The Case of the Rolling Bones

Chapter 12

At the office Mason found a letter addressed to him in feminine handwriting on the stationery of the Border City Hotel at Yuma. The letter read simply:

Mason took out his notebook, made a note of the address, thought for a moment, and then touched a match to the letter.

Della Street, who had gone down to Drake’s office to notify him that Mason was back, came in with the detective in tow. “Hi, Paul,” Mason said. “What’s new?”

Drake jackknifed himself into a characteristic pose in the big chair, and said, “I’ve located Inez Colton.”

“Where?” Mason asked.

“At the Ellery Arms Apartments,” Drake said. “She’s used henna on her hair and is going under an assumed name, but I don’t know what name, or the number of her apartment. I was afraid to make any inquiries without consulting you, for fear she’d get wise and take another powder. You see, Perry, I can’t put a tail on her because we have no one who knows her personally, and no one to put the finger on her. We simply have a description to go on.”

“How did you ever locate her?” Mason asked.

“Simple,” Drake said. “Like all other good gags, it’s been used before, but it’s one of the things people seldom think of. I figured she’d try to change her appearance. Walking out on her job that way indicated it. I managed to find out who her favorite hairdresser was, and an operative, posing as a friend and doing a lot of talking, got the information out of the hairdresser — at least that much information.Women hate to have strange hairdressers do a dye job.”

Mason pushed his hands down deep into his pockets. “I wish we had a little more on her before we make the contact,” he said.

Drake said, “I can help on that too, Perry. You can prove that Jason Carrel is her boy friend all right.”

Mason’s eyes lit up. “That smug liar,” he said. “He had the crust to get on the witness stand and swear absolutely that there had never been any conversation among the relatives about what it would mean to them financially if they could keep Alden Leeds from marrying or making a will. He adopted the position that he was radiating sweetness and light. He just wanted to help his poor, dear uncle, and that was all he thought about.”

“What did he say about Inez Colton?” Drake asked.

“Swore he didn’t know her.”

Drake grinned and produced a photostatic copy of a traffic ticket.

“All right,” he said. “Let him try this on his piano. Here’s a traffic ticket showing a violation of the parking law — car parked between the hours of two A.M. and four A.M. The license number is that of Jason Carrel’s automobile, and after the citation was issued, a cute little trick showed up at the traffic department and paid the fine. Her name was Inez Colton. She wanted a receipt showing that the fine had been paid in cash. That’s rather unusual. The bail clerk made a notation on the traffic ticket. When I had him look it up, he found the receipt stub showing payment by this Colton baby.”

“This was the night of the murder?” Mason asked, excitedly.

“No, no,” Drake said. “This was two weeks before the murder. I had a tip the car sometimes stood out in front of the apartment house until the small hours of the morning. So I went up and checked through the traffic violations on the off-chance I might find something. I did.”

Mason said gleefully, “Hot dog! Wait until I slap him in the face with that and ask him how it happens that Inez Colton is paying the fines on his traffic citations. He claimed he didn’t know anything about her, had never seen her in his life.”

Mason pocketed the photostatic copy, and said, “Let’s eat, and then go call on Miss Colton, and see what she has to say. Della, you can take a shorthand notebook. Work as inconspicuously as possible, take down every word of the conversation.”

Della Street said, “Gosh, I’m too excited to eat.”

“Let’s us go to the Home Kitchen Café,” Mason said. “We can get a good square meal there.”

“Expense account?” Drake asked.

“Expense account,” Mason said.

At the Home Kitchen Café, they were waited on by the same waitress who had waited on Mason at lunch the day he had interviewed Serle. “Heard anything from Hazel?” the lawyer asked.

“Not a word,” she said. “No one’s heard anything.”

“Come on,” Drake said. “Let’s order.”

Della picked up her menu. The waitress said, “If you like the daily special, I’d recommend it — unless you want a short order.”

“Let’s see,” Della said, studying the menu. “What’s today?”

“Friday,” Drake snorted. “What a gal!”

