I think he'd been in prison. That's why I hadn't heard anything from him. He'd disappeared. I'd tried to trace him. I couldn't find out anything about him, except that he'd been killed in an airplane wreck. I don't know yet why he wasn't. He had a ticket to go on the plane, but, for some reason, he didn't take the plane. I guess he was afraid officers were watching for him. The passenger list showed that he had been on the airship. I thought he was dead. I'd have wagered anything he was dead, but his body wasn't found. And then… well, then I just acted on the assumption that he was dead."

The lawyer started to say something, checked himself just as the words were on his lips.

"Were you going to say something!" she asked.

"No. Go on."

"Well, Gregory came back. He insisted that I could get money from Carl. He said that Carl would pay to keep from having his name dragged into a lawsuit. He was going to sue Carl for alienation of affection. He said that I was still his wife and that Carl had come between us."

Mason's laugh was sardonic. "Notwithstanding the fact that Gregory had taken your money, skipped out, and you hadn't heard from him for years," he said.

"You don't understand. It wasn't a question of whether he could win the lawsuit; it was a question of whether he had the legal right to bring it. Carl would have died before he would have let his name get dragged into the courts."

"But," Mason protested, "I thought you promised me you weren't going to do anything until you'd told me the whole story."

"I went back to see Nell Brinley," she said. "There was another telegram there. It was from Gregory. He was furious. He told me to telephone him. I telephoned him, and he told me I would have to give him a final answer that night. I told him I could give him my final answer right then. He said no, he wanted to talk with me. He said he'd give me a break if I'd come to talk to him. I knew that I couldn't get away while my husband was awake, so I made an appointment for two o'clock in the morning with Gregory and then slipped a double dose of Ipral into Carl's chocolate, so that he'd be asleep."

"Then what?" Mason asked, shifting his position slightly so that he could steal a hasty glance through the glass door of the telephone booth into the lobby of the airport building.

"Then," she said, "I got up shortly after one, dressed and sneaked out of the house. I unlocked the garage door, backed out my Chevrolet coupe, closed the garage door, and evidently forgot to lock it. I started to drive away from the house, and then realized I had a flat tire. There was a service station that was open a few blocks from the house. I drove on the flat to that service station. A man there changed the tire for me, and then we found that the spare tire had a nail in it. It was almost flat. There was enough air in it so the puncture didn't show until he'd changed the tires. So he had to take that tire off, pull out the nail and put in a new tube. I told him I couldn't wait for him to repair the other, so he gave me a claim check for it and I was to pick it up later on."

"You mean the tube that had the nail in it?"

"Yes. He was going to put that in the other tire and put it back on the spare. The tube that had been in there was ruined. I'd driven on it when it was flat."

"Then what?"

"Then I went to Gregory's apartment."

"Did you ring the bell?"

"Yes."

"What time was it?"

"I don't know. It was after two o'clock. I was late. It must have been ten or fifteen minutes after two."

"What happened?"

"Gregory was in an awful temper. He told me I had to get him some money, that I must deposit at least two thousand dollars to his credit in the bank by the time the bank opened in the morning, that I had to get another ten thousand dollars from my husband, that if I didn't get it, he was going to sue my husband and have me arrested."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I wasn't going to pay him a cent."

"Then what happened?"

"Then he got abusive, and I tried to telephone you."

"What happened next?"

"I ran to the telephone and reached for the receiver."

"Just a moment," Mason said. "Were you wearing gloves?"

"Yes."

"All right, go on."

"I tried to pick up the receiver. He grabbed me."

"What did you do?"

"I struggled with him and pushed him away."

"What happened after that?"

"I broke loose from him. He came toward me again. There was a stand by the fireplace, with a poker, a shovel and a brush on it. I dropped my hand and grabbed the first thing I came to. It was the poker. I swung it. It hit him somewhere on the head, I guess."

"Then did you run away?"

"No, I didn't. You see, the lights went out."

"The lights went out?" Mason exclaimed.

She squirmed about, vainly trying to find relief from her cramped position. "Yes, every light in the place went out all at once. The power must have been turned off."

"Was that before you hit him, or afterwards?" Perry Mason asked.

"It was just as I hit him. I remember swinging the poker and then everything got dark."

"Perhaps you didn't hit him, Rhoda."

"Yes, I did, Mr. Mason. I know I hit him, and he staggered back and I think he fell down. There was someone else in the apartment—a man who was striking matches."

