The Case of the Lame Canary

Chapter seven

The motor ceased its monotonous, rhythmic roar. The nose of the plane tilted sharply forward. Della Street, her face pressed against the window, said, “So that’s Reno,eh?”

Mason nodded. Together they watched the lights as the plane banked into a sharp turn and slid downward through the darkness. The sound of the wind through the struts became audible as a high-pitched, whining note. The pilot flattened out, gunned the motor, and throttled down to a perfect three-point landing. Then the motor roared once more into a crescendo of noise as the plane taxied up to the airport.

Della Street’s face was glowing with excitement as she stood in the doorway of the enclosed fuselage, and Mason extended his hand. Wind, thrown back by the idling propeller, whipped her skirts closely about her. She placed her hand in Mason’s and jumped lightly to the ground.

“Any clues, Chief,” she asked, “or do we go it blind?”

“We go it blind. Get a cab,” he told her. And to the pilot, “All right, get your ship fueled and ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Get something to eat and hold yourself available, with everything ready.”

In the taxicab, Mason said, “We’ll cover the gambling places. I don’t know about Rosalind, but Rita Swaine doesn’t impress me as one who would stay in a hotel room — not in a city like Reno.”

“What do we do when we locate her?” Della asked. “Try to shadow her?”

Mason shook his head and said, “We put it up to her, cold turkey.”

“Suppose she tells us to go jump in the lake?”

“In that event,” Mason said, “we’ll get rough with her.”

“How rough can you get, Chief?” Della asked, stealing a sidelong glance as she added demurely — “with a woman.”

“Plenty,” he told her. “You only see me on my good behavior.”

The cab-driver turned and said, “Where do you want to go?”

“The main stem,” Mason told him,

“You mean Virginia Street?”

“Wherever the night life is thickest.”

The cab-driver said proudly, “There’s life all over this city, brother, twenty-four hours a day. I’ll drive down Virginia once, then turn around and come back, and you can pick the place you want to get out at.”

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, the business district was crowded with people of various descriptions. Cowpunchers in high-heeled boots clump-clumped along the sidewalks. Men in shirt sleeves, without coats or neckties, rubbed elbows with men who might have served for fashion plates. An occasional couple in evening clothes sauntered from doorway to doorway, while women, evidently from ranches, went swinging past with the long, easy strides of those who live in the open.

The driver passed under the arched sign bearing the illuminated legend in blazing letters:

“Okay,” Mason told him, “drive back slowly. We’ll get out on the other side of the railroad track.”

The cab-driver ventured a suggestion. “If you folks wanted to get a license,” he said, “I could—”

Della Street laughed and shook her head. “Why speak of love,” she asked, “when there’s work to be done?”

She tucked her arm through Mason’s, and, together, they walked a block to the left, turned to the right, and started making a survey of the bars and gambling houses. The third place they entered was The Bank Club. Here, faro, roulette, wheels of fortune, craps, and twenty-one furnished the main attraction to the Goddess of Chance, each having its little circle of devotees ringed by curious spectators.

Della Street clutched Mason’s arm. “There she is!” she exclaimed.

“Where?” Mason asked.

“Over at the Wheel of Fortune. See her with that good-looking beige wool coat over the brown print dress?”

Mason nodded and said, “She’s changed her clothes since she was in the office.”

“Of course she has. She must have come up here by plane. That couple is with her.”

“You mean the ones over on the left?”

“Yes.”

Mason stood attentively watching the little knot of people who placed bets ranging from five cents to a dollar, while the wheel of fortune whirled its clattering course.

The woman next to Rita Swaine was chestnut-haired, brown-eyed, alert and vivacious. She was wearing a black dress with a frill of white at the throat, and a saucy, tight-fitting black hat. While Mason was watching her, she won a fifty-cent bet placed on the ten-dollar bill. The attendant slid ten, fifty-cent pieces across the glass top of the table. The young woman threw back her head and laughed.

“She’s not wearing any rings,” Mason observed speculatingly. “That may mean everything or nothing.”

