"How much time have I?" asked Paul Drake.


"You've got less than ten minutes, if you can do it in that time. I know you can't, but you've got to do it just as fast as you can. You've got a list of people that you can call on to do various jobs, and what you've got to do is to check over it, get the right person, and get in touch with her."


"I've got a girl," said Paul Drake slowly, "who might answer the description. She worked as a lure on the vice squad for a while, and knows her way around. She'd do anything."


"Is she light or dark?"


Paul Drake smiled slowly.


"She," he said, "is about the same build and complexion as Mrs. Bessie Forbes. That's the reason I thought of her."


"All right," Mason said, "don't get too damn smart, or it might not be so good. This is a case where you're going to be dumb. The dumber the better. Remember, I'm the one that's giving orders. You're just following them, and you don't know anything yet."


"I'm commencing to suspect a lot," Paul Drake said.


"Suspect all you want to, but don't tell me anything about it, and keep your thoughts to yourself, because you're going to want to forget them later on."


"Okay," said Drake, "You go on up to your office, and I'll get this girl to show up. Her name's Mae Sibley. You don't need to mince words with her."


"Okay," said Mason, "get started - and thanks, Paul."


CHAPTER XIII


MAE SIBLEY was well-built and attractive. Perry Mason stood close to her, looked her over with approval.


"Give me that bottle of perfume, Della," he said.


He took the bottle of perfume, wafted it beneath the young woman's nostrils.


"Any objection to using this?" he asked.


"I'll say not, I could use all of that you wanted to give me."


"All right, put on lots of it."


"Where?"


"On your clothes - anywhere."


"I hate to waste that good perfume."


"That's all right, go ahead and put it on."


Della Street smiled at the young woman, and said, "Perhaps I can help."


She applied perfume liberally to the girl's clothes.


"Now," said Perry Mason, "you're going to go to a certain taxicab and tell the driver that you left a handkerchief in the taxicab. When you had him take you out to 4889 Milpas Drive. Do you suppose you can remember that?"


"Sure. What else do I do - anything?"


"That's all, just take the handkerchief and give the cab driver a sweet smile."


"Then what?"


"He'll give you the handkerchief and ask you for your address. Because, he'll tell you, you've got to let him know where you live so he can report to the Lost and Found Department."


"Very well, then what do I do?"


"Then you give him a phoney name and address, and fade from the picture."


"That's all there is to it?"


"That's all there is to it."


"What name and address do I give him?"


"Give him the name of Agnes Brownlie, and tell him that you live at the Breedmont Hotel, on Ninth and Masonic Streets. Don't give him any room number."


"What do I do with the handkerchief?"


"After you've got the handkerchief, you bring it to me."


"This is on the up and up?" she asked.


"It's within the law," he told her, "if that's what you want to know."


"And I get three hundred dollars for doing it?"


"Three hundred dollars when the job is finished."


"When's the job going to be finished?"


"There may not be anything more to it," he told her, "but you've got to keep in touch with me so that I can reach you at any time. Give me your telephone number and arrange so that I can reach you on short notice any time I want to."


"And how do I find the taxicab driver?"


"In exactly fifteen minutes," Perry Mason told her, "the taxicab driver will come up to the corner of Ninth and Masonic Streets, and telephone in to his office to find out if there are any calls for him. The particular taxi that you want is a Checker cab, number 86-C. You telephone in to the head office of the taxicab company, tell them that you left an article in the cab, and ask them to let you know where the cabbie is as soon as he reports. Leave them a number so they can call you back. They'll call you back in fifteen minutes, when he reports, and tell you that he's at Ninth and Masonic. You tell them that you're right near there, so you'll go and pick him up. Pretend that you recognize him. You can spot him from the number on the cab. Be a little friendly with him."


"Okay," she said, "anything else?"


"Yes," he told her, "you've got to talk in a peculiar tone of voice."


"What sort of tone of voice?"


"High and fast."


"Like this?" she asked, raising her voice, and saying rapidly: "I beg your pardon, but I think I left my handkerchief in your taxicab."


"No," he said, "that's too high and not fast enough. Try it a little lower, and you've got to drag out the ends of the words a little bit more. You're clipping them off too much. Put kind of a little emphasis on the word ends."


Mae Sibley watched him closely, her head cocked slightly on one side, in the attitude of a bird listening. She closed her eyes.


"Like this?" she asked: "I beg your pardon, but didn't I leave my handkerchief in your taxicab?"


"That's a little more like it," he said, "but you've got to do it more like this. Now listen: 'I beg your pardon, but didn't I leave my handkerchief in your taxicab?'"


"I think I get you," she said. "It's a trick of talking rapidly until you come to the last word in each phrase, and then you drawl out the end of it."


"Maybe that's it," he said. "Go ahead and try it. Let's see how it works."


She flashed him a sudden smile. "I beg your pardon," she said, "but I think I left my handkerchief in your taxi cab."


"That's it," he told her. "It's not perfect, but it's good enough. Now get started. You haven't got much time. Della, you've got a black fur coat hanging in the closet. Give it to her. Okay, go ahead. Put on your coat, sister, and then grab a taxi and beat it out to the Breedmont Hotel. You can call the cab office from there. They'll have the cab reporting in about ten minutes now. You've just about got time to put through your calls and make it, and make it snappy."


He ushered her to the door, turned to Della Street, and said, "Get Paul Drake on the line, and tell him to come up here right away."


She nodded, and her fingers worked the dial of the telephone.


Perry Mason started pacing back and forth across the office, his face immobile, his stare fixed.


"He'll be right up," she said. "What is it, chief, can you tell me?"


Perry Mason shook his head.


"Not yet, I can't, Della. I'm not certain, myself, just what it is."


"But what's happened?"


"Plenty," he told her, "and the trouble is it doesn't fit together."


"What's bothering you?" she asked.


"I am wondering," he said, "why that dog howled, and why he quit howling. Sometimes I think I know why the dog howled, and then I can't figure why he quit howling. Sometimes I figure that it's all goofy."


"You can't expect things to dovetail together too accurately," she told him, her eyes dark with concern. "You've just come out of one big case, and now you're plunging right in on another."


"I know it," he told her. "It's something of a strain, but I can stand it all right. That isn't what's bothering me. What's bothering me is why the facts don't fit together. Don't ever fool yourself that facts don't fit, if you get the right explanation. They're just like jigsaw puzzles - when you get them right, they're all going to fit together."


"What doesn't fit in this case?" she asked.


"Nothing fits," he said, then glanced up as there was a knock at the outer door.


"Paul Drake, I guess," he said.


He strode to the door, opened it, and nodded to the tall detective.


"Come in, Paul," he said. "I want you to get the dope on the man that Thelma Benton went out with; the man who drove the Chevrolet coupe, 6M9245."


Paul Drake's smile was slow and good-natured.


"Don't think you're the only one that can put any pep into your work," he said. "I've had my men working on that, and already have the answer for you. The fellow is Carl Trask. He's a young man who's drifted around and has a police record. Right at present he's engaged in doing some small-time gambling."


"Can you find out anything more than that about him?"


"In time, yes. We're getting stuff. In fact, we're getting stuff coming in from all over the country. We've got a lot more reports on the situation in Santa Barbara. I've checked down everybody who was in the household - even including the Chinese cook."


"That's right," Perry Mason said. "I'm interested in that cook. What happened to him?"


"They made some kind of a deal with him, by which he agreed to be deported. I don't know just what it was. I think that Clinton Foley got in touch with the Federal authorities to find out what it was all about; found there was no question but what the boy was in this country illegally. So Foley worked out a deal by which the Chink was to be deported at once, without being held for further examination or trial, and gave him enough money to set himself up in some sort of business in Canton. Our money buys a lot of Chinese money, at the present rate of exchange, and money means a lot more in China."


"Find out anything else about him?" asked Perry Mason. "That is, the cook?"


"I found out that there's something funny about the tipoff that caused the Federal authorities to go out there and round him up."


"What sort of a tip-off was it?"


"I don't know exactly, but, from all I can gather, some man telephoned and said that he understood Ah Wong was in the country without a proper certificate; that he didn't want to disclose his identity or have his name used in any way, but he wanted something done about it."


"Chinese or white man?" asked Perry Mason.


"Apparently a white man, and apparently rather well educated. He talked like an educated man."


"Well," said Mason, "go on."


"That's all there is, definite," said the detective, "but one of the clerks in the immigration office handled that anonymous tip, and also talked with Foley over the telephone. She's got a goofy idea that it was Foley who gave the tip-off."


"Why would Foley do that?" Mason asked.


"Search me," said the detective, "probably there's nothing to it. I'm simply telling you what the clerk told me."


Perry Mason took a package of cigarettes from his pocket, gave one to Della Street, then to Paul Drake. He lit Della's cigarette, then Drake's, and would have lit his own from the same match, but Della Street stopped him.


He smoked in silence for several minutes.


"Well," said Drake at length, "what are we here for?"


Perry Mason said, "I want you to get handwriting specimens from Paula Cartright; from Cartright's housekeeper; and from this woman, Thelma Benton. I'm going to get a sample from Bessie Forbes."


"What's the idea?" asked the detective.


"I'm not ready to talk yet," Mason said. "I want you to wait here for a while, Paul." And he began pacing the floor, restlessly.


The others watched him in silence, respecting the concentration of his thoughts. They finished their cigarettes, pinched out the stubs. Mason still continued his restless pacing.


The telephone rang after some ten or fifteen minutes, and Della Street answered it, then looked up to Perry Mason, holding the receiver in her hand.


"It's Miss Sibley," she said, "and she wants me to tell you that she did exactly as you instructed, and that everything is all right."


"Has she got the handkerchief?" asked Perry Mason.


Della Street nodded. Perry Mason showed excitement.


"Tell her to get a cab and come over to the office right away," he said; "to bring that handkerchief with her, and pay the cab driver to make time. But be sure and tell her not to get that Checker cab. Get another cab."


"What's it all about?" asked Paul Drake.


Perry Mason chuckled.


"You stick around about ten minutes," he said, "and you'll find out. I'm about ready to let the lid off."


Paul Drake settled back in the big leather chair, slid his long legs over the arm of the chair, put a cigarette in his mouth, and scraped a match on the sole of his shoe.


"Well," he said, "I can stick it out if you can. I guess you lawyers never sleep."


"It's not so bad after you get used to it," Mason said, and resumed his pacing of the floor. Once or twice he chuckled, but, for the most part, he paced in silence.


It was following one of those chuckles, that Paul Drake drawled a question.


"Going to let me in on the joke, Perry?"


"I was simply thinking," Perry Mason said, "how delightfully surprised Detective Sergeant Holcomb is going to be."


"Over what?" asked Drake.


"Over the information I'm going to give him," Mason replied, and resumed his steady pacing of the floor.


The knob on the outer door rattled, and there was a gentle knock on the panels.


"See who it is, Della," said the lawyer.


Della Street went swiftly to the door, opened it, and let Mae Sibley into the room.


"Have any trouble?" asked Perry Mason.


"Not a bit," she said. "I just told him what you told me to say, and he took me for granted. He looked me over rather closely, and asked me a few questions. Then he took the handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to me. He was slick enough to smell the handkerchief and then smell my perfume, to make sure they matched."


"Good girl," Mason said, "and you gave him the name of Agnes Brownlie?"


"Yes. And the address, Breedmont Hotel - just like you told me."


"All right," Perry Mason said, "you get one hundred and fifty dollars now, and one hundred and fifty dollars a little later. You understand that you're not to say a word about this."


"Of course."


Perry Mason counted out the money.


"You want a receipt?" she asked.


"No," he told her.


"When do I get the other hundred and fifty?"


"When the job's finished."


"What else have I got to do?"


"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps you'll have to go to court and testify."


"Go to court and testify?" she said. "Over what?"


"Over exactly what happened."


"Not tell any lies?"


"Certainly not."


"How soon will you know?" she asked.


"Probably in a couple of weeks. You've got to keep in touch with me. That's all. You'd better get out of here now, because I don't want you to be seen around the office."


She extended her hand. "Thanks a lot for the work, Mr. Mason," she said. "It's appreciated."


"You don't know how much I appreciate what you've done," he told her.


It was evident that there was a vast change in the lawyer's manner, a relief that was disclosed in his bearing. He turned to Della Street, as the door of the outer office closed on Mae Sibley.


"Get police headquarters," he said, "and get Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line."


"It's pretty late," she reminded him.


"That's all right. He works nights."


Della Street got the connection through, then looked up at her employer.


"Here's Detective Sergeant Holcomb on the line," she said.


Perry Mason strode to the telephone. He was smiling as he picked up the receiver.


"Listen, Sergeant," he said; "I've got some information for you. I can't give it all to you, but I can give you some of it... Yes, some of it is professional confidence, and I can't give you that. I think I understand the duties of an attorney and the rights and liabilities of an attorney. An attorney is supposed to guard the confidences of his client, but he's not supposed to compound a crime. He's not supposed to suppress any evidence. He can keep anything that his client tells him to himself, provided it's something that was necessary to a preparation of the case he's handling or related to the advice he's giving a client..."


Mason ceased talking for a minute and frowned while the receiver made squawking noises. Then he said in a conciliatory tone: "That's all right, Sergeant. Keep your shirt on. I'm not making any dissertation on the law; I'm simply telling you so that you'll understand that which I'm going to tell you now. It happens that I've just found out that a Checker cab, number 86-C, took a woman to Clinton Foley's house at about twenty-five minutes past seven. The woman was there for about fifteen or twenty minutes. The woman left a handkerchief in the taxicab. Now that handkerchief undoubtedly is evidence. That handkerchief is now in my possession. I'm not at liberty to explain to you how it came in my possession, but it's here, and I'm going to send it over to police headquarters... all right, you can send over for it if you want. I won't be here, but my secretary, Della Street, will be here, and she'll give it to you... yes, the taxicab driver can undoubtedly identify it... I can tell you this much: the woman who rode in the taxicab dropped a handkerchief, or left it in the cab. The driver found it. Later on, the handkerchief came into my possession. I can't tell you how I got it... No, damn it, I can't tell you that... No, I won't tell you that... I don't give a damn what you think. I know my rights. That handkerchief is evidence, and you're entitled to it, but any of the knowledge that I have received from a client is a sacred communication, and you can't drag it out of me with all the subpoenas on earth."


He slammed the receiver back on the hook, tossed the handkerchief over to Della Street.


"When the officers come," he said, "give them this, and don't give them anything else except a sweet smile. Keep any information you have to yourself."


"What happened?" she asked.


Perry Mason stared at her steadily.


"If you insist on knowing," he said, "Clinton Foley was murdered between seven-thirty and eight o'clock tonight."


Paul Drake pursed his lips into a silent whistle.


"In one way," he said, "you haven't surprised me, and in another you have. When I first heard about those sirens, I figured that's what might have happened. Then, when I saw the stuff you were doing, I figured even you wouldn't take those kind of chances on a murder rap."


Della Street's eyes turned not to Perry Mason, but to Paul Drake.


"Is it that bad, Paul?" she asked.


The detective started to say something, then caught his breath and was silent.


Della Street walked to Perry Mason's side and looked up at him.


"Chief," she said, "is there anything I can do?" His eyes softened as he looked down at her.


"This is something I've got to work out alone," he said.


"Are you going to tell the police," she asked, "about the man who wanted to know what effect it would have on his will if he was executed for murder?"


Perry Mason stared steadily at her.


"We," he said, "aren't going to tell the police anything other than what we've already told them."


Paul Drake snapped out words with unaccustomed vehemence:


"Perry," he said, "you've taken enough chances on this thing. If the person who murdered Clinton Foley consulted you beforehand, you've got to go to the police and..."


"The less you know about this situation," Mason said, "the fewer chances you'll be taking."


The detective's voice was lugubrious.


"I know too darn much already," he said.


Mason turned to Della Street.


"I don't think they'll question you," he said slowly, "if you tell them that I left you this handkerchief to give to them and that that's all you can tell them about it."


"Don't worry about me, Chief," she said. "I can take care of myself, but what are you going to do?"


"I'm going out," he said, "and I'm leaving right now."


He strode to the door, paused with his hand on the knob and looked back at the pair in the office.


"The things I've done," he said, "are all going to click together and make sense and they're also going to make one hell of a commotion. I've got to take chances. I don't want either of you to take any chances. I know just how far I can go; you don't. Therefore, I want you to follow instructions and stop."


Della Street's voice was quavering with worry.


"Are you sure you know where to stop, Chief?" she asked.


"Shucks," rasped Paul Drake, "he never knows where to stop."


Perry Mason jerked the door open.


"Where are you going from here, Perry?" asked the detective.


Mason's smile was serenely untroubled.


"That," he said, "is something it might be better for you not to know."


The door slammed shut behind him.


CHAPTER XIV


PERRY MASON caught a cruising cab in front of the office.


"Get me to the Broadway Hotel on Forty-second Street," he said, "and make it snappy."


He settled back in the cushions and closed his eyes while the cab threaded its way through the streets that were now almost deserted. When the cab pulled up in front of the Broadway Hotel, Perry Mason tossed the driver a bill, strode across the lobby to the elevators, as though going upon important business. He got out at the mezzanine, called the room clerk, and said: "Will you give me the number of the room assigned to Mrs. Bessie Forbes?"


"Eight ninety-six," said the room clerk.


"Thanks," said Mason. He hung up the telephone, went to the elevator, got off at the eighth floor, walked to room 896 and rapped on the door.


"Who is it?" asked Bessie Forbes's frightened voice.


"Mason," Perry Mason said in a low tone. "Open the door."


A bolt clicked, and the door opened. Mrs. Forbes, now fully clothed in a street costume, stared at him with eyes that showed fright, but were rigidly steady.


Perry Mason walked in and closed the door behind him.


"All right," he said, "I'm your lawyer. Now tell me exactly what happened tonight."


"What do you mean?" she asked.


"I mean about the trip you made to see your husband."


She shuddered, looked about her, motioned Perry Mason to a seat on the davenport. She came and sat down beside him, and twisted her fingers around a handkerchief. She was redolent of cheap perfume.


"How did you know I went out there?" she asked.


