The Case Of The Stuttering Bishop

E S Gardner - Perry Mason 09 - Stuttering Bishop

CHAPTER 1

Perry Mason's eyes came to a hard focus on the figure which paused uncertainly in the doorway of his private office. "Come in, Bishop," he said.

The stocky figure, clad in loose-fitting black broadcloth, bowed slightly and strode toward the chair which Mason indicated. Above the white expanse of the ecclesiastical collar, a sun-burned face set off the cool gray of glinting eyes. The short, sturdy legs, terminating in well-worn black shoes, marched briskly enough, but, watching the man, Mason knew those legs would have marched just as steadily had they been propelling the rugged torso toward the electric chair.

The bishop sat down and turned to face the lawyer.

"Cigarette?" Mason asked, pushing a case toward his visitor.

The bishop reached toward the cigarettes, then paused and said, "I've been smoking them for an hour. Two puffs and I'm f-f-finished." As his lips stumbled over the first syllable of the last word, the bishop lapsed into abrupt silence for the space of two deep breaths, as though trying to control himself. After a moment, he said, his voice firm as the fingers of a pianist which, having fumbled, atone for the slip by an added emphasis, "If you don't mind, I'd like to light up my pipe."

"Not at all," Mason said, and noticed that the stubby pipe which the man produced from his left pocket was somehow very like the man himself.

"My secretary tells me you're Bishop William Mallory, of Sydney, Australia, and you want to see me about a manslaughter case," the lawyer said, breaking the ice for his visitor.

Bishop Mallory nodded, took a leather pouch from his pocket, stuffed fragrant grains of tobacco into the encrusted bowl of the polished briar, clamped his teeth firmly on the curved stem and struck a match. Watching him, Mason couldn't tell whether he cupped the match in both hands to keep his fingers from shaking, or from a mechanical habit of shielding a match against the wind.

As the flickering flame illuminated the high forehead, the somewhat flat face with its high cheekbones and determined jaw. Mason's eyes narrowed into thoughtful scrutiny. "Go ahead," he said.

Bishop Mallory puffed out several little clouds of smoke. He wasn't the sort of man who would squirm uneasily in a chair, but his manner gave every indication of mental uneasiness. "I'm afraid," Bishop Mallory said, "that my legal education is a little rusty, but I'd like to know about the limitations of a m-m-manslaughter case."

As he stuttered for the second time, his teeth clamped firmly on the pipe stem, and the rapidity with which he puffed out little spurts of smoke bore evidence both of his nervousness and of his irritation at the defect in his speech.

Mason said slowly, "We have, in this state, what is known as a statute of limitations. All felonies, other than murder and the embezzlement of public money, or the falsification of public records, must be prosecuted within three years after the crime has been committed."

"Suppose the person who committed the crime can't be found?" Bishop Mallory asked, and his gray eyes peered eagerly at the lawyer through the blue haze of tobacco smoke.

"If the defendant's out of the state," Mason said, "the time during which he is absent from the state isn't counted."

The bishop hastily averted his eyes, but not in time to avoid the expression of disappointment which clouded them.

Mason went on talking smoothly and easily, after the manner of a doctor who seeks to set the mind of a patient at ease before an operation. "You see, it's difficult for a defendant to secure evidence in his own behalf after a period of years, just as it's difficult for the prosecution to get the evidence of witnesses to a stale crime. For that reason, in all crimes, save those of the greatest importance, the law fixes this limitation. That's the legal limitation, but there's a practical limitation as well. Therefore, even if a district attorney technically is permitted to prosecute a crime, he might hesitate to do so after the lapse of several years."

During the ensuing moment of silence, the bishop seemed to be groping in his mind for the proper words with which to clothe an idea. The lawyer brought matters to a head by laughing and saying, "After all, Bishop, a client consulting an attorney is somewhat in the position of a patient consulting a doctor. Suppose you tell me just what's on your mind, instead of beating around the bush with abstract questions."

Bishop Mallory said eagerly, "Do you mean that if a crime had been committed twenty-two years ago, a district attorney wouldn't p-p-prosecute, even if the defendant hadn't been in the state?" And this time, so eager was he to hear the answer to his question that he showed no embarrassment at the impediment which manifested itself in his speech.

"What you would consider manslaughter," Mason said, "might be considered murder by a district attorney."

"No, this is manslaughter. A warrant of arrest was issued, but was never served because the person skipped out."

"What were the circumstances?" Mason asked.

"A person was driving an automobile and struck another car. The claim was made that she... this p-p-person... was drunk."

"Twenty-two years ago?" Mason exclaimed.

The bishop nodded.

"There weren't many of those cases twenty-two years ago," Mason observed, studying his visitor's features.

"I know that," the bishop agreed, "but this was in one of the outlying counties where a district attorney was... overly zealous."

"What do you mean by that?" Mason asked.

"I mean that he tried to take advantage of every technicality the law offered."

Mason nodded and said, "Were you, by any chance, the defendant, Bishop?"

The look of surprise on the bishop's face was unmistakably genuine. "I was in Australia at the time," he said.

"Twenty-two years," Mason said, watching the bishop with thought-slitted eyes, "is a long time, even for a zealous district attorney. What's more, district attorneys come, and district attorneys go. There have probably been quite a few changes in the political set-up of that county during the last twenty-two years."

The bishop nodded absently, as though political changes had but little to do with the question under discussion.

"Therefore," Mason said, "since you are still concerned about the case, I gather there's more behind it than an overzealous district attorney."

Bishop Mallory's eyes snapped wide open. He stared at Mason and then said, "You're a very c-c-c-clever lawyer, Mr. Mason."

Mason waited several silent seconds before saying, "Suppose you tell me the rest of it, Bishop."

Bishop Mallory puffed at his pipe, then said abruptly, "Do you take cases on a contingency basis?"

"Yes, sometimes."

"Would you fight for a poor person against a millionaire?"

Mason said grimly, "I'd fight for a client against the devil himself."

The bishop smoked in meditative silence for several seconds, apparently trying to find just the right method of approach. Then he cupped the warm bowl of the pipe in his hand and said, "Do you know a Renwold C. Brownley?"

"I know of him," Mason said.

"Have you ever done any work for him... I mean, are you his lawyer?"

"No."

Bishop Mallory said, "You're going to be consulted about a case against Renwold Brownley. There's a great deal of money involved. I don't know how much, perhaps a million, perhaps more. You will have to fight the case from scratch. If you win it, you can get a large fee, two or three hundred thousand dollars. I warn you that Brownley is going to be hard to h-h-h-handle. It's going to be a mean case. You'll be protecting the rights of a woman who has been greatly wronged. And the only chance you stand of winning the case is through my testimony as a witness."

Mason's eyes became hard and cautious. "So what?" he asked.

Bishop Mallory shook his head. "Don't misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not asking for anything. I don't want anything for myself. I do want to see justice done. Now, if I'm to be the main witness in the case, it would weaken the value of my testimony if it appeared I had taken a preliminary partisan interest, would it not?"

"It might," Mason admitted.

The bishop pushed the curved stem of his pipe between his lips, tamped the tobacco in the bowl with the tip of a stubby forefinger, nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "That's the way I felt about it." Mason sat in watchful silence. "So," Bishop Mallory went on, "I don't want anyone to know I have been here. Naturally, I wouldn't lie about it. If, when I get on the witness stand, they should ask me questions about having taken an interest in the case, I'd answer those questions truthfully, but it would be better for all concerned if those questions weren't asked.

"Now, I'm going to call you in about an hour. At that time I'll tell you where to come to meet me and I'll introduce you to the persons who are vitally interested. Their stories will sound incredible, but will be true. It's a case of a very rich man having been very ruthless and very unjust.

"After that interview," Bishop Mallory went on, "I must disappear and have no further contact with you until you find me and drag me into court as a witness. And, you'll have to be very clever to find me, Mr. Mason. But I think I can count on you for that." The bishop nodded to himself as though entirely satisfied with the situation. He got to his feet abruptly, and his short, stubby legs pounded across the office. He opened the exit door into the corridor, turned, bowed to Mason, and slammed the door behind him.

Della Street, Mason's secretary, emerged from the inner office where she had been taking notes, and said, "How do you figure that one, Chief?"

Mason, standing in the center of his office, feet spread apart, hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, stared intently at the carpet with eyes which were held in fixed focus. "I'll be damned if I know," he said slowly.

"How did you size him up?" she asked.

"If he's a bishop," Mason said, "he's pretty human, no stiffness to his broadcloth, a stubby pipe and the general atmosphere of being a broad-minded man-of-the-world. Notice that he said he wouldn't lie if the other side asked him certain questions, but that it was up to me to keep them from asking those questions."

"Why do you say, if he's a bishop?" Della Street asked.

Mason said slowly, "Bishops don't stutter."

"What do you mean?"

"Bishops," he said, "have to work up. They're men who must be of outstanding ability and they have to talk in public. Now, if a person stuttered, he'd hardly become a minister, any more than he would a lawyer. But, if he did stutter and was a minister, he'd hardly become a bishop."

"I see," she said. "So you think..." She became silent as she stared at him with wide, startled eyes.

He nodded slowly and said, "The man may be a damn clever impostor. On the other hand, he may be a bishop who's been through some experience which has produced an emotional shock. If I remember my medical jurisprudence, one of the causes of stuttering in adults is a sudden emotional shock."

Della Street's voice showed concern. "Listen, Chief," she said, "if you're going to take this man's word for something and start fighting a multimillionaire like Renwold C. Brownley, you'd first better find out whether he's a genuine bishop or an impostor. It might make quite a difference."

Mason nodded slowly and said, "That was exactly what I had in mind. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency and tell Paul Drake to drop whatever he's doing and come to my office at once."

CHAPTER 2

Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, slid sidewise into the big overstuffed leather chair, his back propped against one of the chair arms, his legs draped over the other. He regarded Perry Mason with protruding, somewhat glassy eyes which peered in expressionless appraisal from his rather florid face. When his facial muscles were relaxed, his mouth had a peculiar carp-like appearance which gave him a look of droll humor. He looked so utterly unlike a detective that he was able to accomplish startling results.

Perry Mason, pacing back and forth across his office, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, tossed words over his shoulder. "A Church of England bishop who claims to be William Mallory from Sydney, Australia, has consulted me. He's a close-mouthed chap with the face of an outdoor man... You know what I mean, the skin tanned as though accustomed to the bite of wind... I don't know when he arrived. He wants to know about a manslaughter case growing out of drunken driving in an outlying county twenty-two years ago."

"What does he look like?" the detective asked.

"About fifty-three or fifty-five, five foot six or seven, weight one hundred eighty, wears the ecclesiastical broadcloth and collar, smokes a pipe by preference, cigarettes on occasion, gray eyes, hair darkish and thick but gray around the temples, a competent sort of an individual, stutters occasionally."

"Stutters?" Drake asked.

"That's right."

"You mean he's a bishop and he stutters?"

"Yes."

"Bishops don't stutter, Perry."

"That's just the point," Mason said. "This stuttering must be a recent development, probably due to some emotional shock. I want to find out what that emotional shock is."

"How did he take the stuttering?" Drake asked. "What I mean is, how did he act when he stuttered?"

"Acted just like a golfer does when he tops a drive or misses a mashie."

"I don't like it, Perry," the detective said. "He sounds like a phoney to me. How do you know he's a bishop? Are you just taking his word for it?"

"That's right," Mason agreed readily enough.

"You'd better let me check on him and get all the dope."

"That's exactly what I want you to do, Paul. The bishop is going to get in touch with me in an hour. Shortly after that I've got to say yes or no to a case involving a lot of money. If the bishop's on the square, I'll be inclined to say yes. If he's a phoney I want to say no."

"What's the case?" Drake asked.

"This," Mason told him, "is in the strictest confidence. It involves Renwold C. Brownley, and if there's anything to it at all, it may carry a fee running into the hundreds of thousands." The detective gave a low whistle. "It involves, among other things, an old manslaughter charge, growing out of drunken driving."

"How old?" Drake asked.

"Twenty-two years, Paul."

The detective raised his eyebrows.

"Now there weren't many drunken driving cases twenty-two years ago. Moreover, this case was in an outlying county. I want to know about it, and I want to know about it right away. Put a bunch of men to work. Cover Orange County, San Bernardino, Riverside, Kern and Ventura. I think the defendant was a woman. Check through the records and see if there's an old manslaughter case dating back to 1914 where a woman was the defendant - a case which has never been cleaned up.

"Cable your correspondents in Sydney, Australia, to find out all about Bishop William Mallory. Cover the steamship records, find out when Bishop Mallory arrived in California and what he's been doing with his time since then. Cover the principal hotels and see if they have a Bishop Mallory registered. Put just as many men on the case as you need, but get me results, and get them fast. I want action!"

Drake sighed lugubriously and said, "I'll say you want action! You want a week's work done in sixty minutes."

Mason made no answer, but went on as though he had not heard the comment. "I'm particularly anxious to find out whom he's contacting. Get a line on him as quickly as possible, shadow everyone who comes in contact with him."

The detective slid his back down until only his hip pockets were resting on the polished leather surface of the chair. Then he spun around, lurched to his feet and straightened his long legs and neck, squaring shoulders which were inclined to slump slightly forward. "Okay, Perry," he said, "I'm on my way."

At the corridor door the detective turned and said to Mason, "Suppose I find out this fellow is a phoney, are you going to show him up?"

"Not me," Mason said, grinning. "I'll string him along and see what's back of the impersonation."

"Bet you even money he's a phoney," Drake said.

"His face looks honest," Mason asserted.

"Most bunco men's do," Drake told him. "That's why they make good in the racket."

"Well," Mason said dryly, "it's not too highly improbable that a real bishop should have an honest face. Get the hell out of here and get to work."

Drake stood still in the doorway. "You're not taking my bet, eh, Perry?" Mason reached quickly for a law book, as though intending to use it as a missile, and the detective hastily slammed the door shut.

The telephone rang. Mason answered it and heard Della Street's voice saying, "Chief, there's a taxi driver out here. I think I'd better bring him in and let him talk to you."

"A taxi driver?"

"Yes."

"What the devil does he want?"

"Money," she said.

"And you think I should see him?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what it's about over the telephone?"

"I don't think I'd better."

"You mean he's where he can hear what you're saying?"

"Yes."

Mason said, "Okay, bring him in." He had hardly hung up the telephone receiver when the door from the outer office opened, and Della Street ushered an apologetic but insistent cab driver into the office.

"This man drove Bishop Mallory to the office, Chief," she said.

The cab driver nodded and said, "He asked me to wait out in front of the building. I'm in a loading zone and a cop boots me out. I find a parking place and roost there and don't see anything of my man. My meter's clocking up time, so I asked the elevator starter. It happens the starter remembers him. He says the guy asked for your office, so here I am. He's a stocky chap with a turned-round collar, around fifty or fifty-five."

Mason's voice showed no interest. "He hasn't left the building?"

"I haven't seen him come out and I've been watching, and the elevator starter says he hasn't come out because he remembered him. I've got three eighty-five on my meter and I wanna know where it's coming from."

"Where'd you pick this chap up?" Mason asked. The cab driver hesitated. Mason pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, pulled off a five and said with a grin, "I just wanted to protect myself by getting the information before advancing the money to cover the cab bill."

The cab driver said, "I picked him up at the Regal Hotel."

"And drove him directly here?"

"That's right."

"Was he in a hurry?"

"Plenty."

Mason passed over the bill and said, "I don't think there's any use waiting any longer."

"Not the way that cop's bawling me out, there isn't," the driver said, handing Mason the change, "and I just want to say this is damn white of you, governor. I've heard of you from the boys. You're a square shooter who gives a working man the breaks. If there's ever anything I can do for you, don't hesitate to say so. The name's Winters, Jack Winters."

"Fine, Jack," Mason said. "Perhaps someday I'll get you on a jury, and in the meantime your fare would doubtless give you a tip, so keep the change and buy yourself a cigar."

The man made a grinning exit.

Mason picked up the telephone, called Paul Drake and said, "Paul, start your men working on the Regal Hotel. He may be registered there as William Mallory. Call me back just as soon as you get him located, and be sure to tail everyone who contacts him."

Della Street, a model of slim efficiency in a close-fitting gray tailored suit, said, "Jackson would like to talk with you about the traction case, if you can spare a minute."

Mason nodded and said, "Send him in."

A moment later he was closeted with his law clerk, outlining the position which the respondent should take on an appeal from a large verdict in a personal injury case. From time to time, Della Street came and went, bustling about the office, cleaning up odds and ends of routine matters, as she always did before Mason became absorbed in an important case which was destined to occupy all of his time.

Mason was pointing out to his clerk the fallacy of the position assumed by the appellant in its opening brief, when Della Street entered the office to say, "Paul Drake on the line, Chief. He says it's important."

Mason nodded, picked up the telephone and heard Drake's voice speaking rapidly, with the drawl completely absent: "Perry, I'm over at the Regal Hotel, and I think you'd better come over right away if you're interested in that bishop of yours."

"Coming right now," Mason said, reaching for his hat as he hung up the telephone. "You needn't stay, Della," he told her, looking at his watch. "I'll call you at your apartment if there's anything I want. Jackson, go ahead and work out the brief along those lines and let me look it over before you file it." He rushed out into the corridor and caught a cab at the curb in front of the building. It took him less than fifteen minutes to reach the Regal Hotel, where Drake was waiting in the lobby, accompanied by a thick-necked, bald-headed individual with sneering eyes, who held the soggy end of a black cigar clamped between thick, pendulous lips.

"Shake hands with Jim Pauley, the house detective here," Drake said to Perry Mason.

Pauley said, "Howdydo, Mason," and shook hands, his eyes seeming to take a professional interest in Mason's features.

"Pauley's an old pal of mine," Drake said, closing one of his eyes in a slowly surreptitious wink, "one of the ablest detectives in the game. I tried to hire him a couple of times but didn't have money enough. He's got a level head on his shoulders and has given me several tips that have worked out. He's a good man to remember, Perry. He might help you a lot sometime with some of your cases."