He shifted his eyes to the hatless young man who was with her, a man in the late twenties, slightly above the average height, with the broad shoulders, slim hips and easy grace of an athlete. Light glinted from his dark curly hair as his head moved. His eyes were black, smoldering with intense fires. The face was volatile and animated. On the whole, a man who, once seen, would be easily remembered, a man who would be quite capable of gathering a woman into his arms, regardless of spectators, husbands or consequences. Della Street said, under her breath, “And I’ll bet he’s a swell dancer.”

Mason pushed past her, strode forward, and slid a silver dollar across the glass top so that it rested on the twenty-for-one. Rita Swaine, without looking up, silently moved over to give the newcomer room. The other young woman raised frank, speculative eyes, swept Mason’s face in interested appraisal, turned to the man at her side, and said something in an undertone. The wheel of fortune spun with a rapid whir which slowly resolved itself into individual sounds as the stiff leather tongue beat a fateful tattoo against the metal protuberances. Slowly, the wheel came almost to a stop. The leather tab hesitated for a moment, then, with one last faint slap, slid over into the twenty-for-one subdivision.

It was inevitable that Rita Swaine should look up at the man who had just won twenty dollars. It was as she raised her eyes that Mason, scooping in his winnings, said, “Are you going to introduce your friends?”

For a moment there was panic in Rita Swaine’s eyes, then she controlled herself, slid fifty cents over on the twenty-for-one, said, “Just in case this should repeat — Rossy, this is Perry Mason.”

Mason half turned, to look down into brown eyes which were no longer laughing, into a pleading, upturned face. “I thought so,” Rosalind Prescott said simply. “I asked Jimmy if it wasn’t.”

“And Mr. Driscoll,” Rita said.

Mason shook hands, felt the impact of the black eyes on his, the long, firm fingers which circled his hand. The face itself was as watchfully expressionless as that of the gambler back of the faro deck.

“How did you do it?” Rita Swaine asked.

“It’s a secret,” Mason told her. “Where can we talk?”

“Rossy’s room at the Riverside,” Rita said. “—Oh, there’s Miss Street. Good evening, Miss Street.”

Della smiled. Mason introduced her to Rosalind Prescott and Jimmy Driscoll. As though they had been casual tourists, sauntering from place to place in search of entertainment, they strolled out of The Bank Club and walked to the Riverside Hotel.

Mason dropped behind and said, “I’m sorry, Della, but you’re not going up with us. This thing is loaded with dynamite. Stay here in the lobby and keep one of the house phones in your hands. If anyone comes in who looks like an officer, and who asks for Rita Swaine or Rosalind Prescott, get a call through to the room and tip me off.”

She nodded.

“And don’t let the others know what you’re doing,” he warned.

As they entered the lobby of the hotel, Della Street said, “Chief, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll run into the dining room and see if I can get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I haven’t eaten anything, and I’ll have a terrific headache if I don’t get something.”

Mason nodded, said casually, “Okay, Della. Come up when you get through. What’s your room number, Mrs. Prescott?”

“Three thirty-one.”

“Let’s go,” the lawyer said.

It was Jimmy Driscoll who carefully closed and locked the bedroom door, after first making certain no one was loitering in the corridor. Then he opened his arms to Rita Swaine, and said, “Never mind, sweetheart, we’ll see it through together.”

Mason walked across the room, sat on the bed, flung an elbow over the brass rail at the foot, crossed his long legs and said casually, “You folks don’t need to keep that up, you know.”

“Keep what up?” Rita Swaine asked, spinning around to face him.

“That phony love act,” Mason said, “Your sister might get jealous, Rita.”

“What do you mean?” Rita Swaine demanded.

“You know what I mean,” Mason told her, and then kept them waiting while he fished a cigarette case from his pocket, went through the motions of offering a cigarette to the others, selected one, sat back, lit it, and said, “After all, you know, I’m not Mrs. Snoops.”

Driscoll said ominously, “I’m not certain that I like that crack, Mason.”

Mason locked eyes with him. “No one asked you to, Driscoll.”

“Well,” Driscoll said, “suppose you explain — or apologize.”

“Bosh!” Mason said. “What do you people think you’re pulling?”

Rosalind Prescott, standing very straight, said, “I think Mr. Mason’s right.”

“Rossy!” Rita exclaimed.

