The Case of the Runaway

Chapter 6

The plane they had chartered at Sacramento passed the Marysville buttes on the left and the peculiar, distinctive mountain formation back of Oroville began to show plainly. Table mountains rose nearly a thousand feet above the surrounding country, level as a floor on top. There some huge prehistoric lava flow had covered the whole country, then gradually, as small crevices had offered drainage, the process of interminable erosion had chiseled small cracks into valleys. Now the level of the whole surrounding country had been eroded hundreds of feet, leaving those places where the lava cap had protected the undersoil as veritable table mountains.

Della Street looked at her wrist watch. “We’ll make it right on the nose,” she said.

Mason nodded.

“And we haven’t been very badly hurried at that.”

“And,” Mason pointed out, “we haven’t been interrogated. So far no one has found out just where we are.”

“Will the Los Angeles press intimate that you have run away to avoid questioning?” she asked.

“No. They’ll find out we’re headed for Oroville. They’ll ask the local reporters to cover the story and give it to the wire services. They’ll state that we are presently unavailable but be forced to explain we are co-operating with the officials up north.”

The plane dipped forward and started losing altitude.

“Pretty quick,” Della said, “you’re going to have to devise a way of avoiding answers.”

Mason nodded.

“How are you going to do it?”

“I can’t tell until I hear the questions.”

“Well,” she said, “you got a little sleep on the plane anyway.”

“How did you do, Della?”

“Pretty fair, but I’m too worried to sleep much.”

Mason said, “Let them interrogate me first. If they should try to interrogate you separately, tell them that because you’re my secretary you feel that all questions should first be answered by me, that you will answer questions covering subjects on which I have answered questions, but that you don’t want to be placed in the position of answering questions on subjects that I may have chosen to consider as privileged. And inasmuch as you’re not an attorney and therefore don’t understand the legal distinctions you prefer to have me make the decisions.”

“How much of what we did, how much of what we know, what we said and what was told us is privileged?” she asked.

Mason made a little gesture with his shoulders, took a notebook from his pocket. “That, of course, is a question.

“The authorities aren’t uniform on the subject. In the case of Gallagher versus Williamson, 23 Cal. 331, it was held generally that statements made by a client in the presence of other persons are not privileged and the attorney is bound to disclose them. Later on, in the case of People versus Rittenhouse, 56 C.A. 541, it was held that a third person who was not within the classification of a confidential relation and who overheard communications between an attorney and a client could disclose what he had heard. Then again, in People versus White, 102 C.A. 647, it was held that communications between an attorney and his clients in the presence of third persons were not privileged communications. However, there was a question in that case as to whether the communications were intended to be of a confidential nature. The court held generally that an attorney could be made to testify as to conversations which he had with the defendants in the presence of third persons.

“A much later case was that of People versus Hall 55 C.A. 2d, 343, wherein it was held that communications between an attorney and client in the presence of a third person were not privileged. I’ve been kicking myself for letting Sara Ansel sit in on that conversation.”

“But, Chief, you couldn’t have been expected to anticipate any development such as this.”

“Why not?” Mason asked. “An attorney is supposed to anticipate not only the things that may happen but the things that can happen. It’s not at all unreasonable that two women are going to have a falling-out, and when there’s no real reason for a third person to be present an attorney shouldn’t—”

“But, good Lord, Chief, she had to do all the talking. Myrna Davenport never would have told you the story.”

Mason said, “She could speak English. She didn’t need an interpreter. Of course, Sara Ansel stepped into the dominant role.”

The plane skimmed over the city of Oroville, flying low so that it was possible to see the big, roomy houses occupying strategic positions under towering shade trees.

“What beautiful trees,” Della Street said. “You can see how large they are, flying over them like this.”

“It gets hot here in the summer,” Mason said. “Nature compensates for it by making it a paradise for shade trees. Fig trees grow to enormous heights and give dense shade. Well, here we are, Della. Brace yourself for a barrage.”

The plane banked sharply, circled into a landing, and taxied up to the airport.

A group of men came hurrying toward the plane. In the vanguard were newspaper photographers with cameras and flashlights held in readiness. Behind them, moving at a more dignified pace but nevertheless hurrying, was a group of purposeful men.

Alighting from the plane, Mason and Della Street were most considerate in their posing so as to give the photographers plenty of coverage.

Newspaper reporters produced folded newsprint and pencils, ready to report the interview.

One of the reporters hustled forward. “May I have your name please?” he asked.

“Perry Mason,” Mason said, smiling.

“Your full name?”

“Perry Mason.”

“And you?” he asked, turning to Della Street.

“Miss Della Street.”

“You’re Mr. Mason’s confidential secretary?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” the reporter said, and shook hands with Mason.

“Quite all right,” Mason said, and then suddenly the smile froze momentarily on his face as he realized that the reporter had slipped a piece of folded paper into his hand. Mason hastily shoved his right hand into his coat pocket and smiled at the youngish, rather fleshy individual who pushed his way forward.

“Mr. Halder?” Mason asked.

“That’s right. I ‘m the district attorney, and this is the sheriff of the county. I also have one of my deputies present. I ‘d like to drive at once to my office if you don’t mind, Mr.Mason.”

“I’m glad to do anything I can to accommodate,” Mason said.

“We have a county car here and we’ll get you to the office and terminate the interview just as rapidly as possible.”