Pauley shifted the cigar and said deprecatingly, "Aw, I ain't no genius. I just use common sense."

Drake's hand rested on the house detective's shoulder. "That's the way he is, Perry - modest. You'd never think he was the chap that caught the Easops, the slickest bunch of passkey thieves that ever worked the hotels. Of course, the police took all the credit, but it was Jim here who really did the job... Well, we've uncovered something, Perry - that is, Jim has. I guess you'd better tell him, Jim."

The house detective raised thick fingers to pull the soggy cigar from his mouth, as he said importantly, lowering his voice and looking about him as though fearful lest he should be overheard: "You know, we've got a William Mallory staying here and he's a queer one. He left here to go someplace in a taxi, and I noticed someone was tailing him in another cab. An ordinary man wouldn't have noticed it, but that's my business. I'm trained to that stuff, and I spotted the guy in a minute when he pulled away from the curb. I seen him speak to his driver and nod toward the cab Mallory was riding in, and I didn't need to hear what was said. He could just as well have put it in writing for me, so I sort of made up my mind I'd keep an eye on this guy, Mallory, because his tail might be anything from a private dick to a G-man. We're running a nice hotel here, gents, and we don't want the class of trade that carries a tail. So I decided I'd have a talk with this chap when he got back, and tell him we wanted his room.

"Well, when he came back there was a red-headed dame sitting in the lobby. She got up as soon as she got her lamps on him and flashed him the high-sign. He gave her a half a nod and then went right to the elevator. He has a funny way of walking. His legs are short, and he just pounds along with 'em at a mile-a-minute clip.

"Well, gents, I figured that this dame in the lobby was waiting for him and he wouldn't be up in his room more than five minutes before she'd join him. Now, it ain't easy to argue with a guest and tell him you want his room. Sometimes they get rough and threaten lawsuits. Most of the times it's a bluff, but it's a lot of trouble just the same. So I figured it would be a lot easier to let this jane go up to the room, and then spring it on this bird - you know what I mean."

Mason nodded, and Drake said, in a voice which was a soothing murmur, "I told you he was smart, Perry. Plenty smart! That's using the old noodle."

Pauley said, "Well, sure enough, in about five minutes the jane gets up and goes upstairs. I figure I'll give her about ten minutes alone with him and then I'll make a racket on the door. But she ain't up there over three or four minutes when she comes down. She pushes out of the elevator and crosses the lobby like she was going to a fire. I started to say something to her, but then I figure I ain't got nothing on her and I'm going to have enough trouble with Mallory, anyway. So I decides to let her go, since she ain't a guest in the hotel, and if she'd make a squawk I'd be out on a limb.

"So I go up to Mallory's room, 602, and there's been a fight, plenty of fight. A couple of chairs is busted, a mirror's smashed, and this guy Mallory's lying in the middle of the bed dead to the world from a sock on the bean. The fight must have made something of a racket, but it just happens there's no one below and the people on the sides and across the corridor were out. Well, I make a dive for this guy's pulse and I can feel his pump working. It's faint and stringy, but still a pulse. So I grab the telephone and tell Mamie at the switchboard to get an emergency ambulance. About five minutes later an ambulance shows up and they go to work on this guy.

"Did he regain consciousness?" Mason asked.

"No, he was out like a light," Pauley said. "Well, of course I want to keep the name of the hotel out of it. No one knows anything about the fight, so I persuade the ambulance boys to take him down the freight elevator and out through the alley. Now then, here's the funny part of it: About that time, another ambulance shows up. Mamie says she only put in one call, but records show there were two calls, both of 'em from women with young voices. Now figure that one out. I can't do it, unless that red-headed baby sapped him to sleep, and then went down and ordered a wagon for him."

Mason nodded. Pauley pushed the frayed, wet end of the cigar back into his mouth, and scraped a match into flame. Mason glanced at Paul Drake over the detective's head and raised furtive eyebrows. Drake nodded in answer to the lawyer's unspoken question and said, "I wonder if you'd like to see the way a detective works, Perry. Jim's going up and give the room a once-over and see if he can find out anything that'll be a clue to who did the job. As soon as I saw you drive up, and knowing the way you work on a case, I figured you might like to see a real detective in action."

Pauley puffed out several mouthfuls of white smoke from the moist cigar and said deprecatingly, "Aw, I ain't no genius. I just know my business, that's all."

"Sure thing," Mason said, "I'd like to see Pauley in action."

"Well," Pauley said slowly, "of course the police might not like it if I took someone else in. They usually want house detectives to keep in the background while a bunch of hams, who are appointed because they've got political pull somewhere, go in and mess the clues up. But, if you fellows promise not to touch anything, we'll go up and give it a quick once-over. Maybe I can give Mr. Mason a pointer or two, at that." He walked toward the elevator, jabbed a pudgy forefinger against the button, and tilted his head slightly backward so the cigar smoke just missed his right eye. After a moment, the elevator cage appeared. Pauley entered as soon as the door slid open. Mason hesitated long enough to say to Drake in a surreptitious undertone, "Was one of your men on the job, Paul?"

Drake nodded, then followed the house man into the elevator.

"Six," Pauley said. The elevator shot upward and stopped. Pauley said, "This way, boys," and walked down the long corridor. Drake said to Mason in a low voice, "With any luck one of my men followed her, but don't let Pauley even suspect it."

They followed the house detective to a room near the end of the corridor. He produced a passkey, opened the door, and said, "Be sure not to touch anything."

A chair was overturned, two of the rungs smashed. A floor lamp had been knocked over and the bulb had exploded into myriad fragments of frosty glass which twinkled up from the carpet like bits of ice on a strip of pavement. A mirror, pulled loose from its fastenings, had plummeted downward to the floor and cracked into numerous wedge-shaped segments, some of which were still held in place by the frame of the mirror, while others were littered about the floor. There was a depression in the white counterpane of the bed where a man's body had been stretched out. A Gladstone bag, labeled "WANTED IN CABIN S.S. 'MONTEREY,'" was lying on the floor. Several articles of wearing apparel had been jerked from it. A light wardrobe trunk was standing open. A small portable typewriter was lying bottom-side-up on the floor. The cover of the typewriter case also bore a sticker, "WANTED IN STATEROOM S.S. 'MONTEREY.'" The closet door was partially open, disclosing three or four suits. Mason's eyes focused upon a brief case. A sharp knife had cut around the lock, leaving a flap of leather dangling grotesquely.

"The red-head tried to roll him," Pauley announced, "and he caught her at it. She konked him and then decided to take a look around, probably looking for money."

"Then this red-headed girl must have been a pretty hard customer," Mason said.

Pauley laughed grimly and waved a hand at the wreckage. "Don't that look like it?" he asked. Mason nodded. "One of the first things I've got to do," Pauley remarked, pulling a pencil from his pocket, "is to make an inventory of the stuff that's here. When this man wakes up, he'll claim a lot of stuff is missing, and he's as like as not to to claim some of it was taken after he went to the hospital because the hotel didn't use proper diligence in safeguarding the stuff he'd left behind... Oh, you've got to be on to all the tricks to handle the stuff that crops up in a hotel!"

"I'll tell the world," Drake said. "You know, Perry, lots of people think a house detective hasn't got so much on the ball as some of the other boys because he isn't always out on the firing line, but you can take it from me a good house detective has to have everything."

Mason nodded and said, "Well, I have an idea we'd better be going, Paul."

"Thought you were going to stick around," Pauley said.

"No, I just wanted to get a slant on how you went at things," Mason said. "You're going to make a complete inventory now?"

"That's right."

"You don't mean to say you can make an inventory of every little thing that's in the room here."

"Sure I can. And you'll be surprised at how fast I do it."

Mason said, "I'd like to see that inventory when you get done, just to see how you go about it and how you list the stuff."

Pauley pulled a notebook from his pocket and said, "Sure thing."

"We'll drop in after a while," Mason said. "In the meantime, thanks a lot, and it was a real pleasure to see how you worked. A lot of people wouldn't have noticed that girl in the lobby."

Pauley nodded in agreement. "She was clever as hell. Just standing up and giving a little slant to the eyebrows was all the signal she gave. She'd evidently picked him up somewhere and had a date with him here in the hotel."

"Well," Mason said, nudging Drake in the ribs, "let's go."

Pauley saw them as far as the elevator, then returned to finish taking his inventory. Drake said, "Didn't know whether you wanted to play along with him or not, Perry, but I figured I'd give you a chance in case you did. He's a pompous bird, but he really knows the hotel game. A little flattery works wonders with him."

"I just wanted to take a look at the room," Mason said. "The way I figure it, the bishop was tailed to my office and found it out. He wanted to ditch the shadow, so he left his cab driver holding the sack and beat it back here. The boys who were interested in him were relying on the chap who was doing the shadowing to keep the bishop from coming back unexpectedly, so they'd have time to go through the luggage. The bishop came in and surprised them and there was a fight."

"Where does that leave the red-headed dame in the lobby?" Drake asked.

"That's what we've got to find out. I hope your men managed to pick her up."

"I think they did. Charlie Downes was on the job with orders to tail anyone who showed an interest in the bishop. I'll ring up the office and see if he's reported."

Drake called from a telephone booth in the lobby, talked for a few minutes and emerged grinning. "Check," he said. "Charlie telephoned in just a minute ago. He's down on Adams Street, camped in front of an apartment house. The red-headed dame went in there."

"Okay," Mason said, "let's go."

Drake had his own car and he made time through the traffic. Arriving at the Adams Street address, he slowed his car behind an old model Chevrolet which was parked at the curb. A man slid out from behind the wheel and walked slowly toward them. "What d'ya know?" Paul Drake asked.

Charlie Downes, a tall, gangling individual, held a pendulous cigarette from his lower lip. He stood so the two men were looking at his profile. He spoke from the right side of his mouth, which was toward them, while his eyes remained fixed on the apartment house. The cigarette bobbed up and down as he talked.

"This red-headed jane gave the bishop a tumble. He handed her the high-sign and went on up to his room, 602. A little while later the jane went up. I didn't dare to follow her, but I noticed the indicator on the elevator went to six, and then stopped. A couple of minutes later she came down looking plenty excited. She walked across the lobby, went down the street to a drug store, and telephoned. Then she came out, flagged a cab, and came here."

"Make any attempt to break her trail?" Mason asked.

"No."

"Where's she located here?" Mason asked.

"She looked in the lower mail box on the right-hand side. I took a look at the name on that box. It's Janice Seaton, and the number's 328. I buzzed a couple of apartments, got a ring and went on in. The elevator was at the third floor. So then I came back and telephoned the office and waited for instructions."

"Good boy," Drake said. "I think you've got something. Stick around here, Charlie, and if she comes out, tag her. We're going up."

The operative nodded and climbed back into his car.

Drake noticed Mason regarding the car and said, "The only kind of a car for a detective to have. Common enough so it doesn't attract attention, dependable enough so it'll go anywhere, and if a man wants to crowd someone into a curb, one more dent in the fenders doesn't mean anything."

Mason grinned and said, "I don't suppose we give this baby a buzz, do we, Paul?"

"Not a chance. We don't give her an opportunity to set the stage. We come down on her like a thousand bricks. Let's buzz a couple of other tenants." He selected a couple of apartments at random and rang the bells until an electric buzzing announced the releasing of the door catch. Pushing open the door, Drake held it for the lawyer, and the two men started climbing the stairs. They found Apartment 328 and listened for a moment in front of the door. Sounds of rapid and purposeful motion reached their ears.

"Packing up," Drake said.

Mason nodded and tapped gently with the tips of his fingers on the panels. A woman's voice on the other side of the door, sounding thin and frightened, said, "Who is it?"

Mason said, "Special delivery."

"Shove it under the door, please."

"There's two cents due on it," Mason remarked.

"Just a moment," the voice said, and steps receded from the door, only to return a moment later as someone made a futile attempt to push two copper pennies through the bottom of the door.

"Go ahead and open the door," Mason said. "I'm a mailman. What the hell do I care!" The lock clicked back. The door opened a crack. Mason pushed the toe of his shoe through the door. The young woman gave a little scream and tried to push it closed. Mason opened the door easily and said, "No need to get excited, Janice. We want to talk with you." He noticed the suitcase on the bed, the trunk, which had been dragged from the closet into the center of the floor the pile of wearing apparel on the bed and said, "Going places, were you?"

"Who are you and what do you mean by getting in here this way? Where's the special delivery letter?"

Mason indicated a chair and said, "Sit down, Paul, and be comfortable." The detective seated himself, and Mason sat down on the edge of the bed. The girl stared at them from frantic blue eyes. Her hair was the color of spun copper, and she had the smooth complexion which usually goes with such hair. She was slender, well-formed, athletic, and very frightened.

"You might as well sit down, too," Mason told her.

"Who are you? What do you mean by coming in here this way?"

"We want to find out about Bishop Mallory."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know any Bishop Mallory."

"You were over at the Regal Hotel," Mason said.

"I was not!" she blazed, with every evidence of righteous indignation.

"You went up to Mallory's room. The house detective spotted you in the lobby and saw you give the bishop the high-sign when he came in. We may be able to help you, sister, but not unless you come clean."

"You can understand," Drake added, "what a spot you're in. As nearly as we can find out, you were the last person to see the bishop alive."

She thrust her clenched fist against her teeth, pressing until the skin around the knuckles grew white. Her eyes were dark with terror. "Alive," she exclaimed. "He's not dead?"

"What do you think?" Drake asked.

Abruptly she sat down and started to cry. Mason, his eye tender with sympathy, glanced across at Paul Drake and shook a warning head. "Not too thick," he said.

Drake remarked impatiently, "If you don't get them on the run, you can't chase them around. Leave it to me." He got to his feet, placed a palm on the girl's forehead, pushed the head back and pulled her handkerchief from her eyes. "Did you kill him?" he asked.

"No!" she cried. "I tell you I don't know him. I don't know what you're talking about, and besides he isn't dead."

Mason said. "Let me handle this for a minute, Paul. No, listen, Janice, it happens that several people were watching Bishop Mallory. I'm not going to tell you who they were nor why they were watching him, but he was shadowed when he entered his hotel. You were seated in the lobby and gave him a high-sign. He motioned for you to wait a little and then come up to his room. You gave him four or five minutes, then went up in the elevator. After a little while you came down, and you were plenty excited. All of that time you were being shadowed by my men, who are trained to remember people. You don't stand any chance whatever of lying out of it. Now, then, after you left the bishop's place you went to a telephone and telephoned for an ambulance to come and pick up the bishop. That put you in a spot. I'm trying to give you a chance to get out."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"A friend of Bishop Mallory's."

"How do I know that?"

"Just at present," he said, "you take my word for it."

"I'd want something more than that."

"Okay, then, I'm a friend of yours."

"How do I know that?"

"Because I'm sitting here talking with you instead of telephoning police headquarters."

"He isn't dead?" she asked.

"No," Mason said, "he isn't dead."

Drake frowned impatiently and said, "You'll never get anywhere this way, Perry. She's going to lie now."

The girl whirled to the tall detective and said, "You shut up! He'll get a lot farther with me than you would."

Drake said impersonally, "I know the type, Perry. You've got to keep them on the run. Get them frightened and keep them that way. Try to play square with them and they'll slip out from under."

She ignored the comment, turned to Perry Mason and said, "I'll play square with you. I answered an ad in a paper."

"And met the bishop that way?"

"Yes."

"What was the ad?"

She hesitated a moment, then tilted her chin and said, "He advertised for a trained nurse who was dependable and trustworthy."

"You're a trained nurse?"

"Yes."

"How many other people answered the ad?"

"I don't know."

"When did you answer it?"

"Yesterday."

"Did the bishop give his name and address?"

"No, only a blind box."

"So you answered the ad. Then what happened?"

"Then the bishop telephoned me and said he liked my letter and wanted a personal interview."

"When was that?"

"Late last night."

"So you went to the hotel this morning for that interview?"

"No, I went to the hotel last night, and he hired me."

"Did he say what for?"

"He said he wanted me to nurse a patient."

"You're a registered nurse?" Paul Drake interrupted.

"Yes."

"Show me," Drake said.

She opened the suitcase, took out a manila envelope, handed it to the detective and immediately turned her eyes back to Mason. She was more sure of herself now, more calmly competent, more wary, and more watchful.

"So Bishop Mallory hired you?" Mason asked.

For a moment her eyes wavered. Then she shook her head and said, "No."

"What paper was it in?"

"I can't remember. It was in one of the evening papers a day or two ago. Someone called the ad to my attention."

"So Bishop Mallory hired you?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"Did he say what was wrong with the patient?"

"No, he didn't. I gathered that it was a case of insanity in the family or something of that sort."

"Why all the packing up?" Paul Drake asked, handing back the manila envelope.

"Because Bishop Mallory told me I'd have to go with him and the patient on a trip."

"Did he say where?"

"No."

"And he told you to meet him in the hotel?"

"Yes. And I wasn't to talk with him in the lobby. He was to nod if everything was all right, and I was to go up to his room after five minutes."

"Why all the mystery?" Drake asked.

"I don't know. He didn't tell me, and I didn't ask him. He was a bishop, so I knew he was all right, and he was paying good wages. Also, you know how some mental cases are. They go wild if they think they're under treatment or even observation."

"So you went up to the room," Mason said. "What did you find?"

"I found things all topsy-turvy. The bishop was lying on the floor. He had a concussion. His pulse was weak but steady. I picked him up and got him to bed. It was a job - an awful job."

"Did you see anyone in the room?"

"No."

"Was the door locked or unlocked?"

"It was open an inch or two."

"Did you see anyone in the corridor?" Mason asked.

"You mean when I went up to see the bishop?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Did you see anyone coming down in the elevator just as you went up?"

"No."

