The Case of the Postponed Murder

Chapter 11

Mason found a little hotel two blocks from Hazel Tooms’ apartment. He called Paul Drake from the telephone booth. “Hi, Paul,” he said. “What’s new?”

Drake’s voice showed excitement. “Lots of stuff, Perry. Listen. You were tailed when you left the office. Della tried to get you but was too late. A couple of plain clothes men followed that taxicab. Where did you go — any place important?”

“I figured as much,” Mason said. “I went to see a witness. She kept making me offers, saying that she would skip out if my clients would give her some money.”

“Well?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “About the third time she made the proposition, it sounded awfully fishy to me. I walked around the apartment to see if I could find any evidence of its being bugged.”

“Find any?”

“No. They were too smart. A bug is hard to locate, but usually when one is installed on a hurry up job, a little fine plaster dust will adhere to the baseboard.”

“Then you think this witness was planted?”

“No,” Mason said slowly, “I don’t think she was a plant. I think she’s a witness, but she may be trying to buy her way out of something with the police. You know, if they could catch me in a scheme to spirit a witness out of the country, they’d let her get off to a running start, then drag her back with a big fanfare of trumpets, and the fact that I’d tried to get rid of her would raise the devil with my client and with me. Her testimony would automatically become the most important evidence in the case.”

“You didn’t fall for it?”

“Hell, no!”

Drake said, “I’ve got those pictures here.”

“Have you got an extra gun around there anywhere, Paul?”

“Why, yes.”

“One you don’t think much of?”

“I have a couple of cheap revolvers that some of my operatives took away from ambitious lads who played with grown up toys. Why?”

“How far,” Mason asked, “could you throw one?”

“Shucks, I don’t know, a hundred feet perhaps.”

“Ever tried it?”

“No, of course not.”

Mason said, “Better get Della Street, Paul, and meet me at that restaurant where I sometimes eat lunch. Della knows the place. Had anything to eat?”

“Yes, I grabbed a bite.”

“Well, I’ll take a taxi there, eat something, and be ready to go. I think Della will have had dinner.”

“I doubt it,” Drake said. “She was all worked up about getting word to you about those shadows. Where are they now, Perry? Did you ditch them?”

“Damned if I know,” Mason said. “Probably not. I looked around but didn’t spot anyone. However, a man came through the door of the apartment house when I was ringing the bell for this girl’s apartment. He may have been one of them.”

“What’ll that mean, Perry?” Drake asked. “Anything serious?”

“Hell, I don’t know,” Mason said. “I can’t afford to waste time figuring what the other man is going to do. I have to work fast.”

Drake said, “I have some hot dope on Eversel.”

“What is it?”

“His plane went out and returned twice — once before and once after the rain.”

“You’re sure?” Mason asked.

“Yes. One of my operatives got the chief gardener of the estate to give him a job as an assistant. It’s a steady job. He’s on the place, so he can get anything we want.”

“Can you call him?” Mason asked.

“No, I can’t call him, but he calls me for instructions.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I have an idea or two. Get your stuff together, pick up Della, and meet me at the restaurant. See you there. Goodbye.”

He went out to stand in the doorway of the hotel. He saw no one who seemed to be taking any undue interest in his motions.

Mason summoned a taxi and went to the restaurant where he had time for a sandwich, coffee, and piece of pie before Paul Drake joined him.

“Della with you?” Mason asked.

“Yes, sitting outside in the car.”

“Has she had anything to eat?”

“She grabbed a sandwich and says she’s not hungry now.”

“Did you bring that gun?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Let’s get a couple of five cell flashlights. I want to see how far I can throw that gun.”

“Where are you going to do the pitching?” Paul Drake asked.

“Down where Anders did.”

Drake surveyed Mason with alarm. “That,” he said, “may be dangerous.”

“Why?”

“It might not sound good in court.”

Mason said, “Love letters don’t sound good in court, but people go on writing them just the same.”

“Go to it,” Drake said. “It’s your party Were you followed here, Perry?”

“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure,” Mason said. “I went through the usual manoeuvres without turning up anybody.”

On the way out to the car, Drake said, “My operative out at Eversel’s estate certainly had a lucky break. The gardener’s a Scot. He’s sort of a privileged character, has a little cottage of his own and isn’t really classed as one of the servants.”

“Where does your operative stay?” Mason asked.

“In a room in the basement.”

“Find out anything?”

“Lots. The gardener didn’t go on the whoopee party with the servants, although he was supposed to. He’s just about as taciturn as a granite rock — unless, like my man, MacGregor, you happen to come from a certain section of Scotland.”

They stepped out to the kerb. Mason saw Della Street sitting in Drake’s automobile, grinned, and said, “Hi, Della.”

She said, “Gosh, I was worried about you. I was afraid you were going to walk right into a trap.”

Mason said, “I may have at that. What did your man find out, Paul?”

Drake slid in behind the wheel. Mason eased in beside him. Della made herself comfortable in the back seat.

“Where to?” Drake asked.

“Down to the place where Anders says he threw the gun,” Mason said. “You might see if anyone’s on our tail, Paul.”

“Okay,” Drake said. “Do I get violent about it and let them know we’re wise to them?”

Mason thought for a minute, then shook his head and said, “No. Do it casually, Paul. Pretend that we’re looking for an address. That’ll give you a chance to do a little turning and twisting.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “but my hunch is they won’t try to follow us if they haven’t quit already. A wise shadow usually checks out when the man he’s after steers a zigzag course, no matter what the pretext — that is, unless he’s told that it doesn’t make any difference whether the suspect spots him or not.”

“Well,” Mason said, “you do whatever you can get away with and make it look innocent. What about the gardener at Eversel’s?”

Gliding out into traffic, Drake said, “The gardener opened up. It seems that after the servants had left, Eversel came in with his car. After a while he took his plane, went somewhere, and came back. When he came back, a woman was with him. My operative thinks the gardener knows who it was, but the gardener wouldn’t say. Understand, my man had to beat around the bush getting this out of him.”

“I understand,” Mason said. “Give me what you have, and we’ll fill in the blanks.”

“Well, Eversel came home with this woman and went directly to a room that Eversel keeps fitted up as a darkroom. It seems he’s quite a camera fiend.”