Mason said, “It’s all right. My pilot is authorized to do instrument flying so he tells me we can go back any time tonight.”

“I’m sorry that it was necessary for you to go to the expense of chartering a plane, Mr. Mason, but—well, there wasn’t much I could do about it. We try to keep the expenses of administering the office down to a minimum.”

“I can readily understand,” Mason said breezily. “Think nothing of it.”

Halder turned to the newspaper reporters. “Now I ‘m sorry to disappoint you boys, but I don’t want you to stand here and throw questions at Mr. Mason. I’d like to conduct the inquiry in my own way. After that I’ll issue a statement to the press, or the reporters can be called in—unless Mr. Mason has some objection.”

“I never have any objection to the press,” Mason said, smiling genially. “I share all of my information with them—except, of course, that which is confidential or which for strategic reasons I feel cannot be divulged.”

“Well, that’s fine,” Halder said, “and we certainly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Mason. I can’t begin to tell you how much we appreciate it. Now if you and Miss Street will just get right in the car. And please, boys, no questions until after the interview at my office.”

Mason said, “Just a minute. I may have a wire I want to send.”

He pulled a billfold from his breast pocket, opened it, studied the interior for a moment, then dropped his right hand to his side pocket, brought out the folded slip of paper the newspaper reporter had placed in his hand, and managed to spread that slip over the interior of the billfold so that he could read the message which had been typed on the paper. It read:

I am Pete Ingram, reporter for The Oroville Mercury. Mabel Norge, secretary to Ed Davenport, is missing. I’ve been unable to find her all day. No one knows where she is. Yesterday afternoon she drew out nearly all the money in Davenport’s account in the Paradise bank. Don’t ask me how I know because it’s a confidential tip. I’m slipping this to you because I’m hoping the information may be of some value to you. You can reciprocate by giving me a break.

Mason folded the billfold, tucking the message inside, put it back in his pocket, and looked over the heads of the little group of men until he encountered the questioning eyes of Pete Ingram.

Mason gave an all but imperceptible nod.

“Well, if you want to send a telegram,” Halder said, “we can—”

“Oh, I guess it can wait,” Mason told him. “After all, we won’t be here very long I take it.”

“I hope not,” Halder said fervently.

Mason and Della Street entered the automobile. The sheriff sat up front with Halder, who did the driving. The deputy district attorney, whose name was Oscar Glencoe, an older man than Halder, sat quietly, uncommunicative, on the left rear seat. Della Street occupied the center, and Mason sat on the right.

The county car roared into speed and Halder drove directly to the courthouse.

“If you don’t mind,” he told Mason, “we’ll hold the interview in the sheriff’s private office.”

“Anyplace suits me,” Mason said cheerfully.

They disembarked and the sheriff led the way into his private office where chairs had been carefully arranged around the desk. Mason, looking the place over, felt certain that there was a concealed microphone and a tape recorder.

“Well, sit down,” the sheriff invited. “Jon, do you want to sit there at the desk and ask the questions?”

“Thank you,” Jonathan Halder said and seated himself in the swivel chair at the desk.

The others seated themselves and Halder carefully waited for the last noise of the scraping chairs before asking the first question—further indication that the interview was being recorded.

Halder cleared his throat, took a folded document from his pocket, spread it on the table in front of him, said, “Mr. Mason, you and your secretary, Miss Street, were at Paradise yesterday evening.”

“Let’s see,” Mason said, thinking. “Was it only yesterday? I guess that’s right, Counselor. So much has been happening it seems as though it must have been the day before. No, I guess it was yesterday. That was the twelfth—Monday. That’s right.”

“And you entered the house of Edward Davenport on Crestview Drive?”

“Well, now,” Mason said, smiling affably, “I notice you’re reading those questions, Mr. Halder. I take it then that this is somewhat in the nature of a formal interrogation.”

“Does that make any difference?” Halder asked pleasantly.

“Oh, a lot of difference,” Mason said. “If we’re just chatting informally that’s one thing, but if you’re asking formal questions from a list which you have carefully prepared I’ll have to be careful in thinking of my answers.”

“Why?” Halder asked, instantly suspicious. “Isn’t the truth the same in any event?”

“Why certainly,” Mason told him, “but take, for instance, this last question of yours. You asked me if I entered the house of Edward Davenport.”

“And that, of course, can be answered yes or no,” Halder said, his manner watchful.

“No,” Mason said. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s put it this way. If this is going to be a formal interview, I’ll have to be very careful to make my statements one hundred per cent accurate.”

“Well, that’s what I want, and I assume that’s what you want too.”

“Therefore,” Mason said, “I would have to state that I entered a house which belonged to Mrs. Edward Davenport.”

“Now wait a minute,” Halder said. “That house was where Ed Davenport was carrying on his business and—”

“That’s just the point,” Mason interrupted. “That’s the point I’m trying to make.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Don’t you see? If you were talking informally and asked me if I entered Ed Davenport’s place up there why I’d say casually and offhand, ‘Sure I did,’ but if this is a formal interview and you ask me if I entered the house belonging to Ed Davenport then I have to stop and think. I have a lot of things to take into consideration. I have to say to myself, ‘Now I am representing Myrna Davenport, who is the widow of Edward Davenport. If the house was community property she actually gained complete title to it at the moment Ed Davenport died. If the house was separate property but a will left everything to Myrna Davenport then my client acquired title instantly upon Ed Davenport’s death, subject only to probate administration. Therefore if I should say in a formal interview that I had entered a house belonging to Ed Davenport, it might be considered as an admission I knew about a will but doubted the validity of the will or that I was willing to concede as Mrs. Davenport’s attorney that it was not community property. See my point. Counselor?”