"I guessed it," he said. "I figured that you were about due to put in an appearance. I couldn't figure any woman who answered your description, who would make the kind of a call on Clinton Foley that you made, and then the description the taxi driver gave fitted you right down to the ground."


"Yes," she said slowly, "I went out there."


"I know you went out there," he said impatiently. "Tell me what happened."


"When I got there," she said slowly, "the door was locked. I had a passkey. I opened the door and walked in. I wanted to see Clint without giving him time to prepare for my visit."


"All right," he said. "What happened? You went in there and then what happened?"


"I went in," she said, "and found him dead."


"And the dog?" asked Perry Mason.


"Dead."


"I don't suppose that you've got any way of showing that you didn't do the killing?"


"They were both dead when I got there," she said.


"Had they been dead long?"


"I don't know; I didn't touch them."


"What did you do?"


"I felt so weak I sat down in a chair. At first, all I could think about was running away. Then I remembered that I would have to be careful. I knew that I might be suspected of having done the shooting."


"Was the gun lying on the floor?" asked Perry Mason.


"Yes," she said, "the gun was lying on the floor."


"It wasn't your gun?"


"No."


"Did you ever have a gun like that?"


"No."


"Never saw that gun before?"


"No, I tell you I didn't have a thing to do with it. My God! won't you believe me? I couldn't lie to you. I'm telling you the truth."


"All right," he said; "we'll let it go at that. You're telling me the truth then. So what did you do?"


"I remembered," she said, "that the taxi driver had gone to telephone Arthur Cartright. I thought that Arthur would come over, and I knew that Arthur would know what to do."


"Did it ever occur to you that Arthur Cartright might have been the one who did the shooting?"


"Of course it did, but I knew that he wouldn't come over if he had been the one to do the shooting."


"He might have come over and blamed it on you."


"No, Arthur isn't that kind."


"Okay, then," Perry Mason said. "You sat down and waited for Cartright, and then what happened?"


"After a while," she said, "I heard the taxicab come back. I don't know how long it was. I had lost all track of time. I was all broken up."


"All right," he told her, "go on from there."


"I went out, got into the taxicab and drove back to the vicinity of my hotel. Then I got out. I figured that no one would ever be able to trace me. I don't know how you found out about it."


"Did you know," said Perry Mason, "that you left a handkerchief in the taxicab?"


She stared at him with eyes that kept getting wider and more terrified.


"Good God, no!" she said.


"You did," he told her.


"Where is the handkerchief?"


"The police have it."


"How did they get it?"


"I gave it to them."


"You what?"


"I gave it to them," he said. "It came into my possession, and I didn't have any alternative but to surrender it to the police."


"I thought you were acting as my lawyer."


"I am."


"That doesn't sound like it. Good God, that's the worst evidence that they could get hold of! They'll be able to trace me through that handkerchief."


"That's all right," Perry Mason told her. "They're going to trace you anyway, and they're going to question you. When they question you, you can't afford to lie to them. And you can't afford to tell them the truth. You're in a jam, and you've got to keep quiet. Do you understand that?"


"But that's going to prejudice everybody against me - the police, the public, and everybody."


"All right," he told her, "that's what I'm coming to. Now, I had to surrender that handkerchief to the police because it was evidence. The police are on my trail in this thing and they'd like to catch me doing something that would make me an accessory after the fact. They're not going to have that pleasure. But you've got to use your wits in order to get yourself out of this mess.


"Now here's what you do: The police are going to come here. They're going to ask you all sorts of questions. You tell them that you won't answer any questions unless your lawyer is present. Tell them that your lawyer has advised you not to talk. Don't answer any questions whatever. You understand that?"


"Yes, that's what you told me before."


"Think you can do it?"


"I guess so."


"You've got to do it," he said. "There are a lot of loose angles about this thing I can't check up on. I don't want you to tell anything until I know the entire story, and know how the facts fit in."


"But it's going to prejudice the public. The newspapers will say that I refuse to talk."


Perry Mason grinned.


"Now," he said, "you're commencing to get down to brass tacks. That's what I came to see you about. Don't tell the police anything. Don't tell the newspapers anything. But do tell them both that you want to talk, but that I won't let you. Tell them that I have told you you can't say a word. Tell them that you want to. Tell them that you want to explain. Tell them that you'd like to call me up and talk with me; that you think you can get my permission to talk, and all that sort of stuff. They'll give you a telephone and let you talk with me. You plead with me over the telephone for permission to talk. Tell me that you'd like to explain at least what you're doing here in the city; what happened in Santa Barbara; what your plans were. Beg with me, plead with me. Get tears in your voice. Do anything you want to. But I'll sit tight and tell you that the minute you tell anybody anything, you've got to get another lawyer. Do you understand that?"


"Do you think that will work?" she asked.


"Sure it'll work," he said. "The newspapers have got to have something for a story. They'll try to get something else. If they can't get anything else, they'll pick on that and spread it all over the front page that you want to tell your story, and I won't let you."


"How about the police? Will they release me?"


"I don't know."


"Good heavens! You don't mean I'm going to be arrested? My God! I can't stand that! I could probably stand being questioned if they questioned me here in my room. But if they took me down to the jail, down to police headquarters, and questioned me, I'd go crazy. I simply can't stand anything like that, and I can't afford to be put on trial. You don't suppose there's any chance I'm going to be put on trial, do you?"


"Now, look here," he told her, getting to his feet and standing facing her, his eyes steady and insistent. "Don't pull that stuff with me. It doesn't get you anywhere. You're in a jam, and you know it. You went into your husband's house. You let yourself in with a passkey. You found him dead on the floor. You realized that he'd been murdered. There was a gun there. You didn't notify the police. You went to a hotel and registered under an assumed name. If you think you can pull a stunt like that, and not get taken down to police headquarters, you're crazy."


She started to cry.


"Tears aren't going to do you any good," he said, with brutal frankness.


"There's only one thing that'll do you any good, and that's using your noodle and following the instructions I give you. Don't ever admit that you were at the Breedmont Hotel, or that you were ever registered anywhere under an assumed name. Don't admit anything except that you have retained me, and that you won't answer any questions or make any statements unless I am present and advise you to do so. The only exception you make to that is to complain bitterly to the newspapers that you want to tell your story, and that I won't let you. Do you get all that?"


She nodded.


"All right," Mason said. "That disposes of the preliminaries. Now, there's one other thing..."


Knuckles sounded imperatively on the door of the room.


"Who knows you're here?" asked Perry Mason.


"No one," she said, "except you."


Perry Mason motioned her to keep silent. He stood staring at the door in frowning concentration.


The knocks were repeated, this time louder and with a peremptory impatience.


"I think," said Perry Mason, in a low tone of voice, "that you've got to get yourself together. Remember, what they do with you is entirely up to you. If you can keep your head, I can do you some good."


He walked to the door, twisted the bolt and opened it. Detective Sergeant Holcomb, flanked by two men, stared at Perry Mason in amazed surprise.


"You!" said the officer. "What are you doing here?"


"I," said Perry Mason, "am talking with my client, Bessie Forbes, widow of Clinton Forbes who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive under the name of Clinton Foley. Does that answer your question?"


Sergeant Holcomb pushed into the room.


"You're damn right it does," he said, "and I know now where you got that handkerchief. Mrs. Forbes, you're under arrest for the murder of Clinton Forbes, and I want to warn you that anything you say may be used against you."


Perry Mason stared with grim-faced hostility at the officer.


"That's all right," he said, "she won't say anything."


CHAPTER XV


PERRY MASON entered his office, freshly shaved, eyes clear, step springy, to find Della Street engrossed with the morning newspapers.


"Well, Della," he said, "what's the news?"


She stared at him with a puzzled frown on her face.


"Are you going to let them do that?"


"Do what?"


"Arrest Mrs. Forbes?"


"I can't help it. They've already arrested her."


"You know what I mean. Are you going to let them charge her with murder and keep her in jail while her trial's coming up?"


"I can't help it."


"Yes, you can, too, you know you can."


"How?"


"You know as well as I do," she said, getting to her feet and pushing the paper across the surface of her desk, "that Arthur Cartright is the man who killed Clinton Foley, or Clinton Forbes, if you want to call him by his real name.


"Well," said Perry Mason, smiling, "how well do you know it?"


"I know it so well that there even isn't any use talking about it."


"Well, then," he said, "why talk about it?"


She shook her head. "Look here, Chief," she said; "I've got confidence in you. I know you always do the square thing. You can make all the wise cracks you want to, but you still can't convince me that it's right to let this woman stay in jail, just so Arthur Cartright can get a good head start on the police. It's bound to come out sooner or later. Why not give this woman a break and let it come out now? Cartright's had plenty of head start, and, after all, you're almost compounding a felony, being an accessory to the murder."


"In what way?" he asked.


"Withholding from the police the information you have about Mr. Cartright. You know perfectly well that he intended to murder Clinton Foley."


"That doesn't mean anything," Perry Mason said slowly. "He might have intended to murder him, but that doesn't mean he did murder him. You can't accuse a man of murder without some evidence."


"Evidence!" she exclaimed. "What more evidence do you want? The man came in here and almost told you in so many words that he intended to commit a murder. Then he sends you a letter which shows he has perfected his plans and is intending to take action. Then he disappears completely, and the man who has wronged him is found murdered."


"Haven't you got the cart before the horse?" Perry Mason asked. "Shouldn't you say that he murdered the man and then disappeared, if you wanted to make a good case of it? Doesn't it sound rather strange to say that he disappeared, and that the man he had a grudge against was murdered after his disappearance, instead of before?"


"That's all right for you to talk that way to a jury," she said, "but you're not fooling me any. The fact that the man made his will and sent you the money showed that he was intending to take the final step in his campaign. You know what that final step was, as well as I do. He had been watching and spying on the man who broke up his home, waiting for an opportunity to make his presence known to the woman in the case. That opportunity came. He took the woman away from the house and put her in a safe place. Then he came back, did the job, and joined the woman."


"You forget," Perry Mason told her, "that everything I know came to me in the nature of a professional confidence. That is, all the statements Cartright made."


"That all may be," she said, "but you don't have to sit back and let an innocent woman be accused of crime."


"I'm not letting her be accused of crime," he retorted.


"Yes, you are," she said. "You've advised her not to talk. She wants to tell her story, but she doesn't dare to, because you've told her not to talk. You're representing her, and yet you're letting her be wronged, just so this other client of yours can make good his escape."


Perry Mason sighed, smiled, shook his head.


"Let's talk about the weather," he said. "It's more tangible."


She moved over toward him, and her eyes were indignant.


"Perry Mason," she said, "I worship you. You've got more brains and more ability than any other man I know. You've done things that have been simply marvelous, and now you're doing something that is just a plain, downright injustice. You're putting a woman on the spot, just so you can protect Cartright's interests. They're going to catch him sooner or later, and they're going to try him, and you figure that if you can make the police get off on the wrong scent in the meantime, you've strengthened Cartright's case."


"Would you believe me," he asked, "if I told you you were all wet?"


"No," she said. "Because I know I'm not."


He stood staring down at her, chin thrust forward aggressively, eyes smoldering.


"Della," he said, "the police could have built up a good case of circumstantial evidence against Cartright, if they knew as much as we know. But don't ever fool yourself that they can't build up a good case of circumstantial evidence against Bessie Forbes."


"But," she said, "you talk only of cases. Arthur Cartright is guilty. Bessie Forbes is innocent."


He shook his head patiently, doggedly.


"Listen, Della," he said; "you're trying to take in too much territory. Remember that I'm a lawyer. I'm not a judge, and I'm not a jury. I only see that people are represented in court. It's the function of the lawyer for the defense to see that the facts in favor of the defendant are presented to the jury in the strongest possible light. That's all he's supposed to do. It's the function of the district attorney to see that the facts in favor of the prosecution are presented to the jury in the most favorable light. It's the function of the judge to see that the rights of the parties are properly safeguarded, that the evidence is introduced in a proper and orderly manner; and it's the function of the jury to determine who is entitled to a verdict. I'm a lawyer, that's all. It's up to me to present the interests of my clients to the best of my ability, so that the best possible case can be made out. That's my sworn duty. That's all I'm supposed to do.


"If you'll stop and analyze the whole system of justice that we have built up, you'll find that there's nothing else for a lawyer to do. Lots of times the lawyer for the defendant gets a little too clever, and people condemn him. They overlook the fact that the district attorney is as clever a lawyer as the state can find. And the lawyer for the defense has to counteract the vigor of the prosecution by putting up as shrewd and plausible a defense as he can. That's the theory under which our constitutional rights are given to the people."


"I know all that," she said, "and I understand how often the ordinary layman gets a false idea of what it's all about. He doesn't understand just what an attorney is supposed to do, or just why it's so necessary that he does it. But that still doesn't answer the question in this case."


Perry Mason extended his right hand, clenched it, opened it, and then clenched it again.


"Della," he said, "I hold in that hand the weapon which will strike the chains from the wrists of Bessie Forbes, and send her out into the world a free woman, but I have got to use that weapon in a certain way. I have got to strike at just the right time, and in just the right manner. Otherwise, I will simply dull the edge of my weapon and leave the woman worse off than she is now."


Della Street looked at him with eyes that contained a glint of admiration.


"I love to hear you talk that way," she said. "It thrills me when that tone comes into your voice."


"All right," he said, "keep it under your hat. I hadn't intended to tell you - now you know."


"And you promise me you're going to use that weapon?" she asked.


"Of course I'm going to use it," he said. "I'm representing Bessie Forbes, and I'm going to see that she gets the best I can give her."


"But," she said, "why not strike now? Isn't it easier to beat a case before it's been built up?"


He shook his head patiently.


"Not this case, Della," he said. "It's a stronger case against her than any one realizes. That is, a shrewd man can make a strong case of it. I don't dare to strike until I know the full strength of that case. I can only strike once. I've got to do it so dramatically that it will make the one blow sufficient. I've got to get the public interested in Bessie Forbes first. I've got to build up sympathy for her.


"Do you know what it means to build up sympathy for a woman who is charged with murder? If you get off on the wrong foot, the newspapers send special reporters out to interview her as a tiger woman, as a lioness. They write columns of drivel about the feline grace with which she moves, the leonine glint that comes in her eyes, the hidden ferociousness which lurks under a soft exterior.


"Right now I'm making a bid for public interest. I'm making a bid for public sympathy. I want the public to read the newspapers and realize that here is a woman of refinement who has been thrown in jail, charged with murder; who can establish her innocence, and who wants to do it, but who is prevented by the orders of an attorney."


"That will make sympathy for the woman, all right," Della Street pointed out, "but it's going to put you in a bad light. The public will think you're simply grandstanding for the purpose of getting a big fee out of the trial."


"That's what I want the public to think," he told her.


"It's going to hurt your reputation."


He laughed mirthlessly.


"Della," he said, "just a moment ago you were picking on me because I wasn't doing enough for the woman. Now you've switched around and are jumping on me because I'm doing too much."


"No," she said, "that isn't right. You can do it in another way. You don't need to sacrifice your reputation in order to protect her."


He moved toward the inner office.


"I wish to God I didn't," he said, "but there's no other way. Get Paul Drake on the 'phone and tell him to come in here; I want to see him."


Della Street nodded, but made no move toward the switchboard until after Perry Mason had closed the door of his inside office. Then she picked up the telephone.


Perry Mason flung his hat on the top of a bookcase and started pacing the floor. He was still pacing the floor when Della Street opened the door and said: "Here's Paul Drake."


"Send him in," Mason told her.


Paul Drake regarded Perry Mason with eyes that held his usual lazy twinkle.


"Gosh, guy," he drawled, "don't you ever sleep?"


"Why?" asked Perry Mason.


"I crossed your back trail last night. Or rather, my men did," Drake told him.


"I got a couple of hours sleep," Mason said, "and a good Turkish bath and a shave. That's all I need when I'm working on a case."


"Well," said Drake, dropping into a big leather chair and sliding his knees around so that his legs hung over the arm, "give me a cigarette and tell me what's new."


Mason handed him a package of cigarettes, held a match for him.


"You want lots of service," he said.


"So do you," Drake remarked. "You've got every private detective agency in the country boiling in a turmoil. I've had more telegrams of misinformation and immaterial facts than you could digest in a week."


"Have you found any trace of Arthur Cartright or Paula Cartright?" asked Mason.


"Not a trace. They've vanished from the face of the earth. What's more, we've covered every taxicab agency in the city, talked with every taxicab driver, and we can't find any one who made the trip out to 4889 Milpas Drive that morning, when Mrs. Cartright left Foley's place."


"You don't know what kind of a taxicab it was?"


"No. Thelma Benton says it was a taxicab. She's certain of that, but we can't find the taxicab."


"Perhaps the driver is lying," Mason said.


"Perhaps, but it isn't likely."


Mason sat down behind his desk and made drumming motions with his fingers on the surface of the desk.


"Paul," he said, "I can beat that case against Bessie Forbes."


"Of course you can," Drake told him. "All you've got to do is to let the woman tell her story. What's the idea of keeping her silent? That's a dodge that's used only by guilty people or hardened criminals."


"I want to make certain that your men can't find Cartright before I have her tell her story," Perry Mason said.


"What's that got to do with it?" asked Drake. "Do you think Cartright is guilty and you want to make certain he's where the police can't find him before you let police attention get diverted from Bessie Forbes?"


Perry Mason made no answer to the question, but sat silent. After a moment he started pounding gently with his right fist on the desk.


"Paul," he said, "I can bust that case wide open. But in order to do it I've got to strike at the psychological moment. I've got to build up public interest, and I've got to get a dramatic tension built up, and then I've got to strike so fast that the district attorney can't think up the answer before the jury brings in a verdict."


"You mean that woman is going to trial?"


"I mean," said Perry Mason, "she's got to go to trial."


"But the district attorney doesn't want to try her. He's not certain he's got a case. He wants her to tell her story. That's all he wants."


Perry Mason spoke slowly and emphatically. "That woman," he said, "has got to be tried, and, of course, she's got to be acquitted. But it won't be easy."


"I thought you said you could bust the case wide open."


"I can, if I can strike at the right time and in the right manner, but I've got to be spectacular about it."