“Mrs. Wentworth still with him?” Mason asked.

“The woman, whoever she was.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then it started to rain. Eversel went down and warmed up the motor on the plane. About fifteen minutes later, they took off. He was gone nearly all night, came back along toward morning. He came back alone.”

Mason said, “Mrs. Wentworth was supposed to have been in San Diego.”

“Uh huh,” Drake said. “The plane could have taken her down rather easily. I have my San Diego correspondents checking to find out if the plane was seen there.”

“Where was Eversel’s yacht?”

“Apparently moored in the outer yacht harbour.”

“What speed does she turn up?”

“About two knots an hour faster than Wentworth’s boat at cruising speed, and she can go about five knots faster.”

“Where was Mrs. Wentworth staying in San Diego, Paul?”

“On a yacht with some friends. She also had a room at one of the hotels. You know how it is on a yacht, Perry. You have lots of conveniences, but it’s hard to take baths, get beauty appointments, and things like that. Many of the women get a room and spend part of the time there when their yachts are in a city. Sometimes they’ll all pitch in and get a room together.”

Mason said, “Did you find out anything about where Juanita Wentworth was that night?”

“The people on the yacht said she went to a room at the hotel. As far as the people at the hotel are concerned, they know nothing. If they do know, they aren’t making any comments.”

“If it came to a pinch, think she could prove that she was in the hotel?”

“She might,” Drake said. “I doubt if anyone could prove that she wasn’t... Well, this looks like a good place, Perry. We’ll swing around the block and stop down on one of the side streets, turn the spotlight on a house number or two, then drive on for another block and stop.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “go to it.”

Drake turned the corner, ran two blocks, then turned another corner.

“Oh, oh,” Della Street said. “Headlights behind us.”

“Don’t look around,” Mason said. “Paul can watch them in his rear-view mirror.”

Drake turned the corner, stopped the car, played the beam of his flashlight over the house numbers, and then moved into slow motion.

The car behind them also turned to the right, came straight toward them, the occupants showing no sign of interest in the car that was parked at the kerb.

“Keep your head turned away from it,” Mason instructed in a low voice. “Roll your eyes for a quick glance.”

He had just finished talking when the other car, which had slowed its speed appreciably, speeded up and swept on past.

Drake looked at the tail light going straight on down the street and said, “I think that’s the last we’ll see of them, Perry.”

“Think they know we’re wise?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Anyhow, they gave me the idea they were signing off.”

“Same here,” Mason said. “When’s that operative down at Eversel’s place going to report again?”

“In an hour.”

Mason said, “Let’s go. I want to perform an experiment with guns, and then I want to be within reaching distance of Eversel’s place when your man telephones. He’ll telephone directly to the office, Paul?”

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Better telephone your office, Paul, and tell them to hold this man on the line when he comes on. We’ll want to talk with him.”

“Okay, Perry.”

Drake started the car once more. They ran down the side street for some fifteen blocks, turned and crossed the main boulevard intersection, then kept on going until they reached another parallel boulevard.

“Try this one,” Mason said.

They made the boulevard stop, swung left, and shot into quick speed. Della Street, looking behind through the rear window, said, “No one turned into the boulevard from our street, Paul.”

Drake said, “I tell you they’ve quit. Their instructions were to shadow you as long as you didn’t get suspicious. The minute you got suspicious, they were to quit.”

Mason said, “Okay, Paul. Show a little speed. Stop at the first store you see that will be selling flashlights. I want to get a couple of five cell lights.”

“I have one pretty good flashlight,” Drake said. “It’s only three cells, but...”

“We’ll use that,” Mason said, “and also get a couple of bigger ones.”

Five minutes later, Drake found a drugstore where he was able to get the flashlights and phone his office. Another fifteen minutes found them driving past the hot dog stand which Mae Farr had pointed out to Mason.

Mason said, “Take a run down the road half a mile, Paul, turn around and come back. Drive slowly as you go past the place. Let’s see if anyone’s on guard.”

Drake drove down the road, turned the car in a U turn, swung back, slowed down, and said, “Looks deserted, Perry.”

“All right, stop,” Mason said. “Pull well over to the side of the road. Shut off your motor. We’ll listen and see if we can see or hear anyone over there.”

Drake shut off the motor, pushed the lights down to dim, and the trio sat listening for several minutes.

At length Mason said, “Okay, Paul. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. You get out and you, too, Della. We’ll wait for a moment when there are no cars passing. I’ll throw the gun with my right hand. I’ll try and keep the beam of this flashlight on it with my left hand. You folks can each hold a flashlight and try and follow the course taken by the gun.”

“What’s the idea?” Drake asked. “Trying to show that it would only have hit the high tension pole once out of a thousand times?”

Mason said, “No, that line isn’t worth a damn in front of a jury. There’s always someone among the twelve who likes to believe that the hand of an all wise providence betrayed the criminal to his own undoing. Let him get an idea like that through his head, and he becomes a fanatic, feels that if he brings in a not guilty verdict, he’s defying providence. No, Paul, I just want to see how far I can throw the gun.”

“Well,” Drake said, “here’s a good time as soon as that car passes.”

“Okay,” Mason said, looking up and down the road. “Let’s get ready.”

He took the gun which Drake gave him, hefted it by the barrel, flexed his arm like a baseball pitcher.

A car tore past them at high speed, vanished down the road, the sound of its tyres on the pavement a high pitched snarl.

Mason said, “Okay. Here we go. One... two... three.”

The gun sailed up in the air. Mason’s flashlight caught it, followed it, lost it, caught it again. Della Street’s flashlight caught it and held it. Drake’s light groped uncertainly for a moment, then focused on the moving object.

Together they watched it sail out across the fence over the pasture and down to the ground.

Drake said, “That was a darn good throw, Perry. I might be able to sign you up with the Coast champions — if you could keep away from murders long enough.”

Mason said, “Let’s go see just where it lit. Take a bearing for direction, Paul. Let’s go.”

Della said, “How does a lady climb over a barbed wire fence in the presence of two gentlemen?”

“She doesn’t,” Mason said. “Ladies are always lifted over.”

