The Case of the Deadly Toy

Chapter Nine

“Well,” Della Street said, as Mason signed the check at the restaurant, “what happens next? There was some talk about dancing, you’ll remember.”

Mason nodded, said, “First we’re going to give Paul Drake a buzz and let him know where we are.”

Della Street blew a kiss at the ceiling.

“Meaning?” Mason asked.

“Good-by dancing,” Della said.

“Probably not,” Mason said. “There’s nothing much we can do tonight. Paul is holding the fort, but it’s too soon for him to have any real results. We’ll call him just to keep him in good spirits. Give him a ring, Della, and ask him if there’s anything particularly important.”

Della Street went to the phone booth, dialed Paul Drake’s number, and was back within less than a minute.

“He says we’re to come up there right away,” she said. “It’s important — now don’t ever say anything about a woman’s intuition again, Mr. Perry Mason.”

“Did he say what it was?”

“Lots of things,” she said. “Among other things he has the name of the baby sitter.”

“Oh-oh,” Mason said. “That’s a break. How did he get that?”

“He wouldn’t say. Says he’s sitting on four telephone lines, all of them going like mad; that we’re not to gum up his circuits by telephone calls, but that we’d better get up there.”

Mason grinned. “Everybody seems to be ordering us around tonight, Della.”

“Just restaurant managers, bankers and detectives, so far,” she pointed out.

They drove to the office building, put his car in its accustomed parking space, took the elevator up to Drake’s office.

The night switchboard operator, looking back over her shoulder, nodded to Mason and gestured down the corridor toward Drake’s private office.

There were four lights glowing simultaneously on the switchboard.

Mason grinned at Della and said, “I guess the guy’s busy. Come on, Della.”

He opened the gate at the end of the enclosure which served as a reception room and Mason and Della Street walked down the long corridor past half-a-dozen different doors to enter Paul Drake’s private office.

Drake looked up as they entered, nodded, said into the telephone, “Okay, stay with it. Now I want everything you can get on that... okay, call in just as soon as you get a chance.”

Drake took a big bite from a hamburger sandwich, mumbled while he was chewing, “Sit down. I’m going to eat while I have a chance. These phones are driving me crazy.”

He poured coffee into a big mug, put in cream and sugar, gulped a swallow of the coffee, said, “I can never get to eat a hamburger before it gets soggy.”

“You wanted to see us?” Mason said.

“You’ve eaten?” Drake asked.

Mason nodded.

“I know,” Drake said. “A thick filet mignon or a New York cut, French fried onions, imported red wine, baked potatoes with sour cream, coffee and apple pie a la mode — don’t tell me, it’s torture.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “torture yourself.”

Drake regarded the soggy hamburger with distaste, started to take a bite but stopped as the telephone jangled.

Drake unerringly picked the one of the four telephones on which the call was coming in, held it to his ear, said, “Drake talking... okay... go on, give it to me.”

Drake listened carefully, asked, “How do they know?” He listened some more, then said, “Okay, keep an ear to the ground. Hang around Headquarters. Keep in touch with the boys in the press room. They’ll be looking for a late story.”

Drake hung up the phone, picked up the remnants of the hamburger sandwich, looked at it for a moment, then with a gesture of disgust threw it into the waste-basket.

“What gives?” Mason asked.

“I ruined my appetite for that stuff talking about your nice meal,” Drake said. “We have the name of the baby sitter, Perry.”

“Who?”

“She’s a professional. Works through an agency. It’s called the Nite-Out Agency. That’s spelled N-i-t-e — O-u-t. It specializes in baby sitters. Her name is Hannah Bass. I have a complete description with make of car, license number and everything here on a card for you.”

Drake slid over a neatly typewritten card.

“How the devil did you get that?” Mason asked.

“Leg work,” Paul Drake said wearily. “One time the Jennings’ phone was out of order. They wanted a baby sitter. They went over to one of the neighbors, asked to use the phone, had forgotten the number of the agency. The phone book wasn’t handy. They called Information and asked for the number of the Nite-Out Agency, and the woman who lived there in the house happened to remember the name Nite-Out because it struck her as such a nice name for a baby-sitting agency.”