Halder seemed perplexed. “I see your point, Mr. Mason, but, good Lord, you’re splitting a lot of legal hairs.”

“Well, if you’re going to draw a hairline distinction with formal questions,” Mason said, “I see nothing else for me to do except split the hairs when I think they are divisible.”

Mason’s smile was completely disarming.

Halder said, “I’d like to have you answer the questions informally, Mr. Mason.”

“Well, now,” Mason said, “that poses a problem. After all, I’m Mrs. Davenport’s attorney. I don’t know yet whether there’s going to be a criminal action against her. I understand there may be. In that event I’m an attorney representing her in a criminal action. I am also her attorney representing her interest in probating the estate of her husband. Presumably that includes community property and perhaps some separate property. There is the relationship of husband and wife and there may be the relationship under a will. It is quite possible that if you ask me questions from a written list at this time so that your questions can be recalled at any subsequent date and repeated in their exact phraseology, some of my answers might jeopardize the interests of my client. I might, for instance, run up against the question of whether she murdered her husband, Ed Davenport. That, I take it, is conceivable under the circumstances, isn’t it, Counselor?”

“I don’t know,” Halder said shortly. “I refuse to make any predictions as to what action will be taken by the officials in other jurisdictions.”

Mason said, “I believe you stated over the telephone that you were being subjected to some pressure.”

“That’s right.”

“Pressure, I take it, from the law enforcement agencies in other counties.”

“Yes.”

“And quite obviously that pressure was not brought to bear upon you simply because of the possibility of an unlawful or unauthorized entry on the premises of Edward Davenport in Paradise, California. That pressure was brought to bear on you because someone feels that Ed Davenport is dead and that there is a possibility—mind you, Counselor, I am now talking entirely about the state of mind of the person or persons who brought pressure to bear on you—that there is a possibility Mrs. Davenport had something to do with the death of Edward Davenport. Isn’t that right?”

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t answer that question frankly, Mr. Mason.”

Mason said suavely, “Now it is my understanding of the law that if a person murders another person, that person cannot inherit any property from the decedent. Isn’t that your understanding, Counselor?”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Mason said, “suppose that you should ask me a question which would involve ownership to certain property—that is, the question of the status of the present title to that property, and suppose further it should be property which Ed Davenport owned in his lifetime, which he left to his wife under the terms of a will which would be perfectly valid on its face and which under ordinary circumstances would have passed title to the property to his widow. Then suppose I should, inadvertently mind you, in my answer indicate that the property did not at the present time belong to Mrs. Davenport, then it is quite possible that someone—not you, of course, Counselor, because I know you are too ethical to take advantage of a mere slip of that sort—but someone who was more technically minded would use that statement as an indication of the fact that I had admitted that Mrs. Davenport was guilty of the murder and therefore couldn’t take title and hadn’t taken title.”

Mason sat back, smiled at the three puzzled interrogators and took a cigarette case from his pocket.

“Anybody care to smoke?” he asked.

There was silence.

Mason extracted a cigarette, tapped it on the side of the cigarette case, lit up, blew out a cloud of smoke and fairly beamed at the interrogators.

“Well, now wait a minute,” Halder said. “I’ve started to question you and it seems that about all I’m doing is answering questions.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “I want to have the status of the interview plainly determined. I’m asking you now, Counselor, as one attorney to the other, what do you think? Should I say anything that would intimate in any way that I thought my client was not eligible to succeed to the estate of the dead husband?”

“Certainly not. No one’s asking you to.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Therefore when you ask me about a question of title I have to be very careful with my answer. Don’t you think so?”

“I’m not in a position to advise you,” Halder said.

“Exactly,” Mason conceded. “I appreciate your frankness, Counselor. And since you’re not in a position to advise me I have to advise myself. Now then, you’ve raised a very interesting question. I don’t know, under the circumstances, if I am at liberty to comment on any matter of title. However, go right ahead with your interrogation and I’ll see what can be done.”

Halder looked back at his paper. “While you were in that house,” he said, “the house belonging to Ed Davenport at Paradise, didn’t you pick the lock on a desk, open a lockbox, and remove an envelope on which there was written in Davenport’s handwriting ‘To be delivered to the authorities in the event of my death’?”

Mason paused thoughtfully.

“Can’t you answer that question?” Halder asked.

Mason pursed his lips. “There are a good many factors involved in that question. I am trying to divide them in my own mind.”

“Such as what?”

“In the first place,” Mason said, “once more you bring in the question of the ownership of the house.”

“Well, we can have it understood,” Halder said, “that whenever I refer to the house as Ed Davenport’s house I am talking about it in the general popular sense of the word and we won’t try to adjudicate the title here and now.”

“Oh no,” Mason said, “that would be an oral stipulation that I was not to be bound by my own statements. That might be all right as between you and me, Counselor, but it might not be all right as between some—well, let us say some cold blooded, calculating, merciless attorney who might be representing some other heir to the estate.”