Della laughed, put her hand on Mason’s arm for support when her shoes slipped as they made their way down the steep side of the road, and they crossed the muddy ditch to the barbed wire fence on the other side. Mason and Drake lifted her clear, swung her over the fence. They held down the top wire, stepped over, and walked across the soft, moist earth.

Mason said, “Don’t use your flashlights any more than necessary. When you do, shield them the best you can.”

They trudged silently for several seconds, then Drake said, “There it is, Perry, right ahead.”

Mason stopped and looked the ground over. “That,” he said, “is farther than I’d figured.”

“It was a darn good throw,” Drake said. “I couldn’t do it.”

Mason said, “No, but you’re not an outdoor man. You don’t live on a cattle ranch, ride horses, and rope cattle. This must be a good ten feet beyond that concrete pipe-line.”

“It is,” Drake said. “What’s the idea, Perry?”

Mason said, “Do you know, Paul, it’s occurred to me that there are just two places that haven’t been searched.”

“Where?”

“One of them,” Mason said, “was the drainage ditch. That ditch had some water in it. The police neglected to search it right at the start. The newspaperman found the gun there later. The other place the police didn’t search is the overflow pipes on this concrete pipeline. There’s water in the bottom of those big pipes.”

Drake said, “It would have been expecting a lot to throw a gun and have it light ker-plunk right in the middle of a pipe. What’s more, the police have found the gun with which the murder was committed. So why look for any more guns?”

Mason said, “Because I figure there are some.”

“Well, I guess you’re the only one who feels that way about it. You want to take a look down those concrete standpipes?”

“Yes.”

“Just how?”

Mason said, “I don’t know. I think our flashlights will penetrate enough to show whether there’s anything like a gun lying at the bottom.”

Drake said, “Well, there are only about three pipes that he could possibly have hit. The road makes a swing fifty yards above here. The pipeline continues to run straight.”

Mason said, “Let’s take a look.”

The detective bent over one of the pipes. Mason walked on to the next one. Della Street turned back down the pipeline.

Mason found the big concrete pipe protruding some four feet above the ground. He leaned over, pushed his flashlight well down into the interior, and switched it on.

The beam of the light, striking the rough, white sides of the pipe, diffused into light spray which made it hard for Mason to focus his eyes on the place where the main pencil of light entered a body of murky water.

After playing the flashlight around for a minute, he suddenly stepped back and called, in a low voice which however penetrated, “Oh, Paul, take a look at this, will you? Bring Della with you.”

Mason stood by the side of the concrete pipe, his lips twisted into a faintly sardonic smile. He could hear the steps of Della Street and the detective approaching through the darkness.

“Here,” he said, “Take a look at this.”

Della had to raise herself on her tiptoes and prop her elbows against the edge of the pipe. Mason and the detective leaned over. Mason switched on his flashlight.

After a moment Paul Drake said, “I see it down there under the water. By George, it is a gun.”

Della Street said nothing. Mason looked up to encounter her eyes, troubled and apprehensive.

Mason said, “Well, it looks as though I’m due to get my feet wet.”

He removed shoes and socks, rolled up his pants, and said, “I can’t get out, Paul, unless you lean over and give me your hand. Let’s make sure you can make it.”

Drake leaned over and down the side of the concrete.

Della said, “I can hold his legs.”

“You may have to at that,” Drake said.

Mason said, “I don’t want to scratch my bare feet. Ease me down as much as you can, Paul.”

He clasped the detective’s right forearm, holding it around the wrist with both of his hands. Drake, with his left arm and leg clinging to the edge of the pipe, lowered Mason down into the murky water.

“Brr-r-r-r-r,” Mason exclaimed. “This water feels almost freezing.”

A moment later he let go his hold, dropped a few inches, then, assuming almost a sitting posture, groped with his hand down in the water.

“Here it is,” he said.

He brought up a gun, his bent, right index finger sticking through the trigger guard. Gently he sloshed it back and forth in the water, getting the mud removed from the metal.

Taking his flashlight from his coat pocket and flashing the beam on the gun, he said, “This is a Colt thirty-eight special on a forty-four frame. Okay, Paul, give me a hand up.”

Drake said, “Unless you planted that gun sometime this afternoon, this is the damnedest coincidence I ever heard of.”

“No coincidence to it,” Mason said, as he put the gun into one pocket of his coat and the flashlight in the other. “These pipes are arranged at just about the distance a good strong man would heave a gun. They’re not very far apart. At least three of them are within a throwing radius. The pipes are about four and a half or five feet in diameter. Reduce that into square feet, and you’ll see that it’s not at all unreasonable to suppose the gun would hit one of these pipes — oh, say, once out of five.”

Drake stretched down his right arm, braced himself with his left. Mason seized the hanging wrist, and, by the joint efforts of Della Street and the detective, was pulled up to a point where he could climb over the edge of the concrete pipe.

“Gosh,” he said, “a guy jumping down there without friends to help him would be up against it.”

Gathered around the outside of the pipe, they inspected the gun.

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Drake.

Mason said, “That’s the problem.” He swung out the cylinder and said, “Six shells, none of them fired.”

“Can’t you notify the police?” Della asked.

“And have them say I’d planted the gun?”

“You think this is Anders’ gun, Perry?” Drake inquired.

“Sure, it’s the sort of gun he’d carry. It’s the one he threw away.”

“Then how did the murder gun get there?”

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

Della started to say something, then checked herself.

Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, there’s nothing you can do. If you turn this gun in, they’ll claim you planted it. If you drop it back in the pipe, you can’t get the police to do any more searching. They’ve found the gun they want, and even if someone did find this gun, they’d claim it had been taken out and planted long after the murder.”

Mason took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully folded it around the gun to dry it off.

Out on the highway a car swerved violently with the sound of screaming tyres. Mason, looking musingly at the highway, said, “Now what the devil do you suppose scared that driver?”

Della said quietly, “I think there’s a car parked without lights, Chief. I had just a glimpse of it when the headlights of that automobile picked it up.”

“Right on the highway?” Mason asked.

“No, off to the side, but the driver evidently didn’t see it until he was right on top of it, and then got frightened.”

Drake said, “Let’s get out of here, Perry.”

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “I want to get the numbers on this gun.”

Holding the gun in his handkerchief, he held the flashlight on the numbers and read them off to Della Street, who jotted them down.