“Then you called up and asked for the name of the woman who did baby sitting for Jennings?” Della Street asked.

Drake shook his head. “You can’t be that crude in this game. You might get slapped down. Moreover, they might tip off someone whom you didn’t want tipped off.

“I played it the long way round. I had my man camp there with the neighbors and keep talking, asking them to try and remember any other conversation. They remembered that the baby sitter had been mentioned by name. They remembered the first name was Hannah because it was the name of their aunt, and they had been wondering whether their aunt might not have been making a little money on the side by baby sitting, so they perked their ears up. But it turned out the last name didn’t mean anything to them so they forgot it. They thought the name was Fish. But then that didn’t sound right. Then the man thought it might have been Trout. And then the woman remembered it was Bass. They’d taken one of those memory courses where they use association of ideas to help in recalling things. They could both of them remember Fish, but it was just luck they remembered Bass.”

“That’s the name all right?”

“That’s the name all right,” Drake said. “I telephoned the Nite-Out Agency and asked them if they had a Hannah Bass working for them and if they could recommend her credit. They said they didn’t know anything about her financial affairs but she was one of their baby sitters; that she was very well liked; that they had never had any complaints; that they had investigated her character before taking her on as one of their sitters, and that she was thoroughly reliable and they had no hesitancy in recommending her for jobs. They felt under the circumstances her credit should be all right.”

Again the telephone rang. Drake picked up one of the instruments, said, “Yeah? Hello. This is Paul Drake.

“The hell... you’re sure...? Okay. Keep me posted on anything new. Good-by.”

Drake hung up the telephone, turned to Perry Mason and said, “That’s a hell of a note. Someone has messed up the gun they found under the pillow where your client had been sleeping.”

“What do you mean?” Mason asked.

“Someone ran a rattail file up and down the barrel until the thing is all scratched and cut. Test bullets fired through it are valueless.”

“Then how can they tell it’s the murder gun?” Mason asked.

Drake grinned. “That’s the hell of it; they can’t. You can imagine how Hamilton Burger, the district attorney, feels. He’s biting his fingernails back to the knuckles.”

Mason was thoughtful. “If that gun was found under Norda Allison’s pillow it was planted there. She left that house early in the morning and went to a hotel. Do you think she’d have gone away and left a gun under the pillow?”

“Save it for the jury,” Drake said, “don’t try it on a detective with a bad stomach.”

“What’s the physical history of the gun?” Mason asked.

“It was purchased by Barton Jennings. He doesn’t have a permit. He used it on a camping trip up in Idaho. He was hunting and said he wanted to take along a .22 to get some game.”

“How does he explain its being under Norda Allison’s pillow?”

“He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have to.”

“It was his gun,” Mason said. “It should have been in his possession. It’s up to him to explain. Where did he keep it?”

“In a bureau drawer in the room where they put Norda Allison for the night.”

“And very conveniently left the gun in the drawer for her to find?”

“That’s their story.”

“That’s a hell of a story,” Mason said. “Anything else, Paul?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the names of the people who were with Mervin Selkirk up in San Francisco. That is, a newspaper reporter up there got them.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, Mervin Selkirk hit this fellow with brass knuckles. They’ve now established that as a fact. Some inoffensive bird named Benedict was the target. Selkirk had the brass knuckles and he was laying for Benedict. He socked the guy and then slipped the brass knuckles to this other chap who pretended he didn’t want to have his name involved as a witness and got the hell out of there.”

“You got the story?” Mason asked.

“I’ve got the story. So have the police. So have the newspapers.”

“How did you get it?”

“I got it after the reporters dug out the facts. My San Francisco correspondent knew I was working on the case. I was trying to get some angles up there and they called me as soon as it broke.”

“What’s the name of the fellow who went out with the brass knuckles?” Mason asked.