“Friday,” Della said. “Well, I’ll take the fish special.”

Mason looked at the menu. “The roast lamb, for me,” he said to the waitress.

“Same here,” Drake told her.

“Do you,” Mason asked of Paul Drake, “have a correspondent in Yuma?”

Drake nodded. “There’s an agency there that will take over.”

Mason took a pencil from his pocket, turned the menu over, and wrote on the back of it, “Mrs. J. B. Beems, Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.” He slid it across to the detective, and said, “Don’t repeat this out loud, Paul. Just remember the name and address. I want a damn clever operative put on that party.”

Drake read the name on the menu. “I can,” he said, “get someone on the job down there by telephone, and then can send down a clever woman operative to take over in the morning. She’s sixty-five, white haired, motherly, and could talk blood out of a turnip. — Well, what I mean is, listen blood out of a turnip. You know the type, Perry.”

Mason said, “That would be swell.”

The waitress appeared with large bowls of steaming soup, and Mason, folding the menu so she couldn’t see the name on the back, shoved it down into his pocket.

They ate hurriedly and for the most part in silence.

When they had finished, Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, I don’t know why any man would want to get married when restaurants serve meals like this.”

“You wouldn’t,” Della Street said.

“Ouch!” Drake observed, laughing.

Mason called the waitress, handed her a bill, and said, “Bring the gentleman over there half a dozen packages of gum.”

“What flavor?” she asked.

“Spearmint,” Drake said.

“What brand?”

“I don’t care, just so it’s gum.”

When she had gone, Mason said, “You have to admit, Paul, Leeds makes a good host.”

Drake said, “Well, a two-bit cigar would have been equally acceptable.”

The lawyer shook his head. “You’re going calling on a lady,” he said. “A cigar on top of this dinner would make you feel at peace with the world, generous, kindhearted, and impulsive. I want you to be your own sweet self, nervous, gum-chewy, and deceptive.”

Drake said, “Well, come on then. Let’s go and get it over with.”

“How,” Della Street asked, as they drew up in front of the apartment house, “will you find out what apartment she’s in, Chief?”

Mason said, “Oh, that’s routine to Paul. Just let him worry about it.”

Drake said, “Let’s go,” and led the way up to the entrance of the apartment house.

Mason pressed the button marked “Manager” and, a moment later, an electric buzz announced that the latch was released. The three pushed their way into an ornate little lobby, across from which a mahogany door bore the legend, “Manager.” Drake crossed and rang the bell. A few moments later, a tall, thin woman who had once had fire and charm in her wide brown eyes inquired, “Did you wish an apartment?”

“No,” Drake said. “We’re collecting a bill.”

The cordiality left her face.

“One of your most recent tenants,” Drake went on, “is a girl who’s been here before and ran up a bunch of bills. She’s about twenty-five, good figure, recently used henna on her hair, big, limpid eyes...”

“She hasn’t been here before,” the manager said. “She’s new.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two years.”

Drake frowned and said, “We’re from the Credit Bureau. My memo is that she was here about eighteen months ago under the name of Doraline Sprague.”

“Well, that’s not the one.”

“What name’s she going under now?”

“Her own.”

Drake said impatiently, “Well, let’s have it, if we’re on the wrong track, we want to know it.”

“Helen Reid.”

“What’s her number?”

“Twelve B.”

“What floor?”

“Second floor.”

Mason said, after the manner of one pouring oil on troubled waters, “Why don’t you go and have a frank talk with her, Paul? After all, the bill isn’t large. You don’t want to make a mistake. A lawyer will cost you money, and cause her a lot of trouble. You might make her lose her job.”

Drake hesitated.

“Go ahead. Talk with her, Paul,” Della Street pleaded. “I’m satisfied that’s the only way.”

“What’s the use of talking with her?” Drake said. “She’d lie out of it. We’ve got all the stuff we need. Let her prove she isn’t the one. I think she is.”

“I’m not so certain, Paul. Come on, let’s talk with her.”