Drake said, “We could all of us testify to the finding of the gun.”

Mason shook his head. “It wouldn’t do a damn bit of good,” he said. “Holcomb would still think I’d planted it. Anyway, I’m satisfied in my own mind.”

“What are you going to do with the thing, Perry?”

“Drop it back into the pipe,” Mason said.

He extended his hand over the opening of the concrete pipe, holding the gun by the trigger guard.

Suddenly a blinding light bathed them with white brilliance, etching their figures against the black background of the night shadows. A voice from the darkness said, “Hold it. Stay just as you are.”

Mason remained motionless.

The authoritative voice said, “Get that gun, Jim, before he drops it.”

Dim shadowy figures, moving behind the shaft of bright light, converged on the group gathered around the pipe. The beams of individual flashlights crisscrossed to converge upon the motionless figure of Perry Mason. A man ran into the cone shaped shaft of the light, the glare illuminating his set profile, reflecting from the gold shield which was pinned to his coat. “Don’t make a move,” he warned.

He grabbed the gun from Mason’s hand.

Drake said, “What’s the idea?”

Della turned so that her eyes were shielded from the glare. Sergeant Holcomb ran into the area of illumination. “You’re under arrest,” he said.

Mason said, “What’s the charge, Sergeant?”

“Lower that searchlight,” Sergeant Holcomb ordered.

The beam of the searchlight dropped so that its glare was not in their eyes.

“Compounding a felony,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

“Doing what?” Mason asked.

“Planting evidence.”

“We weren’t planting anything,” Mason said. “We found this gun in the pipe.”

“Yeah. I know,” Holcomb said.

Mason said, “I’m telling you. Suit yourself, Sergeant. Don’t say I haven’t warned you.”

“You’re in a hell of a position to give anyone a warning,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

“What’s that other gun?” Sergeant Holcomb asked Paul Drake.

“A gun we used for an experiment,” Drake said. “Mason wanted to see how far he could throw it.”

“Give it here,” Sergeant Holcomb ordered.

Drake passed over the gun.

“Thought you were pretty smart, didn’t you, Mason?” Holcomb said.

Mason glanced across to Sergeant Holcomb’s triumphant face. “If the term is relative,” he said, “the answer is ‘yes.’ ”

Holcomb said, “None of your wisecracks, Mason. Save those for the judge.”

“I will,” Mason assured him.

Holcomb said, “Here, boys, put a string around this gun for identification. And keep it separate from the other one until we all get back to headquarters and label them for exhibit.”

Mason, propping himself against the water pipe, casually dried his feet with his pocket handkerchief, put on his socks and shoes.

Sergeant Holcomb said, “We figured you’d be down here just as soon as you thought you’d ditched the shadows. We didn’t miss it far, did we, Mason?”

Mason said nothing.

Drake said, “Look here. All three of us can testify that that gun was in that pipe lying under the water.”

“Sure it was,” Holcomb said. “Who put it there? Perry Mason.”

Mason finished tying his shoelace, stretched and yawned, then said to Drake, “Well, there’s no use sticking around here, Paul.”

Sergeant Holcomb said, “I guess you didn’t hear me say you were under arrest.”

“I heard you,” Mason said, “but the words don’t mean anything. If you’ve been watching this place, you saw what happened. You saw me go down inside that pipe and pull out the gun.”

“A gun you’d planted,” Sergeant Holcomb said.

“Any evidence of that?” Mason asked.

“I don’t need any. You were getting ready to drop the gun back down the pipe when we stopped you.”

“Too bad you stopped me then,” Mason said casually, “if you wanted to make out any sort of a case.” He turned away from Sergeant Holcomb and started toward the road. “Come on, folks, let’s go.”

For a moment Sergeant Holcomb stood undecided, then he said, “I’ll let you go this time, Mason, but you won’t get far.”

Mason flung back over his shoulder, “I haven’t far to go, Sergeant.”

Della Street and Paul Drake exchanged glances, then followed the lawyer. A group of officers around the concrete pipe stood still while Mason, Drake, and Della, lighting their way with flashlights, crossed the slippery field in silence.

“Over the fence she goes,” Mason said to Drake.

They lifted Della over the fence. Mason and Drake climbed over.

Drake said to Mason, “I don’t like this, Perry. I think we should have stuck around. You can’t tell what they’ll do.”

Mason said, “I don’t give a damn what they do. When is your man due to telephone in from Eversel’s place, Paul?”

“About twenty minutes from now.”

“Let’s get to a telephone,” Mason said.

“You want to go toward Eversel’s?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Mason said, “and when your man telephones, tell him that we want to talk with him. We’ll drive out to the grounds, and he can arrange to meet us.”

They drove silently for several minutes, then Drake said, “Look here, Perry. How much of a spot are we in?”

Mason grinned and said, “We’ll get some newspaper notoriety. You can trust Sergeant Holcomb for that.”

“And then what?”

“That’ll be all,” Mason said.

“You mean they won’t do anything about planting evidence?”

“We didn’t plant any, did we?”

“No, but that isn’t going to keep them from trying to do something about it.”

Mason said, “Forget it.”

Della said to Paul Drake, “Don’t you get the sketch, Paul? He knew that those officers were going to be there.”

Drake took his eyes from the road to stare at the lawyer. “Did you, Perry?”

“Well,” Mason admitted, “when we started out toward the harbour and ditched the follow car, I had an idea Sergeant Holcomb might think we were headed toward that field. I didn’t know just what sort of reception he’d plan for us.”

“But why stick your head into a lion’s mouth?” Drake asked.

“How else would you have gotten the police to consider the possibility that there was more than one gun?”

“Did you know that gun was there, Perry?”

“I didn’t know it was there. I thought it might be there.”

Drake said, “Well, that’s a load off my mind. I thought they’d caught you off first base.”

“They did,” Mason said with a chuckle, “and so we’re going to run to second.”

“And what’ll happen if they throw the ball to second?”

“Then we’ll steal third,” Mason said.

Drake sighed. “An optimist like you has no business playing baseball,” he said, and devoted his attention to driving the car.

Mason consulted his wristwatch from time to time. At length he said, “How about this little roadhouse café, Paul? It looks as though they’d have a telephone.”