“Nick Fallon,” Drake said. “His full name is Arturas Francisco Fallon, but Nick is a nickname. He’s the guy who furnished the brass knuckles. Selkirk knew he had them; said he wanted to borrow them; had them in his pocket; stuck his foot out when Benedict walked by. Then when Benedict stumbled, he began cussing him and as Benedict straightened up to show a little indignation, Selkirk cracked him on the jaw, then slipped the knuckles back to Fallon — Fallon knew what he was supposed to do right quick. He got out of there fast.”

Mason digested that information, turned to Della Street, said, “Okay, Della, let’s go.”

“Dancing?” she asked.

Mason shook his head. “Come on,” he said.

“Where will you be?” Drake asked.

“We’ll be in touch with you, Paul. Keep on the job. Get all the information you can. What have they done with Norda Allison?”

“They’re booking her for suspicion of murder.”

“Find out anything about Robert Selkirk, the seven-year-old son of Mervin by his former marriage?”

“Not yet,” Drake said. “He’s supposed to be on some kind of a camping trip. He and his dog went out with a Scout group of some sort. They’re on a two- or three-day camping trip.”

“I have a tip he’s not with that group,” Mason said.

“Then I’ve sure sent a man on a wild-goose chase,” Drake told him. “He’s rented a jeep and is going in over mountain roads. I told him to find out if Robert was with the group, then get to the nearest phone and let me know.”

“When will you be hearing from him?”

“Probably within an hour.”

“We’ll call you back,” Mason said. “Come on, Della.”

They rode down in the elevator.

“How,” Mason asked, “would you like to pose as my wife?”

Her eyes were without expression. “How long?” she asked tonelessly.

“An hour or two.”

“What for?”

“We’re going to borrow a baby.”

“Oh, are we?”

“And then phone for a baby sitter,” Mason said. “Know anybody in your apartment house who would co-operate?”

Della Street thought things over for a moment, then said, “Well... there’s a grass widow on the lower floor... the baby’d be asleep.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “We’ll see if we can fix it up.”

She laughed enigmatically, said, “I thought for a moment your intentions were... skip it.”

Mason drove her to her apartment house, opened the door of the car. She jumped out on the other side. “Let’s go.”

They went up to Della’s apartment. Della excused herself and a moment later came back with a woman of about her own age.

“This is Mrs. Colton, Mr. Mason. I’ve asked her if we could borrow her baby and... well, she wanted to look you over.”

“We need a baby sitter,” Mason said, “and I want it to look convincing. You can stay out in the hall if you want.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said, laughing. “I just wanted to size up the situation. It’s such an unusual request.”

“She’s asleep now,” Della Street explained, “but we can move her bed in here or we could put her in my bed.”

“It’s going to look rather crowded for a couple and a baby,” Mason pointed out.

“You ought to see my apartment if you think this one would look crowded,” Mrs. Colton said.

Della Street looked at Mason and raised her eyebrows. Mason nodded.

“Well, thanks a lot, Alice,” Della said. “If you don’t mind, we’ll bring her in.”

“Need help?” Mason asked.

“With the crib, yes,” Mrs. Colton said. “I think we’d better bring her up in the crib. In that way we won’t waken her — I hope.”

Mason went to Mrs. Colton’s apartment. The woman, Della Street and Mason carried the crib with the sleeping child to Della Street’s apartment.

Mason seated himself, thumbed through the pages of the telephone book, got the number of the Nite-Out Agency and entered it in his notebook.

“You’d better call me if she wakens,” Alice Colton said. “She knows you, Della, but if she should waken and find herself in a strange apartment, she... well, I’d like to be there.”

“Don’t worry,” Della said. “We’ll call you. We just want to use her for a short time for... look, Alice, why don’t you stay right here with us?”

“Would it be all right if I did?”

“Sure it would,” Della said. “Only just be careful to appear as a friend of ours and not as her mother. For the purposes of this masquerade I want to be the mother of the baby.”

She turned toward Perry Mason and elevated her eyebrows.

Mason nodded, picked up the telephone, dialed the number of the agency.

“Hello,” he said, when a voice answered. “We find ourselves confronted with an emergency. We need a baby sitter right away and it may be she will have to stay here all night. I’m not certain.