Drake heaved a sigh. “Okay,” he surrendered reluctantly.

Mason flashed a reassuring smile at the manager. “Personally,” he said, “I think it’s a mistake.”

They took the stairs, starting to climb leisurely, running up them two at a time as they got out of sight of the manager. Mason said, “Hurry, Paul. She may telephone, and let her know we’re on the trail.”

They trooped down the corridor.

Drake said to Della Street: “Tap on the door, Della. If she comes, all right. If she doesn’t, and wants to know who’s there, remember you’re the girl from across the hall, and you’re out of matches.”

They paused in front of the door. Della Street tapped gently on the panel. After a moment of silence, a woman’s voice said, “Who is it please?”

Della said gushingly, “Oh, I’m from across the hall, and I’ve run out of matches. My boy friend’s been working late, and I’m making a pot of coffee and some scrambled eggs. I’ll only need just a couple.”

The door opened.

The young woman who stood on the threshold was striking in appearance. The henna hair did not particularly become her, but the limpid, dark eyes, the very red, full lips, the smooth lines of her neck stretching down into perfectly formed curves visible beneath the sheer silk of the lounging pajamas, gave her a somewhat voluptuous appearance; while the dead white of her skin, drawn tight across the forehead and wide cheekbones, made her seem peculiarly exotic.

Drake and Mason took charge without giving her an opportunity to collect her thoughts or take any independent action.

“Okay, Inez,” Drake said, pushing his way into the room and taking care not to remove his hat. “The jig’s up.”

Perry Mason tilted his own hat a little farther back on his head and nodded.

Della Street glanced about her in swift appraisal, taking in little details which only a feminine eye would observe.

Drake dropped into a chair, crossed his long legs, lit a cigarette, and said, “So you thought you could get away with it, eh?”

Mason said, “Now wait a minute, Paul. Let’s give her a break. Let’s hear her side of the story before we do anything rash.”

“Hear her side of the story!” Drake exclaimed scornfully. “She walks out of her apartment, tries to disguise her appearance, takes an assumed name. I suppose all that was just because her delicate nerves couldn’t stand the idea of living in an apartment house where a man had been murdered.”

“You don’t think she did it, do you, Paul?” Mason asked.

“Her boy friend did,” Drake said, with the complete detachment of one who is discussing a problem which holds no personal interest for him.

Inez Colton said indignantly, “This is an outrage! What do you mean by tricking me in this way? You said you wanted matches.”

“Forget it, sister,” Mason said. “I’m trying to do you a favor. This guy,” indicating Drake with a sideways gesture of his head, “is hard. If you don’t think he’s hard, just cross him. I claim you didn’t know what you were getting into, that you were in love, and that it’s up to us to give you a chance to come clean before we do anything drastic.”

“What do you mean — drastic?” she asked, and there was a slight quaver in her voice.

Drake laughed scornfully.

Mason said, “Now listen, Paul, let’s be fair about this thing. She may not have been mixed up in that murder.”

“Then what did she run away for?”

“To protect her boy friend, of course.”

“Well, you know the law. If she gives aid to a murderer to shield him, she becomes an accessory after the fact. And how about this talk Milicant had over the telephone...”

Mason said, “Now wait a minute, Paul. I’m going to be firm about this. You’re not going to condemn this young woman until we hear her side of the story.”

Mason turned expectantly to Inez Colton.

For a second or two, it seemed that she was on the point of rushing into swift speech. Then her eyes became hard and suspicious. She seemed to lower a veil over her thoughts. “What do you want?” she asked.

Mason said, “The truth.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Come on, come on,” Drake said. “Let’s have it.”

Mason said, “Shut up, Paul. I’m going to insist that you have a chance to tell your story, Inez.”

There was doubt in her eyes. She glanced appealingly at Della Street, then said, “Well...”

As she hesitated, Drake said, “We have a witness who saw Jason Carrel when he left your apartment, so there’s no good trying to cover up.”