"So then what happened?"

"Then I ran out of the room, into the bedroom and stumbled over a chair and fell flat."

"Go on," Mason said.

"I heard a match striking—you know, the sound made by a match scraping over sandpaper, and the sound of a man trying to follow me into the bedroom. It all happened in just a second or two. I ran through the bedroom, out into the corridor, and started to go downstairs, and some one was following me."

"Did you go down the stairs?" the lawyer asked.

"No, I was afraid to. You see, the bell had been ringing."

"What bell?"

"The doorbell."

"Some one was trying to get in?"

"Yes."

"When did it start ringing?"

"I don't know exactly. It was sometime during the time we were struggling."

"How long did it continue to ring?"

"Quite a while."

"How did it sound?"

"As though some one were trying to waken Gregory. I don't think the person at the door could have heard the sounds of the struggle, because he rang the bell in a funny way. He rang it for several seconds at a time, then stopped for several seconds, and then rang again. He did that several times."

"You don't know who it was?"

"No."

"But you didn't go down until the bell stopped ringing?"

"That's right."

"How soon after the bell stopped ringing?"

"Just a minute or two. I was afraid to stay in there."

"You don't know whether Gregory was dead or not?"

"No. He dropped to the floor when I hit him and lay motionless. Anyway I heard him fall. I guess I killed him. I didn't mean to. I just hit out blindly."

"So, shortly after the bell stopped ringing, you went downstairs, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Where was your car parked?"

"Around the corner on the side street."

"You went to it?"

"Yes."

"Now, then, you'd dropped your keys in Gregory's apartment. Apparently you dropped them when you picked up the poker."

"I must have."

"Did you know they were missing?"

"Not then."

"When did you find it out?"

"Not until I read the newspaper."

"How did you get in the car?"

"The car door wasn't locked. The ignition key was in the lock. I drove the car back to the garage, and…"

"Just a minute," Mason interrupted. "You had closed the door of the garage when you left, but hadn't locked it?"

"Yes, I thought I locked it, but I didn't. It was unlocked."

"And it was still closed?"

"Yes."

"Just as you had left it?"

"Yes."

"So what did you do?"

"So I opened the door."

"And in order to do that, you had to slide it back along the runway?"

"Yes."

"All the way back?"

"Yes."

"And you did that and then drove your car into the garage, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And you left the garage door open?"

"Yes. I tried to close it, but when I'd pushed it back, I'd shoved it over the bumper of the other car. It caught there, and I couldn't get it loose."

"And you went upstairs to bed?"

"Yes. I was nervous. I took a powerful sedative."

"You had a talk with your husband this morning?"

"Yes, he was up making coffee. I thought it was rather strange, because I'd given him enough hypnotic to keep him sleeping until late."

"You asked him for some coffee?"

"Yes."

"He asked you if you'd been out?"

"No, not that way. He asked me how I'd slept."

"And you lied to him?"

"Yes."

"Then he went out?"

"Yes."

"And what did you do?"

"I went back to bed, dozed a bit, got up, took a bath dressed, opened the door, brought in the milk and the newspaper. I thought Carl had gone for a walk. I opened the newspaper and then realized I was trapped. The photograph of the garage key was staring me in the face. I knew Carl would recognize it as soon as he saw it. What's more, I knew the police could trace me sooner or later."

"So then what?"

"So I telephoned the express company, had them express my trunk to a fictitious name and address, packed up my things, had a cab come, and rushed out here to take a plane."

"You knew there was a plane left about this time?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"Have you any idea," he asked, "who the person could have been that was ringing the doorbell?"

"No."

"Did you leave the doors open or closed when you left?"

"What doors?"

"The door into the hallway from Gregory's apartment, and the door at the foot of the stairs, that leads to the street."

"I can't remember," she said. "I was frightfully excited. I was quivering all over and drenched with perspiration… How did you know about the garage door?"

"Your husband told me."

"I thought you said he told the police?"

"He did. He came to call on me first."

"What did he say?"

"He said he'd recognized the key that was photographed in the newspaper, that he knew you had tried to drug him; that you'd gone out, that he'd heard you come in, that you got the garage door stuck and lied to him when he asked you about it being open."

"I didn't think he was that clever," she wailed, "and that lie about the garage door is going to trap me, isn't it?"

"It won't do you any good," Mason said grimly.

"And Carl told you he was going to tell the police?"