"Why didn't you notify the hotel authorities when you found the bishop?"

"I didn't think there was any need. They couldn't have done anything. I went out and telephoned for an ambulance."

"And then came here and got ready to skip out?" Drake asked sneeringly.

"I wasn't getting ready to skip out. I'd done this earlier in the day because the bishop said I'd have to travel. He said the patient was sailing on the Monterey."

"What're your plans now?"

"I'm just going to wait here until I hear from the bishop. I don't think he's seriously hurt. He'll be conscious in an hour or two at the latest unless there are sclerotic conditions."

Mason got to his feet and said, "Okay, Paul, I think she's told us everything she knows. Let's go."

Drake said, "You're going to let her get away with this, Perry?"

The lawyer's eyes were stern. "Of course I am. The trouble with you, Paul, is that you deal so much with crooks you don't know how to treat a woman who's on the square."

Drake sighed and said, "You win. Let's go."

Janice Seaton came close to Perry Mason, placed her hand on his arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. "Thank you so much," she said, "for being a gentleman."

They stepped into the corridor, heard the door slam behind them. A moment later there was a click as the key turned in the lock. Drake said to Mason, "What's the idea in being such a softy, Perry? We might have found out something if we'd made her think it was a murder pinch."

"We're finding out plenty the way it is," Mason told him. "That girl's up to something. Make her suspicious and we'll never find out what it is. Let her think she's pulled the wool over our eyes and she'll give us a lead. Put a couple of men on the job. Run over to the Regal Hotel. Hand your friend the house dick a little more salve, and see if you can get a description of some man who came down the stairs to the lobby shortly after the girl went up on the elevator and before the house dick started after her."

"Anything else?" Drake asked.

"Follow the girl wherever she goes, and get that other dope for me just as quickly as you can - you know, the manslaughter business, a line on the bishop and all that. And remember to keep a tail on that bishop. Find out what hospital he's at and get a line on his condition."

"Bet you four to one he's a phoney," Drake said.

Mason grinned and said, "No takers - not yet. Call me at the office and keep me posted on developments."

CHAPTER 3

The five o'clock exodus of workers was swarming down the elevators into the vortex of swirling humanity which flowed along the concrete canyons of the city thoroughfares. Through the windows came the sound of police whistles directing traffic, the clang of signals, the impatient gongs of street cars, the raucous horns of stalled traffic, and the ever present throbbing undertone of sound which comes from idling motors.

Della Street, seated at her secretarial desk, making entries in a ledger, looked up at the grinning figure of Perry Mason as he entered the office. "Well," she asked, "did you have your meeting with Bishop Mallory and find out what it's all about?"

He shook his head and said, "No. The bishop isn't in any condition to keep appointments. He's temporarily indisposed, and probably will be for some time. Get all of the newspapers, Della, both today's and yesterday's. We have a job checking want ads."

She started for the door to the law library, then stopped and said, "Can you tell me what happened, Chief?"

He nodded. "We traced the bishop to his hotel. Someone had tapped him to sleep with a blackjack. We ran onto a redheaded spitfire who strung us along with a lot of fairy stories. But, every once in a while her face slipped and she told the truth, because she couldn't think up the lies fast enough."

"What do we look for in the newspapers?" she asked.

"The red-head said she got in touch with the bishop by answering an ad. She may have been telling the truth, because the bishop is probably a stranger in the city. At any rate, we're going to run that angle down and see what we can find. Look under the 'Help Wanted' ads and see if we can find where someone has advertised for a nurse, young, unencumbered, and willing to travel... Her name, by the way, is Janice Seaton."

"But why would Bishop Mallory want a nurse?" she asked.

"He wants one now," Mason said, grinning, `'and perhaps he had some idea of what was coming and wanted to be prepared. He told her she was to travel with a patient."

Della Street, moving with the crisp efficiency of a thoroughly competent secretary, slipped through the door into the library, to return in a few moments with an armful of newspapers. Mason cleared a space on his desk, selected a cigarette and said, "Okay, let's start."

Together, they read through the want ads in the newspapers. At the end of fifteen minutes, Mason looked up, blinked his eyes and said, "Find anything, Della?"

She shook her head, finished the last column of ads and said, "Nothing doing, Chief."

Mason twisted his face into an exaggerated grimace and said, "Think of how Paul Drake's going to rub it into me. I figured we could get farther by giving her plenty of rope, and I was foolish enough to think I could tell when she was lying and when she was telling us the truth."

"You figured she was telling the truth about the ad?"

"I thought so, yes. Perhaps not the whole truth, but enough of it to give us a line on what was happening."

"What gave you that idea?" she asked.

"Well," Mason said slowly, "you know how it is when people lie at high speed without having any chance to make things up beforehand. They'll try to follow the truth as far as possible and then figure some falsehood which will link one batch of truth with another batch of truth. There's a certain tempo that gets in their voices when they're running along over ground they're certain of, and then they slow down a bit when they're thinking up the connecting links. I figured this ad business was on the square."

Mason got to his feet and started pacing the office floor, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, his head tilted slightly forward. "The hell of it is," he said, "Paul Drake wanted to get rough. He figured we could get somewhere getting her frightened. He might have been right. But you know how red-heads are. And this one looked able to take care of herself. I figured she'd flare up and start fighting until she got hysterical. I felt certain we'd stand more chance giving her plenty of rope and being kind to her than we would by going after her, hammer and tongs."

The telephone rang. Della Street, with her eyes still on one of the newspapers, groped for the receiver, found it and said, "Perry Mason's office," then extended the receiver toward the lawyer. "Paul Drake on the line," she said.

Mason picked up the receiver and said, "Hello, Paul. What's new?"

Drake's drawling voice showed a trace of excitement. "I've got the dope on that manslaughter for you, Perry," he said. "At least I'm hoping it's the right dope. A woman and a man had been down to Santa Ana getting married. They were on their way back to Los Angeles. The woman was driving. She'd had a few drinks. She ran into a car driven by an old rancher, a chap who was in the late seventies. Now, here's the funny thing about it: Nothing much was done at the time. They took the woman's name and address. The man died a couple of days later. But it wasn't until four months after that a warrant was filed for the arrest of the woman on a manslaughter charge. That looks sort of fishy on the face of it."

"Who was the woman?"

"She had been Julia Branner," Drake said, "but at the moment she was Mrs. Oscar Brownley. And in case you don't know it, Oscar Brownley was the son of Renwold C. Brownley."

Mason gave a low whistle and said, "Wasn't there some sort of scandal about that marriage, Paul?"

"Remember," Drake said, "that was back in 1914. Brownley made nearly all of his money on the big bull market and was wise enough to get out and duck out just before the crash in '29. Brownley in 1914 was dabbling around in real estate. Twelve years later he was a millionaire."

"Couldn't they have arrested the woman easily enough if they'd really wanted her?" Mason asked.

"No. She and Oscar had a fight with the old man and went places. About a year later, Oscar came back. The old man had turned some good real estate deals in the meantime. He rode the crest of the subdivision wave, then switched into the stock market, made a killing, and got out."

"Where's Oscar now? Didn't he die?"

"That's right. He died two or three years ago."

"He left a daughter, didn't he?"

"Yes. There's something more or less mysterious about that daughter. You know, Renwold was all wrapped up in Oscar. It wasn't until after Oscar died that he was willing to recognize the granddaughter. You see, he'd bitterly disapproved of the marriage, and apparently figured the daughter was a mistake on the part of the mother, rather than any offspring of his son. Two years ago he hunted up the granddaughter and took her in to live with him. No great commotion was made over it. The girl simply moved in with Renwold."

Mason frowned thoughtfully, clamped the receiver to his ear with his left hand, made drumming motions with the fingertips of his right hand on the edge of the desk. "Then the mother of the girl who is now living in the lap of luxury in Renwold Brownley's Beverly Hills residence is a fugitive from justice on a manslaughter warrant issued in Orange County twenty-two years ago?"

"That's right," Drake said.

"This thing," Mason told him, "commences to be really interesting. What do you hear from the bishop, Paul?"

"Still unconscious at the Receiving Hospital, but surgeons say it's nothing serious. He'll regain consciousness any minute. They're taking him to a private hospital. I'll find out where it is and let you know."

"You're keeping shadows on that Seaton girl?"

"I'll tell the world. I've got two men there, one watching the front of the apartment house and one the back. I wish you had let me tear into her, Perry. We had her on the run and then..."

Mason chuckled and said, "You don't know your red-heads, Paul. It'll turn out all right. Find out all you can about that Brownley angle and let me know just as soon as you get anything definite."

"By the way," Drake said, "I found out a little more about the bishop. He came in six days ago on the Monterey and was in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco for four days. Then he came down here."

"Well, see what you can find out in San Francisco," Mason said. "Find out who called on him at the hotel and all that sort of stuff. Let me know as soon as you get anything else. I'll be here for an hour or so. Then Della and I are going out to get some eats."

Mason hung up the receiver and resumed his pacing of the office. He had taken only two turns, however, when Della Street said excitedly, "Wait a minute, Chief. You were right after all. Here it is!"

"What?"

"The ad."

He strode to her secretarial desk, stood with one hand on her shoulder, leaning over, looking at the ad she was indicating with the point of a polished nail: "IF THE DAUGHTER OF CHARLES W. AND GRACE SEATON, WHO FORMERLY LIVED IN RENO, NEVADA, WILL GET IN TOUCH WITH BOX XYZ LOS ANGELES EXAMINER SHE WILL LEARN SOMETHING OF GREAT ADVANTAGE TO HERSELF."

Mason whistled and said, "In the personal column, eh?"

Della Street nodded, grinned up at him and said, "You see, I have more faith in your judgment than you have. If you thought she was telling the truth about an ad, I was willing to gamble on it. But when we couldn't find it in the 'Help Wanted' or 'Business Opportunities,' I decided to take a look at the 'Personals.'"

Mason said, "Let's look at the Times and see if he has one in there. When was this?"

"Yesterday," she said.

Mason pulled out the Times classified ad section of the same date, ran hurriedly down the "Personals" and then gave a low whistle and said, "Look at this, Della."

Together, they stared at an ad reading: "WANTED: INFORMATION WHICH WILL ENABLE ME TO GET IN TOUCH WITH A JANICE SEATON WHO WILL BE TWENTY-TWO YEARS OF AGE ON FEBRUARY 19TH. SHE IS A GRADUATE NURSE, RED-HEADED, BLUE EYES, ATTRACTIVE, WEIGHT ABOUT A HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN, HEIGHT FIVE FEET ONE. IS THE DAUGHTER OF CHARLES W. SEATON WHO WAS KILLED SIX MONTHS AGO IN AN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. $25 REWARD TO THE FIRST PERSON FURNISHING AUTHENTIC INFORMATION. BOX ABC LOS ANGELES TIMES.

Della Street picked up a pair of scissors and snipped both ads from the papers. "Well?" she asked.

Mason grinned and said, "Saves my face with Paul Drake."

"And," she told him, "I take it the plot thickens?"

Mason frowned and said, "Yes, it thickens like the gravy I made on my last camping trip - all in a bunch of lumps, which don't seem to be smoothing out."

She laughed up at him and said, "Did you apologize for the gravy, Chief?"

"Hell, no!" he told her. "I told the boys that it was the latest thing out, something I'd learned from the chef in a famous New York restaurant; that it was Thousand-Island Gravy.

"Ring up Paul Drake, tell him we're going to dinner. Don't tell him anything about the ad. Let's see if he finds it. Tell him to meet us here after dinner."

"Listen, Chief," she told him, "aren't you sort of getting the cart before the horse? We're finding out a lot about the bishop, but not very much for him. After all, what the bishop wanted to know was about a manslaughter case."

Mason nodded thoughtfully and said, "That's what he said he wanted to know about. But I smelled something big in the wind, and the scent keeps getting stronger. The thing which bothers me is that it's getting too strong. I tried putting two and two together, and the answer I get is six."

CHAPTER 4

Perry Mason was in a rare good humor as he ordered cocktails and dinner. Della Street, watching him with the insight which comes from years of close association, said, as she tilted her cocktail glass, "Riding the crest, aren't you, Chief?"

He nodded, eyes brimming with the joy of living. "How I love a mystery, Della," he said. "I hate routine. I hate details. I like the thrill of matching my wits with crooks. I like to have people lie to me and catch them in their lies. I love to listen to people talk and wonder how much of it is true and how much of it is false. I want life, action, shifting conditions. I like to fit facts together, bit by bit, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle."

"And you think this stuttering bishop is trying to slip something over on you?" she asked.

Mason twisted the stem of his empty cocktail glass in his fingers. "Darned if I know, Della," he told her. "The bishop's playing a deep game. I sensed it the minute he came into the office, and somehow, I have the feeling that he wanted to keep me in the dark as to his real purpose. That's why I'm going to get such a kick out of outguessing him, figuring what he wants before he's willing to let me know just what he wants. Come on, let's dance." He swept her out on the dance floor, where they moved with the perfect rhythm of long practice together. The dance over, they returned to find the first course of the dinner set before them.

"Tell me about it," she invited him, "if you want to."

"I want to," Mason said. "I want to run over all of the facts, just to see if I can't fit them together. Some of them you know, some of them you don't know.

"Let's begin at the beginning. A man who claims to be an Australian bishop comes to call on me. He's excited and he stutters. Every time he stutters, he gets mad at himself. Now why?"

"Because," she said. "he knows that a bishop shouldn't stutter. Perhaps it's some habit he's developed recently, due to an emotional shock, and he's wondering what will happen if he returns to Australia and stutters."

"Swell," he told her. "That's a good logical explanation. That's the one which occurred to me right at the start. But suppose the man isn't a bishop but is some crook masquerading, for one reason or another, as Bishop Mallory of Sydney, Australia. He's inclined to stutter when he becomes excited. Therefore, he tries his darnedest not to stutter, the result being that he stutters just that much more. He's afraid that stuttering is going to give him away." She nodded slowly.

"Now then," Mason said, "this bishop wants to see me about a manslaughter case. He doesn't mention names, but it's virtually certain the manslaughter case is one involving the Julia Branner who became Mrs. Oscar Brownley, Oscar Brownley being the older of Renwold C. Brownley's two sons.

"I don't need to tell you about Brownley. The younger son died six or seven years ago. Oscar went away with his wife, no one knows just where. Then he came back. The woman didn't. Manslaughter charges were pending against her in Orange County. But those charges weren't filed until some time after the automobile accident."

"Well?" she asked.

"Well," Mason said, "suppose I should tell you that Renwold Brownley knew that his son Oscar was coming back to him and was afraid the woman was going to try to come back. Wouldn't it be a smart move for Renwold Brownley to pull some political wires and get a warrant of arrest issued for her? Then the minute she returned to California he could have her thrown into jail on a manslaughter charge."

Della Street nodded absently, pushed back her soup dish and said, "Aren't there two grandchildren living with Brownley?"

"That's right," he said. "Philip Brownley, whose father was the younger son, and a girl whose first name I've forgotten, who's the daughter of Oscar. Now Bishop Mallory comes over on the Monterey, stays four or five days in San Francisco, puts some ads in the local papers and..."

"Wait a minute," she interrupted. "I've just remembered something. You say the bishop came over on the Monterey?"

"Yes, why?"

She laughed nervously and said, "Chief, you know a lot about human nature. Why do stenographers, secretaries and shop girls read the society news?"

"I'll bite. Why do they?"

She shrugged her shoulders. For a moment her eyes were wistful. "I'm darned if I know, Chief. I wouldn't want to live unless I could work for a living, and yet I like to read about who's at Palm Springs, who's doing what in Hollywood and all the rest of it, and every secretary I know does the same thing."

Watching her narrowly, Mason said, "Skip the preliminaries, Della, and tell me what this's all about."

She said slowly, "I happen to remember that Janice Alma Brownley, the granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley, was a passenger on the Monterey from Sydney to San Francisco, and the newspapers said that the attractive young heiress was the center of social life aboard the ship, or words to that effect, if you get what I mean. You see, Chief, you don't know the granddaughter's first name, but I can tell you lots about her."

Mason stared across the table at her and said, "Twelve."

"What?" she asked.

"Twelve," he repeated, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Chief, what on earth are you talking about?"

"I told you a minute ago that when I added two and two in this case I didn't get four, but six, and it bothered me," he said. "Now I add two and two and make twelve."

"Twelve what?"

He shook his head and said, "Let's not even think of it for a while. It's not often that we have a chance to relax, Della. Let's eat, drink and be merry, have a few dances, go back to the office and get Paul Drake in for a conference. By that time the thing I'm chasing will probably turn out to be just a mirage. But in the meantime," he said, somewhat wistfully, "just in case it shouldn't be a mirage, what a gosh-awful case it would be. A regular humdinger of a case. A gee whillikins of a case!"

"Tell me, Chief."

He shook his head and said, "It can't be true, Della. It's just a mirage. Lets not talk about it and then we won't be disappointed if Paul Drake unearths information which shows we're all wet."

She regarded him thoughtfully and said, "Do you mean that this girl..."

"Tut, tut," he told her warningly, "don't argue with the boss. Come on, Della, this is a fox-trot. Remember now, we're giving our minds a recess."

Mason refused to be hurried through the dinner, or to discuss any business. Della Street matched his mood. For more than an hour they enjoyed one of those rare periods of intimacy which comes to people who have worked together, sharing disappointments and triumphs, who understand each other so perfectly that there is no need for any of the little hypocrisies which are so frequently the rule rather than the exception in human contacts.

Not until after the dessert had been taken away and the lawyer had sipped the very last drop of his liqueur did he sigh and say, "Well, Della, let's go back to our mirage-chasing and prove that it really is a mirage after all."

"You think it is?" she asked.

"I don't know," he told her, "but I'm afraid to think it isn't. In any event, let's telephone Drake to meet us at the office."

"Listen, Chief," she said, "I've been thinking. Suppose this woman, knowing there was a felony warrant out for her arrest in California, fled to Australia and suppose..."