"Why not try to get her off on her preliminary examination?


"No, I'm going to consent that she be bound over for trial, and I'm going to ask for an immediate trial."


Paul Drake blew out cigarette smoke and regarded the lawyer quizzically.


"What's this weapon you've got that you're holding back?" he asked.


"You probably wouldn't think much of it if I told you," said Mason.


"Well you might try me."


"I'm going to," Mason said, "because I've got to. That weapon is a howling dog."


Paul Drake whipped the cigarette from his lips with a gesture of swift surprise, and stared at Perry Mason with eyes that had lost their twinkle of lazy humor.


"For heaven sake," he said, "are you still harking back to that howling dog?"


"Yes," Mason said.


"Shucks, that's out of the case long ago. The dog's dead, and it didn't howl."


Perry Mason said, doggedly, "I want to establish the fact that the dog did howl."


"But what difference does it make?"


"A lot of difference."


"It's just a silly superstition anyway," Paul Drake said. "Nothing that would have bothered anybody in particular, except a person who was mentally weak, like this man Cartright."


"I have got to establish," said Perry Mason doggedly and determinedly, "that the dog did howl. I have got to prove it by evidence. The only evidence that I dare to rely on is that of Ah Wong, the Chinese cook."


"But Wong says the dog didn't howl."


"Wong has got to tell the truth," said Perry Mason. "Have they deported him yet?"


"They're leaving with him today."


"All right," said Perry Mason. "I'm going to get out a subpoena naming him as a witness and hold him here. Then I want you to get some clever Chinese interpreter. I want you to impress upon that interpreter the necessity of getting Ah Wong to admit that the dog did howl."


"You mean you want him to say the dog howled whether the dog howled or not?"


"I mean," said Perry Mason, "that I want Ah Wong to tell the truth. That dog howled. I want to establish it. But don't get me wrong. If the dog didn't howl, I want Ah Wong to say so. But I'm satisfied the dog did howl, and I want to prove that he did."


"Okay," said Drake, "I think I can attend to that. I know some of the fellows in the immigration office."


"One other point," said Perry Mason. "I think it would be a good thing to spring it on Ah Wong that Clinton Foley, or Forbes, whichever you want to call him, was responsible for the arrest of Ah Wong. I think it might be a good idea to get that thing impressed pretty strongly on the oriental mind."


"I get you," said Paul Drake. "I haven't the faintest idea of what you're getting at, but I don't suppose that makes any difference. What else do you want?"


"I want," said Perry Mason slowly, "to find out everything I can about that dog."


"What do you mean?"


"I want to find out how long Clinton Forbes had owned that dog. I want to find out about the dog's habits. I want you to chase back over the dog's entire life and find out if he was ever known to howl at night.


"Now, when Clinton Foley first took that house at 4889 Milpas Drive, he had the police dog. Find out how long he'd had it, where he got it, how old the dog was. Find out everything about it, and, particularly, about the howling."


"I've already got some of that information," the detective said. "Forbes had had the dog for years. When Forbes left Santa Barbara he took the dog with him. That was one of the things he couldn't bear to leave behind. He was attached to the dog - so was his wife, for that matter."


"All right," said Perry Mason. "I want evidence to show all about that dog. I want witnesses who can come here and testify about him. I want witnesses who have known that dog from a pup. Go to Santa Barbara. Get the neighbors who would have heard the dog if he'd ever howled at night. Get affidavits from them. Some of them we'll want as witnesses. Spare no expense."


"All over a dog?" asked Paul Drake.


"All over a dog," Perry Mason said, "who didn't howl in Santa Barbara, but who did howl here."


"The dog's dead," the detective reminded him.


"That doesn't affect the importance of the evidence," Mason said.


The telephone rang. Mason picked up the receiver.


"One of Mr. Drake's detectives on the line, and he wants to report to him at once," Della Street said. "He says its important."


Perry Mason turned the receiver over to Paul Drake.


"One of the men with some more information, Paul."


Drake slid over to the edge of the chair arm, lifted the receiver to his ear and drawled a lazy "Hello."


The receiver made swift metallic noises, and a look of surprised incredulity came over Drake's face.


"You're sure about that?" he asked at length.


The receiver made more noises.


Drake said, "I'll be damned," and hung up the telephone. He looked at Perry Mason with eyes that still showed startled surprise.


"Know who that was?" he asked.


"One of your men?" asked Mason.


"Yes," said Drake, "one of my men who's covering the police headquarters, picking up tips from newspaper reporters, and all that stuff. Do you know what he told me?"


"Naturally," said Perry Mason, "I do not. Go ahead and spill it."


"He told me," said Paul Drake, "that the police have positively identified the gun that was found in Foley's house; the gun that killed the police dog and Foley."


"Go ahead," Mason said. "How did they identify it?"


"They identified it by tracing the numbers and getting the report on sales. They've found out definitely and positively who bought that gun."


"Spill it," Mason said; "go ahead and tell me. Who bought it?"


"The gun," said Paul Drake slowly, his eyes watching Perry Mason's face in concentrated scrutiny, "was purchased in Santa Barbara, California, by Bessie Forbes, two days before her husband ran away with Paula Cartright."


Perry Mason's face became wooden. He stared at the detective in expressionless appraisal for nearly ten seconds.


"Well," said Drake, "what have you got to say?"


Perry Mason's eyes half closed.


"I'm not going to say anything," he said. "I'm going to take back something that I did say."


"What?"


"When I told you that at the proper moment I could bust that case against Bessie Forbes wide open."


"I," said Drake, "am doing a lot of mind changing, myself."


"It's all right," Mason said slowly. "I still think I can bust that case wide open, but I don't know."


He picked up the telephone, placed the receiver to his ear with a slow, deliberate motion, and when he heard Della Street's voice, said, "Della, get me Alex Bostwick, the city editor of The Chronicle. Get him on the line, personally. I'll wait."


The expression of surprise gradually faded from Paul Drake's eyes, and his face resumed once more its look of droll humor.


"Well," he said slowly, "that hands me a jolt. I'm commencing to think you either know more about this case than I thought you did, or else that you're crazy like a fox. Maybe it was a good thing Mrs. Forbes didn't rush out and make a lot of explanations to the police."


"Perhaps," Perry Mason said softly, then turned to the telephone. "Hello... this Bostwick? Hello, Alex, Perry Mason talking. I've got a hot tip for you. You always claimed that I never gave you tips so that your men could dig up a scoop. Here's one that's a pippin. Have a reporter go out to 4893 Milpas Drive. It's the residence of a man named Arthur Cartright. He'll find a housekeeper there who is deaf and cranky. Her name's Elizabeth Walker. If your reporter will draw her out, he'll find that she knows who murdered Clinton Foley... yes, Clinton Forbes, who lived at 4889 Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley...


"Yes, she knows who did the killing...


"No, it wasn't Bessie Forbes. You get her to talk...


"All right, if you insist. She'll tell you that it was Arthur Cartright, the man for whom she works, and who has mysteriously disappeared. That's all. Good-by."


Perry Mason slid the receiver back on the hook and turned to Paul Drake.


"God! Paul," he said, "but I hated to do that."


CHAPTER XVI


THE room in the jail, set aside for conferences between attorneys and clients, contained no furniture other than a long table running the length of the room, flanked with chairs on either side. Midway along the table, stretching entirely through the table to the floor, and up to a height of five feet above the table, was a heavy wire screen.


An attorney and his client could sit on opposite sides of the table. They could see each other's faces, hear plainly what was said; but they could not touch each other; nor could they pass any object through the screen. The visiting room had three doors. One of them opened from the jailor's office to the side of the room where attorneys were admitted; one opened from the jailor's office to the side where prisoners were admitted, and one led from the prisoners' side of the room to the jail.


Perry Mason sat in a chair at the long table, and waited impatiently. His fingers made little drumming sounds upon the battered table top.


After a few moments the door from the jail opened and a matron walked into the room, with Mrs. Forbes on her arm.


Bessie Forbes was white-faced, but calm. Her eyes held a haunting expression of terror, but her lips were clamped together in a firm, determined line. She looked about the room, and then saw Perry Mason, as the attorney got to his feet.


"Good morning," he called.


"Good morning," she said, in a firm, steady voice, and walked over to the table.


"Take that seat across from me," said Perry Mason.


She sat down and tried a smile. The matron withdrew through the door which went to the jail. The guard peered curiously through the steel cage, then turned away. He was entirely out of ear-shot. Attorney and client were alone.


"Why," said Perry Mason, "did you lie to me about the gun?"


She looked about her with a haunted, hunted look, then moistened her lips with the extreme tip of her tongue.


"I didn't lie," she said. "I had just forgotten."


"Forgotten what?" he asked.


"Forgotten about purchasing that gun."


"Well, then," he said, "go ahead and tell me about it."


She spoke slowly, as though choosing her words carefully.


"Two days before my husband left Santa Barbara," she said, "I found out about his affair with Paula Cartright. I got a permit from the authorities to keep a gun in the house, went down to a sporting goods store, and bought the automatic."


"What did you intend to do with it?" he asked.


"I don't know," she said.


"Going to use it on your husband?"


"I don't know."


"Going to use it on Paula Cartright?"


"I don't know, I tell you. I just acted on an impulse. I think, perhaps, I was just going to run a bluff."


"All right," he said, "what happened to the gun?"


"My husband took it away from me."


"You showed it to him, then?"


"Yes."


"How did you happen to show it to him?"


"He made me angry."


"Oh, then you threatened him with it?"


"You might call it that. I took the gun from my purse and told him I'd kill myself before I'd be placed in the position of a neglected wife who hadn't been able to hold her husband."


"Did you mean it?" Perry Mason asked, studying her from expressionless, patient eyes.


"Yes," she said, "I meant it."


"But you didn't kill yourself."


"No."


"Why?"


"I didn't have the gun when it happened."


"Why didn't you?"


"My husband had taken it from me. I told you."


"Yes," said Mason, "you told me that, but I thought perhaps he'd given it back."


"No. He took it, and I never saw it again."


"So you didn't commit suicide because you didn't have the gun?"


"That's right."


Mason made drumming motions with his fingertips on the table top.


"There are other ways of committing suicide," he said.


"Not easy ways," she told him.


"There's lots of ocean around Santa Barbara."


"I don't like drowning."


"You like being shot?" he asked.


"Please don't be sarcastic. Can't you believe me?"


"Yes," he said slowly. "I'm looking at it from the standpoint of a juror."


"A juror wouldn't ask me those questions," she flared.


"No," Mason told her moodily, "but a district attorney would, and the jurors would be listening."


"Well," she said, "I can't help it. I've told you the truth."


"So your husband took that gun with him when he left?"


"I guess so. I never saw it again."


"Then your idea is that some one took that gun from your husband, killed the police dog and killed him?"


"No."


"What is your idea?"


"Some one," she said slowly, "who had access to my husband's things took that gun and waited for the right opportunity to kill him."


"Who do you think that was?"


"It might," she said, "have been Paula Cartright, or it might have been Arthur Cartright."


"How about Thelma Benton?" said Perry Mason slowly. "She looks like rather an emotional type to me."


"Why should Thelma Benton kill him?" asked the woman.


"I don't know," said Perry Mason. "Why should Paula Cartright have killed him, after she lived with him so long?"


"She might have had reasons," said Bessie Forbes.


"According to that theory, she would have first run away with her husband, then returned and killed Forbes."


"Yes."


"I think," said Perry Mason slowly, "it would be better to stick to the theory that Arthur Cartright killed him, or that Thelma Benton killed him. The more I see of it, the more I'm inclined to concentrate on Thelma Benton."


"Why?" she asked.


"Because," he told her, "she's going to be a witness against you, and it's always a good move to show that a witness for the prosecution might be trying to pass the crime onto somebody else."


"You don't act as though you believed what I tell you," she said, "about the gun."


"I never believe anything that I can't make a jury believe," Perry Mason told her. "And I'm not certain that I can make a jury believe that story about the gun, if they also believe that you went there in a taxicab; that you saw your husband's dead body lying on the floor, and made no move to report to the police, but that you fled from the scene of the murder and tried to conceal your identity by taking a room under the name of Mrs. C. M. Dangerfield."


"I didn't want my husband to know I was in town."


"Why not?" he asked her.


"He was utterly cruel and utterly ruthless," she answered.


Perry Mason got to his feet and motioned to the attendant that the interview was over.


"Well," he said, "I'll think it over. In the meantime, write me a letter and tell me that you've been giving your case a great deal of thought, and that you want to tell your story to the newspaper reporters."


"But I've already told them that," she said.


"Never mind that," Perry Mason told her, as the matron appeared through the door leading from the jail. "I want you to put it in writing and send it to me."


"They'll censor it before it goes out of the jail?" she asked.


"Of course," he told her. "Good-by."


She stood staring at him until he had left the visitors' cage, her expression that of puzzled bewilderment.


The matron tapped her arm.


"Come," she said.


"Oh," sighed Bessie Forbes, "he doesn't believe me."


"What's that?" asked the matron.


"Nothing," said Mrs. Forbes, clamping her lip in a firm, straight line.


Perry Mason stepped into the telephone booth, dropped a coin and dialed the number of Paul Drake's detective bureau.


After a moment he heard Drake's voice on the line.


"Paul," he said, "Perry Mason talking. I'm going to shift my guns in that murder case a little."


"You don't need to shift them any; you've got them covering every point in the case now," Drake told him.


"You haven't seen anything yet," Mason remarked. "And I want you to concentrate on Thelma Benton. She's got an alibi that covers every minute of her time, from the time she left the house, until she got back. I want to find a hole in that alibi some place, if I can."


"I don't think there's any hole in it," Drake said. "I've checked it pretty thoroughly, and it seems to hold water. Now I've got some bad news for you."


"What is it?"


"The district attorney has found out about Ed Wheeler and George Doake, the two detectives who were watching Clinton Foley's house. They've got deputies out looking for them."


"They got wise to those birds through the taxi driver," Perry Mason said slowly.


"I guess so," said Drake.


"The deputies found them?"


"No."


"Are they likely to?"


"Not unless you want them to."


"I don't want them to," said Perry Mason. "Meet me at my office in ten minutes, and have all the reports on this Thelma Benton."


He heard Drake sigh over the telephone.


"You're getting this case all mixed up, brother," Drake told him.


Perry Mason laughed grimly.


"That's the way I want it," he said, and hung up the receiver.


Perry Mason caught a taxicab to his office, and found Paul Drake waiting for him with a sheaf of papers.


Mason nodded to Della Street, took Paul Drake's arm and piloted him into the inner office.


"All right, Paul," he said. "What have you found out?"


"There's only one weak point in the alibi," the detective said.


"What's that?"


"That's this fellow Carl Trask, the gambler who showed up in the Chevrolet and took Thelma Benton from the house. She was with him at various places until eight o'clock. I've checked the times when they showed at the various places. There's a gap between seven-thirty and seven-fifty. Then they drifted into a speak and had a drink. Trask left shortly after eight o'clock, and the girl went to a booth and had dinner by herself. The waiter remembers her perfectly. She left about eighty-thirty, picked up a girl friend and went to a picture show. Her alibi is going to depend on Carl Trask's testimony from around seven-thirty to seven-fifty, and on the girl friend from eight-thirty on.


"But we don't care about busting the alibi after eight-thirty. Between seven-thirty and seven-fifty is the time you want to concentrate on, and from all I can find out, that's going to rest on Carl Trask's testimony, and, of course, that of Thelma Benton herself."


"Where does she claim she was?" Mason asked.


"She says she was down at another speak, having a cocktail, but nobody remembers her down there. That is, nobody has yet."


"If," said Perry Mason moodily, "she could find somebody down there who remembered her, it would give her a pretty good alibi."


Paul Drake nodded wordlessly.


"And," said Perry Mason slowly, "if she can't, it's going to be a weak spot, if we can impeach Carl Trask in some way. You say he's a gambler?"


"Yes."


"Any criminal record?"


"We're looking it up. We know he's been in minor troubles."


"All right, look him up from the time he was a kid down to date. Get something on him if you can. If you can't, get something that won't sound good to a jury."


"I'm already working on that," Drake said.


"And the deputies are looking for Wheeler and Doake?"


"Yes."


"By the way," said Perry Mason casually, "where are those two birds?"


Paul Drake looked at Perry Mason, and his face held the innocence of a child.


"I had a very important matter to investigate in Florida," he said, "and I put those two fellows on a plane and sent them there on the job."


"Anybody know they went?" asked Perry Mason.


"No. It's a confidential matter, and they didn't get tickets in their own names."


Perry Mason nodded appreciatively.


"Good work, Paul," he said.


He made little drumming gestures with his fingertips on the desk, abruptly said, "Where can I reach Thelma Benton?"


"She's staying at the Riverview Apartments."


"Under her own name?"


"Yes."


"You keeping her shadowed?"


"Yes."


"What's she doing?"


"Talking with cops, mostly. She's made three trips to headquarters and two to the district attorney's offices."


"For questioning?"


"I don't know whether they're in response to telephone communications or not. But there was only once she was sent for. The rest of the time she went by herself."


"How's her hand?" asked Mason.


"I don't know that. It's pretty well bandaged. I chased down the doctor who treated it. His name's Phil Morton and his offices are in the Medical Building. He was called out to the house on Milpas Drive, and said the hand was pretty badly mangled."


"Mangled?" asked Perry Mason.


"Yes, that's what he said."


"She still has it bandaged?" asked the lawyer.


"Yes."


Abruptly, Perry Mason took down the telephone.


"Della," he said, "ring up the Riverview Apartments. Get Thelma Benton on the line. Tell her that this is The Chronicle speaking, and the city editor wants to talk with her. After that has soaked in, put her on my line."


He hung up the telephone.


Drake looked at him without expression on his face and said slowly, "You're skating on pretty thin ice, Perry."


Perry Mason nodded gloomily.


"I've got to," he said.


"How about that line?" asked Drake. "Are you still on the right side of it?"


The lawyer gave his shoulders a nervous shake, as though trying to rid himself of a disagreeable sensation.


"I hope so," he said.


The telephone rang.


Perry Mason picked up the receiver, raised his voice, and snapped: "City Editor."