Drake slowed the car and swung it from the highway to the graveled driveway beneath the red glare of the neon sign. “Yes,” he said, “they have a public phone. There’s a sign.”

Mason turned to Della in the back seat. “How about a bowl of hot soup, Della?” he asked.

“It would go fine,” she admitted.

Mason said, “Let’s eat. If you get your man on the phone, Paul, hold him on the line, find out who’s home down at the estate.”

“Okay,” Drake said.

They entered the restaurant, seated themselves at a table for four, and ordered hot soup and coffee. Paul Drake had a hamburger in addition.

Mason grinned and said, “Eating our dinner on the progressive installment plan.”

“I’m loading up with grub,” Drake admitted, “on the theory that jail fodder won’t agree with me.”

“They say you get accustomed to it after a while,” Mason observed cheerfully.

“Yes, I know. The first eight or ten years are the hardest.”

When Drake was halfway through his hamburger, Mason, consulting his wristwatch, said, “Well, Paul, just to be safe, you’d better get on the telephone and hold the line to your office.”

Drake nodded, scraped back his chair, entered the telephone booth and remained closeted for some three minutes, then opened the door and beckoned to Mason.

The lawyer crossed over to him.

“My man’s on the line,” Drake said. “The servants are out again. The gardener’s gone to bed. My man says we can drive out and he’ll meet us at the gates.”

“You know the way?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

Mason said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“It’ll take us about twenty minutes to get out there,” Drake said into the telephone. “You’d better be there waiting.”

He hung up the telephone and turned to Mason. “Of course, Perry,” he said, “if anything happens and our man gets caught, it spoils the perfectly swell connection. There’s not one chance in a thousand I could get another operative planted in time to do us any good.”

“I know,” Mason said, “but it’s a chance I have to take. Fortunately I like to take chances.”

Drake said lugubriously, “I’ll say you do.”

Mason paid the cheque. When they were once more on the road, Drake asked, “Exactly what are your plans, Perry? Not that I want to interfere, but in case you expect police officers to be there, I’d like to know about it in advance. My heart won’t stand many more of those little surprises.”

“Oh, this is all right,” Mason said cheerfully. “I don’t think the officers will follow us any more tonight. The worst we can expect now is to be arrested for burglary.”

“Perry!” Drake exclaimed. “You’re not going to try to get in that house?”

“I am if I can make it,” Mason said.

“Good Lord, why?”

Mason said, “We’ve overlooked one of the most significant things in the entire case.”

“What do you mean, Perry?”

“No one heard the shot.”

“Well, what if they didn’t? The man was shot. His body shows that, and Mae Farr’s statement shows it.”

Mason said, “Did it ever occur to you, Paul, that if the shot was fired just at the moment when Hal Anders was dunking in the waters of the bay, it was timed to a split second?”

“Well, it was, wasn’t it?”

Mason said, “I don’t think so. I don’t think there was any shot.”

Drake slapped on the brakes so that he could turn to stare incredulously at the lawyer without wrecking the car. “You don’t what?” he exclaimed.

“Don’t think there was any shot,” Mason said.

“Then Mae Farr is lying.”

“Not necessarily.”

“What do you think happened?”

Mason said, “I’ll tell you more about that when I’ve indulged in a little high class housebreaking.”

Drake groaned and said, “Gosh, Perry, I should have known better.”

“You don’t need to go any farther than the gate,” Mason said.

“That’s far enough,” Drake said, and then, after a moment, added, “it’s too damn far.”

Mason settled back against the cushions, his eyes staring steadily through the windshield at the lighted ribbon of highway which flowed smoothly toward them. Della Street, in the back seat, kept her own counsel, glancing from time to time at the back of Mason’s head, studying the set of his shoulders, studying what she could see of the angle of his jaw. Drake, driving the automobile carefully, was given to periods of contemplation during which he would slow the car appreciably, then, catching himself, would push the speedometer needle up another ten or fifteen miles an hour.

Mason gave no sign that he noticed the irregularities of the driving, and Della surrounded herself with an observant, self effacing silence.

Drake turned to the right from the main highway, drove several miles, then turned left, following a road which snaked its way up the side of a sharp headland. To the left could be seen the glittering lights of a city and roads studded with automobile headlights. To the right, occasional glimpses of moonlit water finally resolved themselves into a magnificent view of the ocean as the road straightened out on the relatively level ground at the top of the headland.

Drake slowed the car until it was running at a scant twenty five miles an hour. He said, “There’s a turn off right around here someplace. It—” He interrupted himself to swing the wheel sharply to the left, and the car climbed a short pitch to disclose the gables of a house silhouetted against the sky, a long sweep of hedge, and, after a few moments, in front of the headlights the forbidding barrier of locked iron gates crossing a driveway.

Drake switched off the headlights, turned on the dome light, and said, “Well, here we are.”

“Your man’s supposed to be here?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Drake said. “Here he is now.”

A lighted cigarette glowed as a red coal in the darkness. A moment later a man in rough clothes and with a trace of a Scottish accent said, “You’re a bit late.”

“The coast all clear?” Drake asked.

“Yes.”

Mason took a good look at the man’s face, then switched out the dome light as Drake introduced Della Street and the lawyer.

“Exactly what was it you wanted to know?” the man asked.

Mason said quietly, “I want to get in the house, MacGregor.”

There was a moment’s stiff, uncomfortable silence, then the operative said, “I’m afraid that’s going to be a pretty tough order.”

“How tough?” Mason asked.

“Plenty tough. Old Angus goes to bed early, but he always reads for an hour or two before he turns out the light. He’s a light sleeper.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“In a cottage down near the hangar.”

“You have a key to the gate?” Mason asked.

“Gosh, no. I’m just an assistant to the gardener. I sleep in a cubbyhole in the basement.”

“The door from the basement to the other part of the house unlocked?” Mason asked.

“I could get in. Of course, I’d be fired if I were caught. Then I could either produce my credentials and show I was a private detective on a job, or be sent to jail as a burglar.”

“Do you know how long they’re going to be gone?”

“The servants won’t be back until one or two o’clock. The chauffeur took them to see a picture show in town. God knows when Eversel will show up.”

“Doesn’t he usually send the servants away when he plans on spending the night elsewhere?”