"Not a word," he said, gripping her shoulder. "Let's not go jumping around in the clouds. We'll keep our feet on the ground. You telephone Paul Drake to meet us at the office, and I'll get a cab."

She nodded, but her eyes were preoccupied. "Of course," she said, "if he shouldn't be the real bishop but should be an impostor..."

Mason pointed a rigid forefinger at her, crooked his thumb as though it had been the trigger of a revolver, and said, "Halt, or I fire."

She laughed and said, "I'll call Paul while I'm powdering my nose, Chief," and vanished into the dressing room.

Paul Drake tapped on the door of Perry Mason's private office and Della Street let him in. "You two look well fed," Drake remarked, grinning at them.

Mason had lost the carefree mannerism of the cabaret. His face was thoughtful, his eyes half closed in concentration. "What about the bishop, Paul?" he asked.

"The bishop is at present perfectly able to navigate under his own power," Drake said. "He's out of the hospital and back at his hotel. He can't wear a hat, though. His head is so covered with bandages that only one eye and the tip of his nose are showing. According to last reports, he's pursuing the even tenor of his ecclesiastical ways."

"And how about the Seaton girl?"

"Still in her apartment on West Adams Street. She hasn't budged. Apparently she's waiting for a call from the bishop and isn't going to leave until it comes in."

Mason frowned thoughtfully and said, "That doesn't make sense, Paul."

"It's one of the few things that does make sense," the detective rejoined. "She was packing up when we busted in on her. Evidently she was getting ready to go places. She admitted she was to travel with the bishop or with some patient he was to get for her. So she's waiting for the bishop to give her definite instructions. She hasn't stuck her nose outdoors since the bishop went to the hospital."

"Hasn't been out to dinner?"

"Hasn't even opened the back door to dump out any garbage," Drake said.

"You've got two men watching the front and back of the apartment?"

"That's right. The man who followed her to the apartment was watching the front, and I had an operative at the back within five minutes of the time we left there."

Mason said, "Della supplied a fact which may be important. Janice Alma Brownley came over on the Monterey from Australia."

"Well," Drake asked, "what about it?"

"Bishop Mallory came over on the same ship. They were together for two or three weeks on shipboard. And, mind you, unless there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, the woman the bishop is inquiring about on the manslaughter business is the mother of the Brownley girl."

Drake frowned thoughtfully.

Mason said, "Della and I have been toying around with an idea, Paul. It may be goofy. I haven't dared to think about it out loud. I want you to listen to it and see what you think."

"Go to it," Drake told him. "I'm always willing to punch holes in ideas."

"Suppose," Mason said, "the Branner woman skipped out to Australia. Suppose, after Oscar Brownley went back to the States, she had a baby. Suppose Bishop Mallory, being at that time a Church of England minister, was given the child to put in a good home somewhere. Suppose he gave her to a family named Seaton, and then suppose when he came to the United States on the Monterey he found some girl on the ship posing as Janice Brownley and knew she was an impostor; but suppose he wanted to play his cards pretty close to his chest and get some definite proof before he started any fireworks, and among other things, wanted to dig up the real Brownley girl - now why wouldn't that fit with the facts?"

Drake thought for a moment and then said, "No, Perry, that's goofy. In the first place, it's all surmise. In the second place, the girl couldn't have been received into the Brownley household without the mother knowing about it, and if it had been the wrong girl she'd have raised merry hell."

"Suppose," Mason interrupted, "the mother was out of the state and didn't know about it but is just finding it out. Then she'd come on here to really raise some hell."

"Well," Drake said, "she hasn't showed up. That's the best answer to that. Also, don't forget that good-looking gals change a lot from the time they're little pink morsels of humanity until they blossom forth into dazzling heiresses. Bishop Mallory is probably far more interested in ecclesiastical duties than tagging babies whom he has farmed out for adoption... No, Perry, I think you've got a wrong hunch. But this may be the case: Someone may be going to pull a shake-down and in order to work it they need a Bishop Mallory to lay the foundation, so if they had a fake Bishop Mallory call on a credulous but aggressive lawyer and spill a sob-sister story they might throw enough monkey wrenches in the Brownley machinery to get a rake-off."

"So you think the bishop is a fake?" Mason asked.

"Right from the first," Drake said, "I figured this bishop was a crook. I don't like that stuttering business, Perry."

Mason said slowly, "Neither do I, when you come right down to it."

"Well," Drake said, grinning, "we're right down to it."

"So," Mason said, "I think we'll talk with Bishop Mallory again - that is, unless he gets in touch with me first. How long's he been at the hotel, Paul?"

"Around half an hour I'd say. They patched him up at the hospital, and after he recovered consciousness he was none the worse for wear, except for the headache and the flock of bandages on his head."

"What did he tell the police?"

"He said he opened the door of his room and someone jumped out from behind the door and hit him, and that's all he remembers."

Mason frowned and said, "That wouldn't account for the broken mirror and the busted chair, Paul. There was a fight in that room."

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, "All I know is that that's the story he told the police. Of course, Perry, sometimes when a man's been given a knock on the bean that way he forgets a good deal of what happened."

"You've got a man trailing the bishop?" Mason asked.

"Two men," Drake said. "Two men in two separate cars. We're not letting him out of our sight."

Mason said thoughtfully, "Let's go talk with this Seaton girl again, and let's take Della along. The kid's a redheaded spitfire, but she may loosen up if Della talks to her."

Drake's voice showed resentment. "We'll never get anything out of her now," he said.

"Why the accent on the now?" Mason asked.

"I don't like the way you handled it, Perry. I know her type. We should have kept her on the run, made her think the bishop had been murdered, pretended she was a logical suspect, and then she'd have told the truth in order to clear her skirts."

"She told some of the truth, anyway," Mason said, "about getting in touch with him through an ad, for instance." Mason motioned to Della Street, who handed over the ads she had clipped from the personal columns. Mason gave them to the detective who stared at them frowningly and said, "What the devil's the idea, Perry?"

"I don't know, Paul, unless it's the way I outlined to you. Have you heard anything more from Australia, Paul?"

"No. I've wired my correspondents for a description and asked them to cable the bishop's present address."

Mason said thoughtfully, "I keep thinking that Seaton girl holds the key to this thing. We'll drop in on her, ask a few more questions, and then go see His Nibs, the Stuttering Bishop. And by that time I think we'll have an earful."

Paul Drake said, "Of course, Perry, it's none of my business but why go to all this trouble over a case which probably isn't going to amount to anything, which hasn't paid you any fee and where no one seems to be in particularly urgent need of your services?"

He shrugged and said, "I'm afraid, Paul, you overlook the potential possibilities of the situation. In the first place, it's a mystery, and you know how I feel about mysteries. In the second place, unless all signs fail, what we're having so far is what is technically known as the 'build-up.'"

"Build-up to what?" Drake asked in his slow drawl.

Mason looked at his wristwatch and said, "My guess is the within twelve hours I'll receive a call from a woman who gives her name either as Julia Branner or Mrs. Oscar Brownley."

The detective said, "You may, at that, Perry. And she may be phoney. If she isn't - well, you might have lots of action."

Mason put on his hat and said, "Come on. Let's go."

They went in Drake's car to the apartment house on West Adams. Behind the windshield of a battered car, a little spot of light marked the glowing end of a cigarette. A figure detached itself from the black shadows and proved to be that of Charlie Downes. "All clear?" Drake asked.

"Everything's under control," the man grinned. "How long do I stay here?"

"You'll be relieved at midnight," Drake said. "Until then, stick on the job. We're going up. She may go out as soon as we leave. If she does, we want to know where she goes."

They took the elevator to the third floor. Drake led the way to Apartment 328 and tapped gently on the panels. There was no answer. He knocked more loudly.

Mason whispered, "Wait a minute, Paul. I've got an idea." He said to Della Street, "Call out, 'Open the door, Janice, this is I.'"

Della Street nodded, placed her mouth close to the door and said, "Open up, Janice. It's I."

Again there was no sound of motion. Mason dropped to his knees, took a long envelope from his pocket, inserted it under the door, moved it back and forth and said, "There's no light in there, Paul."

"The devil!" Paul Drake said.

They stood in a silent, compact group for a moment. Then Drake said, "I'm going down and make certain the back end of the place is covered, and has been covered ever since we left."

"We'll wait here," Mason told him. Drake didn't wait to use the elevator, but ran down the stairs.

"Suppose," Della Street ventured. "that she really couldn't have left the building."

"Well?" Mason asked.

"Then she's in there."

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps she's... you know."

"You mean committed suicide?"

"Yes."

Mason said, "She didn't look like that kind to me, Della. She looked like a fighter. But of course there's some chance she's wise enough to have gone into some friend's apartment here in the same building. That's one thing we may have to figure on. Or, she may be inside, playing possum."

They stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting.

Drake came back, panting from his exertion in taking the stairs two at a time, and said, "She's sewed up in the place. It's a cinch she hasn't left by either the front or the rear. She's bound to be inside. You know, Perry, there's just a chance..."

His voice trailed away into silence and Perry said, "Yes, Della was wondering about that. But, somehow, I can't figure her for that sort of a play."

Drake grinned and said, "I know a way we can find out."

"Speaking as a lawyer," Mason observed, "I'd say such a method would be highly illegal."

Drake produced a folding leather tool kit from his pocket and took out some skeleton keys.

"Which'll it be," he asked, "conscience or curiosity?"

Mason said, "Curiosity."

Drake fitted a key in the lock and Mason said to Della. "You'd better keep out of this, Della. Stand in the corridor and don't come in. Then you won't be guilty of anything in case there's a squawk."

Drake clicked back the lock and said, "If you see anybody coming, Della, start knocking on the door. We'll lock it from the inside. When we hear you knock that'll be our signal to keep quiet."

"Suppose it should be the girl herself?" Della Street asked.

"It won't be. She can't have left. But if it should be, she's about twenty-one or twenty-two, with dark copper hair that's alive, eyes that have plenty of fire, and a peaches-and-cream complexion. She's easy on the eyes. Try and think up some stall which will take her away and give us a chance to get out. Tell her there's someone waiting in the car downstairs who is very anxious to see her. Don't mention any names, but let her think it's the bishop, and see what her reaction is to that."

"Okay," Della said, "don't worry. I'll work out some thing."

"She's dynamite," Mason warned. "Don't start an argument with her because I wouldn't put it past her to start hair pulling."

"Do we switch on the lights?" Drake asked.

"Sure," Mason said.

"Okay, here goes."

"Close the door first," Mason warned.

They closed the door. Drake groped for the light switch and clicked the room into brilliance. Apparently it was exactly as they had seen it earlier in the day. The clothes were piled on the bed, the wardrobe trunk was open in the center of the floor and partially packed.

Mason said in a low voice, "If she did anything, Paul, she did it right after we were here talking with her. You take a look in the bathroom; I'll take the kitchenette."

"Don't forget the big closet behind the bed, either," Drake said. "My God, Perry, I'm afraid to take a look. If we find her dead, it's going to put us in one hell of a spot."

"Are you," asked Perry Mason, "telling me?"

They separated, made a hasty search of the apartment, and met once more by the bed, with sheepish grins.

"Well, Perry," Drake said, "she out-smarted us. Of course, there's a chance she has a friend here in the building and has gone in with her."

Mason shook his head and said, "If she'd been doing that she'd probably have finished her packing so she'd be all ready to come back, grab her stuff and make a dash for it just as soon as the coast was clear. No, Paul, she walked out on us through the back door within five minutes of the time we left the place and before your second man had time to get on the job."

Drake sighed and said, "I guess you're right, Perry. But it makes me sore to think she took me as easily as that. Here I've been sewing the place up tight while she's been on the loose."

Mason said grimly, "Well, we'll go and see the bishop. Della, you go back to the office and stick around. Keep the light on and the outer door open." As he saw the look of inquiry on her face, he said, "I want you to wait for Julia Branner, or Mrs. Oscar Brownley, whatever name she's going under. We'll drive you over to the boulevard and you can get a taxi. Then we'll go on to the Regal Hotel."

Drake left orders his men were to keep a watch of the apartment and report as soon as Janice Seaton returned. They drove Della Street to the boulevard, saw her headed for the office in a cab, and drove directly to the Regal Hotel. In the hotel, Drake looked around in the lobby and said, "I don't see either of the boys here."

"What does that mean?" Mason asked.

"Probably that he's gone out."

"Meeting the Seaton girl somewhere," Mason surmised.

"I'll hunt up Jim Pauley and see if he knows anything," Drake said. "There he is now, over... Hey, Jim!"

The house detective, looking ponderously incongruous in a tuxedo, ducked his bald head in a grinning greeting and came strutting across the lobby. "This Mallory is a Church of England bishop," he said, "and right now he's nursing a mighty sore head. But he's a good sport. He says there is nothing missing and he isn't going to make a squawk about it so we can hush it up. Under the circumstances, we're ready to meet him halfway. By the way, he went out a while ago and left a letter for Mr. Mason."

Mason and Drake exchanged glances. "A letter for me?" Mason asked.

"Yeah. It's at the desk. I'll get it."

"Take any baggage with him?" Drake asked.

"No. He was just going out for dinner, I think."

The detective stepped behind the counter and took a sealed envelope from a pigeon-hole. The envelope was addressed: "Perry Mason, Attorney at Law. To be delivered to Mr. Mason when he calls this evening."

Mason slit open the envelope. A five-dollar bill was clipped to a sheet of hotel stationery. A brief note read:

"DEAR MR. MASON: I realized I was being followed shortly after I left your office, so I got the janitor to let me out through the basement and alley. I subsequently telephoned to try and locate my cab, and found that you had paid it off. I am, therefore, reimbursing you herewith.

Insofar as the advice which you have given me is concerned, I beg you to consider it as bread cast upon the waters, and believe I can assure you that it will be returned a thousandfold.

WILLIAM MALLORY"

Mason sighed, pulled the five-dollar bill from the clip, folded it, and slipped it in his vest pocket. "The bishop didn't say when he'd be back, did he?" Mason asked.

Jim Pauley shook his head, said, "A mighty nice chap, the bishop. Didn't seem to resent things at all. He got a lulu of a crack on his head. Couldn't even wear his hat. Had to be all bandaged up like a turban."

Mason nodded to Drake and said significantly, "Suppose you call your office, Paul."

Drake went into the telephone booth and talked for several moments into the transmitter. Then he opened the door of the booth and beckoned to Mason. "My operatives have reported back," he said in a low monotone, keeping his head back in the shadows of the booth. "They followed the bishop to Piers 157-158, Los Angeles harbor. He stopped at a pawnshop on the way, and bought two suitcases and some clothes. They followed him from there to the pier. He went up the gangplank of the S.S. Monterey, and he didn't come down again. The Monterey sailed tonight for Australia via Honolulu and Pago Pago. My men followed the ship in a speed launch well beyond the breakwater, to make sure the bishop didn't get off. Looks like your friend has taken a run-out powder. Watch your step, Perry. He's a phoney."

Mason shrugged and said, "Let me at that phone, Paul."

Della Street's voice on the line was excited, "Hello, Chief," she said. "You win."

"On what?" he asked.

"Julia Branner is here at the office, waiting for you; says she must see you at once."

CHAPTER 5

Julia Branner stared at Perry Mason with reddish-brown eyes which matched the glint in her hair. Her face was that of a young woman in the late twenties, save for a line beneath her chin and incipient calipers which stretched from her nose to the corners of her lips when she smiled.

"It's rather unusual for me to see clients at this hour," Mason said.

"I just got in," she told him. "I saw a light in your office, so I came in. Your secretary said you might see me."

"Live here in the city?" Mason asked.

"I'm staying with a friend at 214-A West Beechwood. I'm going to share an apartment with her."

"Married or single?" Mason asked casually.

"I go by the name of Miss Branner."

"You're working?"

"Not at present, but I've been working until recently. I have a little money."

"You've been working here in this city?"

"No, not here."

"Where?"

"Does that make any difference?"

"Yes," Mason told her.

"In Salt Lake City."

"And you say you're sharing an apartment with a woman here?"

"Yes."

"Someone you've known for some time?"

"Yes, I knew her in Salt Lake City. I've known her for years. We shared an apartment in Salt Lake."

"Telephone?"

"Yes, Gladstone eight-seven-one-nine."

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm a nurse... But wouldn't it be better for me to tell you what I want to see you about, Mr. Mason, before we go into all of these incidental matters?"

Mason shook his head slowly and said, "I always like to get the picture. How did you happen to consult me?"

"I heard you were a very fine lawyer."

"So you came on here from Salt Lake City to see me?"

"Well, not exactly."

"You came by train?"

"No, by plane."

"When?"

"Recently."

"Precisely when did you arrive?"

"At ten o'clock this morning - if you have to know."

"Who recommended me to you?"

"A man I knew in Australia."

Mason raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Bishop Mallory. He wasn't a bishop when I knew him, but he's a bishop now."

"And he suggested you come here?"

"Yes."

"Then you've seen the bishop since your arrival?"

She hesitated and said slowly, "I can't see that that makes any difference, Mr. Mason."

Mason smiled and said, "Well, perhaps you're right, particularly since I don't think I'm going to be able to handle your case. You see, I'm very busy with a lot of important matters and..."

"Oh, but you must. I... you'll just have to, that's all."

"When did you see Bishop Mallory?" Mason asked.

She sighed and said, "A few hours ago."

"But you've been here since morning?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you come to see me during office hours?"

She shifted her position uneasily. Resentment flared for a moment in her reddish-brown eyes. Then she took a deep breath and said slowly, "Bishop Mallory suggested I come to you. I couldn't see the bishop until a short time ago. He'd been injured and was in a hospital."

"And he suggested you come to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did he give you a letter to me?"

"No."