Driscoll didn’t take his eyes from the lawyer. “I don’t think he’s right,” he said, “and I don’t like his manner.”

“You,” Mason told him, “can go to the devil! I suppose because you’re good-looking, women have been easy for you all your life. Now you’re in a jam and you find it a lot easier to hide behind petticoats than to come out in the open.”

Driscoll started for Mason. The lawyer raised himself ominously from the bed. Rosalind Prescott, jumping forward, grabbed Driscoll’s arm, clung to it and said, “Jimmy, stop it! You hear me? Stop it!”

Mason said, “Go ahead, you young fool. Start something. That’ll bring in the house detective, and then the cops. It’ll be about on a par with the bonehead moves you’ve made so far.”

Driscoll said with quivering lips, “I don’t have to take this from you, you know.”

“The hell you don’t,” Mason said easily, “You just think you don’t. You’ll take it and like it. Sit down!”

“Please, Jimmy,” Rosalind Prescott pleaded.

Rita Swaine, staring across at the lawyer, said, “Why are you talking like that?”

“You should know. There are two reasons. One of them is that I don’t like to be double-crossed by clients.”

“No one tried to double-cross you,” she said.

“Oh, certainly not,” Mason observed sarcastically. “When you told me that you were the one Mrs. Snoops saw with Jimmy, you weren’t trying to play me for a sucker. You were just giving your imagination a few indoor calisthenics.” He turned moodily to survey Rosalind Prescott and said, “I think you’ll tell the truth.”

“Shut up, Rossy,” Driscoll warned in a low voice. “This is serious.”

Mason appraised him with hostile eyes and said, “It’d be different if you could get away with it, but you can’t get away with it. You didn’t get away with it with me, and, in the long run, you won’t get away with it with the district attorney. But, trying to get away with it is playing right into his hands. Why the devil didn’t you folks tell me the truth in the first place, and let me tell you what to do? But no, you had to go on the amateur hour, and try and dress the window so it would look all nice and pretty. So Rosalind skips out and leaves her dress where Rita can put it on. Rita catches the canary, goes up to the window so as to make sure Mrs. Snoops can see her, and finishes clipping the canary’s claws. Where she makes her mistake is in being too excited to notice that the claws on the right foot have already been clipped once. It’s the left foot which was left unfinished. But Rita painstakingly cuts the right claws twice, and leaves one of the left claws untouched.”

Rita Swaine said indignantly, “Why, I never—”

“You’re right, Mr. Mason,” Rosalind Prescott announced.

Mason shifted his eyes to her and said, “I think I’m going to like you. Tell me what happened, and tell it fast. We may not have much time. Your sister left a wide back trail. I followed it, and someone else may follow it.”

Driscoll took a deep breath and started to say something. Mason said, “Shut up, Driscoll.”

Rosalind Prescott said, “I fought with my husband.He was going to divorce me. He found a letter Jimmy had written. The letter was capable of two interpretations. He chose the worst. He left the house to go see a lawyer. I became panic-striken and did the worst possible thing. I telephoned for Jimmy, to tell him what had happened, and to tell him I was leaving. Then Jimmy got hotheaded and came tearing out to the house. And, to cap the climax, carried a gun, with some fanciful idea of protecting me from Walter. Walter’d threatened to kill me if I tried to claim any share of his business.”

“You’d told Driscoll that?” Mason asked.

“Yes, over the telephone.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “remember it. Driscoll thought you were in actual danger. You probably were in actual danger. He carried a gun only for the purpose of protecting you. Now go ahead.”

“Jimmy came out there. We were in the solarium. I tried to talk things over sensibly with him. Jimmy — well, Jimmy lost his head and took me in his arms, and I—”

“Yes, I know,” Mason said. “Mrs. Snoops described the scene to me.”

“How did it sound when she described it?”

“Passionate,” Mason said tersely.

She met his eyes frankly and said, “All right, it was.”

Mason nodded. “Good girl. Go ahead.”