“He didn’t the other night,” MacGregor said. “He sent them away to get rid of them.”

Mason grinned and said, “Well, let’s take a chance.”

“You can’t leave the car there,” MacGregor said, “and I can’t get it through the gates. You’ll have to drive it back down to the main road and park it.”

“I’ll take it down,” Drake said.

“And stay in it?” Mason asked.

Drake took a deep breath. “Hell, no, Perry,” he said. “I’ll stay with you. I don’t want to, but you may need my moral support.”

Mason glanced inquiringly at Della Street. By way of answer, she opened the door and slipped out of the car to stand by the driveway. “We’ll wait for you here, Paul,” she said.

Mason said, “Look here, Della. I don’t know just what I’m getting into. This may be embarrassing, and it may be dangerous.”

“I know,” she said quietly, in a tone which completely disposed of the discussion.

Drake slipped the car into reverse. Mason joined Della Street at the driveway, quietly closed the door. “Don’t make any more noise than necessary, Paul,” he said.

“It’s all right,” MacGregor told him. “Lots of cars come up here on moonlit nights — not an awful lot, but enough so Angus gets accustomed to hearing them turn back when they come to the locked gates.”

Abruptly Mason signalled Paul Drake, walked over to stand near the front left hand window of the car. “On second thought, Paul,” he said, “I think you’d better stay with the car, and you’d better take Della with you.”

Della Street quietly shook her head.

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“You may need a witness,” she said. “I’m going to stay with you.”

Mason said to Drake, “Go back to the main highway, drive about three hundred yards up the road, stop the car, turn out the lights, and wait until you hear from me. If things go all right, I’ll join you inside of half an hour. If, at the end of half an hour, you haven’t heard from me, beat it back to town.”

“If I can help, Perry,” the detective said, “I want to...”

“No,” Mason told him. “Go on. Beat it. I don’t know just what we’re getting into. MacGregor’s here. He can stand by if it comes to a showdown. You’d better keep on the sidelines, Paul, and get started. Time’s precious.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “thirty minutes,” and drove away.

Mason turned to MacGregor. “Let’s go,” he said.

“We’ll work through an opening in the hedge down here about twenty yards,” he said. “I’ll lead the way.”

Casting black, grotesque shadows in the moonlight, the three moved quietly along the hedge. MacGregor led the way through the opening. Inside the grounds, he paused to listen, then whispered, “Just where do you want to go?”

“The room that Eversel went to when he returned to the house,” Mason said. “Paul Drake told me it was a darkroom.”

“It is. It wasn’t built as a darkroom, but it’s been fixed over. He has a lot of equipment there, does quite a bit of amateur photography.”

“Let’s go,” Mason said.

“Do you want me to take you all the way up?”

“Yes.”

MacGregor said, “Be as quiet as possible. If we use flashlights, cover them with your hand and let as much light as you need work out through your spread fingers. Angus might see lights shining on the windows.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Let’s go.”

They crossed the moonlit yard, entered a basement door. MacGregor led the way across the cement floor to a flight of stairs. The door at the head of the stairs was unlocked. They entered a back hallway, passed through a kitchen, and reached a flight of stairs near the back of the house. MacGregor piloted them to an upper corridor and down the corridor to a door. “That,” he said, “is the room. Don’t turn on any lights.”

“We won’t,” Mason promised.

“Where,” MacGregor asked, “do you want me?”

“Someplace on the lower floor,” Mason said, “where you can keep watch but can manage to get back to your room in case anything happens. If anyone drives through the gate, slam the nearest door, and slam it hard, then go back to your room. Keep your ears open. If you hear any commotion, come running. Keep in the character of a servant who has been asleep, was wakened by the commotion, and is loyal to his employer, unless I give you a signal. In that case, come out in the open and take orders from me.”

“Okay,” MacGregor said quietly. “I’ll slam that kitchen door. You can hear that from here if you are listening.”

“We’ll listen,” Mason said.

MacGregor retraced his steps down the hallway. Mason turned the knob of the door and entered the room.

It had evidently been a small bedroom at one time. Now it had been completely done over. The windows were darkened. A battery of light switches led to safe lights, enlarging cameras, wired printing boxes, and electrical washers. Shelves were well filled with photographic supplies. A long sink ran the entire length of the room, divided into various tanks for developing, printing, and washing. A long shelf held graduates and photographic chemicals.

Mason said quietly, “I think we can turn on a light here, Della. The room is lightproof.” He experimented with the switches, finally located one which controlled a shielded white light.

“What,” she asked, “are you looking for, Chief?”

Mason said, “I think they came here to develop a photograph. After that photograph was developed, it was probably printed in an enlarging camera. We’ll look around and see what we can find.”

Della Street said, “Here is a file of negatives, Chief.”

“How are they listed?” Mason asked. “By dates or subjects?”

“Subjects,” she said, “alphabetical order.”

Mason said, “This room is too darned orderly to be a good darkroom. Look around for a wastebasket, Della. Hang it, it doesn’t look as though the place had been used for a month, and yet they must have developed a picture here.”

Della said, “You don’t think Eversel killed him, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.

“I’ve been wondering about that Farr woman,” she said. “Do you believe her story, Chief?”

Mason said, “There’s no particular reason why I should. She first came to the office with a lie which she had ingeniously worked out — but she’s our client, Della. You can’t keep clients from lying, but that doesn’t relieve you of your responsibility to see they get a square deal.”

“Do you think she...”

“That she what?” Mason asked as her voice trailed away into silence.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Della said. “Forget it. We’ll see what we can find here. I can talk about Mae Farr later.”

Mason said, “We’re licked before we start. Hang it, I never saw such an orderly darkroom.”

“We might try running through those negative files,” she said.

“Yes, we could,” Mason agreed dubiously. “I don’t think we’d get anywhere.”

“What’s that big thing that looks like a toy freight car?” Della Street asked.

“Horizontal enlarging camera,” Mason said, “nine inch condensers, takes up to a five-by-seven negative. That screen over there on the track holds the enlarging paper. Let’s find the switch for that enlarger, Della. I want to see about how much of a blowup there was on the last negative in there.”