She whirled to face Drake. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her muscles became poised, tense. “Jason Carrel leaving my apartment?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Drake said.

“Who are you and what do you want?”

“I’m a detective,” Drake said.

“Well, you’re barking on the wrong track, Mr. Detective. Jason Carrel was never in my apartment. I see it all now. You two are trying to run a bluff, figuring you’ll get me to talk. Thank you. I have nothing to say.”

Mason said, “Suit yourself,” and handed the subpoena to Paul Drake.

Drake, crossing over to her, said, “Under those circumstances, you get a subpoena to appear in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and testify on behalf of the defendant in the case of the People versus Alden Leeds.”

“But I can’t come to court. I mustn’t.”

Drake shrugged his shoulders, “That’s your funeral, sister.” “But I don’t know anything that would help anyone. I know nothing whatever about that murder.”

“Save it for the witness stand,” Drake said.

“All right, I will,” she said defiantly, “and don’t think my testimony is going to help Alden Leeds any, because it won’t.”

“What do you know about Alden Leeds?” Drake asked.

“That’s none of your business. Put me on the witness stand, and I’ll tell.”

Drake said conversationally, “Too bad about Jason Carrel. He said he didn’t know you. Unfortunately, he was testifying under oath in a murder trial, and a court reporter took down what he said.”

There was a triumphant glitter in her eyes. “Put me on the witness stand,” she challenged. “I dare you!”

Abruptly, Mason, who had been watching her carefully, said, “I’m afraid, Miss Colton, that you’re getting a wrong impression. Mr. Drake isn’t very familiar with the various Leeds relatives, and apparently he’s made the mistake of confusing Jason Carrel with Harold Leeds... What you mean, Paul, is that Harold committed the murder.”

Inez Colton winced as though Mason’s words had been a physical blow. Consternation showed in her eyes. She said, in a stammering half whisper, “He... told me... you didn’t know.”

Mason’s low laugh was filled with calm confidence. “He really thought that?” he asked. “It’s what we wanted him to think, of course, until we had him trapped. That’s why I refrained from asking Jason Carrel whether he had loaned his car to his cousin.”

“Then you’re... you’re Perry Mason, the lawyer who’s representing Alden Leeds?”

Mason nodded.

“You can’t pin it on Harold.”

Mason said patiently, “We’re not pinning anything on anyone — but Harold can never convince a jury he didn’t do it.”

She said, “Harold went downstairs to see him, and he was dead.”

“Went alone?” Mason asked.

“Yes.”

“And told you he was dead?”

She nodded, in tight-lipped silence.

“Why didn’t you notify the authorities?” Mason asked.

“As far as that’s concerned, why didn’t Alden?”

“I’m asking about you,” Mason said conversationally.

“For the very good and sufficient reason that we couldn’t afford to mix into it. We didn’t think anyone knew. How did you find out?”

Mason said, “Finding out things is our business, Miss Colton. Don’t you think you’d better make a complete statement?”

Della Street, who had unobtrusively slipped her shorthand book from her purse and taken notes of the conversation, now shifted her position so that the notebook rested on the arm of the chair.

“There’s nothing to tell. I... We...”

She broke off as a gentle tapping sounded on the panels of the door. Without making any move to answer, she raised her voice and said, “I have nothing to say. Even if you do accuse Harold Leeds of murdering Milicant, you can’t...”

Mason upset his chair, jumped to his feet and made for the door.

Inez Colton screamed.

Mason jerked the door open, said to the figure which was sprinting down the corridor, “Come back here, Harold, and face the music. Running away isn’t going to do you any good.” Harold Leeds paused uncertainly, turned a wan, frightened face toward Perry Mason. “The house is watched, you fool,” Mason said. “Come back here and face the music.”

A door in one of the apartments opened. A fat, blonde woman with startled eyes stared wordlessly from Mason to Harold Leeds.

“Come back,” Mason said. “Don’t leave Inez to face the music alone.”

Harold Leeds turned and walked slowly back toward Mason.