“Jimmy told me I must leave, and he was going to get plane reservations. Then there was this automobile accident. Jimmy ran out and helped lift the man out of the coupe and put him in the van. Then he came back, and I suddenly realized he might be called as a witness; that the man who was driving the van might come back and try to get his name and address, and Jimmy’s car was standing outside, parked down on the side street. So I told Jimmy he must leave at once, that I’d pack and go later. Jimmy didn’t want to go. I insisted. So then Jimmy told me that I must take his gun, for protection, in case Walter should come back. I told him I didn’t want a gun, and would never use one, but he insisted — I must have one somewhere in the house where I could get it if I had to. So I took the gun and hid it back of the drawer in the desk, where I knew Walter would never find it. I never did intend to use it, not even as a last resort. I just took it in order to make Jimmy feel better and so he’d quit arguing and get out of there. He’s obstinate at times — and this was one of the times.”

“And then?” Mason asked.

“Then,” she said, “I looked up and saw Mrs. Snoops had been watching. Lord knows how long she’d been watching — probably she’d seen everything. I told Jimmy to leave. He started to go and ran into some officers from a radio prowl car, who took his name and address from his driving license. Then I knew we were sunk.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Mason said. “Did Jimmy come back into the house after the officers took his name and address?”

“Yes.”

“And then what happened?”

“We talked things over, and Jimmy had the idea of having Rita come over and put on my dress, catch the canary, finish clipping his claws, and take occasion to stand in the window where Mrs. Snoops could see her and recognize her plainly. You see, we look enough alike so Mrs. Snoops couldn’t have been absolutely certain, seeing through the lace curtains.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said.

“I rang up Rita. She knows the rest.”

“Where did you ring her up from?”

“The house, but I didn’t dare say much.”

“How long were you there after you telephoned?”

“No time at all. Telephoning her was the last thing I did in the house. I rushed to the airport, where I called Rita again and told her everything.”

“Did you come here in a regular plane, or a chartered plane?”

“No, I flew to San Francisco, and then took a plane to Reno.”

Mason jerked his head toward Jimmy Driscoll and said, “How about you?”

“He came too,” she said.

“On the same plane?”

Rosalind nodded.

“Now then,” Mason asked, “when did you first know your husband had been murdered?”

Her eyes grew wide and round. “Walter?” she said. “Murdered?”

Mason, watching her narrowly, said, “Yes. Murdered.”

“Watch out, Rosalind,” Driscoll warned. “It’s some sort of a trap. He hasn’t been murdered, or we’d have heard of it.”

Mason turned to stare at Rita Swaine. “You knew it, Rita,” he charged.

She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, unless it’s some sort of a stall to get a big fee out of Rossy.”

“Is that the truth?” Rosalind Prescott demanded. Has he been murdered, or is this some sort of a trap?”

Mason continued to regard Rita Swaine with thoughtful eyes. “How did you come here?” he asked. “By regular plane or chartered plane?”

“I chartered a plane and came directly here.”

“How soon after you left my office?”

“Within a very few minutes. I left the canary at the pet store I’d asked you about, then took a cab and went directly to the airport.”

“And you didn’t know Walter Prescott’s body was lying in the upstairs bedroom of that house?”

“You mean Rosalind’s house?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t, and I don’t think it was or is.”

Rosalind Prescott abruptly sat down, stared wide-eyed at the lawyer.

“You didn’t know it?” Mason asked her.

“No, of course not— it’s— it’s a shock to me. Not that I cared for him. I didn’t. I hated him. You’ve no idea how cold-blooded, how scheming, how utterly petty he was! There wasn’t a spark of affection in his make-up— Whether he’s dead or alive, I still hate him — but this is a shock, just the same.”

“Your husband,” Mason said, “was found in his bedroom upstairs. He was fully clothed, ready for the street. He had been shot three times with a .38 caliber revolver. The police found the gun in back of the drawer in the desk where you’d hidden it, and they figure, so far, it’s the fatal gun. If anything has turned up to change their opinion I haven’t heard of it.”

Mason turned to Jimmy Driscoll. “What was the gun you gave Rosalind?”

“A Smith & Wesson.”

“What caliber?”

Driscoll hesitated, then said, “A .38 — but that’s not an unusual caliber.”

“Any distinguishing marks on it?” Mason asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean — anything by which that gun can be identified, any marks or scratches?”

“Yes. A little V-shaped piece was broken out of one of the pearl handles right near the butt of the gun.”

“Was it blued-steel or nickel-plated?”