"Then," Mason said, making his tone carry an implied accusation, "you have absolutely nothing to show that you actually know Bishop Mallory, that you actually saw him, or that he suggested you come to me." She fought back resentment in her eyes and shook her head. Mason said, "Under those circumstances I'm quite certain I couldn't interest myself in your problems."

She seemed to debate with herself for a moment, then snapped open the black handbag which had been reposing in her lap. "I think," she said, "this may answer your question." Her gloved fingers fumbled around in the inside of the purse. Mason's eyes suddenly glinted with interest as the lights reflected from the blued steel barrel of an automatic which nestled within the black bag. As though sensing his scrutiny, she pivoted her body in a half-turn so that her shoulder was between Mason's eyes and the bag. Then she pulled out a yellow envelope, took from it a Western Union telegram, carefully snapped the bag shut and handed the telegram to Mason.

The telegram had been sent from San Francisco and was addressed to Julia Branner, care of The Sisters' Hospital, Salt Lake City, Utah, and read simply: MEET ME REGAL HOTEL LOS ANGELES AFTERNOON OF THE FOURTH. BRING ALL DOCUMENTS - WILLIAM MALLORY.

Mason frowned thoughtfully at the telegram and said, "You didn't meet Bishop Mallory this afternoon?"

"No. I told you he'd been injured."

"You saw him this evening, a few hours ago?"

"Yes."

"Did he say anything to you about his future plans?"

"No."

"Just what did he say?"

"He suggested I should see you and tell you my entire story."

Mason sat back in his swivel chair and said, "Go ahead."

"Do you," she asked, "know of Renwold C. Brownley?"

"I've heard of him," Mason said noncommittally.

"Did you know of an Oscar Brownley?"

"I've heard of him."

"I," she announced, "am Mrs. Oscar Brownley!"

She paused dramatically. Mason took a cigarette from the case on his desk and said, "And you are, I believe, a fugitive from justice under an old felony warrant for manslaughter issued in Orange County."

Her jaw sagged as though he had struck her unexpectedly in the solar plexus. "How... how did you know that? The bishop wasn't to tell you that!"

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I merely mentioned it so you'd realize it wouldn't be worthwhile to misrepresent matters to me. Suppose you go ahead and tell me your story and make sure you tell me all of it."

She took a deep breath and rushed headlong into an account which poured from her lips with such glib alacrity that it might have been memorized or, on the other hand, might have been the result of long brooding over wrongs. "Twenty-two years ago," she said, "I was wild - plenty wild. Renwold Brownley was in the real estate business and didn't have very much money. Oscar was the apple of his eye, but Oscar liked to step around in the white lights. I was a nurse. I met Oscar at a party. He fell in love with me, and we were married. It was one of those hectic affairs which sometimes happen.

"The old man was furious because we hadn't consulted him; but I think it would have been all right if it hadn't been for the auto accident. That was a mess. We'd had a few drinks but I wasn't drunk. An old man, whose reactions were so sluggish he shouldn't have been driving a car anyway, came around the corner on the wrong side. I tried to avoid him by swinging over sharply to the left. If he'd stayed on his left side, everything would have been all right, but he got rattled and pulled back to the right. As a result, when the accident took place I was apparently entirely in the wrong. I wasn't tight, but I'd been drinking. Oscar was good and tight. That's why I was driving the car.

"You know how they used to be in Orange County. They'd put you in jail for going thirty miles an hour. Oscar made a touch from his dad, and we skipped out. We were going on a honeymoon, anyway. We went to Australia.

"Then was when I got double-crossed and didn't know it. Oscar asked his dad to hush the thing up and make a cash settlement, but, the way it looks now, the old man did just the opposite. It was right about that time he commenced to make money - big money. Oscar was the apple of his eye. He thought that Oscar had thrown himself away on a wild, harum-scarum woman who would have given herself to him or to anyone else without marriage as easily as with marriage. We were in a strange country. I had the very devil of a time getting work. Oscar couldn't get anything. The old man evidently pulled political wires, not to hush the accident up, but to get a manslaughter warrant issued for me so I could never come back. Then he corresponded secretly with Oscar.

"I didn't know all this at the time. I came home one day and found Oscar gone. His father had cabled him money to come home. I worked for a few months after that and then couldn't work any longer until my child was born. Oscar didn't even know about her, and I swore that he never should. I hated him and hated his family and hated all they stood for. At that time I didn't know how much money Renwold Brownley was making. It wouldn't have made much difference if I had. I determined to stand on my own two feet... But I couldn't keep the child, and I was damned if I'd let him have her.

"Bishop Mallory was a rector Church of England, you know - and one of the most human ministers I've ever known. He didn't have the smug, self-righteous attitude so many preachers have. He was a man who wanted to help people - and he helped me. I confided in him, and one day he came to me and told me he had a chance to get a good home for Janice. He said the people weren't particularly wealthy but they were comfortably situated and could give Janice an education. But they insisted that I must never know who had taken her and must never try to follow her. Bishop Mallory had to promise by everything he held sacred he'd never tell me anything about her or where she was."

"He's kept that promise?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely," Julia Branner said, and there were tears in her eyes. "When we're young we're impulsive. We do things without thinking that we're bound to regret them afterwards. I got married on impulse and I released all claims on my daughter on impulse. I've regretted doing both..." Her lips quivered. She blinked rapidly and said, "Not that it makes a d-d-damned bit of difference - regrets, I mean." She tossed her head and went on, "Don't worry, Mr. Mason, I'm not going to bawl. I've fought my way through life. I've violated damn near all the conventions at one time or another, and I've paid the price. I haven't whimpered and I'm not going to whimper."

"Go on," Mason said.

"After several years I came back to the States. I found that Renwold Brownley was wallowing in money. Apparently Oscar didn't have anything except what Renwold wanted to give him. Naturally, I thought Oscar should do something for me. I got in touch with him. He wrote me a very short letter. So far as he was concerned, I was merely a fugitive from justice. The old man was very bitter. If I returned to California, I'd be prosecuted on that manslaughter charge... Oh, I saw the sketch, all right, but what could I do? I was a nurse working for wages. Oscar'd got a divorce on some charge or another. Renwold Brownley had millions. There was a manslaughter warrant out for me. Not that I cared particularly about coming to California. I didn't want Oscar back. I did think he might make some sort of settlement, but my hands were tied. The charge against me wasn't just one of drunken driving; it was a manslaughter charge and, with Renwold Brownley's money and political backing against me, I'd have been railroaded to the penitentiary, lost my citizenship, lost my standing as a nurse, lost my ability to earn a living... Anyway, that's the way I felt about it. I was too frightened even to consult a lawyer because I didn't dare to confide in one."

"Go on," Mason said, his voice showing interest.

"The only thing I wanted was to have my daughter get something of what was rightfully hers. So I wrote to Australia. The Reverend William Mallory had become a bishop by that time, but he couldn't give me any help. He reminded me of my promise and of his. My daughter had been taken by people who were good to her. She thought they were her own father and mother. They were so attached to her they'd have died rather than let her think differently. They didn't have any great amount of money but they were fairly well fixed. I learned the my daughter had a natural aptitude for nursing and had wanted to do that more than anything else on earth. She was in a hospital, studying. She wanted to train herself to nurse children - she would. She came by it honestly. Mr. Mason, I moved heaven and earth to find her. I'd made a promise, but what the hell's a promise when it's the case of a mother trying to find her own daughter? I spent every cent I could get, hiring detectives. They couldn't find her. Bishop Mallory had been too smart. He'd covered the trail too well, and he wouldn't talk. And then I got this wire from Bishop Mallory. I though he was going to tell me everything. My girl is of age now. There's no reason why she shouldn't know, and I think the people who adopted her have died, but the bishop wouldn't tell me anything. He only said I was to see you. But I did find out that after Oscar died, Renwold realized there was a grandchild somewhere, and he'd employed detectives to find her. He'd taken a girl named Janice in to live with him... But, Bishop Mallory tells me she isn't the real Janice. She's fraud." She paused, staring with hot, defiant eyes at the lawyer.

"What do you want me to do?" Mason asked.

"Nothing for me, but I want you to rip the mask off of the spurious granddaughter. I want you to find my daughter and see that she's recognized as a Brownley."

"That wouldn't necessarily mean anything," Mason said. "Renwold could make a will disinheriting her. I think there's another grandchild, isn't there - a grandson?"

"Yes, a Philip Brownley. But somehow I think Renwold would never disinherit Janice. I think he'd do something for her."

"And that's all?" Mason asked.

"That's all."

"Nothing for yourself?"

"Not a damned cent... You don't mind my cussing once in a while, do you? It makes me feel better. I've been kicked around and I've found I have to either bawl or cuss. Personally, I prefer to cuss."

Mason regarded her in slow appraisal and suddenly said, "Julia, why are you carrying that gun?"

She grabbed instinctively at the bag in her lap, pushed it to the other side of her body. Mason's eyes bored steadily into hers. "Answer me," he said.

She said slowly, "I had to go back and forth from the hospital at all hours of the night. Some of the nurses were annoyed. The police themselves suggested it would be a good thing for me to carry a gun."

"And you have a permit for it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why are you carrying it now?"

"I don't know. I've always carried it ever since I bought it. It's become second nature, just like carrying lipstick. I swear that's the only reason, Mr. Mason."

"If," Mason said, "you have a permit to carry that gun, it means that the number is registered with the police. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you," Mason asked, "know that Bishop Mallory sailed very suddenly and unexpectedly on the Monterey, leaving his baggage in his room at the Regal Hotel?"

She clamped her lips together in a firm line and said, "I'd prefer not to discuss Bishop Mallory. After all, the question which concerns me relates only to my daughter."

"And when do you want me to start?" Mason asked.

She got to her feet and said, "Right now. I want you to fight that cold-blooded devil until he yells for mercy. I want you to prove that he was the one responsible for getting a manslaughter warrant issued for me and keeping me out of the state so he could wreck my marriage and discriminate against my daughter. Not that I want a cent, I simply want him licked. I want you to make the old devil realize that money can't buy him immunity to do just as he d-d-damn pleases." There were no tears in her eyes now, but her mouth was writhing. Her hot eyes stared at the lawyer.

Perry Mason regarded her for several long seconds, then picked up the telephone on his desk and said to Della Street, "Call Renwold C. Brownley."

CHAPTER 6

Midnight rain, lashing down from a sodden sky, and borne on the wings of a whipping south wind, moistened the leaves of the shrubbery about Renwold C. Brownley's Beverly Hills mansion. The headlights of Mason's automobile reflected from the shiny surfaces of the green leaves as his car swung in a skidding turn around the driveway.

The lawyer stopped his car under the protection of a porte-cochere. A butler whose countenance was as uncordial as the weather opened the door and said, "Mr. Mason?"

The lawyer nodded.

"This way," the butler said. "Mr. Brownley is waiting for you." He made no effort to relieve Mason of his coat or hat. He ushered Mason through a reception hall into a huge library paneled with dark wainscoting. Subdued lights illuminated tiers of shelved books, deep chairs, spacious alcoves, inviting window seats.

The man who sat at the massive mahogany table was as unrelentingly austere as some fabled judge of the Inquisition. His hair was white and so fine that the eyebrows were all but invisible, giving to his head a peculiar vulture-like appearance, making his scrutiny seem a lidless, cold survey. "So you're Perry Mason," he said, in a voice which held no trace of welcome. It was the voice of one who is inspecting for the first time an interesting specimen.

Mason shook moisture from his rain coat as he flung it from his shoulders and dropped it uninvited over the back of a chair. Standing with his shoulders squared, feet spread slightly apart, the soft shaded lights of the library illuminating his granite-hard profile and steady, patient eyes, he said, "Yes, I'm Mason, and you're Brownley." And the lawyer contrived to put in his tone exactly that same lack of sympathy which had characterized the voice of the older man.

"Sit down," Brownley said. "In some ways I'm glad you came, Mr. Mason."

"Thanks," Mason told him. "I'll sit down after a while. I prefer to stand right now. Just why is it you're glad I came?"

"You said you wanted to talk with me about Janice?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Mason, you're a very clever lawyer."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I'm not paying you a compliment. It's an admission. Under the circumstances, perhaps, rather a grudging admission. I have followed your exploits in the press with a feeling of amazement. Also with a feeling of curiosity. I'll admit that I've been interested in you, that I've wanted to meet you. In fact, upon one case I even thought of consulting you, but one hardly places matters of, shall we say financial importance, in the hands of an attorney whose forte seems to be mental agility rather than..."

"Responsibility?" Mason asked sarcastically as Brownley hesitated.

"No, that isn't what I meant," Brownley said, "but your skill lies along the lines of the spectacular and the dramatic. As you become older, Mr. Mason, you'll find that men who have large interests tend to fight shy of the spectacular and the dramatic."

"In other words, you didn't consult me."

"That's right."

"And since you didn't elect to avail yourself of my services I am at perfect liberty to offer those services to people who are on the other side."

The ghost of a smile twitched the lips of the man who sat a the mahogany table surrounded by the environments of his wealth, entrenched in an aura of financial power as though it had been a fortress. "Well put," he said. "Your skill in turning my own comments back on me is well in keeping with what I've heard of your talents."

Mason said, "I've explained to you generally over the telephone what brings me here. It's about your granddaughter. Regardless of what you may think, Mr. Brownley, I'm not merely a paid gladiator fighting for those who have the funds with which to employ me. I'm a fighter, yes, and I like to feel that I fight for those who aren't able to fight for themselves, but I don't offer my services indiscriminately. I fight to aid justice."

"Are you asking me, Mr. Mason, to believe that you only seek to right wrongs?" Brownley asked in a thinly skeptical voice.

"I'm not asking you to believe one Goddamn thing," Mason told him. "I'm telling you. You can believe it or not."

Brownley frowned. "There's no call to get abusive, Mr. Mason," he said.

"I think," the lawyer told him, "that I'm the best judge of that, Mr. Brownley." And with that he sat down and lit a cigarette, conscious that the super-composure of the financier had been considerably jarred. "Now then," Mason went on, "whenever a man has something which other men want, he's subject to all sorts of pressure. You have money. Other men want it. They try all sorts of schemes to get you to give up that money. I have a certain ability as a fighter and men try to impose upon my credulity in order to enlist my sympathies.

"Now I'm going to put my cards on the table with you. The whole chain of events leading up to my interest in this matter has been very unusual. I'm not certain that it hasn't been an elaborate build-up in order to gain my partisan support. If it has, I don't want to lend any such ability as I may have to perpetrating an injustice or bolstering a fraud. If, on the other hand, the chain of circumstances isn't part of an elaborate stage-setting, but represents a genuine sequence of events, there's a very great possibility that the person whom you believe to be the daughter of your son Oscar and Julia Branner isn't related to you."

"You have some authority for making this assertion?" Brownley asked.

"Naturally." Mason paused to regard the smoldering tip of his cigarette, then, letting his eyes meet the lidless scrutiny of the other man, said, "I have it on the authority of the only surviving parent, Julia Branner herself."

There was no sign of emotion upon Brownley's face. His smile was distinctly frosty. "And may I ask," he inquired, "who in turn has identified Julia Branner?"

Mason held his face in rigid immobility. "No one," he admitted, "and that is why I came to you. If there is any fraud on my side of the case, you are the person to expose it."

"And if I convince you that such fraud exists?" Brownley asked.

Mason made a spreading gesture with his palms and said, "The case will no longer interest me. But understand, Mr. Brownley, I must be convinced."

"Julia Branner," Brownley said, "is an adventuress. My detectives have gathered things concerning her past life before she met my son. It is rather an extraordinary compilation."

Mason conveyed his cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, smiled and spoke as he exhaled, the cigarette smoke clothing the words with a smoky aura. "Doubtless," he said, "there are many women whose pasts, if viewed under the microscopes of such investigation, would appear checkered."

"This woman is an adventuress."

"You are referring now to the Julia Branner who married your son?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then," Mason pointed out, "the fact that she is an adventuress has nothing whatever to do with the legal status of the child she bore."

Brownley wet his lips, hesitated a moment, then went on with the cold, relentless manner of a banker analyzing the defects in a financial statement: "Fortunately for all concerned, the child she bore was removed from her influence at an early age. I don't care to divulge exactly how that happened nor where it happened. That information was gathered for me by men who were exclusively and entirely in my employ, and who were actuated solely by a desire to protect my interests. I happen to know, and doubtless you can verify, that Julia Branner herself made futile but nevertheless expensive efforts to secure this same information for herself. It happened that, because of the added facilities at my command, I was successful where she had failed."

"Has Julia ever sought to capitalize upon her connection with your family...? I am asking you now to set aside your prejudices and give me a fair answer."

Brownley's face was grim. "She has never sought to capitalize," he admitted, "because I have forestalled any such effort on her part."

"I take it," Mason said, "you are referring to the fact that you were able to place her in the position of being a fugitive from justice."

"You may interpret my statement any way you wish," Brownley said. "I am making no admissions."

"I think it only fair to warn you that if I interest myself in this case," Mason pointed out, "I shall endeavor to protect the interests of my client all along the line, and if it appears that she became a technical fugitive from justice because of influence which was brought to bear by you, I shall seek to make you pay for having exerted that influence."

"Naturally," Brownley said, "I would hardly expect Perry Mason to fight half-heartedly, but I don't think you are going to interest yourself in Julia Branner's behalf. In the first place, I have every reason to believe that the real Julia Branner is dead and that you are the one who has taken up with an impostor."

"Nothing which you have said," Mason pointed out, "in any way proves that the young woman whom you have recognized as your granddaughter is in fact the daughter of Julia Branner, wherever Julia Branner may be. On the other hand, I have some evidence which leads me to believe you have been the victim of either a fraud or a mistake."

Brownley said slowly, "Mr. Mason, I am not going to divulge my defenses to any claims which you may make."

"In that case," the lawyer said emphatically, "you can do nothing to convince me I shouldn't take the case."