“Come on,” Mason said. “Hurry up. Don’t act so much like a dog coming to take a licking. You’ve played a man’s game. Now face the results like a man.”

Harold Leeds glanced appealingly at the blonde woman in the doorway who was regarding them with startled, curious eyes. It was as though he hoped someone would come to his rescue, that he might wake up and find it was all a horrible nightmare.

As Leeds came closer, Mason took his arm, escorted him to the door of Inez Colton’s apartment. Drake was sitting very much as Mason had left him. Inez Colton was in the chair, sobbing quietly. Della Street had changed her position slightly so that her raised knee partially concealed the shorthand notebook.

Drake said conversationally, “Figured you could handle the situation out there, Perry. Thought I’d better keep an eye on the one here.”

“Oh, Harold,” Inez Colton said tearfully. “Why did you do it? You promised you wouldn’t come near me.”

Harold Leeds said sullenly, “Gosh, Inez, I made absolutely certain no one was following me. How did I know I was going to walk into this guy?” indicating Mason with a jerk of his head. “I simply had to see you.”

Mason said, “Suppose you tell us all about it, Harold. Sit down where you can be comfortable, and get it off your chest. You’ll feel better then.”

“I have nothing to say,” Harold Leeds said, “particularly to you. If I talk, it will be to the district attorney.”

“That’s swell,” Mason said. “But first, young man, you’ll go on the witness stand as a witness for the defense. I’ll ask you why you went downstairs to John Milicant’s apartment, what your business dealings with Milicant were and why you deemed it necessary to kill him. You can answer those questions on the witness stand. Here’s a subpoena.”

With a flourish, Mason handed him a subpoena to appear as a witness for the defense in court at ten o’clock A.M. the next day. The young man, as one in a daze, extended a quivering hand to take the folded oblong of legal-looking paper.

Mason said to Paul Drake, “Okay, Paul, let’s go. Come on, Della. We have nothing more to do here.”

Leeds said, “Wait a minute. You can’t... can’t put me on the witness stand.”

“You just think I can’t,” Mason said.

“No! No! You can’t! I wouldn’t help your case any. I’d hurt it, and I can’t afford to get mixed up in this thing.”

“Why not?” Mason asked.

“Because... because I can’t.”

“That’s too bad,” Mason observed without sympathy, starting toward the door.

Inez Colton straightened in the chair. “Oh, go ahead and tell him, Harold,” she said. “What’s the use of trying to lie out of it now.”

Then, as Harold remained sullenly silent, she said to Mason, “All right. I’ll tell you if he won’t. Harold’s crazy about the ponies. He can’t keep away from them. Neither can I. I’m a married woman. I was married to a man who was a race track tout. We knew John Milicant, but we knew him as Louie Conway, a plunger. I met Harold out at the race track. I was having a squabble with my husband. Harold and I fell in love. I decided to leave my husband, and wanted some place to live where he’d never find me, because he’s just the type to make trouble. I spoke to Louie Conway, and asked him if he couldn’t get me a job. He could and he did. I took an apartment in the same building where he had an apartment. I went under the name of Inez Colton. Harold started calling on me, and one day he and Louie ran into each other in the elevator. Harold recognized Louie as John Milicant. Louie, of course, recognized him as Harold Leeds. That was all there was to it. Louie told Harold to keep quiet about what he knew. He was afraid his sister was going to find out what he was doing. Then when Harold found out that Alden Leeds had made a big check in favor of L. C. Conway... Well, Harold thought he should do something about it. Louie told him to come down and talk things over.

“Harold went down to his apartment.

“Milicant told a most amazing story. He said that he was actually entitled to a full one-half of all of the money Alden Leeds had ever made, that Alden Leeds secured his original start by stealing one-half of his fortune, that it all went back to the time when Leeds was in the Klondike, and...”

Mason, his eyes glinting with interest, said, “Are you, by any chance, going to say that Milicant claimed he was Bill Hogarty?”

Her face showed surprise.

“Yes,” she said, “that’s exactly what he did say and showed documents to prove it.”