The receiver made metallic noises, and then Perry Mason still speaking in the same high-pitched rapid tone of voice said, "Miss Benton, it looks as though this Forbes murder case is going to have a lot of dramatic interest. You've been with the parties from the start. Did you keep a diary?"


Once more the receiver made metallic noises, and a slow smile spread over the face of Perry Mason.


"Would you be interested in ten thousand dollars for the exclusive right to publish that diary... you would?... Have you kept your diary up to date?... will you keep it right up to date?... Don't say anything about this offer. I'll have one of our reporters get in touch with you when we want it. I can't tell about the price until I take it up with the managing editor. Then he'll want to inspect the diary, but I'm willing to make a recommendation for its purchase at that figure, provided we have the exclusive on it. That's all. G'by."


Mason slammed the receiver up on the line.


"Think she'll try to trace that call?" asked the detective.


"She can't," Mason said. "What's more, she hasn't got sense enough. She fell for it, hook, line and sinker."


"She keeps a diary?" asked the detective.


"I don't know," Perry Mason said.


"Didn't she say she did?"


Perry Mason laughed.


"Sure," he said, "she said she did but that doesn't mean anything. The way I made the offer, she is going to have time to fake one. A girl can do a lot of writing for ten thousand dollars."


"What's the idea?" asked Drake.


"Just a hunch," Mason said. "Now let's check over those samples of handwriting. Have you got samples of handwriting?"


"I haven't got a sample of Mrs. Forbes' handwriting, but I have got a sample of Paula Cartright's handwriting. I've got some stuff that Thelma Benton has written, and a letter that Elizabeth Walker, Cartright's housekeeper, wrote."


"Have you checked them," Perry Mason said slowly, "with the note that was left by Paula Cartright when she left Forbes?"


"No, the district attorney's office has got that note, but I have a photostatic copy of the telegram that was sent from Midwick, and the handwriting doesn't check."


"What handwriting doesn't check?"


"None of them."


"That telegram's in a woman's handwriting?"


Drake nodded, fished through the folder, and took out a photostatic copy of a telegram.


Mason took the paper and studied it carefully.


"Does the telegraph operator remember anything about it?" he asked.


"He just remembers that a woman handed it in, across the counter, together with the exact amount necessary to send it. She seemed in very much of a hurry. The telegraph operator remembers that he was counting the words when she started out. He told her he'd have to check the amount, and she called over her shoulder that she was quite sure it was right, and went out."


"Would he remember her again if he saw her?"


"I doubt it. He's not too intelligent, and apparently didn't pay any particular attention to her. She came in wearing a wide-brimmed hat. The operator remembers that much. She had her head tilted down so that the brim kept him from seeing her face when she was handing the telegram across the counter. After that, he started to count the words, and she walked out."


Mason continued to stare at the photostatic copy of the telegram, then glanced up at Drake.


"Drake," he said, "how did the newspapers get onto the inside of all this business?"


"What inside?"


"All about the man who lived under the name of Foley being, in reality, Clinton Forbes, and having run away with Paula Cartright, and the Santa Barbara scandal end of the thing?"


"Shucks," said Drake, "that was a cinch. We found it out, and it's a cinch the newspapers were as well organized as we were. They have correspondents in Santa Barbara, and they dug up the files of old newspapers and made a great human interest story out of it. Then, you know the district attorney - he likes to try his cases in the newspapers. He's been feeding them everything he could find out."


Perry Mason nodded his head thoughtfully.


"Drake," he said, "I think I'm getting about ready to go to trial."


The detective looked at him with some show of surprise.


"The case won't be tried for some time yet, even if you try to get an immediate hearing," he said.


Perry Mason smiled patiently.


"That," he said, "is the way to prepare a criminal case. You've got to make all of your preparations and block out your defense before the district attorney really finds out what it's all about. After that, it's too late."


CHAPTER XVII


THE courtroom atmosphere was stale with that psychic stench which comes from packed humans whose emotions are roused to a high pitch of excitement.


Judge Markham, veteran judge of the criminal department, who had presided over so many famous murder trials, sat behind the massive mahogany rostrum with an air of complete detachment. Only a skilled observer would have noticed the wary watchfulness with which he filtered the proceedings through his mind.


Claude Drumm, chief trial deputy of the district attorney's office, tall, well-tailored, suave, was very much at his ease. Perry Mason had inflicted stinging defeat before but in this case the prosecution was certain of a verdict.


Perry Mason sat at the counsel table, with an air of indolent listlessness about him which marked a complete indifference to the entire case. His attitude was in contrast to the accepted attitude of defense attorneys, who make a practice of vigorously contesting every step of the case.


Claude Drumm exercised his second peremptory challenge. A juror left the box. The clerk drew another man, and a tall, gaunt individual, with high cheekbones and lackluster eyes, came forward, held up his right hand, was sworn, and took his seat in the jury box.


"You may inquire," said Judge Markham to Perry Mason.


Perry Mason glanced over at the juror casually.


"Your name?" he said.


"George Smith," said the juror.


"You've read about this case?"


"Yes."


"Formed or expressed any opinion from what you have read?"


"No."


"You don't know anything about the facts of the case?"


"Nothing except what I've read in the papers."


"If you are selected as a juror to try this case could you fairly and truly try the defendant and render a true verdict?"


"I could."


"Will you?"


"I will."


Perry Mason slowly got to his feet. His examination of the jurors had been startlingly brief. Now he turned to this newest addition to the jury box and regarded the man frowningly.


"You understand," he said, "that you are to act as a judge of the facts, if you are selected as a juror in this case, but that, so far as the law is concerned, you will accept the law in the instructions given you by the Court?"


"I do," said the juror.


"In the event the Court should instruct you," said Perry Mason slowly and solemnly, "that under the law of this state it is incumbent upon the prosecution to prove the defendant guilty beyond all reasonable doubt, before a juror can conscientiously return a verdict of guilty, and that, therefore, it is not necessary for the defendant to take the witness stand and testify in her own behalf, but she may remain mute and rely upon the fact that the prosecution has failed to prove her guilty beyond all reasonable doubt, could you and would you follow such instruction of the Court and accept it as law?"


The juror nodded his head.


"Yes," he said, "I think I could, if that's the law."


"In the event the Court should further instruct you that such a failure on the part of the defendant to take the witness stand and deny the charges made against her was not to be considered in any way by the jury in arriving at its verdict and was not to be commented upon in connection with the discussions of the case, could you and would you follow such an instruction?"


"Yes, I guess so."


Perry Mason dropped back in his chair and nodded his head casually.


"Pass for cause," he said.


Claude Drumm asked that grim question which had disqualified many of the jurors:


"Have you," he said, "any conscientious scruples against the return of a verdict which would result in the penalty of death for the defendant?"


"None," said the man.


"If you are on the jury which tries this case," said the deputy district attorney, "there would be no conscientious scruples which would prevent you returning a verdict of guilty in the event you thought the defendant had been proven guilty beyond all reasonable doubt?"


"No."


"Pass for cause," said Claude Drumm.


"The peremptory," said Judge Markham, "is with the defendant."


"Pass the peremptory," said Perry Mason.


Judge Markham nodded his head toward Claude Drumm.


"Let the jury be sworn," said the deputy district attorney.


Judge Markham addressed the jury.


"Gentlemen," he said, "arise and be sworn to try this case. And may I congratulate counsel upon the very expeditious manner in which this jury has been selected."


The jury were sworn. Claude Drumm made an opening argument - brief, forceful and to the point. It seemed that he had stolen a leaf from the book of Perry Mason, and was determined to skip over all preliminaries, directing his attention upon one smashing blow.


"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "I propose to show that on the night of the seventeenth of October of this year, Clinton Forbes was shot to death by the defendant in this case. I shall make no secret of the fact that the defendant had a grievance against the deceased. I shall not try to minimize that grievance. I shall put the facts entirely before you, freely, openly and frankly. I propose to show that the decedent was the husband of this defendant; that the parties had lived together in Santa Barbara until approximately a year before the date of the decedent's death; that the decedent had then surreptitiously departed without advising the defendant where he intended to go, and that the decedent took with him one Paula Cartright, the wife of a mutual friend; that the parties came to this city, where Forbes established a residence at 4889 Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley, and that Paula Cartright posed as Evelyn Foley, the wife of the deceased. I propose to show that the defendant in this case purchased a Colt automatic of thirty-eight caliber; that she devoted more than one year of her life to a careful and painstaking search, trying to locate the decedent; that shortly before the date of the murder, she located the decedent, and that she then came to this city and engaged a room in a downtown hotel, under the name of Mrs. C. M. Dangerfield.


"I expect to show that on the night of October 17th, at the hour of approximately twenty-five minutes past seven, the defendant arrived at the house occupied by her husband; that she used a skeleton key to pick the lock of that house, and entered the corridor; that she encountered her husband and shot him down cold-bloodedly; that she then departed by taxicab and discharged the cab in the vicinity of the Breedmont Hotel, the hotel where she was registered under the name of Dangerfield.


"I propose to show that when she left the taxicab, she inadvertently left behind her a handkerchief. I propose to show that this handkerchief is undoubtedly the property of the defendant; that the defendant, recognizing the danger of leaving behind so deadly a clew, sought out the driver of the taxicab and had the handkerchief returned to her.


"I propose to show that the weapon which was purchased by the defendant, and for which she signed her name on the register of firearms, as kept by a sporting goods dealer in Santa Barbara, California, was the same weapon with which the deadly shots were fired. Upon this evidence I shall ask the jury to return a verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree."


During the speech, Claude Drumm did not raise his voice, but spoke with a vibrant earnestness that compelled the attention of the jurors.


When he had finished, he walked to the counsel table and sat down.


"Do you wish to make your opening address at this time, or to reserve the right?" asked Judge Markham of Perry Mason.


"We will make it later," said Perry Mason.


"Your Honor," said Drumm, getting to his feet, "it is usually a task of several days, or a day at least, to impanel a jury in a murder case. This jury has been impaneled within a very short time. I am taken somewhat by surprise. May I ask for an adjournment until tomorrow?"


Judge Markham shook his head and smiled.


"No, Counselor," he said. "The Court will proceed to hear the case. The Court happens to know that the present counsel for the defense makes a habit of expediting matters very materially. The Court feels that there is no use wasting the balance of the day."


"Very well," said Claude Drumm with calm dignity, "I shall establish the corpus delicti, by calling Thelma Benton. May it please be understood that I am calling her at this time only for the purpose of establishing the corpus delicti. I shall examine her in greater detail later on."


"Very well," said Judge Markham, "that will be the understanding."


Thelma Benton came forward, held up her hand and was sworn. She took the witness stand and testified that her name was Thelma Benton; that her age was twenty-eight; that she resided in the Riverview Apartments; that she had been acquainted with Clinton Forbes for more than three years; that she had been in his employ as a secretary in Santa Barbara, and that she was with him when he left Santa Barbara, and came with him to the residence at 4889 Milpas Drive, where she became his housekeeper.


Claude Drumm nodded.


"Did you have occasion, on the evening of October 17th of this year," he asked, "to see a dead body in the house at 4889 Milpas Drive?"


"I did."


"Whose body was that?"


"It was the body of Clinton Forbes."


"He had rented that house under the name of Clinton Foley?"


"He had."


"And who resided there with him?"


"Mrs. Paula Cartwright, who went under the name of Evelyn Foley and posed as his wife; Ah Wong, a Chinese cook, and myself."


"There was also a police dog?"


"There was."


"What was the name of the dog?"


"Prince."


"How long had Mr. Forbes owned this police dog?"


"Approximately four years."


"You had become acquainted with the dog in Santa Barbara?"


"I had."


"And the dog accompanied you to this city?"


"He did."


"And you, in turn, accompanied Mr. Forbes and Mrs. Cartright?"


"I did."


"At the time you saw the dead body of Clinton Forbes, did you also see the police dog?"


"I did."


"Where was the police dog?"


"In the same room."


"What was his condition?"


"He was dead."


"Did you notice anything which would indicate to you the manner of death?"


"Yes, the police dog had been shot, and Mr. Forbes had been shot. There was a .38 Colt automatic lying on the floor. There were also four empty cartridges on the floor of the room, where they had been ejected by the automatic mechanism of the weapon."


"When did you last see Clinton Forbes alive?"


"On the evening of October 17th."


"At approximately what hour?"


"At approximately the hour of six-fifteen o'clock in the evening."


"Were you at the house after that hour?"


"I was not. I left at that time, and Mr Clinton Forbes was alive and well then. The next time I saw him he was dead."


"What did you notice about the condition of the body?" asked Drumm.


"You mean about the shaving?"


"Yes."


"He had evidently been shaving. There had been lather on his face, and some of it still remained. He was in the library of his house, and there was a bedroom adjoining the library, and a bathroom adjoining the bedroom."


"Where was the dog kept?"


"The dog," said Thelma Benton, "had been kept chained in the bathroom since the time when a complaint was made by a neighbor."


"I think," said Claude Drumm, "that you may cross-examine upon the matters thus far brought out in evidence."


Perry Mason nodded his head languidly. The eyes of the jurors shifted to him.


He spoke in a deeply resonant voice, but without emphasis, and in a low tone.


"The complaint was made that the dog was howling?" he asked, almost conversationally.


"Yes."


"By the next door neighbor?"


"Yes.


"And that neighbor was Mr. Arthur Cartright, the husband of the woman who was posing as the wife of Clinton Forbes?"


"Yes."


"Was Mrs. Cartright in the house at the time of the murder?"


"She was not."


"Where was she, if you know?"


"I don't know."


"When did you last see her?"


Claude Drumm was on his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "it is obvious that this will be a part of the case of the defendant. It is improper cross-examination at this time."


"Overruled," said Judge Markham. "I will permit the question because you asked, on direct examination, about the various occupants of the house. I think the question is proper."


"Answer the question," said Perry Mason.


Thelma Benton raised her voice slightly and spoke rapidly.


"Paula Cartright," she said, "left the house on the morning of the 17th of October. She left behind her a note stating that..."


"We object," said Claude Drumm, "to the witness testifying as to the contents of the note. In the first place, it is not responsive to the question. In the second place, it is not the best evidence."


"No," said Judge Markham, "it is not the best evidence.


"Where then," asked Perry Mason, "is the note?"


There was a moment of awkward silence. Thelma Benton looked toward the district attorney.


"I have it," said Claude Drumm, "and intend to introduce it later on."


"I think," said Judge Markham, "the cross-examination upon this point has proceeded far enough, and that the question as to the contents of the note will not be permitted."


"Very well," said Perry Mason, "I think that is all at this time."


"Call Sam Marson," said Claude Drumm.


Sam Marson was sworn, took the witness stand, testified that his name was Sam Marson; that his age was thirty-two; that he was a taxicab driver, and had been such on the 17th of October of the present year.


"Did you see the defendant on that date?" asked Claude Drumm.


Marson leaned forward to stare at Bessie Forbes, who sat in a chair directly back of Perry Mason, flanked by a deputy sheriff.


"Yes," he said, "I seen her."


"When did you first see her?"


"About ten minutes past seven."


"Where?"


"In the vicinity of Ninth and Masonic Streets."


"What did she do?"


"She signaled me, and I pulled in to the curb. She told me she wanted to go to 4889 Milpas Drive. I took her out there and then she told me to go and ring up Parkcrest 62945 and ask for Arthur, and tell him to go over to Clint's house right away, because Clint was having a showdown with Paula."


"Very well, what did you do?" asked Claude Drumm.


"I took her there and went and telephoned, like she said, and then I came back.


"Then what happened?"


"Then she came out and I took her back to a place right near the Breedmont Hotel, and she got out."


"Did you see her again that night?"


"Yes."


"When?"


"I don't know. Near midnight, I guess. She came up to the taxicab and said that she thought she'd left the handkerchief in the cab. I told her she had, and gave it to her."


"She took it?"


"Yes."


"And that was the same person you had taken out to the residence at 4889 Milpas Drive?"


"Yes, that was the one."


"And you say that is the defendant in this case?"


"Yes. That's her."


Claude Drumm turned to Perry Mason.


"You may cross-examine," he said.


Perry Mason raised his voice slightly.


"The defendant left a handkerchief in your taxicab?"


"Yes."


"What did you do with it?"


"I showed it to you, and you told me to put it back."


Claude Drumm chuckled.


"Just a moment," said Perry Mason. "You don't need to bring me into this."


"Then keep yourself out of it," said Claude Drumm.


Judge Markham banged with his gavel.


"Order!" he said. "Counselor, did you wish to ask to have that answer stricken out?"


"Yes," said Perry Mason, "I move to strike it out on the ground that it is not responsive to the question."


"The motion is denied," said Judge Markham sternly. "The court believes that it was responsive to the question."


A broad smile suffused the face of the deputy district attorney.


"Did the deputy district attorney tell you what you were to testify to in this case?" asked Perry Mason.


"No, sir."


"Didn't he tell you that if I gave you the slightest opportunity, you were to testify that you had given that handkerchief to me?"


The witness squirmed uncomfortably.


Claude Drumm got to his feet with a vehement objection. Judge Markham overruled the objection, and Sam Marson said slowly, "Well, he told me that he couldn't ask me about what you had said to me, but that if I got a chance, it was all right to tell the jury."


"And did he also," asked Perry Mason, "tell you that when he asked you if the defendant was the person who had engaged your taxicab on the night of October 17th, you were to lean forward and look at her, so that the jury could see you were studying her features?"


"Yes, he told me to do that."


"As a matter of fact, you'd seen the defendant on several occasions prior to the time you gave your testimony. She'd been pointed out to you by the officers, and you'd seen her in the jail. You'd known for some time she was the person who engaged your taxicab on that night, isn't that right?"


"I guess so, yes."


"So that there was no necessity whatever for you to lean forward and study the features of the defendant before you answered that question."


"Well," said Marson uncomfortably, "that's what I was told to do."


The smile had faded from Claude Drumm's face, and was replaced by a frown of irritation.


Perry Mason slowly got to his feet, stood staring for a long moment at the witness.


"Are you absolutely certain," he said, "that it was the defendant in this case who hired your taxicab?"


"Yes, sir."