“Now we’re willing to pay forty dollars for the right person, if she’ll be willing to stay all night.”

The voice of the woman at the agency was reassuring. “That will be quite satisfactory. I’m certain we can get you a reliable sitter for that price.”

“Well now,” Mason told her, “there’s a problem. My wife is very nervous and we simply won’t feel satisfied if we leave the child with someone who is a total stranger.”

“Do you know any of our sitters?” the voice asked.

“Not personally,” Mason said, “but you have a Hannah Bass. Some people who have used your agency recommend her very highly. Would it be possible for you to get her?”

“I’ll see,” the voice said. “If you’ll give me your telephone number, I’ll find out and call you back.”

Mason gave her the number and hung up.

Alice Colton watched them with puzzled eyes.

“It’s all right, Alice,” Della Street said.

A few moments later Della Street’s telephone rang. Mason answered it.

“This is the Nite-Out Agency,” the feminine voice said. “We’ve contacted Hannah Bass and it’s quite all right with her. She wants to know, however, if it is definitely assured that it will be an all-night job and that you are willing to pay forty dollars.”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “If anything happens and the emergency doesn’t materialize, she’ll get the forty dollars anyway and cab fare home.”

“She has her own car. Will you give me your name and address?”

“The apartment,” Mason said, “is in my wife’s name. I’m a buyer for a large concern and I don’t want to be disturbed on week ends by a lot of salesmen who are trying to interest me in bargains. The name is Della Street. You have the telephone number and if you have a pencil, I’ll give you the address.”

Mason gave her the address of Della Street’s apartment house and the feminine voice said, “Mrs. Bass will be there within thirty minutes.”

“Thank you,” Mason said.

“Is it a job where she can get some sleep, or will she have to sit up?” the feminine voice inquired.

“She’ll have to sit up and watch the baby,” Mason said. “I’m sorry but that’s the way it is.”

“That’s quite all right. She’s prepared to do that She’ll stay until eight in the morning, or nine if necessary.”

“Have her come right along, if you will, please,” Mason said.

He hung up the telephone.

Alice Colton looked around the apartment, said, “The feminine influence predominates pretty much, Della. Mr. Mason doesn’t seem to be... well, he doesn’t seem to live here.”

Mason said, “I guess you have a point there. If you folks will pardon me...”

He took off his coat, untied his necktie, opened the shirt at the neck, kicked off his shoes, settled back in his stocking feet, picked up the paper and turned to the sporting section.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Better,” Alice Colton said smiling. “You know, you two... well, when you look like that you... you seem to sort of fit in.”

“Thanks,” Mason said as Della Street blushed slightly.

Alice Colton continued to regard them with speculative curiosity.

“Now when Mrs. Bass comes in,” Mason said to Alice Colton, “we’re going to have to have a story for her. It’s this: Della and I are married. You’re Della’s sister. Your mother is very ill and we’re trying to get a plane to Denver.

“My sister is coming in tomorrow to relieve the baby sitter and take care of the child until we return. We’re awaiting confirmation on plane tickets.

“Della, you’d better load up a couple of suitcases and bring them out here and you, Mrs. Colton, had better get a suitcase and have it ready.

“And while you’re about it, Mrs. Colton, I’d appreciate it if you’d ring up Western Union and send a telegram to Della Street at this address saying: Mother passed away an hour ago. No need to make the trip. Will advise you concerning funeral arrangements. Florence.”

“You want that sent?”

“I want it sent,” Mason said. “Go to your apartment and get a suitcase, throw some books in it or anything you want and come back here, but telephone that message just before you leave your apartment. You’ll have to charge it to your phone. Della will fix up the financial arrangements.”

“This is a real thrill,” Mrs. Colton said, laughing nervously. “I feel all cloak-and-daggerish.”

“This is routine,” Della Street said, laughing.