“Blued-steel.”

Mason said in a voice devoid of expression, “Let’s hear your side of this thing, Driscoll — no, wait a minute before you say anything. I’m Rosalind Prescott’s lawyer. Probably I’m representing Rita Swaine too. I don’t know about that. I’ll have to figure it out. I’m not representing you, and I’m not going to represent you.”

“I don’t want you to,” Driscoll said vehemently. “I have counsel of my own, in whom I have more confidence — a lawyer whose professional manner is far more dignified than yours.”

Mason appraised him judicially. “Yes, you would fall for a dignified manner, proper clothes, a big mahogany desk, and the usual background of hokum. All right, that’s settled. You have your lawyer. I’m Rosalind Prescott’s lawyer. Now, do you want to say anything?”

“Of course I want to say something.”

“Go ahead,” Mason told him. “Say it.”

“I want to corroborate Rosalind’s statement in every way.”

Mason stared at him with cold eyes. “Did you kill Walter Prescott?” he asked.

“Of course not. I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Did you see Walter Prescott while you were in the house?”

“No. I was with Rosalind all of the time.”

“All of the time?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“Every minute?”

“Yes.”

“You’re willing to swear to that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, don’t misunderstand me,” Mason said. “You’re going to swear that you were with Rosalind Prescott every minute, from the time you entered the house until you and Rosalind left together?”

“Yes.”

“How about when you went out to lift the man out of the coupe, and when you met the officers? You weren’t with her then.”

Driscoll said, in a calm tone which just missed being patronizing, “That’s while I was out of the house. I understood that your questions related to the time I was in the house.”

“And all the time you were in the house, you were with Rosalind every minute of the time?”

“I’ve already answered that two or three times.”

“Answer again, then. You were with her?”

“Yes.”

Rosalind started to say something, but checked herself as Driscoll frowned at her.

“All right,” Mason said, “then you were in the bedroom with her while she was changing her clothes.”

Driscoll started to make some quick rejoinder, changed his mind, closed his lips on his unspoken words, glanced hastily at Rosalind and said, “Well, of course, she— How about it, Rosalind?”

Rosalind said, “Of course he wasn’t with me while I was changing my clothes! He wasn’t with me while I was packing my overnight bag. He’s just trying to make an alibi for me.”

“Just in case that’s right,” Mason said, “I wanted you to see what a price you’d have to pay for making that alibi. That question’s going to come up. Either Jimmy Driscoll has to swear he was in the bedroom with you while you were changing your dress, or he’s going to have to place you in that bedroom alone.”

“But wait a minute,” Rosalind said, “that was after Jimmy’d given me the gun. Mrs. Snoops will have to admit that.”

Mason nodded. “Yes, you changed your clothes afterwards. But how about Walter, was his body lying in his bedroom at that time, or wasn’t it?”

“Why— why, I don’t know.”

“How long since you’d been in his bedroom?”

“I hadn’t been in all the morning. His bedroom is separated from mine by my dressing room and a bath. I met him that morning at breakfast. He was particularly offensive. He’d found a letter Jimmy had written me. He’d just been waiting for something like that. He’d taken twelve thousand dollars of my money, and I didn’t have a thing to show for it. He was afraid I was going to demand it back and he was just looking for an opportunity to put me in the wrong and file suit for divorce, so it would look as though I’d thought up the money business after he’d filed and in order to save my own reputation by putting him in the wrong.”

“I suppose you know,” Mason told her, “this is going to sound like hell in front of a jury.”

She nodded.

“According to Mrs. Snoops,” Mason went on, “you were trimming the claws of the canary when Driscoll came into the solarium and took you in his arms.”

She nodded.

“Mrs. Snoops,” Mason went on remorselessly, “had been watching you for several minutes before Driscoll came in. Driscoll wasn’t in the solarium with you, but he’d already been in the house for some forty-five minutes. Mrs. Snoops saw him come in and noticed the time.”

“She would!” Rosalind exclaimed bitterly.

“That,” Mason said, “isn’t the point. The point is, Driscoll wasn’t in the solarium with you. Where was he?”

“Telephoning,” Driscoll said quickly.

“To whom?”