Mason clicked switches near the work shelf, turning on first a red light in a printing box, then a white light, then, on his third attempt, clicking the huge bulb of the enlarger into light.

Della Street gave a quick, involuntary gasp.

On the white surface of the easel which held the enlarging paper was thrown the image of an enlarged negative, held in the big enlarging camera. Save for the fact that blacks and whites were reversed, it was as though they stood looking down through the skylight of a yacht into a cabin beneath.

A man, with his face half turned as though he had twisted it suddenly to look upward, was struggling with a woman whose face was concealed from the camera. Much of her body was shielded by the man’s body. Her arms and legs showed in arrested motion as though the figures had suddenly been frozen into immobility.

Mason said, “That’s it, Della.”

“I don’t understand, Chief.”

Mason said, “Wentworth wasn’t shot when he was struggling with Mae Fair. What she saw wasn’t the flash of a shot, but the flash of a bulb that was synchronized with the shutter of a camera. Those flash bulbs are instantaneous, just a quick burst of light synchronized to the fraction of a second with a camera shutter.”

“Then you mean...”

“That Eversel took that picture,” Mason said. “You can figure for whom he took it and what he wanted with it.”

“And that’s why no one heard the shot?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that in advance, Chief?”

“I suspected it,” Mason said. “Gosh, I’d like to mix up some developer, put in a sheet of bromide paper, and pull a print of that negative. We could—”

His words were interrupted by the reverberating boom of a slamming door on the lower floor.

Mason looked at Della Street. “In case you don’t know it,” he said quietly, “this is a felony.”

“Of course I know it,” she said. “What do you think I’ve been working in a law office for?”

Mason grinned, pulled up the slide in the enlarging camera, took out the negative holder, removed the negative, and slipped it in his pocket. He switched out the lights and said, “Come on. Let’s go.”

They ran on tiptoe down the corridor to the back stairs, down the back stairs and through the kitchen to the basement.

MacGregor was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. “Eversel just drove into the garage,” he said quietly.

“Can you get Miss Street out of the grounds?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know,” MacGregor said. “I can if something occupies his attention. If he happens to be looking out of the window, we’re sunk — it’s moonlight, you know.”

Mason slipped the negative from his pocket. “Let me have your purse, Della.”

She gave him her purse. Mason slipped the negative between the leaves of the small notebook which she carried in the purse. “Think you know what to do with this?” he asked.

“The thing you said you’d like to do up there?”

“Yes. You and Paul Drake beat it. Get that done on the largest scale possible. I’ll join you in town.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Pay a social call,” he said. “I’ll get back.”

Mason nodded to MacGregor.

MacGregor let them out of the basement door. Mason walked quietly around the house. MacGregor waited for his signal to cross the yard.

Lights blazed on in the front of the house. Mason, walking around the corner, signalled MacGregor, climbed the front steps, and rang the bell.

For a moment there was no response, then Mason heard the sound of quick steps in the hallway. He stepped back a few paces to look out across the moonlit yard. He glimpsed two fleeting shadows as MacGregor and Della Street made a dash for the break in the hedge. He glanced back toward the ocean. In a low, white building at the far end of the garage he saw lights come on, then go off. A moment later he heard the sound of a door rolling back on a steel track.

Abruptly the porch light flooded him with brilliance. A wicket in the front door swung back. Mason was conscious of a pair of intense eyes staring steadily at him. A voice, ominously calm, said, “Who are you and what do you want?”

“My name’s Mason,” the lawyer said. “I want to talk with you.”

“Are you Perry Mason, the lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to talk with me about?”

“About Penn Wentworth.”

“I don’t care to discuss him with you.”

Mason said, “I think you do.”

“Well, I don’t,” the voice said. “This is private property. I don’t allow trespassers. I’ll give you thirty seconds to get started for the gate. At the end of that time, I’ll telephone the police.”

The lights on the porch switched out. After a moment the lights in the front of the house went out. Mason was left standing on the front porch in the moonlight.

“Very well,” Mason said. He turned, walked down the front steps, but instead of turning to the right toward the gate, turned to the left and strode rapidly toward the hangar.

He was almost at the door of the hangar when he heard the slam of a door in the house behind him and running steps on the graveled walk.

Mason entered the hangar. His flashlight explored the interior, showed a trim, white amphibian plane. Seated in the cabin was a beautiful, olive-skinned woman with dark eyes.

Mason climbed up on the step of the plane and opened the cabin door.

The woman’s voice said reproachfully, “You blinded me with that flashlight, dear.”

Mason entered the cabin. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wentworth,” he said.

At the sound of his voice, she stiffened to attention. Mason saw her lips twitch with emotion. The cabin door jerked open, and the voice of Eversel behind him said, “Get the hell out of here.”

Mason calmly sat down in one of the seats.

Eversel said, “Get the hell out.”

Juanita Wentworth switched on the lights in the plane, illuminating the cabin, showing Eversel, a bronzed, young giant with reddish brown, excitable eyes, holding a gun in his right hand.

Mason said, “Better put away the gun, Eversel. Don’t you think we’ve had enough gun play?”

Eversel said, “This is my property. I’m ordering you out and off. If you don’t go, I’ll treat you as I would any other trespasser.”

“I wouldn’t advise you to,” Mason said. “You’re in deep enough already. A witness has identified you as the man who climbed aboard Wentworth’s yacht just before the shooting.”

He settled back in the seat.

“That’s a lie,” Eversel said.

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

Juanita Wentworth said, “Please, Sidney — no trouble.”

After a moment Eversel asked, “What do you want?”

“A complete statement,” Mason said, “admitting that you were the one who boarded the Pennwent while Mae Farr was struggling with Wentworth in the cabin.”

“I wasn’t there,” Eversel said.

Mason arched his eyebrows. “After that, you took this airplane and flew to San Diego.”

“What if I did? This is a private plane. I go where I damn please.”

“An amphibian, I notice,” Mason said casually. “While you were flying to San Diego, did you, perhaps, happen to fly over the Pennwent and look down into the lighted interior of the cabin?”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“Just asking questions,” Mason said.

“Don’t do it. It isn’t healthy.”

Mason said conversationally, “Do you know, Eversel, I have a peculiar idea about what happened aboard that yacht. You’re quite an amateur photographer. It’s a funny thing about that shot. No one heard it.”