“What other heir?”

“Well,” Mason said, “I haven’t figured it all out yet, but for instance there’s Sara Ansel. Sara Ansel’s sister married William Delano’s brother. Now let us suppose, for the sake of the argument, that the Delano estate could not come to Myrna Davenport.”

“Why not?”

“Oh because of various legal reasons, such, for instance. as the question—and, mind you, this is only a hypothetical question—that Myrna Davenport should be accused of the murder of William Delano.”

“She can’t be,” Halder said. “She’s accused of the murder of Hortense Paxton, but Delano wasn’t murdered. He was dying.”

“Then I have your assurance that she is not to be charged with the murder of William Delano? And I have your assurance William Delano was not murdered?”

“I’m not in a position to assure you of anything.”

“There we are,” Mason said. “Right back to where we started. I find myself in a very peculiar position, Counselor. I am exceedingly anxious to co-operate with you but—”

“What are you getting at? That Sara Ansel might be an heir to the estate?”

“Well,” Mason said, “suppose that Myrna was incapable of inheriting from William Delano under the will Delano left because of the fact that she was accused of murdering him. That would leave Mrs. Ansel perhaps in a position to inherit property which came to the dead brother of Delano—or would it? I’m frank to admit, Counselor, I haven’t looked up the law of succession.”

“Neither have I,” Halder said.

“Well, perhaps we’d better look it up now,” Mason said.

“No, no,” Halder said. “We’re getting this thing in an interminable mess. I want to keep my questions simple and I’d like to have simple, definite answers.”

“I’m certainly anxious to do it that way,” Mason said, “but the fact that this has become a formal hearing complicates the situation enormously.”

“I’m trying to make it informal.”

“But you said it was formal.”

“Well, that depends on what you call formal.”

“Reading from a written list.”

“Well, I tried to coordinate my thoughts in advance.”

Mason looked at him reproachfully. “And that was the only reason for preparing the list, Counselor? The only reason?”

“Well, of course,” Halder said, suddenly embarrassed, “I had conferred with other officials who suggested specific questions they wanted, answered.”

“And because you adopted their suggestions as to the questions that were to be answered you wrote them down?”

“In a way.”

“There you are,” Mason said. “This question that you have now asked me may have been thought up by the district attorney of Los Angeles County purely in an attempt to elaborate on some theory of the case that he has. And he may construe my answer in the most technical manner possible.”

“But your client isn’t charged with the murder of William Delano, her uncle. She’s charged with the murder of Hortense Paxton.”

“And that alleged murder enabled her to get most of the estate of William Delano?”

“That’s my understanding of the situation.”

“And the body of William Delano hasn’t been exhumed?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because his was a natural death.”

“How do you know?”

“The man was dying. He had been dying for months.”

“Is a dying man immune to poison?”

“Are you trying to insinuate that your client poisoned William Delano?”

“Good heavens, no,” Mason said. “I know she didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know she didn’t poison anyone.”

“She poisoned Hortense Paxton,” Halder said, “and she may have poisoned Edward Davenport.”

“Oh, come, come,” Mason said. “You’re making a flat accusation.”

“Well, I have information, Mr. Mason, which supports that accusation.”

“Information which I don’t have?”

“Certainly.”

Mason said, “That, of course, complicates the situation again.”

Halder said with exasperation, “I’m asking you simple questions and you go playing ring-around-a-rosy.”

“It’s not ring-around-a-rosy,” Mason said. “I’m asking you to put yourself in my place. Would you answer questions involving the title to property?”

“I can’t put myself in your place. I can’t advise you. I have my own problems to worry about.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “So, since I can’t rely on your advice, since you’re afraid to take the responsibility—”

“Who’s afraid?” Halder demanded.

“Why, you are,” Mason said.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Halder said, his face flushing, “and I’m not certain I like your attitude.”

“Come, come,” Mason said affably. “Let’s not let the difference in our official positions enter into our personal relations, Counselor. I merely commented that you in your position were afraid to take the responsibility of advising me—”

“I’m not afraid to take the responsibility.”

“Are you willing to advise me, then?”

“Certainly not. It’s not my place to advise you. I’m representing the people of the State of California. I’m representing this county. You’re representing a client. You’ll have to decide what your own responsibilities are.”

Mason said, “Of course, Counselor, it seems to me that by that answer you’re evading the question.”

“I’m evading the question?” Halder shouted.

“Precisely,” Mason said. “You won’t answer definitely whether or not in my position as an attorney representing Myrna Davenport I should answer your questions.”

“I’m not in a position to advise you on anything.”

“Well,” Mason said, his face suddenly breaking into a smile as though he had a complete solution, “will you then assure me that if I go ahead and discuss questions of title with you my answers will not at any time be binding upon my client in regard to such matters?”

Halder hesitated and said, “Why, I think—I don’t see how they could.”

“But will you definitely assure me?” Mason asked. “Will you take the responsibility? Will you guarantee it?”

“Certainly not.”

“There you are,” Mason said.

The lawyer settled back in his chair and smoked thoughtfully as though making a good-faith attempt at finding some way out of the impasse.

Halder glanced at the sheriff, then at his deputy. Abruptly he said. “Mr. Mason, will you and Miss Street pardon us for a few minutes? You wait right here. I want to confer with my associates. Will you, Sheriff, and you, Oscar, mind stepping in this other office with me?”