“To my office. Rosalind’s telephone call had caught me at my apartment. I dashed out to see her, and I had some orders which had to be executed first thing in the morning, so I telephoned my office.”

“How long were you telephoning?”

“I don’t know exactly, perhaps five minutes, perhaps ten minutes.”

“And it was while he was telephoning,” Mason asked, turning to Rosalind Prescott, “that you went into the solarium to clip the claws on the canary?”

“Yes.”

“And prior to that time Driscoll hadn’t gone in for affection?”

“He hadn’t taken me in his arms, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean.”

“No.”

“So that’s another period of time while Driscoll was in the house that you can’t account for what he was doing?”

“No,” she said, “I guess not.”

“If you want to put it that way,” Driscoll said hostilely.

“It’s the way I want to put it,” Mason remarked, without taking his eyes from Rosalind Prescott. “And it was while this telephone conversation was going on that the automobile accident took place outside?”

“Yes.”

“And you let go of the canary and dashed to the front of the house?”

“No, wait a minute. I let go of the canary when Jimmy took me in his arms. Then Jimmy let me go, and I was all flustered, and Jimmy said he was going to call and make reservations for me on the next plane to Reno. So he went out to telephone, and I was getting ready to catch the canary, and then the accident took place.”

“And, before that, Driscoll had been telephoning his office?”

“Yes, I believe so. It’s all confused in my mind. I was pretty much upset by the quarrel with Walter, and then finding myself running away with Jimmy — well, I just can’t remember things in detail. There are a lot of blurred impressions in my mind.”

“But, all in all, Driscoll was at the telephone for several minutes, and on at least two occasions?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t swear he was at the telephone?”

“No.”

“What time did the accident happen?”

“I can tell you that. It was right at noon. The twelve o’clock whistles had just started to blow when I heard the crash.”

“Then Driscoll went out, helped lift the unconscious man from the coupe, and returned to the house. By the time he returned you were back in the solarium, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“When did you first know Mrs. Snoops was watching you?”

“After Jimmy had given me the gun.”

“And that was when you decided that he was going to leave the house and you’d join him later?”

“Yes. I was going to the airport. He’d write me at Reno.”

“And he went out, ran into the officers, had to give them his name and address, and then came back to tell you that the fat was in the fire and that you’d better let him go to Reno with you?”

“Not exactly like that. He told me what had happened. We realized it put us in an awful spot, so we sat down and tried to figure out some way of getting around it. Then Jimmy thought of having Rita come in and finish clipping the canary’s claws where Mrs. Snoops could see her. She could put on my dress and go stand in the window.”

Mason, looking across at Driscoll, said, “A clever idea — only rather tough on Rita.”

Driscoll said, “At that time, Mr. Mason, you will kindly remember, I didn’t know anyone had been murdered. I thought it was simply a question of saving Rosalind from having her name dragged through a lot of legal mud because of my impulsiveness and because I couldn’t help showing my love.”

Mason said disinterestedly, “Save it for the jury, Driscoll. They’ll want to hear it more than I do. Now then, does either of you know what caused that automobile accident?”

Driscoll disdained to say anything, but Rosalind Prescott shook her head.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve found out,” Mason said. “Harry Trader, driving one of his big vans, was making a turn into Fourteenth Street, to deliver some stuff Walter Prescott had ordered him to put in the garage. He swung wide to make the turn. Packard, driving the coupe, came dashing up on the inside without looking where he was going. The first thing he knew, he sensed the van looming ahead of him and on his left. By that time, it was too late. The van was swinging in for the curb. Packard couldn’t change the course of his car, and they struck. Now then, the reason Packard wasn’t looking where he was going was because he’d seen something in a window of one of the houses on his right, which had arrested his attention. It couldn’t have been the Anderson house, because Mrs. Anderson was the only one in that house and she was standing at her dining room window, looking into your solarium. Therefore, it must have been something which he saw in your house, Mrs. Prescott. Now then, have you any idea of what that something could have been?”

“None whatever,” she said promptly.

“It couldn’t have been in the Prescott house,” Driscoll said positively, “because Rosalind and I were alone in the house. She was in the solarium and I was telephoning.”