Brownley sat for several seconds in frowning concentration. At length he said, "I will go this far and this far alone, Mr. Mason," and his long, thin fingers took a sealskin wallet from his pocket, opened it and extracted a letter. Mason watched the man with interest as he calmly and deliberately tore the printed portion of the letterhead from the stationery and then, after a moment, tore off the signature.

"You will understand, Mr. Mason," Brownley said, fingering the mutilated letter speculatively, "that when I made an investigation I made a most complete investigation. I had certain irrefutable facts which I could use as base lines in making my survey. The nature of those facts are highly confidential, but I employed the best investigators money could buy. I believe you are being victimized. I am morally certain the woman who has presented herself to you as Julia Branner is not the woman who married my son. I know that the person who will be produced by her as her child will not be the daughter of my dead son, and I have reason to believe that your own interest in the matter has been excited largely because you feel a certain person whom you consider above reproach, and who should be in a position to have accurate information, had interested himself in the person who seeks to become your client. Therefore, I am willing to show you this letter. I will not tell you whom it is from, but will merely state that I consider the source to be above reproach."

Brownley extended the letter. Mason read:

"As a result of our investigation, we feel that we can state definitely an attempt will be made to discredit the real Janice Brownley and substitute in her place an impostor. The parties who will be interested in doing this have been fully conversant with the situation for some months and have been carefully awaiting the most auspicious time to launch their activities. In order to be successful, they will have to interest some attorney of ability who will be able to finance the fight, and in order to convince such an attorney, it will be necessary to have some influence brought to bear upon him.

"These parties deliberately waited until Bishop William Mallory, of Sydney, Australia, took a sabbatical year. He announced his intention to spend this year in travel and study and, to safeguard himself from interruptions, kept his itinerary a closely guarded secret.

"Our investigator has established an inside contact with these parties and we are, therefore, in a position to inform you that a clever impostor will pose as Bishop Mallory, contact some attorney, who has been carefully selected well in advance, and persuade him to act in the matter. This spurious bishop will appear upon the scene only long enough to impress the attorney. He will then disappear.

"We are advising you of this in advance so you may take steps to apprehend this impostor if he remains in contact with the parties long enough to enable you to have a warrant issued. In any event, you may anticipate that some aggressive attorney, of sufficient financial responsibility to handle the case on a contingency basis, will interest himself in the matter. We would suggest you consult with your attorney in order to anticipate this situation and map out your own plan of campaign. We will have additional facts to report within the next few days.

"Very truly yours,"

"Doubtless," Mason said, his face not changing expression by so much as the motion of a muscle, "this letter carries weight with you?"

"It doesn't with you?" Brownley asked, watching him shrewdly, his voice showing some surprise.

"None whatever."

"I paid money to get that letter," Brownley said. "When you know me better, Mr. Mason, you'll know that whenever I pay money for anything, I get the best. Permit me to state: That letter carries great weight with me."

"The letter might have carried great weight with me," Mason told him, "if I had seen it as a letter. But you chose to tear off everything of value, leaving nothing but an anonymous communication, and I, therefore, regard it as such - merely an anonymous letter."

Brownley's face showed his irritation. "If you think," he said, "that I'm going to divulge the identity of my fact-finding organizations, you're mistaken."

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I think nothing. I merely placed certain cards on the table and asked you to match them. So far you haven't done it."

"And," Brownley announced with finality, "that's just as far as I'm going." Mason pushed back his chair as though to rise. "Not going, Mr. Mason?" Brownley asked.

"Yes. If you have given me all you have to offer, you have fallen far short of convincing me."

"Has it ever occurred to you, Mr. Mason, that you are not the one to be convinced?"

Mason, who was standing with his knuckles resting on the edge of the table, the weight of his broad shoulders supported by his rigid arms, said, "No, it hasn't. For the purpose of this interview, I'm the boss. If you can't convince me you're in the right, you've got a fight on your hands."

"Spoken like a good business man," Brownley conceded. "But I'm going to show that you're checkmated before you start."

"Checkmated," Mason said, "is an expression of considerable finality. I have been in 'check' many times; I have been checkmated but seldom."

"Nevertheless," Brownley said, "you're checkmated now. It happens, Mr. Mason, that I don't want my granddaughteris name dragged through a lot of court proceedings. I don't want a lot of newspaper notoriety focused upon my private affairs. Therefore, I am going to keep you from engaging in any fight for this spurious grandchild."

Despite himself, Mason's voice showed surprise. "You're going to keep me from doing something I want to do?" he asked.

"Exactly," Brownley said.

"It has been tried before," Mason told him dryly, "but never with any great degree of success."

Brownley's lidless eyes twinkled with frosty merriment. "I can well understand that, Counselor," he said, "but since you have investigated my family, you may have investigated me and if so, you have doubtless learned that I am a ruthless fighter, a hard man to cross, and one who always gets his own way."

"You are now speculating," Mason said, "upon the out come. Your statement a moment ago was to the effect that you were going to keep me from starting proceedings."

"I am."

Mason's smile of polite incredulity was a sufficient comment in itself.

"I am going to keep you from doing it," Brownley said, "because you are a businessman. The other side have no funds with which to fight. Their only hope lies in interesting some attorney who has ample finances of his own, who will be willing to gamble upon a contingency. Therefore, if I can show you that you have no hope of winning, you are a good enough business man not to start."

"It would," Mason told him, "take a mighty good man to convince me I had no hope of winning a lawsuit. I prefer to reach my own conclusions on that."

"Understand," Brownley said, "I am not foolish enough to think that I could prevent you from seeking to establish the legitimacy of a spurious grandchild, but I do feel certain that I can show you it won't do you any good when once you have established your claim. Being my grandchild means nothing to anyone. The girl is of age and under any circumstances there would be no obligation on my part to support her. The sole advantage to be derived from establishing the relationship would be the expectancy of sharing in my property after I have gone. Therefore, Mr. Mason, I am making a will in which the bulk of my property is left to my granddaughter, Janice Brownley, and I particularly provide in that will that the person to whom I refer as my granddaughter is the one who is at present living with me as my grandchild; that it makes no difference whether the relationship is authentic or not; that she is the beneficiary under my will. Now then, I know that you might try to set such a will aside. Therefore, tomorrow morning at nine o'clock I shall sign conveyances which will irrevocably convey to the person who is living with me as my granddaughter a full three-fourths of my property, reserving a life estate to myself. The remaining one-fourth will be similarly transferred to my other grandchild, Philip Brownley."

Brownley's steady, cold eyes stared triumphantly at the lawyer. "Now, Counselor," he went on, "there is a perfectly impossible legal nut for you to crack. I think you are too smart a man to butt your head against a brick wall. I want you to understand that in me you have found an adversary as ruthless as yourself. There's nothing at which I will stop when I have once made up my mind. In that way, I am, I think, much like yourself. But it happens that in this matter I hold all of the trump cards, and I intend to play them with every bit of cold blooded efficiency at my command. And now, Mr. Mason, let me wish you good night and tell you that I have enjoyed meeting you." Renwold Brownley wrapped long fingers about Mason's muscular hand, and Mason found those fingers as cold as steel.

"The butler," Brownley said, "will show you to your car." And the butler, doubtless summoned by some secret signal noiselessly opened the library door and bowed to Perry Mason.

Mason stared at Brownley. "You're not a lawyer?" he asked.

"No, but I have the benefit of the best legal talent available."

Mason turned, nodded to the butler and picked up his rain coat. "When I have finished with the case," he said grimly, "you may have changed your mind about the efficiency of your lawyers. Good night, Mr. Brownley."

Mason paused at the outer door long enough to let the butler assist him into his coat. Rain was beating down in torrents whipping the surface of the driveway into miniature geysers. The branches of the wind-lashed trees tossed about like grotesque arms, waving in surrender to the storm. Mason slammed the door of his car, switched on the ignition and headlights, snapped the gearshift back into low gear, and ease in the clutch. The car purred out from the shelter of the porte-cochere into the full force of the storm. He had shifted to second, and was placing a cautious foot upon the brake pedal to slow down for a curve in the graveled driveway, when his headlights picked out a figure which stood, braced against the beating rain.

Against the black background of the shrubbery, the figure was etched into white brilliance by the headlights, a slender young man, a rain coat turned up about his neck, a hat pulled low down on the forehead, water streaming from the brim. He extended his arms, and Mason kicked out the clutch and slowed the car to a stop. The young man walked toward him.

Mason was conscious of the white pallor of the face, of the burning purpose in the dark eyes. Mason rolled down the window of his car.

"You're Mr. Mason, the lawyer?" the young man asked.

"Yes."

"I'm Philip Brownley. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Grandson of Renwold Brownley?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"And you wanted to see me?"

"Yes."

"Better get in out of the rain," Mason said. "Perhaps you'd like to drive to my office with me."

"No. And my grandfather mustn't know that I've talked with you. Tell me, you talked with him?"

"Yes."

"What about?"

"I'd prefer that you made your inquiries from your grandfather," Mason said.

"It was about Jan, wasn't it?"

"Jan?"

"You know, Janice - my cousin."

"After all," Mason told him, "I don't feel free to discuss the matter, particularly at present."

"I might make you a valuable ally," Philip offered.

"You might," Mason admitted.

"After all, our interests are somewhat in common."

"Do you mean by that," Mason inquired, "that you feel the person living here in the house as Janice Brownley isn't the daughter of Oscar Brownley?"

"I meant," Philip repeated, "that I might make you an ally."

Mason said slowly, "I don't think there's anything I'd care to discuss with you at present."

"Is it true that Grandfather is going to tie your hands by conveying all of his property to Janice and reserving only a life estate for himself?"

"That's also something I'd prefer not to discuss right now. But I'd like very much to talk with you at a more propitious time. Suppose you come to my office tomorrow morning at about ten o'clock."

"No! No! I can't. But don't you understand what's happened? Grandfather hired a firm of detectives to find Janice. He offered a bonus of twenty-five thousand dollars if they'd find her. They couldn't find Janice, but they weren't going to pass up twenty-five thousand dollars, so they faked the whole business. She's been living here for two years and she's hypnotized him utterly and completely. Morally, I'm entitled to just as much of the estate as she is, even if she's genuine. But she's hypnotized him into giving her the bulk of the property. She's an unscrupulous, scheming adventuress. She wouldn't stop at anything. She..." Philip Brownley's voice choked with indignation. For several seconds the only sounds were those of the storm, the rain drumming on the roof of the closed car, the tossing branches of the trees, the rush of the wind.

Mason, staring steadily at the young man, said, "So what?"

"I want you to stop it."

"How?"

"I don't know how. That's up to you. I just want you to know you can count on my support - but it must be secret. Grandfather must never know it."

"Can you come to my office?" Mason asked.

"No. He'd find it out."

"How do you know she's a fake?"

"The way she's gone about wheedling her way into his affections."

"That's not evidence."

"There are other things."

Mason said, "Look here, young man, when you first talked about her, you referred to her as 'Jan.' That's sort of a pet name. Now you may be trying to help me, and you may be trying to pump me to find out what I plan on doing. I've offered you a chance to come to my office with me. You won't. You won't even meet me. You can't tell me your grandfather keeps you under such close supervision. Moreover, anyone who might be watching from that house can see I've stopped my car to talk with you..."

"Good Lord!" the young man interrupted, "I never thought of that!" He whirled and dove for the shadows of a hedge.

Mason waited a few minutes, then kicked the car into gear and stepped on the throttle. He drove directly to a branch office of the Western Union. Standing at the counter, with rain trickling down from the skirts of his coat, he wrote a message to be sent by wireless: BISHOP WILLIAM MALLORY S.S. "MONTEREY" EN ROUTE TO SYDNEY AUSTRALIA VIA HONOLULU - IMPORTANT DEVELOPMENTS MAKE IT IMPERATIVE YOU VOUCH FOR IDENTITY OF WOMAN CLAIMING TO BE JULIA BRANNER WHO CALLED ON ME THIS EVENING SHORTLY AFTER YOUR BOAT SAILED.

He signed the message, paid the charges, and stepped into the telephone booth, where he closed the door and called the number Julia Branner had given him. A woman's voice, thin, toneless, and self-effacing, answered the telephone. "Is this Julia Branner?" Mason asked.

"No. This is her friend, Stella Kenwood. Is this Mr. Mason, the lawyer?"

"Yes."

"Just a moment, Mr. Mason. She'll talk with you."

After the thin, reedy voice of Stella Kenwood, Julia Branner's resonant, throaty tones seemed to flow over the wire and fill the confines of the telephone booth, in which the warmth of Mason's body, evaporating the moisture from his woolen garments, made the atmosphere close and stuffy. "What did you find out?" she demanded. "Tell me quickly!"

Mason said, "Nothing encouraging. Brownley's a man of considerable determination. He's planning to make a will leaving the bulk of his property to the girl who's been living there in the house as his granddaughter. He's also planning to convey her most of his property outright, leaving only a life estate in himself."

"He's done that already?" Julia Branner said.

"No. He's going to do it in the morning."

Mason could hear her inhale a quick breath. "Is there anything we can do between now and morning?" she asked.

"No," he said. "Unless we could show he was incompetent, we couldn't stop him from doing as he pleased with his property at any time he pleased. But we have a remedy he hasn't thought of. I'll explain it to you in the morning."

There were several moments of silence during which Mason could hear only the buzzing of the wire. Then Julia Branner's voice said. "Do you think there's anything you can do. Mason?"

"I'll talk it over with you in the morning," he said.

"It sounds very discouraging to me," she insisted. "I think he has us licked, unless..."

"Unless what?" Mason asked, after she became silent.

"Unless I do something that I didn't intend to do except a last resort."

"What?" he asked.

"I think I have one way of convincing Renwold Brownley," she said. "It all depends on whether he wants something which I have badly enough to do exactly what I tell him to."

Mason said, "Now, listen. You keep out of this and sit tight. I'll talk with you in the morning. You can't force Brownley do anything. He's shrewd, obstinate, and ruthless." When there was no answer to what he had said, Mason tapped transmitter with his knuckles and said, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes. I heard you," she said in a noncommittal tone. "What time can I see you in the morning?"

"Ten o'clock," he told her, "at my office," and hung up receiver.

CHAPTER 7

Rain was beating with steady insistence against the windows of Perry Mason's apartment when he was awakened by the steady ringing of the telephone. He groped for the switch of his bed lamp, propped himself up in bed and lifted the receiver to his ear. The damp breeze which came in through the open window and whipped the lace curtains in flapping protest against the wet screens, blew cold across the lawyer's chest. He groped for his bathrobe and was pulling it up under his chin as he said, "Hello," and heard Paul Drake's voice saying, "Here's a break, Perry. It looks as though you've drawn another one." Mason rubbed sleep from his eyes and said thickly, "What's happened? What time is it?"

"It's exactly three-fifteen," Drake said. "One of my men has telephoned from Wilmington. You wanted the Brownley angle covered, so I put a shadow out at the house. About an hour ago old Brownley climbed into his coupe and started going places. It was raining hard. My man followed. He tagged along without any difficulty until Brownley got down to the harbor district. He figured Brownley was heading straight for the yacht he keeps. So my man got just a little careless. He let Brownley get too far ahead of him and lost him, figured there was nothing to it, went over to the yacht and waited. Brownley didn't show up. My man started making a swing around, trying to find the car. He'd been driving around about ten minutes when he saw a man running and waving his arms. My man stopped the car. This chap ran up to him and said that Brownley had been murdered; that some woman in a white rain coat had stepped out of the shadows, climbed onto the running board of Brownley's car, fired five or six shots, and then beat it.

"This guy was pretty rattled. He wanted to telephone headquarters right away. My operative ran him to a telephone, and they called the ambulance and the police, although this witness insisted the man was so dead there was no use getting an ambulance. After they'd telephoned, my operative went back to find the car and the body. They couldn't find it. The police showed up and they couldn't find it. I'm going down to look the situation over and I figured you might like to come along."

"It was Renwold C. Brownley?" Mason asked.

"In person."

"That," the lawyer said, "is going to make a splash."

"Are you telling me?" Drake said. "Every newspaper in the city will be getting out extras within the next two hours."

"Where are you now?"

"At my office."

"Drive down for me and I'll be dressed and standing on the sidewalk by the time you get here," Mason said.

He hung up the telephone, jumped out of bed and closed the window with his right hand while he was unbuttoning his pajamas with his left. Mason tied his necktie in the elevator, struggled into his rain coat as he crossed the lobby of the apartment house, and reached the pavement just as Drake's automobile slewed around the corner, sending the twin beams of dazzling headlights dancing through the rain, illuminating the little mushrooms of water which geysered up from the wet pavement as the big drops bulleted downward. As Drake skidded the car away from the curb, Mason settled himself against the cushions and said, "A woman did the killing Paul?"

"Yes, a woman in a white rain coat."

"What happened?"

"As nearly as I could get it over the telephone, Brownley was looking for someone. He had slowed his car almost to a stop and was crawling along the pavement when this woman stepped out from the deeper shadows. He had evidently been expecting her because he stopped his coupe and rolled down the window. She climbed up on the running board, raised an automatic, and fired a bunch of shots. Then she jumped back to the street, sprinted around the corner, and made a get-away. The witness saw the get-away car. It was a Chevrolet, but he couldn't get the license number. He took a look in the coupe and saw Brownley all in a huddle against the steering wheel. Apparently every one of the shots had taken effect. The witness started to run without any very definite objective. He said he'd run for four or five minutes when he saw the headlights of my operative's machine."

"Some chance he was confused in his directions?" Mason asked.

"Every chance on earth. It's a ten to one bet that he was."

Drake pushed the throttle down close to the floorboards and said, "Are you nervous, Perry?"

"Go to it," Mason told him. "Don't hesitate on my account. How are your tires?"

"Swell," Drake said, grinning. "According to my theory, a skid is simply an attempt on the part of the hind end to catch up with the front end. If you keep the front end going fast enough, the hind end can't catch up until you try to stop."