“After Mrs. Bass comes,” Mason instructed Mrs. Colton, “you’re to be the tragic one. Della and I will take it more or less as a matter of course. Della will be philosophical about her mother. After all, she’s been sick and the end was not unexpected. You will be quiet and moody and perhaps sob a bit in a quiet, unobtrusive way — you will however, listen very carefully to everything that is said and remember what is said because you may have to testify.”

“In court?” Alice Colton asked in consternation.

“Sure,” Mason said, making his voice sound casual. “There’s nothing to it. Just get up on the witness stand and tell what you heard. Della Street will be right along with you. Just be sure you’re telling the truth and there’s nothing to worry about.”

Alice Colton laughed nervously. “Good heavens,” she said, “I’ll never sleep tonight, not a wink. I’ll get the suitcase and send the telegram.”

She was back in some ten minutes carrying a suitcase. In the meantime Della Street had placed two suitcases near the door.

A few minutes later the street bell rang and Hannah Bass announced herself.

“Come on up,” Della Street said. “My husband is just dressing but he’s decent. We’re awaiting a wire from Denver and a confirmation of plane reservations. If you can come right up, we’ll explain your duties.”

A few moments later chimes sounded and Della Street opened the door.

Hannah Bass was in the middle forties, a matronly appearing, muscular woman whose body appeared thick rather than fat. Her eyes were small, restless and glittering.

Della Street came toward her, said, “I’m Mrs. Street and this is my husband. This is my sister. We’re waiting for a confirmation of reservations.”

Mason, who had been adjusting his tie in front of the mirror, smiled and said, “Do sit down, Mrs. Bass. The baby is in the bedroom. I’m quite certain you won’t have any trouble. My sister will be here by morning. You see, my mother-in-law is quite ill.”

Hannah Bass shook hands with the others, sat down on the edge of the davenport, gray restless eyes surveying the apartment, taking in every detail. “How old’s the baby?” she asked.

“My daughter is sixteen months old,” Della Street said. “You won’t have any trouble, I’m certain.”

“Sometimes when a baby wakes up with a stranger,” Mrs. Bass said, “she gets panic stricken and...”

“Not Darlene,” Della Street interrupted. “I can guarantee she won’t give you any trouble. She’s a lamb. Just tell her that Mommie asked you to wait until Aunt Helen could come. Tell her that Aunt Helen will be here in the morning.”

“You don’t think you should wake her up now and tell her that you have to go?”

“Oh, we’ve already told her,” Della Street said. “We told her that Mommie was going to have to go away and that a friend of Mommie’s would stay with her until Aunt Helen came. She’ll wake about seven in the morning, and I’m certain you won’t have any trouble. Helen will be here by seven-thirty or eight.”

Hannah Bass seemed a little dubious. “Sometimes they get frightened,” she said.

“I know,” Della Street said, “but this is an emergency.”

“After all,” Mason said reassuringly, “we may not have to go. If we can’t get confirmation of our reservations on this plane, we just can’t make it and that’s all there is to it.”

Hannah Bass looked at him coldly. “I understood it was a forty-dollar job,” she said.

“It is,” Mason told her. “You get the same amount of money whether we go or whether we don’t. Just sit back and relax.”

Alice Colton wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

Della Street said, “It’s all right, Alice. Everything’s going to be for the best.”

“The agency tells me that you asked especially for me.”

Della Street looked inquiringly at Perry Mason.

Mason said, “That’s right, Mrs. Bass. You see, I’d heard about you through the Jennings. They speak very highly of you.”

“The Jennings?” she asked.

“Lorraine and Barton Jennings,” Mason explained. They have a boy, Robert Selkirk. Her child by another marriage.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Bobby is quite a boy. He has a certain dignity that is exceptional in a child.”

“Crazy about guns, isn’t he?” Mason said.

“Well, he’s like any normal boy — what can you expect with all these ‘pistol pictures’ on television. He loves to watch galloping horses and, after all, those shows put on some pretty spirited gun battles.”

“They do for a fact,” Mason agreed. And then added, “I suppose Robert has his special pearl-handled imitation six-shooters with the holsters tied down in the most approved Western style.”

Hannah Bass became suddenly uneasy. “He likes guns,” she said, and clamped her lips together.