“That,” Mason said moodily, “is what you say. What do you suppose Packard will say when they find him?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care— What’s the matter? Can’t they find him?”

Mason shook his head. “He wandered out of the hospital and disappeared. Now then, Driscoll, where were you when Packard left the hospital?”

“What do you mean?”

“About an hour after the accident.”

Rosalind laughed light-heartedly and said, “That’s once the breaks are with us, Mr. Mason. Jimmy was with me at the airport — in fact, I guess we were already flying to San Francisco.”

Mason said, “Now here’s something else: You people are wanted by the police. I know you’re wanted by the police. Rita left a broad back trail because of that lame canary. I traced her through that, and if I did, the police may. Now then, if it were ever known that I talked with you here and didn’t turn you in to the police, knowing that you were fugitives from justice, I might be held as an accessory. The question is, can I trust you to keep your mouths shut?”

Rita Swaine nodded and said, “Why, of course.”

Rosalind Prescott said, “But we’re not fugitives from justice, Mr. Mason.”

“Well, it looks like it. Why did you come here in such unseemly haste?”

“I came here,” she said, “because I wanted to get out of the state so Walter couldn’t serve any divorce papers on me. I thought I could come to Reno and file a divorce case of my own. After I got here, I found out I couldn’t do it until I’d had six weeks’ residence. But I didn’t want Walter to know where I was for a while because I was afraid he’d kill me. So this suited me all right.”

“And Driscoll came here to be with you?”

“Yes.”

“And why did you come here, Rita?”

“To bring some of the things Rossy needed.”

“And you had to charter an airplane to do it?”

“Well,” she said, “I wanted to tell Rossy that everything had worked like a charm; that I’d fooled Mrs. Snoops and that you’d agreed to represent her, and that she was to get in touch with you. I thought perhaps she could telephone you and arrange for an appointment. She could fly in and fly out and Walter wouldn’t be any the wiser.”

“You didn’t go into that upstairs bedroom while you were in the house?” Mason asked.

“Not into Walter’s bedroom, no. Rossy had left the dress on the bed in her room. I ran up to her room, changed into her dress, came down, caught the canary, put on an act for Mrs. Snoops, packed some things for Rossy, and took them with me when I left the house. I sent some other things by express.”

“You had the express man call for them while you were there?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you send them?”

“To Mildred Owens, General Delivery, Reno. You see, that’s the name Rosalind had told me she’d register under, so I could keep in touch with her without anyone knowing.”

“Sounds like rather an elaborate set of precautions just to avoid a husband,” Mason pointed out.

“I can’t help it. That’s the truth.”

Mason raised his eyes to Driscoll. “How about you, Driscoll, are you going to keep quiet about my having been here?”

Driscoll said, “You don’t seem to have any confidence in me, and I don’t see why I should have any in you. I’ll give you no promises.”

“Jimmy!” Rosalind Prescott exclaimed. “Can’t you see Mr. Mason is taking a big risk just in order to protect us? Can’t you—”

The telephone rang. Mason pushed past Driscoll to jerk the receiver from its hook and say, “Hello!”

Della Street’s excited voice said, “Sergeant Holcomb and two local deputies, with big sombreros and tanned faces, are just getting in the elevator, Chief.”

“Grab a cab,” he told her. “Beat it to the airport. Meet me there. If I don’t show up in an hour, head back for the office. Hang up your phone, quick!”

Mason jiggled the hook up and down with his finger until the hotel operator said impatiently, “Yes, what is it? No need to have a fit! That hurts my ear.”

Mason said, “I’m in a hurry. This is Perry Mason, a lawyer. I want to report that there are three persons in room three thirty-one who are wanted by the Los Angeles police. There’s Rosalind Prescott, registered under the name of Mildred Owens, Jimmy—”

Jimmy Driscoll lunged for him. Mason, holding the receiver to his ear with his left hand, lashed out with his right, catching Driscoll on the point of the chin. As the young man staggered back, Mason went on evenly into the telephone, as though there had been no interruption, “Driscoll, both of whom are wanted for the murder of Walter Prescott in Los Angeles. There’s also Rita Swaine, Rosalind Prescott’s sister, who is wanted for questioning in connection with the same murder.”

Driscoll, recovering his balance, came charging forward.