Mason lit a cigarette and said, "Have you ever made your will, Paul?"

"Not yet."

"Well, you'd better stop in in the morning and have me draw up one for you. What did you hear about the bishop?"

Drake said, "I guess my Australian agency must have thought I was giving them a bit of leg pulling, or whatever you call it on that side of the water. They sent me back a cable in answer to my inquiry which said simply, 'Bishops seldom stutter.'"

Mason said, "Of course that doesn't answer the question. How about a description of the bishop? Did you get that?"

"Yes, in another cable."

Drake fumbled in his inside pocket, driving with one hand, pulled out a cablegram and handed it across to Mason when the lawyer yelled, "Watch that turn!"

Drake dropped the cablegram, grabbed the steering wheel and fought against the skid as the car lurched into a sickening swing. He spun the wheel hard to the left without effect. A great wave of water was thrown up by the wheels on the right-hand side of the car. Suddenly the front wheels caught. The car snapped into a turn in the opposite direction as Drake spun the steering wheel as though it had been the steering wheel of a yacht. He gave the car the gas as it careened around to the right. The turn loomed in front of the headlights. They swept into it sideways, then the wheels gathered traction. As the car shot for the side of the road, Drake fought it under control just before the front wheels hit the soft shoulder. "Where's the cablegram?" the detective asked. "You didn't drop it, did you?"

Mason sighed, relaxed his legs, which had been braced against the floorboards, and said, "No, it's down here on the seat somewhere."

The detective straightened the car out of the turn, pushed down on the foot throttle, and said, "Can you read it by the dash light?"

Mason said, "I guess so, if my hand will quit jiggling. For God's sake, Paul, don't you ever show any discretion?"

Drake said, "Sure. I was driving all right, but you distracted my attention asking about that cablegram."

Mason unfolded the cablegram and read: BISHOP WILLIAM MALLORY FIFTY-FIVE STOP FIVE FEET SIX STOP WEIGHT ONE HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE STOP GRAY EYES STOP HABITUAL PIPESMOKER STOP TAKING SABBATICAL YEAR AND REPORTED BE SOMEWHERE IN UNITED STATES BUT IMPOSSIBLE OBTAIN ACCURATE INFORMATION AS YET STOP.

Mason folded the cablegram.

"What do you think of it?" Drake asked.

Mason lit a cigarette. "Go right ahead, Paul, and drive the car. I don't want to distract your attention again. I'll talk with you when we get to where we're going." He settled down against the cushions, pulled the collar of his coat about his neck, dropped his chin on his chest, and smoked in silence.

"The description fits him right enough, doesn't it?" Drake asked. Mason said nothing. Drake chuckled and concentrated upon driving the car. Rain lashed the windshield and drummed on the hood, ran in streams from the glass and metal, showed in driving slants against the illumination of the headlights. The windshield wiper beat monotonously back and forth, but the downpour discounted the rubber-bladed pendulum, distorting the strip of wet pavement gleaming ahead of them.

At length they saw the tail light of an automobile. The headlights of Drake's car picked up a signboard bearing the insignia of a yacht club and the words "Private, Keep Out." A man, wearing a rubber rain coat which glistened in the headlights, and from which water ran in rivulets, splashed his way over toward the car.

"You know Mason, Harry," Drake said.

Mason nodded and said, "Hello, Harry. What's new?"

The operative thrust his head through the window of the car. Water from his hat dripped into Drake's lap. Drake yelled, "Take off that hat, you big baboon! Get in the back seat if you want to talk. I don't want a shower bath until morning."

The operative climbed into the back of the car. "Now, listen," he said in a low, rumbling voice of one who is imparting an air of mystery to an important disclosure, "get this straight. It sounds nutty to me. I went out to Brownley's house like you said. It was raining to beat hell. I figured it was just a routine assignment. I couldn't see a millionaire splashing around on a night like this. So I turned up the windows in my car and made myself comfortable. About half past one o'clock a taxicab drove up. Lights went on in the house and I heard a pow-wow. Then the taxicab left, but more lights kept coming on in the house. About fifteen minutes later, lights went on in the garage. Then the garage doors opened and I saw headlights. I managed to get a look at the car as it went past. Old Brownley was driving."

"It was raining all the time?" Drake asked.

"Cats and dogs."

"And Brownley didn't have a chauffeur?" Mason inquired.

"No, he was all alone."

"Go ahead," Drake instructed.

"I followed Brownley, with my lights out part of the time. It was hard going. I didn't dare to crowd him too close. He was pretty much ahead of me by the time we got down here. When he got this far, I figured of course he was going to his yacht, so when he took a turn and acted as though he'd seen me and was trying to shake me off, I beat it directly to the Yacht Club. After a few minutes, when he didn't show up, I started looking around. I didn't get anywhere. I guess I must have put in five or ten minutes cussing myself and trying to pick up the trail of that car. I took all crossroads, went down by the docks, and had turned back when I saw a man running through the rain and waving his arms. I stopped, and this guy was so excited he could hardly talk."

"Did you get his name?" Drake asked.

"Yeah, sure I got his name. It was Gordon Bixler."

"He the chap who told you about the shooting?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What did he say?" Drake wanted to know.

"Wait a minute," Mason said. "We have the highlights on that, but what I want to know is what this chap was doing down here. That sounds fishy to me."

"He's okay," the operative said. "I checked on his story. He's a yachtsman who was coming in from Catalina. He was delayed by the storm and had telephoned for his Filipino boy to meet him with a car. The boy evidently didn't like the rain, or was playing around, because he didn't show up, and Bixler, mad as hell, was starting to walk to some place where he could either get a taxi or a telephone. I made him show me his driving license and his cards, and give me the name of his yacht. The cops also checked up on him."

"Okay," Mason said, "I just wanted to know. Go ahead and give us the dope."

"Well, Bixler said he'd seen a big coupe come crawling along slowly, as though the guy who was driving it was looking for someone. Then a jane in a white rain coat flagged the coupe and it slowed down. The jane climbed on the running board, apparently talking to the driver, giving him some directions. Then she jumped off the running board and ran back into the shadows by one of the docks. The car drove slowly on. Bixler saw the bird turn down a side street, cross over to another road, speed up, and then make a turn and come back around down the same street.

"Bixler figured this guy might give him a lift, so he stood out in the middle of the street. The car came along, still running about ten or fifteen miles an hour, and then the woman in the white rain coat ran out in front of the headlights and flagged it to a stop again. Bixler started toward the car. He said it was about fifty yards away. The woman in the rain coat stood on the running board and, all of a sudden, Bixler saw flashes and heard an automatic go Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! He can't be certain whether it was five shots or six, but he thinks it was five. The woman in the rain coat jumped down off the running board and started to sprint for a spur track where the road runs into one of the docks. Bixler waited a minute and then ran toward the coupe. Before he got to the car, he saw a light sedan - he thinks it was a Chevrolet, but he isn't certain - and he thinks the driver was the woman in the white rain coat, but he can't be too certain of that. Anyway, the car went out with a roar and the rain swallowed up the tail light in nothing flat.

"Bixler reached the coupe. The driver had slumped over against the door on the left of the car. His arm, shoulder and head were hanging out, with blood streaming down the side of the car to the running board. Bixler says it was Renwold Brownley and that he was pumped full of lead - as dead as a mackerel."

"How does he know it was Brownley?" Mason asked.

"I went into that with him, too. You see, this guy's a yachtsman, and Brownley's a yachtsman. They'd met once or twice at dinners at the Yacht Club, and Bixler had seen Brownley around the Club on half a dozen occasions. He swears there was no chance that he was mistaken; that the man was Brownley. It had been raining hard, but there was a little let-up in the rain about the time of the shooting, and a floodlight from the Yacht Club gave some illumination, and then there was the light from the dashboard in the coupe."

"Then what happened?" Drake asked.

"Bixler started running, looking for a telephone or help of some kind. And I figured he was plenty rattled. He ran along the boulevard for a ways, then he went down to the car track, ran along it for a while, got mixed up on some sidings, came stumbling back, and saw my headlights. He said that must have been about five or ten minutes after the shooting. I picked him up, and he was rattled, so nervous he could hardly talk. He tried to direct me back to the place where the shooting had taken place and couldn't find it. We drove around and around, and I thought the bird was nuts. I'd have passed it all off as a pipe dream if I hadn't been trailing old Renwold Brownley myself and known that he must have been somewhere around.

"So this bird kept yelping he wanted to telephone the police, and I figured I might not be in so good with the law if I kept running around in circles, so I ran him up to a telephone and we called the cops."

"Then what happened?" Mason asked.

"The cops showed up and listened to what we had to say and..."

"You didn't tell 'em you'd been tailing Brownley, did you?" Drake interrupted.

"Not a chance," the man said scornfully as though resenting the question. "I said I was just driving along, trying to find a party who was on a yacht. I said I was working on a divorce case."

"They ask you who the party was, or anything of that sort?"

"Not yet. They will later. They were too busy then. I let on she was a blonde."

"Could the police find the car?"

"No; now this is the funny thing: They figured, and I figured, that this guy Bixler was all mixed up and confused and just hadn't pointed out the right spot, but then one of the cops, prowling around with a flashlight, saw a reddish stain in the rain water on the pavement at almost the exact spot where Bixler said he'd seen the shooting. They kept looking around, and picked up a .32 automatic cartridge. You know, one of the empty shells which had been ejected from the gun. That made things look different. It was still raining, but not as hard as it is now, and they were able to follow the little pools of red-tinted water in the surface of the road. The road's a little rough, and there was enough rain to wash blood from the running board of the car to the surface of the road, but not enough to wash away all the stains. The trail pointed in the direction of one of the docks, and they're figuring the car might have been run off the dock."

Mason said, "Where is this dock?"

"Drive on," the detective told them, "and I'll show you. I was just waiting here until you showed up, because this was the place I'd said I'd meet you. Go straight ahead until I tell you to turn."

Drake eased the car into motion, ran for several hundred yards and then the detective said, "Turn to the right here."

As soon as Drake turned, he encountered a string of parked automobiles. Several flood-lights gave a dazzling illumination. A portable searchlight had its beam focused on the water. A wrecking car, equipped with derrick and windlass, was parked at the edge of the wharf. The drums were winding slowly on a taut cable which stretched down into the darkness. From the flattened springs of the wrecking automobile, it was apparent it was lifting some heavy weight. Drake ran the car as far as he could, stopped and said to the operative, "Find a parking place, Harry. Come on, Perry."

The lawyer was already out in the rain. Together, the two men sloshed through the moisture underfoot. Sheeted rain lashed their faces. They joined a small knot of men who were clustered about a corner of the wharf, too engrossed in what they were watching to notice the two newcomers.

Mason peered over the edge. The cable, taut as a bowstring stretched down into the inky waters, the blackness of which was intensified by the glare of light which beat down through the rain-filled darkness, etching the tense faces of the spectators into a white brilliance. The power-driven winches of the huge wrecking car moved regularly. Occasionally the cable gave forth little snapping noises and sent showers of water spattering from its oily surface.

A man's voice yelled, "There she comes!"

A photographer pushed past Mason and pointed a camera downward. A flashlight puffed blinding illumination into the lawyer's eyes as the top of a coupe moved slowly upward from the rain-lashed waters. Men crowded and jostled. Someone yelled, "Don't raise it any farther until we get another hook on it! It'll weigh more when it gets out of the water. We can't afford to have it break loose."

Men in overalls, with grease-stained faces glistening in the searchlights, sunk a grappling hook into position. From somewhere on the wharf a donkey engine coughed into rhythmic explosions. A derrick arm swung outward. More flashlight photographs were taken. A voice yelled, "Go ahead!" Slowly, the coupe was raised, until it was entirely clear of the water. The right-hand door was jammed wide open. Water seeped out through the cracks in the floorboards, to strike the surface of the bay in splashing rivulets. The man who was in charge yelled, "We're going to raise it with this derrick and swing it inboard. Everyone look out!"

Mason was conscious of a long derrick arm which appeared in the darkness over his head. He saw rope slings being thrown under the body of the car, then winches rattled, a new cable snapped taut as it took up the strain, and the coupe was raised above his head and swung in over the wharf. Just as the car was about to be lowered, a uniformed policeman roped off a space, and the winchmen lowered the coupe within this roped enclosure.

Mason pushed against the rope, peered over the shoulder of an officer whose wet rubber rain coat rubbed against his chin. He saw policemen inspecting the interior of the car, heard one of them yell, "Here's the gun, a .32 automatic. There's still blood left on the seats." There was, Mason saw, no trace of a body.

Someone said, "Get the people off the wharf. Don't let anyone through unless he has proper credentials."

New cars had been arriving. Mason saw a uniformed man bearing down upon him. An officer's rain-spattered face grinned cheerfully as he said with firm insistence, "Go on, buddy, get back off the wharf. You can read about it in the papers." Mason permitted himself to be shoved toward the far end of the wharf. As he passed Paul Drake, he said, "Flash your badge, Paul, and try to get an earful. I'll wait in the car."

The lawyer walked through the driving rain until he found Drake's car, shook what moisture he could from his coat, and climbed into the interior, still steamy with the odors of human occupancy.

Five minutes later, Drake showed up and said, "Not a chance. They're searching for the body. It must have spilled out of the car. There's a bottle of whiskey in that side pocket, Perry."

"My God," Mason said, "never mind the body - why didn't you tell me about the whiskey sooner?" He pulled out the flask, uncorked it and passed it to Drake. "Age before beauty," he said.

Drake took three big gulps, passed the bottle back to Mason, who raised it to his lips and lowered it as Drake's operative came toward the car, the water in his shoes making an audible squish, squish with every step.

"Have a drink," Mason said, "and tell us what's new. Could you get anywhere with your badge, Paul?"

"They laughed at me," the detective said. "Then some hard-boiled dick wanted to know what my interest in the case was and whom I was representing, how long I'd been there, and what I knew about it and how I happened to be there. I figured it was a good time to beat it. How about you, Harry? What did you find out?"

The rubber-coated detective swiped the back of his hand across his lips and said, "I didn't try to force things any, but just stuck around and picked up a word here and there. I found out that it was Brownley's car, all right. The gearshift showed the car was in low gear when it went over the edge of the wharf, and the hand throttle was pulled wide open."

"The hand throttle?" Mason asked.

"That's right. They got the gun, and recovered a couple of bullets which had stuck in the cushions of the front seat. They figured one of the car doors was open when it took the plunge and the body spilled out. They're sending for divers and are going to search the bottom of the bay."

"Any better description of that woman than that she wore a white rain coat?"

"No description that's worth a damn," Harry said. "But they got the number on the gun, and they think they can tell more when they find the body. That taxicab driver evidently took some message to Brownley. Whatever was in the message made him excited as the very devil. It was urgent enough to bring him down here on the run, alone - and it would take something to do that to Renwold C. Brownley at two o'clock in the morning on a night like this."

Drake said, "I'll say so... Let's finish up that bottle of whiskey."

Mason said, "Naughty, naughty, Paul. You're driving. Harry and I will finish it."

CHAPTER 8

The first faint rays of dawn were turning the street into a drab rain-lashed canyon as Perry Mason parked his car across the street from a three-story frame stucco building which bore the name "Sunset Arms Apartments - 214 West Beechwood." Mason turned up the collar of his rain coat and stepped out into the downpour. No lights were showing in the front of the building, but Mason reconnoitered to find an oblong of illumination half screened by lace curtains on the third floor at the back of the building. He walked to the entrance of the apartment house, tried the outer door and found that it was locked; but the well-worn slot for the key readily admitted the blade of Mason's penknife and, under a gentle pressure, the bolt clicked back and the door opened. Mason shook his rain coat and climbed the stairs. His feet squished water from his shoes at every step.

On the third floor he could hear a sound of snoring from one of the apartments, the beat of rain on the roof, the sound of wind moaning around the corners of the building. He walked the length of the corridor and tapped gently on the door from beneath which appeared a faint ribbon of golden light. A woman's voice, sounding thin and frightened, said, "What is it?"

"A message from Miss Branner," Mason said.

There were several seconds of silence while the woman on the other side of the door seemed to be debating whether to accept this statement at its face value. Then Mason heard the sound of shuffling motion, and a bolt clicked back. A thin woman, clad in dressing gown and slippers, her hair done up in curlers, her somewhat sallow face devoid of make-up, contemplated Mason with anxious eyes.

"May I come in?" Mason asked.

She stood in the doorway saying nothing, watching him with a strained anxiety which showed only too well the state of her mind.

Mason laughed reassuringly and said, "After all, you know, I can't give this message to the whole apartment house, and I'm afraid the walls of this corridor are rather thin."

The woman said tonelessly, "Come in."

"I am wondering," Mason said, as he entered the room, "if you're the woman to whom I was to give the message. Would you mind telling me just who you are?"

"If Julia Branner gave you a message," the woman said, "it's for me. I'm Stella Kenwood."

"Oh, yes," Mason said, "you've known Miss Branner for some time, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Know anything about her past?"

"I know all about it."

"For how far back?"

"Ever since she came to the States."

"Know anything about her life in Australia?"

"Some. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Mason said, "I'm trying to help Miss Branner, and I'll want you to help me, and for that I'll have to know just exactly how well you know her."

"If she gave you a message for me," Stella Kenwood said, making an attempt to assert herself, "you can give it to me. There's no need for any questions."

"Unfortunately," Mason said, "the situation isn't quite that simple. You see, I'm afraid Julia's in trouble."

She gave a quick gasping intake of her breath, then sat down in a chair and said weakly, "Oh."