Mason eyed her thoughtfully. “That,” he said, “is the only thing which caused us some uneasiness, Mrs. Bass.”

“What is?” she asked, instantly on the defensive.

“Giving Robert a real gun to play with.”

“Who says I gave him a real gun?”

Mason let his face show surprise. “Didn’t you?”

“Who said so?”

“Why I understood that you did. Barton Jennings has this .22 automatic, you know, and Robert plays with it.”

There was a long interval of silence. Hannah Bass had little suspicious gray eyes and they glittered as they probed Mason’s face.

The lawyer met her gaze with searching candor. “Don’t you let him play with Barton’s gun?” he asked.

“What difference does it make?” Hannah Bass asked.

“I just wondered,” Mason said.

“I don’t talk about my other clients when I’m babysitting,” Hannah Bass announced with finality.

Mason said deprecatingly, “We were only discussing your recommendations and the reason we sent for you, Mrs. Bass.”

“I didn’t know anybody knew about it,” she said suddenly. “It was just a secret between Robert and me.”

Mason’s smile was enigmatic.

The street bell rang. Della Street went to the telephone, said, “Yes... oh, hurry up with it, will you? I’ll open the door for you.”

She pressed a buzzer and said to Perry Mason, “A Western Union telegram.”

Mason showed excitement. “He’s on the way up?”

Della nodded.

Alice Colton said, “Oh, Della,” and suddenly flung herself into Della Street’s arms.

Hannah Bass’s glittering eyes kept moving around the apartment, taking in every detail. “I want to look at the baby,” she said suddenly.

Della Street glanced at Mason.

Mason partially opened the door of the bedroom.

Della Street continued to comfort Alice Colton.

Hannah Bass got up and strode to the bedroom door, looked inside at the sleeping child, then stepped inside the bedroom and looked around.

The buzzer sounded on the door of Della Street’s apartment.

Della Street disengaged herself from Alice and went to the door. She accepted the telegram, signed for it and tore the envelope open.

For a moment she stood there with the telegram in her hand saying nothing.

“Oh, Della, it isn’t... it isn’t...?”

Della Street nodded, said, “Mother has passed away.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Alice Colton began to sob audibly.

“Well, after all,” Della Street said, “it’s for the best. Mother was bedridden and she had nothing to look forward to. The doctors said there was virtually no hope.”

Hannah Bass stood in the door of the bedroom for a moment. Then she marched over to where Della Street was holding the telegram, said, “Say, what kind of a plant is this, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” Della Street asked.

“You know what I mean,” Hannah said, snatching at Della Street’s left hand. Where’s your wedding ring?”

“At the jewelers, being repaired,” Della Street said coldly. “That is, if it’s any of your business.”

“It’s lots of my business,” Hannah Bass said. “You’re not married. That’s not your baby. This isn’t your husband. I’ve seen his face somewhere before — in newspapers and magazines somewhere — what are you trying to do?”

Della Street said, “My mother has just passed away. Here’s the telegram.”

She extended the telegram, holding her thumb over the top part of the telegram so that Hannah Bass could see the message, but not the place where the telegram had originated.

“Well, we won’t argue about it,” the woman said. “This was a forty-dollar job. Give me my forty dollars and I’ll be on my way.”

Della Street looked at Perry Mason.

Mason smiled and shook his head.

“Now don’t pull that line with me,” Hannah Bass said belligerently.

“What line?” Mason asked.

“Trying to talk me out of the forty dollars.”

“No one’s trying to talk you out of the forty dollars, Mrs. Bass,” Mason told her. “What you wanted, you know, was an all-night job; you wanted to be guaranteed it would be an all-night job. It is.”

“I wanted the forty dollars, not necessarily an all-night job.”

“You’ll get the forty dollars,” Mason told her, “and you’ll sit right there all night to earn it.”

Hannah Bass looked at him sharply. “You’re the lawyer,” she said. “You’re the man who does all that spectacular stuff in court. You’re Perry Mason!”