The three scraped back their chairs, crowded through the door into the second office.

Della Street turned to Perry Mason. “Well,” she said, “you seem to—”

Mason placed a warning finger to his lips and rolled his eyes around the room, then interrupted to say, “I seem to be in a devil of a fix, don’t I, Della? I’d like to be fair with Mr. Halder and I’d like to be frank. But for the life of me I don’t see how I can overlook the fact that I’m in a position of responsibility as far as my client is concerned. Now you take that question of title and it could become very complicated.”

“Yes,” Della Street said, “even with these few preliminary questions I can see that it’s going to be complicated, and the district attorney has a list of several typewritten pages.”

“Well,” Mason said, “Of course I want to co-operate with him, Della, but we have other things to do. We can’t stay here indefinitely. I do hope he’ll expedite matters.”

Della Street smiled.

Mason winked at her. “Care for a cigarette, Della?”

“No, Chief, thank you.”

Mason settled back to smoking. After a moment, he said, “I do hope they won’t take too much time with their conference. After all, Della, we’re holding a chartered plane here and I have very definite responsibilities back in my own office.”

After a moment, Mason again winked at Della Street and said, “That’s right, Della. Put your head back and try and get some sleep. After all, you’ve had quite a siege of it, being up all last night.”

“Did I have my eyes closed?” Della Street asked innocently.

“Yes,” Mason said. “If you can doze off by all means do so.”

And Mason, with a finger on his lips, gestured for silence.

“Well, thanks,” Della Street said, yawning audibly.

There was an interval of several minutes during which there was complete silence in the room. Della Street held her head against the back of the chair, her eyes closed. Mason smoked thoughtfully, from time to time holding his cigarette out in front of him, studying the eddying smoke.

At length the door from the other room opened. The three men filed back into the room. They were followed by a fourth.

Mason looked at the man and said, “Well, well, Sidney Boom. How are you, Mr. Boom? It’s good to see you again.”

He got up and shook hands.

Boom smiled. “How are you, Mr. Mason? How do you do, Miss Street?”

Della Street gave the officer her hand. “Nice to see you again.”

“Thank you.”

Chairs scraped once more.

Halder seemed to have decided upon a new line of attack. He turned to question Boom.

“You’re an officer up at Paradise?”

“Yes.”

“A deputy, working out of the sheriff’s office here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were such a deputy last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now were you called to the residence of Ed Davenport last night?”

“That’s the place out on Crestview Drive?”

“Don’t ask me where it is. I asked you a question.”

“Well, I’m not sure who owns the house except—yes, I am, too. The woman told me.”

“What woman?” Mason asked.

“The secretary, Mabel Norge.”

“Now just a moment,” Mason said. “I can’t sit here without registering some protest at this method of proving title.”

“I’m not proving title,” Halder said angrily. “I’m simply trying to confront you with some of the proof that we have.”

“But you distinctly asked him about who owned the property,” Mason said, “and he told you that the only way he knew was from a statement made by Mabel Norge. Now I submit that Mabel Norge isn’t an expert on real estate titles and therefore any statement she made to him was simply hearsay and—”

“All right, all right,” Halder said. “This isn’t a court of law. We’re not trying title to the property.”

“But you raised the question of title.”

“I’m merely describing the house.”

“Then why not describe it with reference to the number of the location on Crestview Drive?”

“All right,” Halder said. “Let’s go at it this way, Boom. You were called out to a place on Crestview Drive. Where is it?”

“As you go out on Crestview Drive and come to the end of the street it’s the last place on the right—a big, rambling house surrounded by fruit and shade trees.”

“You make a difference in your own mind between a fruit tree and a shade tree?” Mason asked.

“I do,” Boom said.

“Well, now actually, Mr. Boom, a fruit tree can well give shade. You take these fig trees, I suppose one would call them fruit trees, and—”

“Now just a moment,” Halder interpolated, his voice edged with anger. “I’m conducting the inquiry, Mr. Mason. I’m interrogating Mr. Boom at the moment, and I’m going to ask you to keep quiet.”

“Regardless of any inaccuracies in Mr. Boom’s statement?”

“Regardless of anything,” Halder said. ‘I ‘m going to ask you to keep quiet.”

“Very well,” Mason said. “I trust that everyone here understands that I have been asked to keep quiet regardless of any inaccuracies in Mr. Boom’s statements. I’m sorry, Counselor. I won’t interrupt again. Go right ahead.”

“You went out to this house?” Halder asked.

“I did.”

“At whose request?”

“Mabel Norge.”

“Who’s she?”

“I understand she’s the secretary for Ed Davenport. I’ve seen her around Paradise some.”

“Did you know Davenport in his lifetime?”

“Yes, I’ve talked with him a few times.”

“And you went out to this house at the request of Mabel Norge?”

“That’s right. She was calling for the police.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found the door unlocked, the lights on, and Mr. Mason and Miss Street making themselves very much at home.”

“What else?”

“I was instructed by Mabel Norge to find a letter that had been written by Mr. Davenport and left with her with the instructions that it was to be opened in the event of his death.”

“And what did you do?”

“I found that letter—that is, I found a lockbox which contained envelope which was sealed. On the envelope there was a statement in Mr. Davenport’s handwriting that it was to be delivered to the officers in the event of his death.”