“Where are those documents now?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know.”

Harold Leeds said sullenly, “He was Hogarty all right.”

“And Emily Milicant is his sister?” Mason asked.

“She’s no more his sister than I am,” Inez Colton said. “Up there in the Yukon, Leeds took possession of the cabin and all the grub. He beat up Hogarty and then drove him out of camp at the point of a gun, without blankets, without food, and, as he thought, without matches. Then Alden Leeds took all the gold, and mushed out to civilization. He was shrewd enough to take the name of Hogarty, making it seem that Leeds had been the one to disappear. That threw the authorities off the track. Hogarty almost died of cold and exposure. Leeds had hit him a terrific blow on the head in the fight which preceded his being driven out of camp. The fight was over Emily Milicant who had been Hogarty’s sweetheart. She was a Dawson dance hall girl.

“Hogarty decided not to complain to the authorities. He made up his mind he could let Leeds think him dead, that then, after Leeds had grown careless, he would track him down, and force an accounting.

“Leeds went to Seattle, met Emily Milicant, told her Hogarty was dead, and married her. He married her under the name of Hogarty. Then, in some way, Leeds found out Hogarty was on his trail, and ran away — vanished into thin air, leaving his wife behind him. The real Hogarty found the wife. There was an argument, of course, a period of hot words and accusations, then they made up. They lived together as man and wife for some time, then finally broke up, but remained good friends. She wanted to find Leeds. Hogarty wanted to find him and force an accounting. They finally discovered him. Leeds had again taken his real identity when he thought there was no further danger. That’s the way Hogarty told the story to Harold, the way Harold told it to me.”

Mason turned to Harold Leeds. “Is that,” he asked, “the truth?”

“That’s the truth,” Leeds said.

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? My hands were tied. Apparently, it was a matter between Hogarty and Uncle Alden. Hogarty said that Uncle Alden was willing to make out a settlement.”

“And you went down to see Milicant, or Hogarty or Conway, whatever you want to call him, the night of the murder?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Harold Leeds said, in a voice which was almost inaudible.

“What time was it?”

“Right after Uncle Alden left.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw Uncle Alden leave the Conway apartment and walk down the corridor to the elevator.”

“Where were you?”

“I was coming down the stairs. The stairs are back toward the end of the corridor. I’d just reached the foot of the stairs when the door of the apartment opened, and Uncle Alden walked down the corridor to the elevator. He was moving very rapidly.”

“You didn’t speak to him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He seemed — well, nervous and upset — and I couldn’t explain to him about Inez. I didn’t want him to know I was... there in the building.”

“So what did you do?”

“After he’d gone down in the elevator, I went to the Conway apartment.”

“Knock on the door?” Mason asked.

“The door was slightly ajar, an inch or so. I knocked on it. There was no answer. I pushed the door open, and called Conway’s name. He’d asked me never to call him Hogarty, and not to refer to him as Milicant while he was there in that apartment. There was still no answer. The apartment had been searched. Papers were scattered about. There were some empty dishes on the table. Evidently, two people had eaten a hurried dinner, and...

“Why hurried?” Mason asked.

“Because places weren’t set at the table. The plates were placed just as they’d been left, with the knives and forks dumped on the tray. There was a pot that had contained coffee on the tray and two saucers. The cups were dirty.”

“The dishes weren’t piled up?” Mason asked.

“No, left just as though people had eaten hurriedly and dropped the dishes back into place.”

“And the knives and forks were on the tray?”

“Yes.”

“You evidently looked that over pretty carefully.”

“I did. I wondered if Uncle Alden had been eating dinner with Conway because — well, I thought Uncle Alden had broken in and stolen those papers Milicant — Hogarty — bad.”

“You say there was a pot of coffee?”

“The pot had contained coffee. You could smell it.”

“There wasn’t any left?”

“No, not a drop.”

“Any food left?”

“No. The plates were slick and clean.”

“No bread, no butter?” Mason asked.

“Nothing, just the bare plates.”