"And absolutely certain that it was the defendant who came to you later on the same evening and asked you about the handkerchief?"


"Yes, sir."


"Isn't it a fact that you were not certain at the time, but that this feeling of certainty in your mind has been built up, following interviews with the authorities?"


"No, I don't think so. I knew her."


"You're certain that it was the defendant upon both occasions?"


"Yes."


"And you're certain that it was the defendant who called for the handkerchief, as you are that it was the defendant who hired you to take her out to Milpas Drive?"


"Yes, it was the same person."


Perry Mason turned abruptly and dramatically toward the back of the crowded courtroom. He flung out a hand in a swiftly dramatic gesture.


"Mae Sibley," he said, "stand up." There was a slight commotion, and then Mae Sibley stood up.


"Take a look at that person and tell me if you have ever seen her before," said Perry Mason.


Claude Drumm jumped to his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "I object to this form of testing the recollection of the witness. It is not a proper test; nor is it proper cross-examination."


"Do you intend to connect it up, Counselor?" asked Judge Markham of Perry Mason.


"I will do better than that," said Perry Mason. "I will withdraw the question, as it was asked, and ask you, Samuel Marson, if it is not a fact that this woman who is now standing in the courtroom is not the woman who called for the handkerchief on the evening of October 17th of this year, and the woman to whom you gave the handkerchief which had been left in the taxicab?"


"No, sir," said Samuel Marson, pointing toward the defendant, "that was the woman."


"There's no chance you're mistaken?" asked Perry Mason.


"No, sir."


"And if you are mistaken as to the identity of the woman who called for the handkerchief, you might also be mistaken as to the identity of the woman who was taken by you to that house on Milpas Drive?"


"I ain't mistaken about either of 'em, but if I was mistaken on one, I could be mistaken on the other," said Marson.


Perry Mason smiled triumphantly.


"That," he said, "is all."


Claude Drumm was on his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "may I ask for a recess until tomorrow morning?"


Judge Markham frowned and nodded his head slowly.


"Yes," he said, "the Court will adjourn until ten o'clock tomorrow morning. During the recess, the jury are admonished not to talk about the case among themselves; nor to permit it to be discussed in their presence."


Judge Markham banged his gavel, arose and stalked majestically toward his chambers in the rear of the courtroom. Perry Mason noticed Claude Drumm glance significantly at two deputies, and saw these deputies push their way through the crowd to the side of Mae Sibley. Perry Mason also pushed his way through the crowd, his shoulders squared, chin outthrust. He reached the young woman's side but a few moments after the deputies had closed in on her.


"Judge Markham wants to see all three of you in his chambers," he said.


The deputies looked surprised.


"This way," said Perry Mason, and, turning, started pushing his way back toward the space within the bar.


"Oh, Drumm," he called, raising his voice.


Claude Drumm, who was about to leave the courtroom, paused.


"Would you mind stepping into the chambers of Judge Markham with me?" asked Perry Mason.


Drumm hesitated a moment, then nodded.


Together, the two attorneys entered the chambers. Behind them came the two deputies and Mae Sibley.


The Judge's chambers were lined with law books. A huge desk in the center of the room was littered with an orderly array of papers and law books that were held open. Judge Markham looked up.


"Judge," said Perry Mason, "this young woman is a witness of mine. She is under subpoena for the defense. I noticed that at a signal from the deputy district attorney, two deputies have approached her. May I ask the Court to instruct the witness that she needs to talk to no one until she is called as a witness, and to instruct the deputies that they are not to annoy her?"


Claude Drumm flushed, walked back and kicked the door shut.


"Now, then," he said, "since you've brought this subject up, and since court isn't in session, we'll settle it right here and now."


Perry Mason glared at him belligerently.


"All right," he said, "go ahead and settle it."


"What I intended to do," said Claude Drumm, "was to find out from this young woman if she had been paid to impersonate the defendant. I wanted to find out if an arrangement had been made with her to approach this taxicab driver and claim that she was the person who had hired the taxicab earlier in the day, and who had left a handkerchief in the cab."


"All right," said Perry Mason, "suppose she said yes to all of that; then what did you intend to do?"


"I intended to discover the identity of the person who had paid her to make such false representations and to get a warrant for his arrest," said Claude Drumm.


"All right," said Perry Mason in an ominous drawl, "I'm the person. I did it. What are you going to do about it?"


"Gentlemen," said Judge Markham, "it seems to me this discussion is getting somewhat beyond the subject."


"Not a bit of it," said Mason. "I knew this was coming and I want to have it settled right here and now. There's no law against a woman impersonating another. It's no crime to claim to be the owner of lost property, unless the claim is made for the purpose of obtaining the possession of that lost property."


"That was exactly the purpose of this deception," shouted Claude Drumm.


Perry Mason smiled.


"You'll remember, Drumm," he said, "that I rang up the authorities and turned the handkerchief over to them, just as soon as it had been given to me, and that Miss Sibley gave it to me just as soon as she received it from the taxi driver. What I was doing was testing the recollection of the taxi driver. I knew blamed well that by the time you got done coaching him, he'd be so positive of the identity of the defendant, that no amount of cross-examination would shake him. I cross-examined him first, and by an object lesson, rather than by questions, that's all. I was within my rights."


Judge Markham looked at Perry Mason, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.


"Well," he said, "the Court isn't called upon at this time to pass upon the ethics of the question, and it isn't called upon to pass upon the question of whether there was a larceny of a handkerchief. The Court is only called upon to pass upon your request, Counselor, that your witnesses be allowed to give their testimony in court, and that the officers do not seek to intimidate them."


"That's all I want," said Perry Mason, but his eyes remained fastened on Claude Drumm. "I know what I'm doing, and I'm responsible for what I do, and I don't want any woman terrified by a lot of bullies."


"What you've done will get you before the grievance committee of the Bar Association!" shouted Claude Drumm.


"That's fine," Perry Mason told him. "I'll be only too glad to discuss the matter with you there. But in the meantime, you keep your hands off my witnesses."


"Gentlemen, gentlemen," snapped Judge Markham, getting to his feet. "I'm going to insist upon order. Counselor Mason has presented a request. You should know, Mr. Drumm, that the request is in order. If this person is a witness subpoenaed by the defense, you will refrain from seeking to intimidate her."


Claude Drumm gulped and colored visibly.


"Very well," he said.


"This way," said Perry Mason, smiling, and taking Mae Sibley's arm, took her from the chambers.


As he opened the door into the courtroom, there was a vivid flash of light, a sudden "poof."


The girl screamed and covered her face.


"Don't get excited," Perry Mason told her. "It's just newspaper photographers taking your picture."


Claude Drumm pushed his way to Mason's side. His face was white, his eyes blazing.


"You deliberately engineered that whole thing!" he said. "Just to get a dramatic story on the front page of the newspapers!"


Perry Mason grinned at him.


"Any objections?" he asked.


"Lots of them!" blazed Claude Drumm.


"All right," said Perry Mason slowly and ominously, "be damn careful how you make them."


For a long moment the two men glared at each other, Claude Drumm, white with fury, but impotent against the rugged strength of the criminal lawyer, stared into the steady eyes and knew that he was licked. Still white with fury, he turned on his heel and walked away.


Perry Mason turned to Mae Sibley.


"I didn't want you talking to the deputies," he said, "but there's no reason why you can't talk with the newspaper reporters."


"What shall I tell them?" she asked.


"Tell them anything you know," he said, and lifted his hat as he walked away. From the door of the courtroom, he looked behind him.


Half a dozen newspaper reporters eagerly surrounded Mae Sibley, and were asking frantic questions.


Still smiling, Perry Mason pushed his way through the swinging door, out into the corridor.


CHAPTER XVIII


PERRY MASON looked at his watch when he entered his office. It was a cold, blustery night outside, and the radiators were hissing comfortably. The hour was exactly eight forty-five.


Perry Mason switched on the lights and set a leather case on Della Street's desk. He snapped a catch, took off a cover, and disclosed a portable typewriter. He reached in his overcoat pocket, took out a pair of gloves and put them on. From a brief-case he took several sheets of paper and a stamped envelope. He had just placed them on the desk when Della Street came in.


"Did you see the papers?" she asked, as she closed the door and slipped out of her fur coat.


"Yes," said Perry Mason, and grinned.


"Tell me," she said, "did you arrange that whole business so you'd have a dramatic punch for the close of the trial?"


"Sure," he told her. "Why not?"


"Weren't you coming pretty close to a violation of the law? Can't they make trouble for you before the grievance committee?"


"I doubt it," he said. "It was legitimate cross-examination."


"How do you mean - cross-examination?" she asked.


"It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have stood several women in line and asked Sam Marson to pick out the one who had left the handkerchief in his taxicab. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have pointed to one of the women and told him that I thought that was the one. It would have been perfectly permissible for me to have taken one woman to him and asked him if he wasn't certain that that was the one, or to have told him that it was the one."


"Well?" she asked.


"Well," he said, "I only went one step farther. I found out that he was uncertain about the identity of the woman. I capitalized on that uncertainty, that's all. I took a woman, dressed her approximately the same as Mrs. Forbes had been dressed, put the same kind of perfume on her, and had her tell the taxi driver that she had left the handkerchief in his cab. Naturally, he didn't question her word, because he was uncertain in his recollection of the woman who had left the handkerchief in his cab.


"I knew that by the time the authorities got done with him, he'd make a positive identification. That's a slick way they have of taking a witness over a period of time, and letting him become more and more positive. They showed him Bessie Forbes, on at least a dozen different occasions. They did it casually, so that he didn't know he was being hypnotized. First, they showed him the woman, and told him that was the one who had been in his cab. Then they brought him in and confronted her with him, and told her that he had identified her. She didn't say anything, but refused to answer questions. That made Marson a little more certain. Bit by bit, they built him up in his testimony, and coached him, until he was so positive in his own mind, there couldn't be any doubt whatever. It's the way the prosecution prepares all cases. They naturally make witnesses more strong in their identifications."


"I know," she said, "but how about the handkerchief?"


"In order to be larceny," he said, "there has got to be an intent to steal. There wasn't any intent to steal. The woman was getting the handkerchief for me. I was getting it for the authorities. I turned it over to them sooner than they would have found it otherwise, and gave them the information."


She frowned and shook her head.


"Perhaps," she said, "but you certainly pulled a fast one."


"Of course I pulled a fast one," he told her. "It's what I'm paid for. I simply cross-examined him in an unorthodox manner, and cross-examined him before the district attorney had an opportunity to poison his mind with a lot of propaganda, that's all... don't take off your gloves, Della, leave them on."


"Why?" she asked, regarding the long black gloves on her hands and arms.


"Because," he said, "we're going to pull another fast one, and I don't want either one of us to leave fingerprints on the paper."


She stared at him for a minute, and then said: "Is it within the law?"


"I think it is," he told her, "but we're not going to get caught."


He walked over to the door and locked it.


"Take a sheet of this paper," he said, "and put it in that portable typewriter."


"I don't like portables," she told him. "I'm used to my office machine."


"That's all right," he told her. "Typewriters are as individual as handwriting. A handwriting expert can tell the kind of a typewriter a document was written on, and can also identify the typewriter, itself, if he has access to it and a chance to compare the writing."


"This is a new portable," she said.


"Exactly," he told her, "and I'm going to put some of the type a little out of line, so it won't look quite so new."


He went to the machine and started bending the type bars.


"What's the idea?" she asked.


"We're going to write a confession."


"What sort of a confession?"


"A confession," he said, "to the murder of Paula Cartright."


She stared at him with wide, startled eyes.


"Good heavens!" she said, "and then what are you going to do with the confession?"


"We're going to mail it," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."


She remained motionless, staring at him with apprehensive eyes, then suddenly took a deep breath, walked over to her chair, sat down and slid some of the sheets of paper into the portable typewriter.


"Afraid, Della?" he asked.


"No," she said. "If you tell me to do it, I'm going to do it."


"I think it's skating on pretty thin ice," he told her, "but I think I can get you out if anything happens."


"That's all okay," she said. "I'd do anything for you. Go ahead and tell me what you want written."


"I'm going to dictate this," he said slowly, "and you can take it directly on the typewriter."


He moved to her shoulder and said in a low voice, "Write this, addressed to the city editor of The Chronicle.


"DEAR SIR:


"I notice that in your paper you printed an interview with Elizabeth Walker, in which she said that I had made statements on several occasions that I intended to die on the scaffold; that I spent most of my time staring through binoculars at the residence occupied by Clinton Forbes, who was then going under the name of Clinton Foley.


"All of these things are correct.


"I notice that you have published an editorial demanding that the authorities apprehend me, and also apprehend Paula Cartright, my wife, before the trial of Bessie Forbes is allowed to proceed, the intimation being that I killed Clinton Forbes.


"This accusation is unjust and untrue.


"I did not kill Clinton Forbes; but I did kill my wife, Paula Cartright.


"Under the circumstances, I think that the public is entitled to know exactly what happened."


Perry Mason paused until the clicking of the typewriter signified that Della Street had caught up with him. Then he waited until she raised her eyes to his.


"Getting frightened, Della?" he asked.


"No," she said. "Go on."


"It's loaded with dynamite," he told her.


"It's oke with me," she said. "If you can take a chance, so can I.


"All right," he said, "go on from there:


"I lived in Santa Barbara with my wife, and I was happy. I was friendly with Clinton Forbes, and his wife. I knew that Clinton Forbes was a rotter, so far as any moral sense was concerned, but I liked him. I knew that he was playing around with half a dozen women. I never had any suspicion that my wife was one of them. Abruptly, and out of a clear sky, I realized the truth. I was a ruined man. My happiness was wrecked and so was my home. I determined to hunt down Clinton Forbes and kill him, as I would a dog.


"It took me ten months to find him. Then I found him living on Milpas Drive, under the name of Clinton Foley. I found that the adjoining house was for rent, furnished, and I moved in, purposely engaged a housekeeper who was stone deaf, and who could not, therefore, engage in neighborhood gossip. Before I killed Clinton Foley, I wanted to find out something about his habits. I wanted to find out something about how he was treating Paula, and whether she was happy. To that end, I spent most of my time studying the house through binoculars.


"It was a slow and tedious undertaking. On occasions, I would see intimate glimpses of the home life of the man on whom I spied. At other times, days would go past, during which I would see nothing. In the end, I satisfied myself that Paula was desperately unhappy.


"And yet, despite all of my plans, I failed in my purpose. I waited until there was a dark night that suited my intentions, and sneaked across the grounds to the house of my enemy. I fully intended to kill him and claim my wife. I gave my housekeeper a letter to my lawyer. In that letter I enclosed my will. In case anything happened to me, I wanted to know that my affairs had been put in order.


"I found the back door of the house unlocked. Clinton Foley had a police dog, Prince, who acted as watch dog, but Prince knew me, because I had been friendly with Clinton Forbes in Santa Barbara. In place of barking at me, the dog was glad to see me. He jumped on me and licked my hand. I patted his head and walked quietly through the back of the house. I was going through the library, when I suddenly encountered my wife. She stared at me and screamed. I grabbed her and threatened to choke her if she didn't keep quiet.


"She almost fainted with terror. I made her sit down, and talked with her. She told me that Clinton Forbes and his housekeeper, Thelma Benton, had been carrying on a clandestine affair for years; that the affair had dated back even before his affair with her; that Forbes had gone out with Thelma Benton, and that she was alone in the house; that Ah Wong, the cook, had gone out to spend the evening with some Chinese friends, as was his custom.


"I told her that I intended to kill Forbes, and that I wanted her to go away with me. She told me that I must do nothing of the sort, and that she had ceased to love me and could never be happy with me. She threatened to call the police and tell them about what I intended to do. She started for the telephone. I struggled with her and she started to scream. I choked her.


"I can never explain the emotions of that moment. I loved her passionately. I knew that she no longer loved me. She was struggling with me, to save the man who had betrayed me and whom I hated. I became insensible to my surroundings. I only knew that I was crushing her neck in a frantic grip. When I regained my senses sufficiently to realize what I was doing, she was dead. I had choked her to death.


"Clinton Forbes was building an addition to his garage. The cement work was in. The floor was about to be laid. I went into the garage and found a pick and shovel. I dug up the ground where the floor was to be poured, buried the body of my wife in a shallow grave, took the extra dirt in a wheelbarrow, carried it to the rear of the lot and dumped it. I wanted to wait for Clinton Forbes, but I dared not do so. The thing which I had done had completely unnerved me. I was trembling like a leaf. I realized that my temper had betrayed me into killing the woman I loved. I realized, however, that I was safe from discovery. The contractors were about to pour the cement floor in the addition to the garage, and that would cover up the evidences of my crime. I went to another section of town, rented a room under an assumed name, built up a second identity for myself, and have been living there ever since.


"I am making this confession because I feel that it is only fair that I do so. I killed my wife. I did not kill Clinton Forbes - I only wish that I had. He deserved to die, but I did not kill him.


"I am safe from detection. No one will ever penetrate the secret of my present disguise.


"Very truly yours,"


Perry Mason waited until the girl had finished her typing, then he took the paper from the portable machine, and read it over carefully.


"That," he said, "will be all right."


She looked at him with white, drawn features and staring eyes.


"What are you going to do with it?" she asked.


"I am going to take the will of Arthur Cartright as a pattern," he said, "and forge his signature to this document."


She stared at him for a moment silently, then walked across the office to a table on which was pen and ink, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and handed it to him. Wordlessly, she walked over to the safe, spun the dials, opened the doors of the safe, took out the will of Arthur Cartright and handed it to him.


In purposeful silence, Perry Mason sat down at the table, made several practice signatures on a piece of paper, then laboriously forged the signature of Arthur Cartright to the confession. He folded the paper, then handed Della Street the stamped envelope.


"Address that," he said, "to the city editor of The Chronicle."


He put the cover back on the portable typewriter.


"What are you going to do now?" she asked.


"Mail the letter," he said, "and see that this portable typewriter is placed where the authorities will never find it, take a taxicab and go home."


She looked at him steadily for a moment, then walked to the door.


She paused, with her hand on the knob, stood motionless for a moment, then turned and came back to him.