“And what did you do with that?”

“I took it into my custody.”

“You have that envelope here?”

“You have it.”

“Well, you gave it to me, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“And I have it here in my desk. You’d know that envelope if you saw it?”

“Certainly.”

“How would you know it?”

“Because I wrote my name on it.”

“And the date?”

“And the date.”

“And then what did you do with it?”

“I gave it to you.”

“We had some discussion about what should be done with the letter, didn’t we?”

“That’s right.”

“And I put it in the safe?”

“I believe so. You told me you put it in the safe.”

“And then this morning we got together again?”

“That’s right.”

“And decided we’d better see what was in the letter?”

“That’s right.”

“And we cut it open?”

“Yes.”

“And there was nothing in it except several sheets of blank paper?”

“That’s right.”

“So then we started examining the envelope and decided it looked as though it might have been tampered with?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So we called in a man who is an expert in such matters and he told us that the gum arabic, or whatever it was that had originally been placed on the flap of the envelope with which to seal it, had been pretty well removed by being moistened and that the envelope had been steamed open and then sealed with mucilage and that this had probably been done within the last twenty-four hours?”

“That’s right.”

“All right,” Halder said, turning to Mason, “what have you to say about that?”

“I’d say that you asked the questions very rapidly,” Mason said, “and that Boom answered them without the least hesitancy.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean what have you to say about the accuracy of his statements?”

“Oh, good heavens,” Mason said. “You’ve taken me entirely by surprise. You specifically told me that I wasn’t to say anything when his statements were inaccurate.”

“I meant I didn’t want you to interrupt.”

“That wasn’t the way you expressed it, I’m sure. You told me particularly to keep quiet.”

“Well, I’m asking you to talk now.”

“In what way?”

“I’m asking you to comment on Boom’s statements.”

“I’m quite certain they’re not correct,” Mason said. “Now wait a minute, Mr. Boom, don’t get angry. I think that you feel they’re correct, but I don’t think that they are correct.”

“In what respect are they wrong?” Halder asked.

“Oh, in many respects. For instance, I believe you said Davenport had written on the envelope in his handwriting that in the event of his death it was to be turned over to the officers.”

“That’s right.”

Mason turned to Boom. “You’d seen Davenport in his lifetime?”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t know he was dead?”

“I don’t know he’s dead even now. I’ve been told he’s dead.”

“Now,” Mason said, smiling, “you’re answering the questions the way I think you should, Mr. Boom. You’re confining your statements to your own knowledge. Now you stated that that was Mr. Davenport’s handwriting on the envelope. You don’t know whether that was Davenport’s handwriting, do you?”

“Mabel Norge told me it was.”

“I know, I know,” Mason said. “That’s hearsay. You don’t know that it was in Davenport’s handwriting.”

“Certainly not.”

“Now just a moment,” Halder said. “I didn’t bring Boom in here to be cross-examined.”

Mason became angry for the first time. “What are you trying to do to me?” he asked “Are you trying to jockey me into a position where I can be misquoted?”

Halder jumped up from the chair. “What are you insinuating?” he demanded.

Mason said, “I’m not insinuating. I’m asking. First you tell me not to say anything if Boom’s statements are incorrect. Then you challenge me to point out where they’re incorrect. I start asking Boom questions in order to show by Boom’s own statements where his answers are incorrect and you jump up and charge that I have no right to cross-examine Boom.”

“Well, you haven’t.”

“I’m not cross-examining him.”

“Well, it sounded like it to me.”

“I’m simply trying to do what you told me to, to point out where his statements are incorrect.”

“Well, that’s what I call cross-examining. Point out someplace where he’s made a wrong statement. I defy you to show anyplace where he has stated anything that isn’t true.”

“Why, there were lots of places,” Mason said.

“Name one,” Halder challenged.

“For instance,” Mason said, “you have said a couple of times that the envelope contained the endorsement in Davenport’s handwriting that in the event of his death it was to be turned over to the officers.”

“Well, I’ve explained now that I only know it was his handwriting because of what Mabel Norge told me,” Boom said.

“So you don’t know it’s his handwriting?”

“I don’t know it, no,” Boom shouted.

“Well then,” Mason said, “how do you know that the envelope contained the endorsement that it was to be turned over to the officers in the event of his death?”

“I saw it,” Boom yelled. “I saw that with my own eyes.”

“Now just a minute,” Mason said, “don’t let your anger run away with you, Boom. You’re a nice, observing officer. You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word of it.”

“That wasn’t what was on the envelope,” Mason said.

“Well, that’s the effect of it. And I remember that’s what Mabel Norge told me was on the envelope.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “Now if the district attorney will kindly show you the envelope, Mr. Boom, you’ll find that that isn’t what was on the envelope at all. The only words on the envelope are ‘To be opened in the event of my death and the contents delivered to the authorities’ and that is followed by what purports to be the signature of Ed Davenport.”

“Well, isn’t that the same thing?” Halder asked.

“Certainly not,” Mason retorted. “In the one instance the instructions would have been that the envelope had been left in a sort of escrow to be delivered to the authorities unopened. But under the instructions actually written on the back of the envelope Mr. Davenport instructed his legal representatives—provided, of course, the words were in his handwriting—first to open the envelope and then, and only then, to deliver the contents to the authorities.”