“That’s right,” Mason said. “Now, then, just sit down there and tell me how it happened that you would let Robert Selkirk play with a real gun whenever you were baby-sitting with him.”

“So that’s what you’re after!” Hannah Bass said.

“That’s what I’m after,” Mason told her.

Hannah Bass slowly seated herself. “So this was all a plant.”

“It was all a plant, if that will make you feel any better,” Mason told her.

“I don’t have to answer your questions. I can get up and walk out through that door. You don’t have any authority to question me.”

“That’s entirely correct,” Mason said. “You were hired to sit here until eight o’clock in the morning. You’re to get forty dollars for it. If you walk out through that door, you don’t get the forty dollars and you’ll still have to answer the same questions; but this time before a grand jury.”

“What difference does it make?” Hannah Bass asked.

“For your information, so there won’t be any misunderstanding, Mervin Selkirk was murdered. Norda Allison has been accused of that murder. She’s my client.

“I don’t know what happened. I’m trying to find out. I’m not making any accusations, at least not yet, but apparently when you were baby-sitting you let Robert have a .22 automatic, probably a Colt Woodsman model.”

“You can’t prove it,” Hannah Bass said.

“I think I can,” Mason told her. “If you have anything to conceal, if you are implicated in any way in the murder of Mervin Selkirk, you had better get out of here and retain a lawyer to represent you. If you have nothing to conceal, there is no reason why you can’t talk to me.”

“You got me here under false pretenses,” she said.

“I asked you to come here,” Mason told her. “I wanted to talk with you where I wouldn’t be interrupted by the police.”

“What do you mean, the police?”

“You should know what I mean. The police are employed by the taxpayers to look into matters of this sort. In case you haven’t met Lieutenant Tragg of the homicide department, you have a delightful experience in store. Tragg is very thorough, very shrewd, very fair and very determined.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to tell your story — officially. You can tell it to me now unofficially. If there’s anything about it that sounds fishy, I’ll point it out.”

“Why should any of it sound fishy?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “All I know is that your extreme reluctance to talk may be an indication of guilty knowledge. You’d better consult a lawyer, if that’s the case.

“And remember this, Mrs. Bass, someday you’re going to be on the witness stand and I’m going to cross-examine you and if you don’t tell me your story now, I’m going to ask you why you were afraid to tell it.”

“Who says I’m afraid to tell it?”

“I say so.”

“Well I’m not.”

“Then why won’t you tell it?”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t tell it.”

“Make up your mind.”

The room was silent for several seconds, then Hannah Bass said, “There wasn’t anything wrong with it, it was just yielding to a childish whim. Robert is an unusual boy. He loves Western pictures. He wants to grow up and be a marshal or a cowpuncher or something of that sort. He’s crazy about firearms. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“How did it happen that you started letting him have the .22?” Mason asked.

“It was one time when I was baby-sitting with him. I had to stay there for two days while Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were away. They left Robert with me.”

“You occupied the spare bedroom on the second floor?”

“Yes.”

“At the front of the house?”

“Yes.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, I opened a drawer in the bureau in order to put some of my things away and found this gun.”

“What sort of a gun?”

“A Colt Woodsman.”

“You know something about guns?”

“I was married to a man who ran shooting galleries. He was one of the best shots in the country. He taught me how to handle guns.”

“And how to shoot?” Mason asked.

“I became a very good shot,” she admitted.

“All right, what happened?”

“Robert came walking into the room while I was looking this gun over. He was completely fascinated with it. He wanted to hold it for a while.”

“What did you do?”

“I took out the magazine clip and saw that it was fully loaded. I snapped back the recoil-operated mechanism and found there was no shell in the barrel. So I let Robert handle the gun.”

“And then what happened?”

“He was completely fascinated. He had seen me work the mechanism. He wanted to know how to handle the gun and all about it.

“So then I took the shells out of the magazine, put the magazine in place and let him play with the empty gun for a while. Then I put it back in the drawer. I don’t think Robert talked about anything else all day. I was afraid his parents wouldn’t like what I had done, although for my part I think the best way to teach boys about firearms is to teach them at an early age and teach them to handle them safely. However, all parents don’t have the same idea.”