“Well, what’s strange about that?” Eversel asked belligerently. “People in the other boats were making whoopee. If they heard a noise, they’d take it as the backfire of a truck or a boat engine.”

Mason said, “Do you know, Eversel, I was wondering if it couldn’t have been a flashlight bulb that Mae Farr thought was a shot. Wentworth knew he was trapped as soon as the picture was taken. He ran back to the after cabin and held the door tightly shut while he was getting into his clothes. He thought perhaps it was a raid.”

Eversel said, “I suppose you’d like to cook up some cock and bull story like that in order to get your client, Mae Farr, acquitted of murder.”

“She’s a little adventuress,” Mrs. Wentworth said.

“It was just an idea I had,” Mason observed almost apologetically.

“Well, it’s an idea that didn’t pan out,” Eversel said sharply, “and if you make any insinuations like that in court, I’ll sue you for slander.”

“Of course,” Mason went on conversationally, “you hoped that as soon as Wentworth realized the full import of what had happened, he would decide to get in touch with his estranged wife and meet her terms on a property settlement. He knew that photograph would put him in rather a bad light.”

“You’re crazy,” Eversel said.

“You and Mrs. Wentworth wanted to get married,” Mason said. “You’d been just a little too eager. Wentworth wouldn’t let his wife have an uncontested divorce. You were pretty desperate. You couldn’t afford to have your name dragged into a scandal.”

“I tell you you’re crazy.”

Mason went on calmly, “I don’t think it was only a question of money. It was probably also a question of jealousy on Wentworth’s part. He was fascinated by the woman he had married and who had grown to despise him.” The lawyer turned to Mrs. Wentworth and made a little bow. “Seeing Mrs. Wentworth, one can well appreciate how he felt.”

Eversel said, “You’re not only crazy, but you’re insulting. By God, I won’t stand for it.”

Mason said, “The preliminary hearing is tomorrow morning. Through an understanding with the justice of the peace, witnesses whom I think important are subpoenaed.”

“Juanita is going to be there,” Eversel said.

“So I understand,” Mason observed, taking a folded subpoena from his pocket and extending it to Eversel, “and so are you, Eversel.”

Eversel dashed the subpoena from the lawyer’s hand to the floor. “Not by a damn sight,” he said.

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, “Suit yourself. You can figure whether it’s better for you to be there and answer routine questions, or to make yourself conspicuous by your absence and force the Justice to take proceedings to enforce your attendance.”

“This is outrageous,” Eversel stormed. “It’s the work of a shyster criminal lawyer.”

Mrs. Wentworth said, “Let me talk with him, Sidney. Please,” and then to Perry Mason, “What is it you want, Mr. Mason?”

“I want a square deal for my client,” Mason said. “I want you to attend that preliminary hearing and tell the truth.”

“What do you mean by the truth?”

“That it wasn’t a shot which was fired when Mae Farr was aboard the yacht, it was the taking of a flashlight photograph.”

“By whom?” Mrs. Wentworth asked.

Eversel said, “Juanita, don’t—”

“Please, Sidney,” she interrupted.

Mason said, “By Eversel.”

She said, “Mr. Eversel holds several important positions. He’s on the board of directors of a bank, a trust company, and other important corporations. He simply can’t afford to have any scandal connected with his name.”

“Taking a picture doesn’t necessarily mean a scandal,” Mason said.

“It would in this instance.”

“Was fear of scandal,” Mason asked, “the hold that Wentworth had over you?”

She met his eyes steadily and said, “Yes.”

“And what were you holding out for?”

She said calmly, “Money for my parents. Sidney offered... I could have secured it elsewhere, but I was just as obstinate as Penn was. My parents lived on a large hacienda in Mexico. The government took their land and gave it to the peons. They were impoverished. It was only fair that Penn should make some financial settlement. He took an unfair advantage by threatening to drag Sidney’s name into the case. I knew Sidney couldn’t afford to have the publicity, and Penn knew it too. Penn threatened to sue Sidney for alienation of affections. I knew how to handle Penn. There was only one way. I had to fight him and master him. Otherwise, there would never have been any peace for us.”

“How about Eversel?” Mason asked Mrs. Wentworth. “How did he feel about it?”

“He was impulsive,” she said. “He was...”

“Juanita, please don’t drag me into this,” Eversel said. “He’s a shrewd lawyer, and he’s just trapping you.”

“The truth can’t hurt us,” she said, and then added, after a significant moment, “now.”

“Were you,” Mason asked, “glad that your husband was killed?”

“I am not glad to have anyone killed.”

“You were relieved?”

She met his eyes and said, “Naturally. It was a shock to me of course. There was much about Penn that was good, and a lot more that was all bad. He desired to dominate people. He wanted to get them in his clutches and in his power. He was a brute — particularly as far as women are concerned.”

Mason said, “Well, there’s your subpoena, Eversel. You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance to play fair. If you’re going anywhere, you can drop me at an airport where I can pick up a car, and,” Mason added with a smile, “when I say drop me, I use the term figuratively.”

Eversel said, “To hell with you. You can go back the way you came.”

Mason said, “My friends have left. I thought I might have to wait all night to serve the subpoena.”

Eversel eyed him suspiciously.

Mrs. Wentworth said, “Please, Sidney. We could leave him in Los Angeles. You don’t want to go away and leave him here, do you?”

That idea appeared suddenly disquieting to Eversel.

“Please,” Juanita Wentworth asked, flashing him a glance from her limpid, dark eyes. “This is once, Sidney, when I think I know best.”

Eversel hesitated a moment, then shoved his gun into a hip pocket, moved over to the pilot’s seat in the plane, fastened the seat belt in sulky silence, and operated the starting mechanism which sent the motor roaring into life. He taxied out to the level field and sat grimly silent while he warmed up the motor of the plane.

Mrs. Wentworth, raising her voice so it could be heard above the sound of the motor, said, “Don’t you think, Mr. Mason, it would be better for your client to tell the truth and face the consequences instead of trying to drag us into it?”

Mason, pushing his hands down deep in his trouser pockets, sunk his chin on his chest and stared moodily at the floor of the plane. “That,” he said musingly, “is something that’s been running through my own mind.”