“Go on from there,” Mason said.

“Well, I looked around the apartment a little, and opened the bathroom door.”

“It was closed?”

“Yes, it was closed but not locked.”

“What did you find?” Mason asked.

“The body.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I stood right there with cold sweat breaking out all over me,” Leeds said, talking more rapidly now as he warmed to the story. “Then I realized what a sweet spot I was in. I’d messed around there altogether too much. So I took my silk handkerchief, polished off the doorknobs I’d touched, and beat it.”

“Did you leave the door open?”

“No. I wanted to delay the discovery of the body as long as possible so we could clear out. I pulled the door shut. The spring lock clicked into place.”

“How long was it after your uncle had left the apartment when you went in?”

“Perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, just long enough for Uncle Alden to walk rapidly to the elevator and start down in the cage.”

“How long were you in there?”

“Not over two minutes.”

“To whom have you told this?” Mason asked.

“Not a living soul except Inez.”

Mason glanced significantly at Paul Drake, then looked over to where Della Street, catching up with her fountain pen on the rapid-fire conversation, held her hand poised over the shorthand notebook.

Inez Colton said, “So you see Harold’s position. He can’t help your client any, Mr. Mason, and his testimony would clinch the case against Alden Leeds.”

“You think Alden Leeds did it?” Mason asked, staring steadily at Harold.

“I don’t know,” the young man said. “I do know that Uncle Alden was raised in a hard school. If Hogarty’s claim was justified, I hope Uncle Alden would have done something about it. I like to think so, anyway. But if it wasn’t justified, and Hogarty was trying to hold him up, I... Well, I don’t know just where Uncle Alden would draw the line. I know one thing, I’d hate to have him on my trail. Any time you cross Uncle Alden, you have a fight on your hands... I think Uncle Alden found him... No, I don’t know what happened.”

Abruptly, Mason got to his feet “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

“How about this subpoena?” Inez Colton asked.

“Forget it,” Mason said. “As far as we’re concerned, it hasn’t been served. Tear it up.”

Harold Leeds shot forth an impulsive hand. “That’s mighty white of you, Mr. Mason,” he said, “and you can rest assured that I’ll keep all of this under my hat.”

“Sorry we broke in on you this way,” Mason said to Inez Colton. “Come on, folks. Let’s go.”

Della Street closed her notebook, slipped it back into her purse. Drake glanced sidelong at Mason, then got to his feet without a word. Mason led the way out into the corridor. Inez Colton bid them goodnight and closed the door.

As the three marched wordlessly down the corridor, the fat, blonde woman, who had stood in the doorway when Mason brought Harold Leeds back into the room, opened the door and stood staring silent, expressionless, motionless. She was still standing there when the trio entered the automatic elevator.

“Well,” Mason said, on the ride down, “I’ve played right into the D.A.’s hands. Apparently, Milicant really was Hogarty.”

“I thought you knew he was,” Drake said.

Mason twisted his lips into a lopsided grin. “I wanted the police to think I thought he was,” he said. “Let’s get to a telephone where I can put through a long distance call.”

“Want me any more?” Drake asked.

Mason said, “No. Get to work and try to plug some of these other loopholes.”

“Looks as though you’d bitten off a little more than you can chew, Perry,” Drake said, dropping a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. “Take it easy this time. Remember this isn’t your funeral. If your client’s guilty, he’s guilty. Evidently he’s lied to you. Don’t throw yourself into the case and leave yourself wide open.”

Mason said, “He isn’t guilty, Paul — at least not the way they claim.”

Drake said, “Okay, Perry. I’ll take a taxi back to the office.”

He walked over to the curb, gave a shrill whistle, and sprinted for the corner to stop a cruising cab.

Della Street glanced at Perry Mason. “Well, Chief,” she said, “we seem to be taking it on the chin.”

Mason said, “There’s a hotel in the next block, Della, with a switchboard and telephone booths. I think we can get a call through.”

“Whom are you going to call, Chief?” she asked.