"Chief," she said, "I wish you wouldn't do it."


"Do what?"


"Take these chances."


"I have to do it," he said.


"It isn't right," she said.


"It is if the results are right."


"What results are you trying to get?"


"I want," he said, "the cement floor in that garage extension broken up, and the place underneath carefully searched."


"Then why not go to the authorities and ask them to do it?"


He laughed sarcastically.


"A fat chance that they'd do anything," he said. "They hate my guts. They are trying to get Bessie Forbes convicted. They wouldn't do anything that would weaken their case in front of a jury. Their theory is that she's guilty, and that's all there is to it. They won't listen to anything else, and if I ask them to do anything, they'd naturally think that I was trying to slip over a fast one."


"What will happen when you send this to The Chronicle?" she asked.


"It's a cinch," he said. "They'll smash up that floor."


"How will they do it?"


"They'll just do it, that's all."


"Will they get permission from anybody?"


"Don't be silly," he told her. "Forbes bought the place and owns it. He's dead. Bessie Forbes is his wife. If she's acquitted of this murder, she'll inherit his property."


"If she isn't?" asked Della Street.


"She's going to be," he told her grimly.


"What makes you think there's a body under there?" she asked.


"Listen," he told her, "let's look at this thing from a reasonable standpoint and quit being stampeded by a lot of facts that don't mean anything. You remember when Arthur Cartright first came to us?"


"Yes, of course."


"You remember what he said? He wanted a will made. He wanted a will made so that the property would be taken by the woman who was at present living as the wife of Clinton Foley, in the house on Milpas Drive."


"Yes."


"All right. Then he made a will and sent it to me, and the will didn't read that way."


"Why didn't it?" she asked.


"Because," he said, "he knew that there was no use leaving his property to a woman who was already dead. In some way he'd found out that she was dead."


"Then he didn't murder her?"


"I'm not saying that, but I don't think he did."


"But isn't it a crime to forge a confession of this sort?"


"Under certain circumstances, it may be," Perry Mason said.


"I can't see under what circumstances it wouldn't be," she told him.


"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."


"And you think that Arthur Cartright knew that his wife was dead?"


"Yes, he'd been devoted to her. He'd been searching for her for ten months. He'd been living next door to her for two months, spying on the man he hated, and trying to find out if his wife was happy. He made up his mind he was going to kill Clinton Forbes. He felt that he would be executed for that murder. He wanted his property to go to his wife; not to Forbes' wife, but to Paula Cartright, but he didn't care to make his will in favor of Paula Cartright before he had committed the murder, because he thought that would bring an investigation. So he made his will, or wanted to make his will, so that it would transfer the property to the woman, under the name of Evelyn Foley.


"You can see what he had in mind. He wanted to hush up any scandal. He intended to kill Foley and to plead guilty to murder and be executed. He wanted his will made so that his property would go to the woman who was apparently the widow of the man he had murdered, and he wanted to do it in such a way that no questions would be asked, and her real identity would never be known. He did that to spare her the disgrace of having the various facts become public."


She stood perfectly still, her eyes staring down at the tips of her shoes.


"Yes," she said, "I think I understand."


"And then," said Perry Mason, "something happened, so that Arthur Cartright changed his mind. He knew that there was no use leaving the property to his wife, Paula. He wanted to leave it to some one because he didn't expect to remain alive. He had undoubtedly been in touch with Bessie Forbes, and knew that she was in the city, so he left the property to her."


"What makes you say he had been in touch with Bessie Forbes?" asked Della Street.


"Because the taxi driver says that Bessie Forbes told him to telephone Parkcrest 62945, which was Cartright's number, and tell Arthur to go next door to Clint's place. That shows that she knew where Cartright was, and that Cartright knew that she knew."


"I see," said Della Street, and was silent for several seconds.


"Are you certain," asked Della Street, "that Mrs. Cartright didn't run away with Arthur Cartright and leave Clinton Forbes, just as she had left Cartright in Santa Barbara?"


"Yes," he said, "I'm virtually certain."


"What makes you so certain?"


"The note," he said, "that was left wasn't in the handwriting of Paula Cartright."


"You're certain about that?"


"Virtually," he said. "It's approximately the same handwriting as that which appeared on the telegraph blank that was sent from Midwick. I've had samples of Mrs. Cartright's handwriting sent from Santa Barbara, and the two don't check."


"Does the district attorney's office know that?" she asked.


"I don't think so," he told her.


Della Street stared at Perry Mason thoughtfully.


"Was it Thelma Benton's handwriting?" she asked.


"I've had several specimens of Thelma Benton's handwriting, and those specimens seem entirely different from the handwriting of the note and the telegraph blank."


"Mrs. Forbes?" she asked.


"No, it isn't her handwriting. I had Mrs. Forbes write me a letter from the jail."


"There's an editorial in The Chronicle," she said, "did you see it?"


"No," he said. "What is it?"


"It states that in view of the dramatic surprise that impeaches the testimony of the taxicab driver, it is your solemn duty to put your client on the stand and let her explain her connection with the case. The editor says that this air of mystery is all right for a hardened criminal who is being tried for a crime of which every one knows he is guilty, and who desires to assert his constitutional rights, but not for a woman like Mrs. Forbes.


"I didn't see the editorial," said Perry Mason.


"Will it make any difference in your plans?"


"Certainly not," he told her. "I'm trying this case. I'm exercising my judgment for the best interests of my client; not the judgment of some newspaper editor."


"All of the evening papers," she said, "comment upon the consummate skill with which you manipulated things so that the denouement came as a dramatic finale to the day's trial, and managed to impeach the testimony of the taxi driver before the prosecution had even built up its case."


"It wasn't any particular skill on my part," Perry Mason said. "Claude Drumm walked into it. He started to strong-arm my witness. I wouldn't stand for it. I grabbed her and took her into the judge's chambers to make a protest. I knew that Drumm was going to claim I'd been guilty of unprofessional conduct, and I wanted to have it out with him right then and there."


"What did Judge Markham think?" she asked.


"I don't know," he told her, "and I don't give a damn. I know what my rights are and I stood on them. I'm fighting to protect a client."


Abruptly she came to him, put her hand on his shoulders.


"Chief," she said, "I doubted you once. I just want you to know that I'll never do it again. I'm for you, right or wrong."


He smiled, patted her on the shoulder.


"All right," he said, "take a taxi and go home. If anybody should want me, you don't know where to find me."


She nodded, walked to the door, and this time went out without hesitating.


Perry Mason waited until she had gone down in the elevator. Then he switched out the lights, put on his overcoat, sealed the letter, took the portable typewriter and went to his car. He drove to another part of the city, posted the letter in a mail box, and then took a winding road which led to a reservoir in the hills back of the city. He drove along the bank of the reservoir, slowed his car, took the portable typewriter and flung it into the reservoir. By the time the water splashed up in a miniature geyser, Perry Mason was stepping on the throttle of his automobile.


CHAPTER XIX


RADIATORS were still hissing comfortably in the building when Perry Mason sat down with Paul Drake.


"Paul," he said, "I want a man who's willing to take a chance."


"I've got lots of them," Drake said. "What do you want?"


"I want this man to call up Thelma Benton, say that he's a reporter of The Chronicle; that the city editor has given an okay to pay ten thousand dollars for exclusive rights to publish her diary if it's as represented.


"I want him to make an appointment to meet Thelma Benton where he can inspect the diary. She may, or may not, have some one with her. I doubt if she'll surrender the diary for inspection. But she'll let him look at it.


"I want that man to turn to the date that's marked October 18th, and tear the leaf from the book."


"What's on that leaf that you want?" asked the detective.


"I don't know."


"She'll make a holler."


"Naturally."


"What can they do to the man who does that?"


"Not very much," Perry Mason said. "They may try to throw a scare into him, but that's about all they can do."


"Couldn't she sue for damages if the thing was made public?"


"I'm not going to make it public," he said. "I'm simply going to let her know that I have it."


"Look here," Drake said, "it's none of my business, and you certainly don't need me to tell you how to practice law, but you're skating on damned thin ice. I've told you that before, and I'm telling it to you again."


"I know I'm skating on thin ice," Perry Mason said morosely, "but there's nothing they can get me for. I claim that I'm within my rights on everything I've done. Newspapers do things twice as bad as that every day in the week and nobody says anything to them."


"You're not a newspaper," Drake pointed out.


"I know I'm not," said Mason. "But I'm a lawyer and I'm representing a client who is entitled to a fair trial. By God, I'm going to see that she gets it!"


"Does all this spectacular and dramatic stuff constitute your idea of a fair trial?"


"Yes. My idea of a fair trial is to bring out the facts. I'm going to bring out the facts."


"All of the facts, or just the facts that are favorable to your client?"


"Well," said Perry Mason, grinning, "I'm not going to try the case for the district attorney, if that's what you mean; that's up to him."


Paul Drake scraped back his chair.


"You'll defend us if we get into a jam over this?" he asked.


"Certainly," Perry Mason told him. "I wouldn't get you into anything that I wouldn't go into myself."


"The trouble with you," the detective told him, "is that you go into too darn much. Incidentally, you're getting the reputation of being a legal wizard."


"How do you mean - a wizard?" Mason asked.


"They figure that you can pull a verdict out of the hat, just like a magician pulls out a rabbit," Drake told him. "Your methods aren't orthodox; they're dramatic and effective."


"We're a dramatic people," Perry Mason said slowly. "We're not like the English. The English want dignity and order. We want the dramatic and the spectacular. It's a national craving. We're geared to a rapid rate of thought. We want to have things move in a spectacular manner."


"Well, that's the way you do it, all right," Drake said, getting to his feet. "That stunt this afternoon was certainly clever. You've got every newspaper in town featuring, not the case against Bessie Forbes, but the spectacular manner in which the testimony of the taxi driver was virtually discredited. Every newspaper in the city acts on the assumption that the entire testimony of the cab driver is valueless."


"Well, it is," said Perry Mason.


"And yet," Drake told him thoughtfully, "you know as well as I do that Bessie Forbes actually went out there in that taxicab. She was the woman who went to the house."


"That," said the lawyer, "is a matter of conjecture and speculation unless the district attorney introduces some evidence to prove it."


"Where's he going to get the evidence from, now that his cab driver has been discredited?"


"That," Perry Mason assured him, "is something for the district attorney to worry about."


"All right," Drake told him, "I'm on my way. Is there anything else you want?"


"I think," said Perry Mason slowly, "that will be all for a while."


"God knows, it's enough!" said Paul Drake slowly, and walked out of the office.


Perry Mason tilted back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes. He remained motionless, save for the tips of his fingers, which drummed gently upon the arms of his chair. He was sitting in that position when a key sounded in the lock of the outer door, and Frank Everly entered the office.


Frank Everly was the law clerk who looked up routine legal matters for Perry Mason, and sat with him in the trial of cases. He was young, eager, ambitious, and filled with a boundless enthusiasm.


"Can I talk with you, Chief?" he asked.


Perry Mason opened his eyes and frowned.


"Yes," he said, "come in. What is it you want?"


Frank Everly sat down on the edge of the chair and seemed ill at ease.


"Go on," said Perry Mason. "What is it?"


"I wanted to ask you," said Frank Everly, "as a personal favor, to put Bessie Forbes on the witness stand."


"What's the idea?" asked Mason curiously.


"I have been listening to a lot of talk," said Everly. "Not ordinary gossip, you understand, but the talk of lawyers, of judges and newspaper men."


Mason smiled patiently.


"All right, Everly, what did you hear?"


"If you don't put that woman on the witness stand, and she's convicted, it's going to mean that your reputation will be ruined," he said.


"All right," Perry Mason told him; "it'll be ruined then."


"But don't you see?" said Everly. "She's innocent. Everybody knows that she's innocent, now. The case against her is founded entirely on circumstantial evidence. All that it needs is a denial from her and an explanation, and the jury will render a verdict of not guilty as a matter of course."


"You really feel that way about it?" asked Perry Mason curiously.


"Of course I feel that way about it."


"And you think it's a shame I won't let her get on the stand and tell her story?"


"I think it's a responsibility that you've no right to take, sir," said Everly. "Please don't misunderstand me, but I'm talking to you as one attorney to another. You have a duty to your client; a duty to your profession; and a duty to yourself."


"Suppose she gets on the stand, tells her story, and then is convicted?" said Perry Mason.


"But she couldn't be," said Everly. "Everybody sympathizes with her, and now that the evidence of the taxi driver has blown up, there's nothing to it."


Perry Mason stared at the clerk steadily.


"Frank," he said, "I don't know anything that has cheered me up as much as this talk with you."


"You mean you're going to put her on the stand?"


"No, I mean I'm not going to put her on the stand; not under any circumstances."


"Why?" asked Frank Everly.


"Because," said Perry Mason slowly, "you think she's innocent now. Everybody thinks she's innocent. That means the jury thinks she's innocent. If I put her on the witness stand I can't make the jury think she's any more innocent. If I don't put her on, they may think she's got a dumb lawyer, but they'll return a verdict of not guilty.


"Now, I'm going to tell you something, young man. There are lots of ways of trying a lawsuit. There's the slow, tedious way, indulged in by lawyers who haven't any particular plan of campaign, other than to walk into court and snarl over objections, haggle over technicalities, and drag the facts out so interminably that no one knows just what it's all about. Then there's the dramatic method of trying a lawsuit. That's the method I try to follow.


"Somewhere along the line the district attorney is going to rest his case. I'm going to try and stampede the situation so that when the district attorney rests his case the sympathies of the jury are all going to be with the defendant. Then I'm going to throw the case right into the lap of the jury right then. They'll return a verdict, without even stopping to think it over, if it goes right."


"What if it doesn't go right?" asked Everly.


"If it doesn't go right," said Perry Mason, "I'll probably lose my reputation as a trial lawyer."


"But you've got no right to jeopardize that," said Frank Everly.


"The hell I haven't," Perry Mason told him. "I've got no right not to."


He got to his feet and switched out the lights.


"Come on, son," he said, "let's go home."


CHAPTER XX


CLAUDE DRUMM opened his morning attack, showing only too plainly his resentment of the dramatic defeat of the previous day. His manner was cold, formal and savage. He went ahead grimly with the gory details of impressing upon the jurors the fact that a murder had been committed; a murder, if you please, where a man's house had been invaded; where the man had been shot down in cold blood while in the act of shaving.


Witness after witness was called to the stand, examined with short, crisp questions, and each witness added his bit to the feeling of horror which permeated the courtroom.


These witnesses were the police officers who had come upon the scene. They described what they had found in the room. They told of the position of the body; of the faithful watchdog who had been ruthlessly shot down while trying to protect his master.


A police photographer produced a complete file of prints showing the house, the rooms, the body lying grim and grotesque on the floor of the sumptuous room. There was even a close-up of the head of the police dog, showing the glassy eyes, the lolling tongue, and the inevitable dark pool which seeped out from the body.


There was the autopsy surgeon who testified in great technical detail as to the course of the bullets; the distance from which they were fired, as evidenced by the powder burns on the skin of the deceased, and the singed hair of the dog.


From time to time, Perry Mason ventured some diffident cross-examination - questions asked in a meek tone of voice, designed to bring out some fact which the witness had overlooked, or to explain some statement which the witness had made. There was none of the battle of wits which the spectators had expected to see; none of that flashing brilliance which characterized the dramatic criminal lawyer.


The spectators had assembled in large numbers to see a show. They came in with expectant smiles upon their faces. They looked at Perry Mason, nudged one another and pointed out the great criminal lawyer - each to his neighbor.


Slowly, the expectant smiles faded from their faces. There came frowns, lowering glances at the defendant. This was a grim business - this was murder. And some one should pay for it.


The jurors had taken their places in the morning with cordial nods for Perry Mason; with tolerant glances toward the defendant. By noon, they were avoiding the eyes of Perry Mason; were leaning forward to get the gruesome details from the lips of the witnesses.


Frank Everly had lunch with Perry Mason, and it was evident that Everly labored under some great emotion. He barely tasted his soup, nibbled at his meat, refused his dessert.


"May I say something, sir?" he asked when Perry Mason had settled back in the chair, a cigarette between his lips.


Perry Mason regarded him with patient, tolerant eyes.


"Certainly," he said.


"This case is slipping through your fingers," blurted Frank Everly.


"Yes?" asked Perry Mason.


"I've heard comments in the courtroom. This morning you could have got the woman off without any difficulty. Now she'll never be able to save herself - not unless she can prove an alibi. That jury is commencing to realize the horror of the situation; the fact that it was a cold-blooded murder. Think of the argument Drumm is going to make about the loyal watchdog who gave his life to save his master. When the surgeon brought out the fact that the gun was within but a few inches of the dog's chest when it was fired; was within less than two feet of Clinton Forbes when he was killed, I could see the jurors look at each other significantly."


Perry Mason was undisturbed.


"Yes," he said, "that's pretty telling evidence, and the worst blow is going to come out this afternoon, right after the trial starts."


"How do you mean?" asked Frank Everly.


"Unless I'm badly mistaken," said Perry Mason, "the first witness after lunch will be the man who's been brought from Santa Barbara, who has the firearm register. He'll show the registration of the gun that did the killing; show when it was received; when it was sold, and identify Mrs. Forbes as the one to whom the gun was sold. Then he'll bring the gun register into evidence and show her signature. That fact, coming on top of the morning's evidence, will alienate every bit of sympathy from the defendant."


"But can't you stop it in some way?" asked Everly. "You could keep making objections; keep the limelight on yourself; keep it from seeming to be so frightfully horrid."


Berry Mason puffed placidly on his cigarette.


"I don't want to stop it," he said.


"But you could make a break. You could do something that would keep the horror from cumulating in the minds of the jurors."


"That's just what I want to do," said Perry Mason.


"For heaven's sake, why?" asked Frank Everly.


Perry Mason smiled.


"Did you ever run for a political office?" he asked.


"No, of course not," said the young man.


"If you had," said Perry Mason, "you'd realize what a fickle thing the mass mind is."


"What do you mean by that?"


"Simply that there's no loyalty in it; no consistency in it," said Perry Mason. "And a jury is a manifestation of a mass mind."


"I don't see what you're driving at," the clerk said.