There was a complete, sickening silence in the office.

“So you see,” Mason said, beaming at Boom, “Mabel Norge described a different envelope. So it wasn’t the pages inside of the envelope that had been substituted but it must have been the whole envelope. The envelope containing the message that Mabel Norge described to you couldn’t be found. The envelope which she produced was an entirely different envelope from what she said it was because it had a different message.”

“Now wait a minute,” Halder said. “That’s the sheerest nonsense. You’re trying to confuse the issues.”

Mason said, “Sir, I consider that as an insult. I am simply trying to clarify the issues. I defy you to analyze any one of my statements here and find anything in it which tends to confuse any issue. I came up here in a spirit of co-operation. I could have told you to go to the devil. I could have told you to get a subpoena or issue a warrant, or try to make me appear before a grand jury—and if I had appeared before the grand jury I could have insisted upon your questions being technically accurate.

“As it is, I have chartered an airplane at great expense to myself. I have closed up my office for a day at a time when the most urgent demands were being made for my services. I have explained my position to you. I have asked you to put yourself in my position and to advise me if I should do anything different.

“You yourself, as an attorney, don’t dare to advise me to do anything different, and now you’re accusing me of confusing the issues. I don’t like it. I—dammit, sir, you may consider my cooperation withdrawn. I have nothing further to state.”

“You’re going to have a lot more to state,” Halder said. “You’re in my county now. You aren’t going to leave it without my permission.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean I can slap a subpoena on you. I can … I can arrest you.”

“For what?”

“For being an accessory before … after the fact.”

“Accessory to what?”

“Murder.”

“Whose murder?”

“Ed Davenport’s murder.”

“Which is it,” Mason asked, “an accessory before or an accessory after the fact?”

“I don’t know. I—yes, I do, too. It’s after the fact.”

“What are the elements of murder?” Mason asked.

“You know them as well as I do.”

“You’d better prove them then,” Mason said. “One of the first elements of murder is a killing, a homicide, a dead body.”

“Well, we haven’t found the body yet but we’re going to.”

“The hell you are,” Mason said. “Why don’t you wake up?”

“Wake up to what?”

“Wake up to a consideration of the probabilities that Ed Davenport jumped out of the cabin window and ran away with his good-looking secretary, Mabel Norge. Where’s Mabel Norge? Get her. Bring her here. She’s charged me with tampering with an envelope. Let her make that accusation to my face.”

“I … I haven’t been able to locate Miss Norge as yet.”

“Your ‘as yet’ is going to be a long time,” Mason said.

“She’s been very much upset by what has happened.”

“I dare say she has,” Mason said angrily. “I’m an attorney at law. I’m not going to sit here and be charged by Mabel Norge with having committed some crime. I demand that Mabel Norge be produced and confront me with her accusation. I want to question her in regard to it.”

“I’m questioning you, that is I’m trying to.”

“You’re hurling accusations at me,” Mason said, “made by Mr. Boom and Mabel Norge, and you won’t confront me with my accusers.”

“Mr. Boom is here.”

“His accusations are hearsay.”

“Some of them aren’t.”

“They all are,” Mason said. He whirled to Boom. “What did Mabel Norge tell you about her reason for being at the house at that hour of the night?”

“She said she was driving by.”

“You know that couldn’t have been the truth,” Mason said. “There was no place she could drive to.”

“She could have made a circle in the driveway and gone out.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “That wouldn’t have been driving by. The road ends there. She didn’t say she went down to the house to see if things were all right. She said she was driving by casually, and then when I questioned her on that she admitted that was a false statement, didn’t she?”

“Well—I’m not certain but what she did.”

“And she didn’t tell you about having been out there earlier that evening, did she?”

“Well, she worked there. I suppose—”

“About having been out there about thirty minutes before I arrived.”

“Thirty minutes before you arrived! Was she out there then?” Boom asked.

“She didn’t tell you about that?” Mason asked.

“No.”

“She didn’t tell you about opening the desk and taking out that lockbox containing the envelope and substituting another envelope?”

“No, of course not. You were there. You heard the conversation.”

“She drove away with you,” Mason said. “She didn’t tell you about that?”

“No.”

“And she didn’t tell you about going to the bank that afternoon and drawing out virtually every cent in the account of Ed Davenport with a check which he had previously given her, which was signed in blank, and which was intended to be used under those circumstances?”

Boom blurted, “She didn’t tell me about that. I found out afterward at the bank—”

“Well, there you are,” Mason said angrily, turning to Halder. “Why the devil don’t you get the people in your own county? Why don’t you clear this thing up without letting some district attorney down in Fresno, or some Los Angeles district attorney, try to tell you a murder has been committed and make a sucker out of you?

“Why don’t you get hold of the parties here and really clean this thing up and air the facts instead of calling on an attorney from Los Angeles to come up here at considerable inconvenience to himself to answer a lot of accusations made by a woman who has resorted to flight?”

Halder said to Mason, “How the devil did you find out about that withdrawal from the bank and the fact that Mabel Norge was missing?”

“Why?” Mason asked. “Wasn’t I supposed to know it?”

“No one knows it. That’s been a closely guarded secret. I told my office not to let it out to anyone.”

“Good heavens,” Mason said, “I should think it would have been obvious right from the start. Follow the pattern of the whole business.”