“So what did you do?” Mason asked.

“I made Robert promise that he wouldn’t tell his folks anything about that gun.”

“And after that?” Mason asked.

“Well,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, “after that Robert had sort of a hold on me. When his parents would be gone he’d insist on having me unload the gun and let him keep it in his hand. At first I made him stay in the house, but after a while — well, I let him take it outdoors and play with it.

“For the life of me I don’t see that there was anything wrong with what I did, but there were times when I felt as though I should go to Mrs. Jennings and discuss the matter with her.

“The trouble was I had already let Robert play with the weapon. I don’t think I have ever seen a child as completely fascinated with any toy as Robert was with just holding that automatic in his hands.”

“Did he ever pull the trigger?” Mason asked.

“Of course he did. However, I made him promise that he’d never, never pull the trigger when the gun was pointed at anyone. I showed him the safety, showed him how to put it on and keep it on, and it was part of his agreement with me that he was always to have this safety in place while he was handling the gun.”

“You were there with him at night?” Mason asked.

“Sometimes. I’ve stayed as much as a couple of days at a time.”

“And Robert has played with the gun each time?”

“Yes.”

“And at night has he ever slept with the gun under his pillow?”

“Once, yes.”

“How did that happen?”

“He’s a rather nervous, high-strung child despite the fact that he keeps his emotions under such excellent control. He liked to camp out in that tent on the patio and he told me it would give him a feeling of assurance if he had the gun with him. He said there were noises in the night and he wanted some protection, was the way he expressed it.”

“And you let him take the gun?”

“Just that once. That was when I found he had a shell for it. That’s when I began to get frightened of the whole business. I told him he was just a little boy seven years old, that he couldn’t have any gun for protection until he got to be a big man.”

“Now then, when Lorraine Jennings and Barton Jennings went down on Friday night to meet Norda Allison at the airport, did you take care of Robert?”

She shook her head.

“Who did?”

“I think they left him there alone with the dog. Rover wouldn’t let anyone get near Robert. I think his folks put Robert to bed and then just quietly went down to meet the plane.”

“Would they leave him alone like that?”

“Sometimes. The dog was always there. Sometimes they’d leave after he’d gone to sleep. I don’t like the idea of that. I think that whenever you are planning on leaving a child alone, you should tell him. I think if a child wakes up at night and finds he’s alone, when he expects his parents to be there, it gives him an emotional shock.”

“Did they ever say anything to you at any time about the gun, or did you ever say anything to them? In other words, do you think that they knew you were letting him take the gun?”

“I never said anything to them and they never said anything to me. Robert promised me that he wouldn’t tell them and I’m satisfied he wouldn’t. Robert is a child, but he’s a man of his word.”

“But you do know Robert wanted the gun when he was sleeping out in the patio?”

“Yes.”

“If Robert had wakened and wanted something in the house and had found his mother and his stepfather were away, do you think it is possible that he could have gone to that bedroom and taken the gun out of the drawer?”

A look of sudden alarm came on her face.

“Do you?” Mason asked.

“Good heavens, did he do that?” she asked in a half whisper.

“I’m asking you if it’s possible.”

“It’s very possible,” she said.

Mason smiled and said, “I think that does it, Mrs. Bass. Here’s your forty dollars for the baby-sitting.”

“Good heavens,” she said, “if he had done that, if Mr. Mason, do you think that child could possibly have... good heavens, no! It’s preposterous! He wouldn’t have done anything like that!”

Mason said, “Those are the words you use to reassure yourself, Mrs. Bass, but if there had been a mirror in front of your face, you would have seen from your dismayed expression exactly how possible you thought that would have been.”

Mason handed her four ten-dollar bills.

Hannah Bass blinked for a moment, then abruptly got up and without a word walked out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her.

Mason smiled reassuringly at Alice Colton. “You may take the child back now, Mrs. Colton, and thanks a lot. We certainly appreciate your co-operation. You may have aided the cause of justice.”