Mason slammed the receiver back on its hook and said, “Stop it, you fool! The jig’s up. Now listen, Rosalind, you and Rita are going to be questioned. Don’t answer questions. Don’t waive extradition. Stand on your constitutional rights. Don’t do anything unless I’m—”

A peremptory pounding on the door interrupted him. A man’s voice said, “Open up in there!”

Driscoll stood glowering at Mason. Rosalind Prescott was watching him with a puzzled question in her eyes. Mason pushed past Rita Swaine, and unlocked the door.

Sergeant Holcomb, accompanied by two bronzed men in Stetsons, pushed forward, then came to a surprised halt as he saw Perry Mason.

“You!” he said.

“In person,” Mason assured him.

A grin suffused Holcomb’s features as he said, “Well, isn’t that nice. You knew that these people were wanted by the police. You smuggled them across the state line and—”

“Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “I had nothing to do with their crossing the state line.”

“That’s what you say,” Holcomb sneered.

“It’s what I say,” Mason said, “and it’s what I can make stick.”

“Okay. Anyway, we catch you here, plotting with them, avoiding the police.”

“That wasn’t what I was doing at all.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, try and tell that to the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.”

Mason said, “As it happens I don’t have to tell anything to the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association. I came here because I had reason to believe a person registered in this hotel as Mildred Owens was, in fact, Rosalind Prescott, who I happened to know is wanted by the police for murder. The fact that she happens to be my client in connection with another matter has nothing to do with it.”

Holcomb said, “Try and make that stick.”

“And,” Mason went on, “as soon as I found out the true facts, I determined to surrender her to the police.”

Holcomb said, “Don’t make me laugh. My side hurts. I’ve heard some wild stories in my time, but that’s the wildest.”

Mason nodded toward the telephone. “If you’ll kindly call the operator you’ll find that I asked her to notify the police several minutes before you arrived.”

Holcomb stared at Mason, said, “I’ll just nail you to the cross on that one before you have a chance to bribe the telephone operator to commit perjury,” picked up the telephone receiver and said, “Did anyone from this room try to call police headquarters?”

The receiver made squawking noises. Holcomb’s face showed chagrin as he listened. He said, “All right, forget it! The police are here,” and slammed the receiver into place. He glowered at Mason. “There’s something fishy about this. We’ll pass it for the moment, but I’m not done with it — not by a long ways. You’re representing Rosalind Prescott, Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Representing Driscoll here?”

“No.”

“Representing Rita Swaine?”

“Yes.”

“All right. How about waiving extradition?”

“You’re arresting them?”

“Yes. On suspicion of murder. Will you waive extradition?”

Mason smiled at him and said, “I’ll wave my hands, and that’s all.”

“Get out!” Holcomb ordered.

Mason picked up his hat and said, “Remember, you two, don’t say a word in answer to any question unless I’m there and advise you to answer that question. They can’t make you talk if you don’t want to. Don’t want to. I’ll do the talking. Don’t waive extradition. Don’t sign anything. Don’t volunteer any information and remember that they’ll pull the old police gag of telling each one of you the other has confessed and—”

The three converged on him, ominous purpose in their eyes. Mason slipped adroitly into the corridor, said, “Good night, gentlemen,” and slammed the door shut behind him.

There was no sign of Della Street in the lobby. He went by cab to the airport, found the pilot and said “Have you seen anything of the young woman you brought up here?”

“Why, no,” the aviator said. “I thought she was with you.”

Mason said, “Get your plane out and warm it up. Hold it in readiness.”

It wasn’t until the motors had been turning for several minutes that a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness to touch Mason lightly on the arm. “Everything okay, Chief?” she asked in a low voice.

“Lord, you gave me a fright!” he said. “I thought they’d nabbed you.”

“No,” she told him, “but I figured it would be a good move for me to keep out of sight in case they came out here prowling around. What did you do?”

“Covered myself with whitewash,” he told her, “by telephoning for the police. Thanks to your tip, I had an opportunity to get the thing all planted before Holcomb pounded on the door. Holcomb’s suspicious, but he can’t prove anything.”

The aviator said, “I’m ready. How about it?”

Mason nodded. “Let’s go,” he said.