“In that case—then you’re claiming—that is, it’s your position there wasn’t any murder?”

“Murder?” Mason said. “Who the devil said there was a murder?”

“The doctor said the man was dead.”

“And the witness said the corpse climbed out of a window.”

Halder bit at his lip.

“Now then, let’s get this straight,” Mason said. “You were trying to conceal this information from me?”

“I wasn’t making it public.”

“You tried to keep me from finding out about it?”

“Well, if you want to put it that way, yes.”

“I think under the circumstances,” Mason said, “that I ‘ve been here now for some time endeavoring to co-operate with you, I think officially I have nothing further to say. I’ve answered your questions as freely and frankly as I can. I’ve given you something like an hour here.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“Well, it’s been quite awhile,” Mason said. “Long enough for you to have covered the situation pretty thoroughly. I’m going to start back to my office.”

“You can’t leave this county until I tell you you can.”

“The hell I can’t. Try to stop me.”

“I’ve got lots of ways of stopping you.”

“Try any one of them,” Mason said, “and by tomorrow morning your face will be just as red as a boiled lobster.”

Perry Mason nodded to Della Street and strode out of the office, leaving a somewhat dazed group of men moving into a quick, huddled conference.

Newsmen clustered around Mason as he came out.

“Well?” they asked. “What happened?”

Mason carefully closed the door, smiled and said, “I believe, boys, the district attorney told you that he’d issue a statement following the interview in which he’d give you all the news. If you’ll go in and interview him I think he’ll be glad to answer questions, and, under the circumstances, I’d prefer to have him do so.”

Mason caught the eye of the reporter from The Oroville Mercury and winked at him.

The other reporters opened the door and tumbled into the inner office.

Pete Ingram joined Mason. “Okay?” he asked.

“Get us in your car and out to the airport fast,” Mason said. “I’ll talk on the way out.”

“This way,” Ingram said.

They hurried out of the sheriff’s office. Ingram’s car was at the curb.

“Make it snappy,” Mason told him.

“What happened?” Ingram asked, putting the car into gear.

Mason said, “It was quite an interview. What do you have on it?”

“About all we have is that the interview took some time, that we could hear the rumble of voices which toward the last began to be raised in anger. Apparently the interview started harmoniously but ended on a sour note.”

Mason said, “The interview was recorded on tape. Why don’t you insist that—?”

“Not a chance. He wouldn’t even admit that it was recorded.”

“Well,” Mason said, “let me drive the car. You ask questions and take notes and I’ll answer questions, because the minute we get to the airport we’re taking off.”

The reporter stopped the car, opened the door, and ran around to get in on the other side. Mason slid across under the wheel.

“All right,” he said, “start asking questions.”

“What happened?” Ingram asked.

“To begin with,” Mason said, “the district attorney said it was going to be a formal interview, so it was conducted on that basis. Every time he asked a question, for instance, referring to the house in Paradise as Ed Davenport’s house, I argued the question of title.”

“On what basis?”

Mason outlined the point under discussion and then went on while he was driving to the airport to give Ingram a fair summary of the interview.

At the airport Mason and Della Street disembarked from the car and went over to where the aviator was listening to a radio.

“Okay,” Mason said. “Let’s put this show on the road.”

“Right away,” the aviator said. “Say, did you folks hear the news broadcast that just came in?”

“What about it?” Mason asked.

“You’re interested in that case down in Fresno,” the aviator said. “They’ve found the body.”

“Whose body?”

“This man Davenport whose wife killed him.”

“Where was the body?”

“Buried in a shallow grave just two or three miles out of Crampton. At least they think it’s Davenport’s body. It was clad in pajamas with red dots or figures. It was just discovered a few minutes ago. They’re still digging at the grave. A news service put it on the air.”

Mason glanced at Ingram. Ingram grinned.

Mason said to the aviator, “Get that plane warmed up and get it warmed up fast. Taxi down the field just as soon as you can get under way. Warm up your motors at the far end of the field and then take off. No matter who tries to stop you, take off. Come on. Let’s go. There’s a hundred extra for you if you take off before anyone stops us.”

They climbed aboard the plane. The aviator started the motors and after a few seconds moved slowly down to the far end of the field where he swung the plane around and warmed up the motors.

Mason leaned forward and said over the roar of the engines, “How are you coming? Ready to take off?”

“Just a few seconds now.”

Mason said, “There’s a car turning in. I want to get off before it arrives. I don’t want any more delay.”

“Oh, he’s just stopping there to—”

“He isn’t stopping,” Mason said.

“Neither am I,” the pilot said, gunning the motors.

The plane started down the field.

The car swung so that its lights cut across the path of the plane. A blood-red spotlight blazed into brilliance and a siren screamed its warning.

The pilot grinned as he gently picked the wheels off the ground.

“These motors make such an awful racket,” he said, “that it’s hard to hear a thing when you’re taking off. For a minute I almost thought I heard a siren.”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Mason told him.

“Back to Sacramento?” the pilot asked.

“Not Sacramento,” Mason said. “Fresno. And if you can drop me in there without filing a flight plan so that no one knows just where we’re landing, it’ll suit me fine.”

“You don’t want to stop at Sacramento?”

“Go right over Sacramento,” Mason said, “just as high as you can get this crate into the air.”