"On the other hand," said Perry Mason, "you've doubtless been to a good show."


"Why, yes, of course."


"You've been to shows where there's been some strong emotional scene; where there's been something that's brought tears to your eyes, a lump to your throat?"


"Yes," said Everly dubiously, "I have, but I don't see what that's got to do with it."


"Try and remember back to the last show you went to that was like that," Perry Mason said, watching the smoke curl upward from the end of his cigarette.


"Yes, I saw one just a few nights ago," Everly said.


"Now, then, can you remember the most dramatic part of the show - the place where the lump in your throat was biggest - where your eyes felt moist?"


"Certainly, I doubt if I'll ever forget it. It was a scene where the woman..."


"Never mind that right now," interrupted Perry Mason. "But let me ask you: what were you doing three minutes after that emotional scene?"


Everly looked at him in surprise.


"Why, sitting right there in the theater, of course."


"No, I don't mean that," Perry Mason said. "What was your emotion?"


"Why," said Everly, "I was just watching the play and..." Abruptly he smiled.


"Now," said Perry Mason, "I think you're getting my point. What were you doing?"


"I was laughing," said Everly.


"Exactly," Perry Mason said, as though that disposed of the matter.


Everly watched him in puzzled bewilderment for a few moments.


"But," he said, "I don't see what that's got to do with the jury in this case."


"It has everything to do with it," Perry Mason said. "A jury is an audience. It's a small audience, but it's an audience just the same. Now, the playwrights who are successful with plays have to know human nature. They recognize the fickleness of the mass mind. They know that it's incapable of loyalty; that it's incapable of holding any emotion for any great period of time. If there hadn't been a chance to laugh after that dramatic scene in the play you saw, the play would have been a flop.


"That audience was fickle, just like all audiences are fickle. They had gone through an emotional strain of sympathizing with the heroine in her darkest hour. They felt for her. That feeling was sincere. They would have died to have saved her. They would have killed the villain, could they have laid hands on him. They felt honestly, sincerely and wholeheartedly. But they couldn't have held the emotion for more than three minutes, to have saved their lives. It wasn't their trouble; it was the heroine's trouble. Having felt for her deeply and sincerely, they wanted to even the emotional scales by laughing. The wise playwright knew that. He gave them an excuse to laugh. And, if you'd studied psychology, you'd have noticed how eagerly the audience grasped at that opportunity to laugh."


Everly's eyes lit up.


"All right," he said, "now tell me just how that applies to the jury. I'm commencing to think I see."


"This case," Perry Mason said, "is going to be short, snappy and dramatic. The policy of the district attorney is to emphasize the horror of a murder case; to emphasize the fact that it's not a battle of wits between counsel, but the bringing to justice of a human fiend who has killed. Ordinarily, the defense attorney tries to keep that impression of horror from creeping into the case. He jumps to his feet with objections to photographs. He waves his arms and shouts arguments. He crouches in front of the witnesses and points his finger in dramatic cross-examination. It has a tendency to break the emotional chain; to soften the horror of the situation, and to draw the jurors back to the courtroom drama, instead of letting their minds revert to the horror of the murder."


"Well," said Frank Everly, "I should think that would be exactly what you'd want to do in this case."


"No," said Perry Mason slowly, "it always pays to do exactly the opposite of what custom decrees. That is particularly true with Claude Drumm. Claude Drumm is a logical fighter; a dangerous, dogged adversary, but he has no subtlety about him. He has no sense of relative values. He isn't intuitive. He can't 'feel' the mental state of a jury. He's accustomed to putting in all of this stuff after a long battle; after the attorney on the other side has done everything possible to soften the horror of the situation.


"Did you ever see two men in a tug of war, where one man let go suddenly and the other man staggered backwards off balance and fell down?"


"Yes, of course."


"For the simple reason," said Perry Mason, "that he was pulling too hard. He was expecting a continued opposition. When he didn't get it, he pulled so hard that he was thrown down by the very vehemence of his own effort."


"I think I begin to see," Frank Everly said.


"Exactly," Perry Mason told him. "The jurors came into court this morning, interested spectators expecting to see a show. Drumm started in showing them horrors. I didn't do anything about it, and Claude Drumm simply went wild on the horror angle. He's had the jurors soaked in horror all the morning. He'll continue to soak them in horror after lunch. Unconsciously the minds of the jurors will seek some relief. They'll want something to laugh at. They'll unconsciously pray for something dramatic, such as happened yesterday, to take their minds away from the horror. It's a subconscious effort of the mind to adjust itself. Having experienced too much horror, it wants a bit of laughter as an antidote. It's part of the fickleness of the human mind.


"And remember this, Frank: whenever you get to the trial of a case, never try to arouse one single emotion in the minds of a jury and bear down steadily on that emotion.


"Pick some dominant emotion if you want, but touch on it only for a few moments. Then swing your argument to something else. Then come back to it. The human mind is like a pendulum; you can start it swinging a little at a time and gradually come back with added force, until finally you can close in a burst of dramatic oratory, with the jury inflamed to white rage against the other side. But if you try to talk to a jury for as much as fifteen minutes, and harp continually upon one line, you will find that the jurors have quit listening to you before you finish."


A look of dawning hope came over the young man's face.


"Then you're going to try and stampede the jury this afternoon?" he asked.


"Yes," said Perry Mason, "this afternoon I'm going to bust that case wide open. By not objecting, by not cross-examining, except upon minor points, I am speeding the case up. Claude Drumm, in spite of himself, finds his case moving so rapidly that it's getting out of hand. The horror sensation that he had expected to be doled out at varying intervals, over a period of three or four days, has all been dumped into the lap of the jury in two hours. It's too much horror for the jury to stand. They're getting ready to seize on some excuse to furnish an emotional relief.


"Claude Drumm expected to fight his way doggedly toward a goal. Instead of that, he finds that there's no resistance whatever. He's galloping down the field with such unexpected speed that his information can't keep up. He's busting his own case wide open."


"And you're going to do something this afternoon?" asked Frank Everly. "You're going to try something of your own?"


"This afternoon," said Perry Mason, his face set in firm lines, his eyes staring fixedly ahead, "I am going to try and get a verdict of not guilty."


He pinched out the cigarette, scraped back his chair.


"Come on, young man," he said, "let's go."


CHAPTER XXI


TRUE to Perry Mason's predictions, Claude Drumm introduced the clerk at the sporting goods store, who had been brought from Santa Barbara. The clerk identified the murder weapon as one that had been sold to the defendant on the 29th day of September of the preceding year. He showed the sale on the register of firearms; showed the signature of Bessie Forbes.


Triumphantly, Claude Drumm made a gesture toward Perry Mason.


"You," he declaimed, "may cross-examine the witness."


"No questions," drawled Perry Mason.


Claude Drumm frowned as the witness left the stand, then turned toward the courtroom and said, dramatically. "Call Thelma Benton."


Thelma Benton gave her testimony in a low, resonant voice. In response to questions by Claude Drumm she sketched rapidly the human drama in the life of the dead man. She told of his life in Santa Barbara; of the infatuation with Paula Cartright; of the elopement; of the purchase of the house on Milpas Drive; of the happiness of Forbes and his companion, in their illicit romance; then the mysterious tenant of the adjoining house; the continued inspection through binoculars; the sudden realization that this neighbor was none other than the wronged husband; the abrupt departure of Paula Cartright, and then of the murder.


"Cross-examine," declaimed Claude Drumm triumphantly.


Perry Mason got slowly to his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "it will be readily apparent that this witness may, perhaps, be a witness whose testimony is of greatest importance. I understand there will be the usual five or ten minutes recess at approximately three-thirty o'clock. It is now three-ten, and I am perfectly willing to commence my cross-examination, and have it interrupted by the usual afternoon recess. But, aside from that interruption, I submit that I should be able to cross-examine this witness without interruption during the rest of the afternoon."


Judge Markham raised his eyebrows and glanced at Claude Drumm.


"There is no objection to that, is there, Mr. District Attorney?" he asked.


"None whatever," said Claude Drumm sneeringly.


"Cross-examine as long as you want to."


"I don't wish to be misunderstood," said Perry Mason. "I would like very much either to postpone my cross-examination until tomorrow, or to have it understood that it may be completed today."


"Proceed with the cross-examination, Counselor," said Judge Markham, rapping with his gavel. "This Court has no intention of interrupting the cross-examination by adjournment, if that is what you have in mind."


Claude Drumm made an elaborately polite gesture. "You can cross examine this witness for a year, if you want to," he said.


"That will do!" snapped Judge Markham. "Proceed with the cross-examination, Counselor."


Perry Mason was once more the center of attention. His intimation that the cross-examination was to be of the greatest importance swung the attention of every one in the courtroom to him. The fact that his previous cross-examinations had been so perfunctory, served to emphasize his cross examination of this witness.


"When you left Santa Barbara with Mr. Forbes and Mrs. Cartright," he said, "did Mrs. Cartright know of your capacity?"


"I don't know."


"You don't know what Mr. Forbes told her?"


"Naturally not."


"You had previously been the secretary of Mr. Forbes?"


"Yes."


"Had you," asked Perry Mason, "been more than a secretary?"


Claude Drumm was on his feet with a vigorous and vehement objection. Judge Markham promptly sustained the objection.


"It goes to show motive, Your Honor," said Perry Mason.


"The witness has as yet given no testimony which would make any such motive of the slightest importance," snapped the Court. "The ruling has been made, Counselor. You will proceed with the cross-examination and avoid such questions in the future."


"Very well," said Perry Mason.


"When you left Santa Barbara with Clinton Forbes and Paula Cartright, you were traveling by automobile, Mrs. Benton?"


"Yes."


"And in that automobile was a police dog?"


"Yes."


"A police dog named Prince?"


"Yes."


"The dog that was killed at the time of the murder?"


"Yes," said Thelma Benton with sudden vehemence. "He gave his life trying to defend his master against the attack of a cowardly assassin!"


Perry Mason nodded slowly. "And that was the dog that came with you in the automobile?"


"Yes."


"That dog was devoted to Paula Cartright?"


"Yes, he was quite friendly with her at the time we left Santa Barbara, and he became very much attached to her."


"And that dog previously had been in the household of Mr. and Mrs. Forbes?"


"That is correct."


"You had seen the dog there?"


"Yes."


"And that dog was also attached to Mrs. Forbes?"


"Naturally."


"The dog also became attached to you?"


"Yes, it was an animal with an affectionate disposition."


"Yes," said Perry Mason, "I can understand that. And the dog howled almost continuously during the night of the fifteenth of October of the present year?"


"It did not."


"Did you hear the dog howl?"


"I did not."


"Isn't it a fact, Mrs. Benton, that the dog left the house, stood near the garage addition which was under construction, and howled dismally?"


"He did not."


"Now," said Perry Mason, abruptly changing the subject, "you have identified the letter which Mrs. Cartright left for Mr. Forbes when she decided to rejoin her husband?"


"Yes."


"She had been confined to her room with influenza?"


"Yes."


"And was recuperating?"


"Yes."


"And she abruptly summoned a taxicab when Mr. Forbes was absent?"


"When Mr. Forbes," said the witness, with icy acidity, "had been decoyed from the house by a false complaint which had been filed against him with a district attorney, by yourself and Arthur Cartright, the woman rejoined Mr. Cartright. She did it surreptitiously."


"You mean," said Perry Mason, "that she ran away with her own husband."


"She deserted Mr. Forbes, with whom she had been living for a year," said the witness.


"And she left this letter behind?"


"Yes."


"You recognize that letter as being in the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright?"


"I do."


"Were you familiar with the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright before she left Santa Barbara?"


"Yes."


"Now," said Perry Mason, producing a piece of paper, "I show you a paper which purports to be in the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright, and ask you if that handwriting is the same as that on the letter?"


"No," said the witness slowly, "it is not." She bit her lip for a moment, then added suddenly, "Mrs. Cartright, I think, made a conscious attempt to change her handwriting after she left Santa Barbara. She was trying to keep her real identity from being discovered by anyone with whom she might come in contact."


"I see," said Perry Mason. "Now I show you a sheet of paper which purports to contain handwriting by Bessie Forbes, the defendant in this action. That is not the same handwriting as is contained in this letter that Mrs. Cartright left behind her, is it?"


"Certainly not."


"And," said Perry Mason, "may I ask that you write something on a sheet of paper, so that your handwriting may be compared?"


The witness hesitated.


"This is highly irregular, Your Honor," said Claude Drumm, getting to his feet.


Perry Mason shook his head.


"The witness," he said, "has testified as to the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright. I have the right to cross-examine her, by showing her other handwritings, and ask her opinion as to the identity of those handwritings, compared with the writing in the note."


"I think you are right," said Judge Markham. "The objection will be overruled."


Thelma Benton took a sheet of paper, wrote swift lines upon it.


Perry Mason examined the writing and nodded.


"I think we will both concede," he said, "that that is entirely different from the handwriting which appears on the letter which Mrs. Cartright left behind."


"Naturally," said the witness in a tone of cool sarcasm.


Judge Markham fidgeted uneasily.


"It has approached the hour of the usual afternoon recess," he said. "I believe you stated, Counselor, that you had no objection to an interruption of the cross-examination for the usual afternoon recess?"


"None whatever, Your Honor."


"Very well, the Court will take a recess for ten minutes. The jury will remember the admonition of the Court, not to converse about the case or permit it to be discussed in your presence."


The judge arose from his chair, flashed Perry Mason a curiously speculative gaze, then walked into chambers.


Perry Mason looked at his watch and frowned.


"Go over to the window, Frank," he said to Frank Everly, "and see if you can notice any unusual activity on the part of the newsboys at the corner."


The clerk walked to the window of the courtroom, looked down on the street.


Perry Mason, ignoring the concentrated gaze of the curious spectators, slumped down in his chair and bowed his head in thought. His strong, capable fingers made little drumming motions on the arm of the chair.


Frank Everly turned from the window, came running back toward the counsel table.


"There's a lot of excitement down there," he said. "There's been a truck distributing papers. It looks like an extra. The boys are calling them."


Perry Mason looked at the clock and smiled.


"Go on down and pick up a couple of the newspapers," he said.


He turned his head and nodded to Bessie Forbes.


"I'm sorry, Mrs. Forbes," he said, "that you've had such an ordeal, but I don't think it will be long now."


She looked at him with puzzled eyes.


"Frankly," she said, "the talk that I overheard this noon was that the case was going very badly against me."


The deputy sheriff who had her in charge moved slightly forward in order to be at her side. Claude Drumm, who had been smoking a cigarette in the corridor, came stalking back into the courtroom, his importance entirely reestablished in his own mind. He strode with well-tailored efficiency, a dignified superiority toward the criminal attorney who must needs make his living from the trial of cases, rather than bask in the dignity of a monthly salary check, issued with the clock-like regularity with which government officials expend the money of taxpayers.


Frank Everly came bursting into the courtroom with two newspapers, his eyes wide, his lips sagging open.


"They've found the bodies!" he shouted, and rushed toward Perry Mason.


Perry Mason picked up one of the newspapers and held it so that the startled eyes of Claude Drumm could see the headlines.


"MILLIONAIRE'S MANSION IS MURDER FARM," screamed in glaring headlines across the entire front of the page. Lower, and in slightly smaller type, appeared the words:


"BODIES OF CARTRIGHT AND WIFE DISCOVERED UNDER FLOOR OF FORBES' GARAGE."


Claude Drumm sat bolt erect, stared with bulging eyes. A bailiff rushed into the courtroom carrying a newspaper, and went on a half run into the judge's chambers. A spectator entered the courtroom with an open newspaper, babbling excitedly. Within a matter of seconds, he was the center of a circle that listened with bated breath.


Claude Drumm abruptly reached forward.


"May I see that newspaper?" he snapped.


"Delighted," said Perry Mason, and handed him the second newspaper.


Thelma Benton walked swiftly over to Claude Drumm.


"I've got to see you a moment," she said.


Perry Mason glanced through the account in the newspaper, passed it over to Frank Everly.


"Go ahead and read it, Frank," he said. "Looks like The Chronicle had a scoop."


"But why didn't the officers know about it?"


"They probably used friendly deputies and kept it sewed up until they could get a paper on the street. If it had hit the general office at headquarters, every newspaper in the city would have been onto it."


Perry Mason looked at the clock, then arose, stretched, yawned, and sauntered into the chambers of Judge Markham.


The judge sat at his table reading the newspaper account, with eyes that held an expression of puzzled bewilderment.


"I don't like to bother you, Judge," said Perry Mason, "but I notice that the time allotted for the recess is up. I am very anxious to conclude my examination of this witness prior to the evening adjournment. In fact, I think that it may well be possible that we can get the case disposed of today."


Judge Markham looked up at Perry Mason, his eyes glinting shrewdly.


"I am wondering," he said, "as to the purpose..." His voice trailed into silence.


"Yes?" said Perry Mason.


"Yes," said Judge Markham dryly.


"Just what were you wondering, Judge?" said Perry Mason.


Judge Markham frowned.


"I don't know as I should discuss it," he said, "but I am wondering at the peculiar nature of the request you made that you be allowed to complete your cross-examination of the witness today."


Perry Mason shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.


"Either," Judge Markham said, "you are the most remarkably lucky man practicing at the bar, or else the most shrewdly adroit; I can't tell which."


Perry Mason did not answer the question directly, but said instead, "I have always figured that a lawsuit was like an iceberg - only a fraction of it was visible to the naked eye, the balance of it is beneath the surface."


Judge Markham got to his feet.


"Well, Counselor," he said, "be that as it may, you are entitled to go on with the case."


Perry Mason walked back to the courtroom. Almost immediately Judge Markham entered from his chambers. The bailiff pounded frantically for order, and pounded for several seconds before his admonitions were heeded. The courtroom was in a seething uproar of buzzing conversation, excited comments, scurrying motion.


Order, at length, was restored. The jurors took their seats. Perry Mason slumped in his chair, apparently utterly unmoved by the startling events of the last few minutes.


"Thelma Benton was on the stand for further cross-examination," said Judge Markham.