“Emily Milicant,” he said. “There are some holes I want mended... Evidently she knew there would be.”

They walked to the hotel. Mason gave the switchboard operator his call and told her to rush it. “Mrs. J. B. Beems at the Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.”

They smoked a silent cigarette. Della Street’s hand moved over to grip Mason’s arm, a wordless pledge of loyalty. Then the telephone operator beckoned to Mason. “The hotel’s on the line,” she said, “but they have no such party registered.”

“I’ll talk with whoever’s on the line,” Mason told her.

“Okay,” she announced, snapping a key on the switchboard. “Booth three.”

Mason entered the telephone booth, said, “Hello, is this the night clerk of the Border City Hotel?”

“That’s right,” a man’s voice said.

“I’m anxious to find out about Mrs. Beems.”

“We have no one by that name registered here.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Mason said, “I received a letter from her, stating that she was registered there under that name and would stay there until she heard from me. She’s heavy around the hips, thin in the face, with big, black eyes. She’s around fifty, although she could pass for forty-two or forty-three, medium height, with black hair, talks with a quick, nervous accent, and keeps her hands moving while she’s talking.”

“She isn’t here,” the night clerk said “This isn’t a large hotel. We only have three unescorted women, none of whom answer the description — and it happens we know something about all three. One of them has been here a year, one going on to three months, and the other two weeks.”

Mason said, “Okay, thanks a lot. Sorry I bothered you,” and hung up. He crossed over to the switchboard operator, paid the toll charges, left her a dollar tip, and said, “Come on, Della. Let’s go.”

Out on the street, she said, “Chief, what does it mean?”

Mason, frowning, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette, offered no explanation.

“Suppose the district attorney should get hold of Harold Leeds?” Della Street asked. “We found him, and why couldn’t the D.A. find him? After all, we’ve given them the lead by dragging Inez Colton into it.”

Mason’s reply was an inarticulate grunt. He shoved his hands down deep into his trousers pockets, lowered his chin to his chest, and slowed his walk until it was a slow, even, regular pace. Della Street, accustomed to his moods, slowed her own steps and remained silent.

Abruptly, Mason said, “Okay, Della. We stick in our stack of chips. If we hold the low hand, we’re wiped out.”

“Chief, why mix yourself into it?” she asked. “After all, Leeds is just a client, just the same as any other client. If they can prove him guilty, it’s not your fault. He undoubtedly lied when he said he left Milicant alive. Apparently, Milicant really is Hogarty, and the sister’s given you a double cross. You’re certainly not called on to do any great amount of worrying. Let them come clean with you. Sit back and simply act as a lawyer, presenting a case.”

Mason grinned. “I can’t,” he confessed.

“Why not, Chief?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’s the way I’m built. Come on, Della. We’re going to put in a call.”

He took her elbow, piloted her into a drugstore, crossed to the public telephone, and dialed police headquarters. “Homicide Squad,” he said, and, after a moment, “Sergeant Holcomb, please... Hello, Sergeant? Okay, here’s a hot tip for you. Harold Leeds, a nephew of Alden Leeds, was in Milicant’s apartment the night of the murder. He saw his uncle leave the apartment, and go down the hall to the elevator. He entered the apartment right after his uncle, and found Milicant dead. Inez Colton, his girl friend, knows all about it. She skipped out after the murder because she didn’t want to be involved. She’s living under the name of Helen Reid at the Ellery Arms Apartments. Harold Leeds is there now.”

Sergeant Holcomb’s voice was excited. “You’re certain?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Perry Mason said. “I know the whole business.”

“Fine,” Sergeant Holcomb exclaimed. “If this tip proves on the up and up, you’ll get the thanks of the department. Who is this talking?”

Mason said, “You know me well, Sergeant. I’m a short, fat guy with whiskers. I usually wear a long, red coat with a big black belt.”

“I don’t place you,” Sergeant Holcomb said, his voice puzzled.

Mason said, “Santa Claus, you damn fool,” and hung up.