"Yes. I couldn't do anything with him on that. He had ideas of what his duty was."

"You mustn't judge him by that," she said. "He's really nice. Did he say anything about… about any one else?"

"He told me he thought you might try to shield some one."

"Who?"

"Doctor Millsap."

Mason could hear her gasp. Then she said in startled tones, "What does he know about Doctor Millsap?"

"I don't know. What do you know about him?"

"He's a friend."

"Was he there at Moxley's house last night?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Perry Mason dropped another nickel into the telephone, gave the number of Paul Drake's office. "Perry Mason talking, Paul," he said when he heard the voice of the detective on the wire. "You've read the papers, of course."

The receiver made a succession of metallic sounds. Rhoda Montaine, crouched in the cramped position on the floor of the telephone booth, moved a few inches to one side, shifted her knees slightly. "Okay," Mason said. "You know the general situation then. I'm representing Rhoda Montaine. You probably know by this time that she's the woman you saw come out of my office yesterday. I want you to start a general investigation. The police must have taken photographs of the room where Moxley was found. I want to get some of those photographs. Some of the newspaper men should be able to give you a break. I want you to investigate every angle you can uncover. And here's something funny. There were no fingerprints on that doorknob. I want to know why… What if she was wearing gloves?… That would have concealed her fingerprints, but others must have been using that door. Moxley must have opened and closed it a dozen times during the day. I was there earlier in the day. It was a hot day, and my hands were perspiring. There must have been some fingerprints on that doorknob.

"Yes, keep on with Moxley. Find out everything you can about him and about his record. Interview the witnesses. Get all the dope you can. The district attorney will probably sew up the witnesses who are going to testify for him. I'm going to beat him to it if I can. Never mind that now. I'll see you later… No. I can't tell you. You get started. There'll be some developments within a few minutes. G'bye." Mason slammed the receiver back on the hook.

"Now," he said to Rhoda Montaine, "we've got to work fast. The men from the Chronicle will be here any minute. Those fellows drive like the devil. The police are going to question you. They're going to do everything they can to make you talk. They're going to give you all kinds of opportunities to bust into conversation. You've got to promise me that you'll keep quiet. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"No matter what happens you're going to keep quiet?"

"Yes."

"Insist on calling me. Tell them you want me there whenever they get you on the carpet. Will you do that?"

"Of course. I've told you I would half a dozen times. How many more times do I have to tell you?"

"Dozens," he told her, "and that probably wouldn't be enough. They'll…" There was a gentle tap on the door of the telephone booth. Mason broke off and looked through the glass. A young man held a card against the glass. The card showed that he was a reporter from the Chronicle. Perry Mason twisted the knob of the door. "Okay, Rhoda," he said, "let's go."

The door opened. "Where's the girl?" asked the newspaper man.

Another reporter slipped around from behind the corner of the telephone booth. "Hello, Mason," he said.

Rhoda Montaine reached for Perry Mason's hand, got to her feet. The newspaper men stared at her in surprise. "She was in there all the time?" asked one of the reporters.

"Yes," Mason said. "Where's your car? You've got to rush her…"

The second reporter rasped out an oath. "The cops," he said.

Two men emerged from behind the low, glassenclosed partition which separated the ticket office from the lobby. They came up on the run. "This," said Perry Mason, speaking rapidly, "is Rhoda Montaine. She surrenders to you gentlemen as representatives of the Chronicle, knowing that the Chronicle will give her a square deal. She has recognized the garage key which was published in the paper as the key to her garage. She…"

The two detectives swooped down on the group. One of them grabbed Rhoda Montaine by the arm. The other pushed a face that was livid with rage up close to Mason's face. "So that's the kind of a dirty damn shyster you are, is it?" he said.

Mason's jaw jutted forward. His eyes became steely. "Pipe down, gumshoe," he said, "or I'll button your lip with a set of knuckles."

The other detective muttered a warning. "Take it easy, Joe. He's dynamite. We've got the girl. That's all the break we need."

"You've got hell!" one of the reporters said. "This is Rhoda Montaine, and she surrendered to the Chronicle before you ever saw her."

"Like hell she did. She's our prisoner. We tracked her here and made the arrest. We get the credit."

One of the reporters moved toward the telephone booth. He grinned as he dropped a nickel and gave the number of the Chronicle. "In just about fifteen minutes," he said, "you boys can buy a paper on the street and read all about who gets the credit."