Claude Drumm got to his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "a most startling and unexpected development has taken place. In view of the circumstances, I know that Your Honor will not require me to mention the nature of that development, at least in the presence of the jury. But I feel that as an officer of the state, as a deputy prosecutor who is familiar with the facts of this case, my presence is urgently required elsewhere, and I request an adjournment of this case until tomorrow morning."


Judge Markham looked over his glasses at Perry Mason.


"Any objections, Counselor?" he asked.


"Yes," said Perry Mason, getting to his feet. "The rights of the defendant demand that the cross-examination of this witness be concluded at this session of the court. I mentioned this matter before I started the cross-examination, and that was the specific understanding which I had with counsel."


"That is correct," said Judge Markham. "The request for a continuance will be denied."


"But," shouted Claude Drumm, "Your Honor must understand..."


"That will do, Counselor," said Judge Markham. "The motion for a continuance has been denied. Proceed, Mr. Mason."


Perry Mason looked at Thelma Benton for a moment with a long, steady stare of accusation.


She lowered her eyes and fidgeted on the witness stand. Her face was as white as the wall in back of her.


"Now," said Perry Mason slowly, "as I understand your testimony, Paula Cartright left the residence on Milpas Drive in a taxicab on the morning of October 17th."


"That is correct," she said.


"You saw her leave?"


"Yes," she said in a low voice.


"Do I understand," said Perry Mason, raising his voice, "that you saw Paula Cartright alive on the morning of October 17th of this year?"


The witness bit her lip, hesitated.


"Let the records show," said Perry Mason urbanely, "that the witness hesitates."


Claude Drumm jumped to his feet.


"That," he said, "is manifestly unfair, and I object to the question, as argumentative; as already asked and answered; as not being proper cross-examination."


"The objection is overruled," said Judge Markham. "The record will show that the witness hesitates appreciably in answering."


Thelma Benton looked up. Her eyes were dark with panic.


"I can't say that I saw her personally," she said. "I heard steps going down the stairs from her room. I saw a taxicab drawn up in front of the place, and I saw a woman getting into the taxicab, then the cab drove away. I took it for granted that the woman was Mrs. Cartright."


"Then you didn't see her?" pressed Perry Mason.


"No," she said in a low voice, "I didn't see her."


"Now," said Perry Mason, "you have identified this letter as being in the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright."


"Yes, sir."


Perry Mason produced the photostatic copy of the telegram which had been sent from Midwick.


"And," he said, "will you identify the photostatic copy of this telegram as also being in the handwriting of Paula Cartright?"


The witness looked at the telegram, hesitated, bit her lip.


"They're the same handwriting, are they not?" asked Perry Mason - "those two documents?"


When she answered, her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.


"Yes," she said, "I guess they're in the same handwriting."


"Don't you know?" said Perry Mason. "You unhesitatingly identified the letter as being in the handwriting of Paula Cartright. How about this telegram? Is that, or is that not, in the handwriting of Paula Cartright?"


"Yes," said the witness in an almost inaudible voice, "it is Mrs. Cartright's handwriting."


"So," said Perry Mason, "Mrs. Cartright sent this telegram from Midwick on the morning of October 17th?"


"I guess so," said the witness in a low voice.


Judge Markham pounded with his gavel.


"Mrs. Benton," he said, "you've got to speak up so the jury can understand you. Speak more loudly, please."


She raised her head, stared at the judge, and swayed slightly.


Claude Drumm was on his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "it now appears that the witness is ill. I again ask for a continuance, out of justice to this witness, who has doubtless sustained a very great shock."


Judge Markham slowly shook his head.


"I think the cross-examination should continue," he said.


"If," said Claude Drumm in pleading desperation, "this case can be continued until tomorrow, there is some chance it might be dismissed."


Perry Mason whirled about and stood with his feet planted firmly on the floor, spread slightly apart; his head thrust forward, his manner belligerent; his voice raised until it seemed to echo in the rafters of the courtroom.


"If the Court please," he thundered, "that is exactly the situation I wish to avoid. A public accusation has been made against the defendant in this case, and the defendant is entitled to an acquittal at the hands of a jury. A dismissal by the prosecution would still leave her with a blot upon her name."


Judge Markham's voice sounded low and even-toned, compared with the vehement eloquence of Perry Mason.


"The motion is once more denied," he said. "The case will continue."


"Now," said Perry Mason, "will you kindly explain how Paula Cartright could write a letter and a telegram on the morning of October 17th of this year, when you know, of your own knowledge, that Paula Cartright was murdered on the evening of October 16th?"


Claude Drumm was on his feet.


"That," he said, "is objected to as argumentative, calling for a conclusion of the witness, not proper cross-examination and assuming a fact not in evidence."


Judge Markham paused for a moment, stared at the white, drawn face of the witness.


"I am going to sustain the objection," he said.


Perry Mason reached for the letter which had been identified as being in the handwriting of Mrs. Cartright, placed it on the table in front of the witness, and pounded it with his fist.


"Didn't you write that letter?" he asked of the witness.


"No!" she flared.


"Isn't it your handwriting?"


"You know that it is not," she said. "The handwriting doesn't resemble mine in the least."


"On the 17th day of October," said Perry Mason, "your right hand was in a bandage, was it not?"


"Yes."


"You had been bitten by a dog."


"Yes. Prince had been poisoned, and when I tried to give him an emetic he accidentally bit my hand."


"Yes," said Perry Mason. "But the fact remains that your right hand was bandaged on the 17th day of October of this year, and remained bandaged for several days thereafter, isn't that right?"


"Yes."


"And you couldn't hold a pen in that hand?"


There was a moment of silence, then the witness said suddenly: "Yes. And that goes to show how false your accusation is that I wrote that letter or that telegram. My hand was crippled so that I couldn't possibly have held a pen in it."


"Were you," snapped Perry Mason, "in Midwick on the 17th day of October of this year?"


The witness hesitated.


"Didn't you," went on Perry Mason without waiting for an answer, "charter an airplane and fly to Midwick on the 17th day of October of this year?"


"Yes," said the witness, "I thought I might find Mrs. Cartright in Midwick, and I went there by plane."


"And didn't you file this telegram at the telegraph office in Midwick while you were there?" asked Perry Mason.


"No," she said, "I have told you that I couldn't have written that telegram."


"Very well," said Perry Mason, "let's go back a moment to this mangled hand of yours. It was so badly mangled you couldn't possibly hold a pen in your right hand?"


"Yes."


"And that was on the 17th day of October of this year?"


"Yes."


"Also on the 18th day of October?"


"Yes."


"Also on the 19th?"


"Yes."


"Very well," said Perry Mason, "isn't it a fact that you kept a diary over the period I have mentioned?"


"Yes," she said swiftly, before she thought, then suddenly caught her breath, bit her lip and said, "No."


"Which is it," said Perry Mason, "yes or no?"


"No," she said.


Perry Mason whipped a torn sheet of paper from his pocket.


"As a matter of fact," he said, "isn't that a sheet of paper which came from a diary which you kept on or about that date - to wit, the 19th of October of this year?"


The witness stared at the torn piece of paper, said nothing.


"And isn't it," said Perry Mason, "a fact that you are ambidextrous; that you were keeping the diary during that time, and that you made entries in it with a pen that was held in your left hand? Isn't it a fact that you have always been able to write with your left hand, and that you do so whenever you wish to disguise your writing? Isn't it a fact that you have in your possession such a diary, from which this is a torn leaf, and that the handwriting on this torn leaf is exactly identical with the handwriting shown on the letter purported to have been written by Paula Cartright, and on the telegram purported to have been filed by her?"


The witness rose to her feet, looked at Judge Markham with glassy eyes, stared at the jury, then parted her white lips and screamed.


Bedlam broke loose in the courtroom. Bailiffs pounded for order. Deputies ran toward the witness.


Claude Drumm was on his feet, frantically shouting a motion for adjournment which was lost in the turmoil of noise.


Perry Mason walked back to the counsel table and sat down.


Deputies reached the side of Thelma Benton. They took her elbows and started to pilot her from the witness stand. She abruptly pitched forward in a dead faint.


The voice of Claude Drumm made itself audible above the confused roar of the courtroom.


"Your Honor," he shouted, "in the name of common decency, in the name of humanity, I demand a continuation of this case, in order to enable this witness to regain some measure of composure and health, before there is any further cross-examination. It is apparent, regardless of the cause, that she is a very sick woman. To continue with such a merciless cross-examination at this time is lacking in decency and humanity!"


Judge Markham slitted his eyes in thought, glanced over at Perry Mason.


Perry Mason's voice was low and calm, and the hub-bub in the courtroom quieted so that spectators might hear him.


"May I ask counsel if that is the only reason he is asking for a continuance?" said Perry Mason.


"Certainly," said Claude Drumm.


"May I also ask counsel," said Perry Mason, "in view of the request for a continuance, if he has any other witnesses, or if this is his last witness?"


"This," said Claude Drumm, "is my last witness. I grant counsel the right to cross examine her. The district attorney's office joins with counsel in a desire to find out the true facts of this case.


"But I cannot consent to the continuation of a cross-examination of a woman who is manifestly suffering from such a terrific nerve strain."


"I think, Counselor," said Judge Markham, "that the motion at this time is well taken, at least for a short continuance."


Perry Mason's smile was urbane.


"Your Honor," he said, "the motion for a continuance is no longer necessary. It gives me pleasure to announce that in view of the mental state of the witness, and my desire to complete the case, I am finished with my cross-examination."


He sat down.


Claude Drumm stood by his chair at the counsel table, staring incredulously at Perry Mason.


"You're finished?" he asked.


"Yes," said Perry Mason.


"Under those circumstances," said Claude Drumm, "I am taken by surprise, Your Honor, and I would like to have the case continued until tomorrow morning."


"For what reason?" asked Judge Markham.


"Simply in order to get my mind clear upon certain facts, and to ascertain what course I desire to take," said Claude Drumm.


"But," pointed out Judge Markham, "in response to a question by counsel, you have stated that this was your last witness."


"Very well," said Claude Drumm suddenly. "I rest. Let counsel go ahead with his defense."


Perry Mason bowed to the court and to the jury.


"The defendant," he said, "also rests."


"What?" shouted Claude Drumm. "You are putting on no evidence whatever?"


"The defendant," said Perry Mason with dignity, "rests."


The voice of Judge Markham was calm and judicial.


"Do you gentlemen desire to argue the case?" he asked.


"Yes," said Perry Mason, "I would like to argue the case."


"And you, Counselor?" the judge asked of Claude Drumm.


"Your Honor, I cannot argue this case at the present time. It will require some preparation. Once more I ask for an adjournment..."


"Once more," he said, in a tone of finality, "the request is denied. I feel that the rights of the defendant in this case are entitled to consideration at the hands of the Court. Go ahead and argue, Mr. Drumm."


Claude Drumm got to his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "I think I shall ask the Court for a dismissal of this case."


The court nodded. "Very well," he said, "if..."


Perry Mason was on his feet.


"Your Honor," he said, "I object to the motion. I believe that I have previously stated my position in regard to it. The defendant in this case is entitled to have her name cleared. A dismissal of the case would not do that."


Judge Markham's eyes suddenly narrowed. He looked at Perry Mason with the wary watchfulness of a cat regarding a mouse hole.


"Do I understand, Counselor, that you object to a dismissal of this case by the prosecution?"


"I do."


"Very well," said Judge Markham, "we will let the jury take the case. The deputy district attorney will proceed with the argument."


Claude Drumm got to his feet, walked toward the jury box.


"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "there has been a most unexpected development in this case. I do not know what course I should have taken, had the case been continued so that I could give a complete consideration to the facts. However, as the facts now stand, the defendant in this case is shown to have been present at the house where the murder was committed, at the time the murder was committed. She is shown to have had a motive strong enough to impel her to murder the decedent. The gun with which the killing was done was a gun which she had purchased. Under the circumstances, I feel that she should not be acquitted. I am frank to state I do not feel that the state should ask for the death penalty. I am frank to state that I am somewhat confused by the sudden turn of events, but I feel that these matters should be considered by you. Gentlemen, I have nothing further to say."


In savage dignity Claude Drumm strode back to the counsel table and resumed his seat.


Perry Mason approached the jurors, stared at them quizzically for a few moments.


"Gentlemen," he said, "a fortunate break on the part of the main witness for the prosecution has saved you the possibility of working an irreparable wrong upon an innocent woman.


"The evidence in this case is purely circumstantial. From the circumstances of the case, the prosecution is entitled to make any deductions it desires; also, the defense is entitled to make any deductions it desires.


"Let me, therefore, take the circumstances of this case and outline to you first, the impossibility of the crime having been committed by the defendant, and, second, the possibility that it was committed by some other person.


"In the first place, the evidence shows that the person who murdered Clinton Forbes entered the house either with a passkey or with a key which was rightfully in the possession of such person. The evidence shows that that person went to the room where Forbes was engaged in shaving. The evidence shows that Forbes strode out of his bedroom into the library to see who the intruder was; that he then became alarmed, ran back to the bathroom, and liberated the police dog which had been chained in the bathroom. It is apparent that when he heard some one in the library, Forbes mopped the lather from his face with a towel as he walked out to the library. After he beheld the intruder, he ran back to the bathroom and unchained the dog. As he did so, he used both hands to unchain the dog, and dropped the towel containing the lather which had been wiped from his face. This towel was dropped near the edge of the bathtub, in exactly the position where it would have been dropped, logically and naturally, under the circumstances. The dog sprang toward the intruder with bared teeth, and as counsel for the prosecution has so aptly remarked, and as witnesses for the prosecution have so truthfully testified, endeavored to save the life of his master. The assassin shot the dog at close quarters. The powder burns are on the fur of the dog. That shows that the dog was actually attacking the murderer when the shots were fired.


"After those shots were fired, the intruder grappled with Clinton Forbes. It will never be known whether the intruder came to meet Clinton Forbes, or whether Forbes rushed to meet the intruder, but the shots which killed Forbes were fired at close range.


"Gentlemen, it is the contention of the prosecution that those shots were fired by the defendant in this case.


"There is, gentlemen, one unanswerable objection to such a theory. That is, that if the intruder had been the defendant in this case, the police dog would not have rushed upon the defendant; nor would it have been necessary for the defendant to have shot the dog. The dog knew the defendant and loved her. The dog would never have charged upon the defendant under those circumstances, but would rather have given vent to joyous barks of canine gratification that the two persons whom it loved had been reunited.


"That, gentlemen, disposes of the case of the prosecution.


"Under the law relating to circumstantial evidence, it is necessary that before a conviction can be had at the hands of a jury, the jurors must be convinced that the circumstances can be explained upon no reasonable hypothesis, other than the guilt of the defendant.


"Now, let me point out the significant circumstances which indicate that the murder was committed by some other person:


"There is evidence in this case that Arthur Cartright complained of a dog howling on the premises of Clinton Forbes, on the night of October 15th. The dog howled continuously during the night, the howls being from the back of the house and in the neighborhood of the addition to the garage which was being duly constructed.


"Gentlemen, let us suppose that there had been an altercation between Paula Cartright and Clinton Forbes. Let us suppose that Clinton Forbes, during that altercation, had murdered Paula Cartright. Let us suppose that he and Thelma Benton, together, had scooped out a shallow grave in the soil where the cement floor of the new garage building was to be poured. And we might even suppose, in view of the terms of the note which Thelma Benton subsequently wrote, as purporting to come from the pen of Paula Cartright, then the quarrel resulted from the discovery of an intimacy between Forbes and Thelma Benton by Paula Cartright.


"Mrs. Cartright had given up her social position, her right to be considered a respectable member of society, in order to run away with Clinton Forbes, where she lived with him under such circumstances that she was barred from all friendships of her past life; could form no new friendships; was a woman continually haunted by the fear of discovery. And then she found that the sacrifice she had made was for nothing; that the love she thought she had gained by such a sacrifice was, in reality, a hollow mockery, and that Clinton Forbes was no more true to her than he had been true to the wife whom he had deserted in Santa Barbara.


"Paula Cartright quarreled bitterly and her lips were sealed forever by the two assassins who secretly buried her body. The Chinese cook was asleep. Only the stars of the night and the guilty consciences of the murderous pair who scooped out the shallow grave knew what was going on. But there was one other who knew. That was a faithful police dog. He smelled the cold corpse. He knew that it was interred in a shallow grave and he watched by that grave and howled.


"Arthur Cartright had been watching the house. He didn't realize the significance of the steady howling of the dog, but it did prey upon his overwrought nerves. He took steps to see that the dog did not howl any more, thinking at the time he instituted such steps that the howling of the dog was nothing more than a vagary of the canine mind. But at some time during the next night, the frightful significance of those howls dawned upon him. The possibility crashed home, that the dog was mourning the passing of one whom the dog held dear. His mind filled with suspicion, Arthur Cartright set out to investigate.


"Clinton Forbes and his pseudo-housekeeper had embarked upon a career of murder. They found themselves confronted with an accusation of the crime. A man who was almost as one bereft of reason demanded that he be confronted with Paula Cartright, in order that he might see for himself that she was alive and well.


"Gentlemen," said Perry Mason, lowering his voice impressively, "there was only one thing which the conspirators could do to preserve their secret. There was one more ghastly step which they had to take in order to put the seal of silence upon the lips of the man who was mouthing accusations which they knew would soon be made to the authorities, and would soon result in an investigation. They fell upon him and murdered him, as they had murdered his wife, and they buried his body beside hers, knowing that on the next day, the cement workers would pour cement over the place where the shallow graves were located, forever sealing off the ghastly evidence of the dastardly crime.


"The guilty pair were then confronted with the necessity of explaining the simultaneous absence of both Arthur Cartright and his wife. There was only one way they could do it, and that was by making it appear that husband and wife had become reunited and had run away together. Thelma Benton was ambidextrous. This fact was known to Clinton Forbes. He also knew that it was extremely unlikely any one would have any specimen of the genuine handwriting of Paula Cartright. She was a woman estranged from the world, one who had burnt her bridges behind her. She had no friends to whom she cared to write. There was no one to come forward with a specimen of the woman's handwriting. So the letter was forged. The name was signed, the bridges were burnt once more, and once more the guilty pair proceeded upon their career of deception.

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