Mason made a quick survey of the apartment. It was a single-room affair with what was evidently a wall bed on the side to the left of the door. It was a bed which pivoted on a mirrored doorway, and now the full-length mirror was in place, indicating either that the bed had not been slept in or that the woman had arisen, made the bed and raised it into place before Mason had knocked. The apartment was heated by a gas heater molded in the form of a steam radiator covered with aluminum paint, but containing no vent. The atmosphere of the room was warm, steamy and devitalized Coming in from the open air, Mason was keenly conscious of the close, stale atmosphere. Moisture filmed the windows and the mirror. "Had the radiator going all night?" he asked. The woman said nothing, but stared at him with faded blue eyes in which her anxiety showed all too plainly. She was, Mason decided, somewhere in the late forties. Life had not been particularly kind to her, and under the impact of adversity she had learned to turn the other cheek until her manner showed an utter non-resistance. "What time did Miss Branner leave here?" Mason asked.

"Who are you, and why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to help her."

"That's what you say."

"It's the truth."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Perry Mason."

"The lawyer she went to see?"

"Yes."

"Then I answered you when you called on the telephone last night?"

"Yes."

She nodded without any particular emphasis.

"Where's Julia now?"

"She went out."

"She went out right after I telephoned, didn't she?"

"Not right afterwards."

Mason stared steadily at her and she avoided his eyes.

"When did she go out?" Mason asked.

"Not until around quarter past one o'clock."

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"How did she go?"

"In my car. I gave her the key to it."

"What kind of a car is it?"

"A Chevrolet."

"What did she go out for?"

"I don't think," Stella Kenwood said, "that I should be talking to you like this." But her voice failed to carry conviction and Mason merely waited expectantly. "You know something, don't you?" she went on. "Something's happened. You're keeping it from me. Tell me."

Mason pressed his advantage by saying, "I'll tell you what's happened as soon as I know how you stand. I can't tell that until after you've answered my questions. Why did Julia go out? What did she want?"

"I don't know."

"Did she have her gun with her?"

The woman gasped, placed a thin hand to her throat. The blue veins showed in a corrugated network over the skin.

"Did she have her gun?" Mason repeated.

"I don't know. Why, what's happened? How did you know about her gun?"

"Never mind that. Answer my questions. You stayed here waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"I don't know. I was worried about her. I kept thinking she'd be coming in."

"Do you know why she came out here from Salt Lake?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why?"

"You know. Why should I tell you?"

"I want to see if she told you the same thing she did me."

"If you're her lawyer, you'd ought to know."

"I know I should," Mason said grimly. "Why did she come?"

"About her daughter and her marriage."

"You know that?"

"Oh, of course."

"How long have you known about it?"

"For some time."

"Julia Branner told you about her marriage to Oscar Brownley?"

"Yes, of course." The woman seemed to warm to the subject. "You see," she said, with the first sign of spontaneity she had shown, "we lived together in Salt Lake three year ago. She told me all about Oscar Brownley, all about the tricks the old man played getting Oscar away from her, and all about how she'd fixed things so the old man could never steal her daughter. You see, I had a daughter of my own just about the same age as Julia's girl, and I could appreciate how she felt. Only, of course, I knew where my daughter was. I could write to her and see her once in a while. Julia didn't even know whether her daughter was still alive..." Her face clouded as she averted her eyes and said, "My daughter died since then, a couple of years ago. So now I know just how Julia must have felt, not being able to see or hear from her loved one."

"Did Julia tell you why she couldn't come back to California?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the manslaughter charge."

"All right," Mason said, "let's get down to brass tacks. I want to know why Julia sent a message to Brownley to meet her down at the waterfront."

Stella Kenwood shook her head blankly.

"Don't know?" Mason asked.

"I don't want to talk with you about Julia's affairs."

"You do know," Mason charged, "and that's the reason you're sitting up here waiting for Julia to come back. You've had that gas radiator going ever since before midnight. You haven't been to bed. Come on now, tell me the truth and tell it fast. We haven't got all day."

Her eyes faltered away from his. She twisted her fingers nervously. At that moment Mason heard the sound of rapid steps in the corridor. He stepped swiftly to the left of the door standing where he would be concealed for the moment from anyone entering the room.

The doorknob turned. The door opened, then closed. Julia Branner, wearing a white rain coat which stretched almost to her ankles, her shoes soggy with water, her hair, as it showed beneath her hat, stringy and wet, clinging to the back of her neck, the curl completely removed, said in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice, "Christ, Stella, I've got to get out of here! I'm in an awful jam. Let's get my things together, and you can drive me to the airport. I'm going back to Salt Lake. The most awful thing happened, I..." She broke off at what she saw in the other woman's eyes and whirled to stare at Perry Mason. "You!" she exclaimed.

Mason nodded and said calmly, "Suppose you sit down, Julia, and tell me just what did happen. It may help a lot if I know."

"Nothing happened."

Mason said, "Sit down, Julia, I want to talk with you."

"Listen, I'm in a hurry. I haven't any time to waste talking to you. It's too late for you to do any good now."

"Why is it too late?"

"Never mind."

She tossed her handbag on the table, fumbled with the buttons at the neck of her rain coat. Mason stepped forward, picked up her handbag, weighed it judiciously and said, "What happened to the gun you were carrying?"

Her face showed surprise. "Why, isn't it in there?"

"Listen," Mason told her, "if you want to waste time playing guessing games with me, that's your funeral, but Renwold Brownley was shot tonight by some woman wearing a white rain coat and driving a Chevrolet automobile. I think the police have a pretty good description of the automobile. Now, do you want me to try and help you, or do you want to play wise?"

Julia Branner stared at him speculatively, but Stella Kenwood gave a low moan and said, "Oh, Julia! I knew you'd do it!" and began to sob softly.

Mason met the hard-eyed defiance of Julia Branner's eyes and said, "Speak up."

"Why should I talk to you?" she asked, her voice bitter.

"I can help you," Mason told her.

"You could have helped me," she said, "but you didn't do a very good job of it and now it's too late."

"Why is it too late?"

"You know - but I don't know how you know."

Mason's voice showed his impatience. "Now listen, you two, seconds are precious and you're yapping around here like a couple of boobs. Snap out of it and get down to brass tacks. I'm going to help you, Julia."

"Why?" she asked. "I've got no money, not more than one hundred and fifty dollars altogether."

Stella Kenwood half rose from her chair and said hopefully, "I've got two hundred. You can have that, Julia."

"Let's forget about the money right now," Mason said. "I'm going to help you, Julia, but I must know what happened. I figure there's a lot to be said on your side of this thing no matter what you did. Brownley was absolutely cold and utterly remorseless. He'd framed a charge of manslaughter on you and held it over your head for years. He'd broken up any chance for domestic happiness you might have had and wouldn't give you even a thin dime. You had to work your way through life and there's a hell of a lot to be said on your side of this thing, but I want to know how bad it is. I won't guarantee that I'm going to stay with you all the way, but I'm going to start. Now go ahead and give me the lowdown. Did you kill Brownley?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"You saw him tonight?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Down near the waterfront."

"Tell me what happened."

She shook her head and, in a voice which sounded suddenly flat and weary, said, "What's the difference? You wouldn't believe me. No one will believe me. Cut out the sobbing Stella. I'm going to beat it. It's my funeral. You're not mixed up In it."

Mason said irritably, "Snap out of it! Tell me what happened. If anyone can help you, I can."

Julia Branner said, "Well, if you've got to know, I tried to bring some pressure to bear on Brownley."

"What pressure?"

"There was a watch he'd given Oscar when Oscar graduated from high school. The case was a family heirloom. Renwold had had new works put in it. He thought the world of it. I had the watch. I was carrying it the day Oscar skipped out to go back to his father The old man wanted that watch about as much as he wanted anything on earth. I sent him a message by a cab driver and told him I wanted to talk with him for ten minutes, that if he'd come alone and at once to a certain place down at the beach and let me talk to him for ten minutes without interrupting me, I'd give him the watch."

"You thought he'd come?"

"I knew he'd come."

"You didn't think he'd have you arrested?"

"No. I told him the watch would be hidden, that the only way he could get it would be by playing square with me."

"So what?" Mason asked.

"He came."

"How did he know the place?"

"I drew him a little sketch map and told him where I'd meet him. I told him he'd have to come alone."

"Then what did you do?"

"Drove down to the harbor so I'd be there to meet him."

"What were you going to talk to him about?"

"I was going to make the only argument he'd ever have listened to. I was going to prove to him that my daughter had been the dead image of her father, that if he cared anything at all for Oscar he'd see that Oscar's flesh and blood didn't want for the good things of life. I was going to tell him that I didn't care what he did to me, with me or for me, that all I wanted was a square deal for Oscar's child. I was going to tell him that the girl who was pretending to be Oscar's child was an impostor."

"Why did you make him go all the way down to the waterfront?"

"Because I wanted to."

"Why the water-front?"

"That's got nothing to do with it."

"Was your gun a .32 caliber Colt automatic?"

"Yes."

"What became of it?"

"I don't know. I missed it early this evening."

"Don't pull an old gag like that. It won't get you any place."

"It's the truth."

"And if you didn't kill Renwold Brownley, who did?"

"I don't know."

"Just what do you know?"

"I met him down by one of the yacht clubs," she said. "I told him to drive around a couple of the side streets to make certain he wasn't followed, then to come back to me. He drove around, came back and slowed down. He was about half a block away from me when some woman wearing a yellow rain coat made like mine ran out toward the car. Naturally, Brownley stopped. She jumped on the running board, and started to shoot."

"What did you do?"

"I turned and ran just as hard as I could."

"Where did you run to?"

"My car was parked about a block away."

"You jumped in it and drove away?"

"I had some trouble getting it started. It had been raining and the engine didn't go immediately."

"Did anyone see you?"

"I don't know."

"Where did you get the automobile?"

"It was Stella's car. I borrowed it."

"And that's the best story you can tell?"

"It's the truth."

Mason said slowly, "It may or may not be the truth. Personally, I don't think it is. One thing is certain: No jury would ever believe it. If you tell a story like that, you'll be stuck for first degree murder just as sure as you're sitting here. Pull down that bed, turn off that damned gas heater, open the windows, ditch that rain coat, undress and get into bed. If the police call for you, don't say a word. Don't make a single statement, no matter what they ask. Simply tell them you're not going to answer any questions unless your lawyer tells you to, and tell them I'm your lawyer."

She stared at him. "You mean you're going to stand by me and help me?"

"For a while, yes," he said. "Go on now, get your clothes off and get into bed. And you, Stella, don't you say a word. Simply sit tight and keep quiet. Do you think you can do that?"

Stella Kenwood looked up with pale, frightened eyes and said, "I don't know. I don't think so."

"I don't either," Mason told her, "but do the best you can. Stall things along as long as you can in any event, and remember, Julia, don't you say a word, not to anyone. Don't answer questions and don't make any statements."

"You don't need to worry about me," she told him. "That's one of the things I'm good at."

Mason nodded, jerked the door open, stepped out into the corridor and, as he closed the door, heard the creak of springs as Julia Branner, calmly competent, pulled the wall bed into position.

Mason noticed that the rain had slackened to a cold drizzle. There was enough daylight to show low-flung clouds raising up from the southeast. The smell of a cold, wet dawn was in the air. He had just started the motor on his car when a police machine swung around the corner and slid to a stop in front of the Sunset Arms Apartments.

CHAPTER 9

Della Street was in the office when Perry Mason arrived the next morning. "And what's new?" he asked, tossing his hat on the top of the desk and grinning at the pile of mail.

"I presume you knew," she said, "that Julia Branner was arrested for the murder of Renwold Brownley?"

Mason widened his eyes in a look of simulated surprise and said, "No, I hadn't heard of it."

"The newspapers got out extras," she remarked. "Julia Branner says you're going to defend her, so you should know about it."

"No," Mason said, "this is a great surprise to me."

Della Street leveled a rigid forefinger at him, after the manner of a cross-examining attorney, and said, "Chief, where were you about daylight this morning?"

He grinned and said, "I can't tell a lie. I beat it from the Beechwood address about sixty seconds before the cops got there."

She sighed and said, "Some day you're not going to be so fortunate."

"It wouldn't have hurt," he said, "if they'd caught me there. I certainly had a right to interview my client."

"The newspaper also says that Julia Branner refuses to make any statement, but that a Stella Kenwood, who shared the apartment, while at first refusing to answer questions, has finally made a complete statement."

"Yes," Mason said, "she would."

The secretary's voice held a note of concern. "Can she tell them anything which would implicate you, Chief?"

"I don't think so," he said. "I don't think she can implicate anybody. What else is new?"

"Paul Drake wants to see you, says he has some news for you. The wireless you sent to Bishop Mallory aboard the Monterey was not delivered because the Monterey has no William Mallory aboard." Mason gave a low whistle of surprise. Della Street consulted her notebook and said, "So I took the responsibility of sending a radiogram addressed to the Captain of the Steamship Monterey asking if Bishop William Mallory had sailed from Sydney on the northbound voyage and if so to ascertain definitely whether that same person was now aboard the ship either under that or some other name, first or second class."

Mason said, "Good girl. I'll have to think that over a bit. In the meantime, get Paul Drake on the line and tell him I want him to come in and bring Harry with him. What else is new, anything?"

"C. Woodward Warren wants an appointment with you. He talked with me and said he'd pay up to a hundred thousand dollars if you could save his son's life." Mason shook his head. "That's a lot of money," Della Street remarked.

"I know it's a lot of money," Mason said bitterly, "and I'm going to turn it down. That kid's nothing but the spoiled, pampered child of a millionaire. He's dished it out all of his life and never learned to take it. So when he ran up against the first real setback he'd ever had, he grabbed a gun and started shooting. Now he says he's sorry, and thinks everything should be smoothed out for him."

"You," Della Street said, "could get him off with a life sentence. That's all Mr. Warren can hope for. You'll defend this Branner woman and may not get a cent out of it, yet you're turning down a fee that's almost a fortune."

Mason said, "This Branner case has an element of mystery, a hint of poetic justice. There are all of the elements of a gripping human drama. I'm not definitely committing myself to go all the way in it. I'm going to use such talents as I may possess to see that justice is done. But, if I took that Warren case, I'd be using my talents and education to justify the sordid crime of the spoiled, pampered son of a foolish and indulgent father. Don't forget, this isn't the first scrape the kid's been in. He killed a woman with his car last year. The old man hushed it up and bought the kid free. Now he wants to bribe some lawyer to find some method by which the boy can cheat the gallows. To hell with 'em both! Get Paul Drake on the line and tell him to come in."

While she was putting through the call, Mason paced the floor, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, head sunk forward in thought. He frowned at Della Street after a few seconds and said, "Shucks, Della, it's just down the corridor. You could run down there quicker than you could put through that call. What's the trouble?"

"The switchboard operator," she said, "was just giving me a wireless message which had been received from the Monterey. Just a moment and I'll read it." She said into the transmitter, "Get the Drake Detective Agency and tell Mr. Drake the Chief is waiting for him." Then she hung up the telephone and translated her shorthand: "BISHOP WILLIAM MALLORY WAS PASSENGER NORTHBOUND TRIP FROM SYDNEY SAT AT MY TABLE IS ABOUT FIFTY-FIVE IS FIVE FEET SIX OR SEVEN WEIGHT HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE OR EIGHTY IS DEFINITELY NOT ON SHIP NOW HAVE CHECKED ALL PASSENGERS. The message is signed CAPTAIN E. R. JOHANSON."

Mason nodded and said, "And I'll bet he did, too. He evidently realized it was something important."

"Perhaps the bishop stowed away somewhere," Della Street suggested.

Mason shook his head and said, "No, I'm betting on Captain Johanson. When he says a man is not aboard his ship, he means it."

"Then Drake must have been mistaken in thinking they saw him board the Monterey and not get off."

Mason said, "If he'd had suitcases with him, he could have..." His voice trailed away in silence. He stood staring thoughtfully at Della Street and said, "Send another message to Captain Johanson. Ask him if he can tell us if there are any suitcases aboard or in the baggage room with Bishop Mallory's name on the labels."

"You mean that he might have carried aboard a disguise?" she asked dubiously, "and then left the ship...?"

"He went aboard in a disguise," Mason interrupted, laughing.

"What do you mean?"

"According to all accounts," Mason said, "his head was pretty much bandaged up. Now, I saw the room in the hotel right after he had been taken out in the ambulance. The counterpane was on the bed and there was an indentation in it where he'd been lying, but there wasn't any trace of blood. The man was evidently hit with a blackjack - something which usually bruises but doesn't break the skin. Now then, why should the bishop have wrapped his head in bandages which all but concealed his features?"

She stared at him with a puzzled frown and said, "But, Chief, Drake's men already knew what he looked like. It wouldn't have done any good to have concealed his features from them."

Mason grinned. "Have you ever gone down to the sailing of one of those big ships, Della?"

"No. Why?"

"Along at the last," he said, "there's a rush which jams the gangplank with a solid mass of jostling, pushing humanity. It's just a steady stream of faces marching past. Now if you were a detective and had seen a man go aboard in a black suit, with his head swathed in bandages, your mind would get just lazy enough to play tricks on you when the big rush started. In other words, you wouldn't study each face. You would subconsciously be looking for a bandaged head and a black suit. If your man walked down the gangplank wearing a tweed suit or an inconspicuous gray suit, with a felt hat pulled rather low on an unbandaged forehead, you'd unconsciously pass him up. Remember, things happen fast, and hundreds of people are funneled out of that gangplank, to disperse into a yelling mass of enthusiastic humanity."

Della Street nodded slow acquiescence and said, "Yes, I can see how something like that could have taken place. But..." She was interrupted by Paul Drake's code knock on Mason's private office.

Della Street opened the door. Paul Drake nodded to her and said in the thick accents of one who has a cold in his head, "Morning, Della. Come on in, Harry."

He and Harry Coulter entered the office, and Drake said accusingly to the lawyer, "I let you talk me out of that last drink of whiskey last night, Perry, and look what happened to me."

Mason surveyed the watering eyes, the red nose, grinned unsympathetically and said, "You took too much on that first drink, Paul. It gave you a reaction too soon. How about you, Harry, how do you feel?"

"Swell," Coulter said, "and I was splashing around for hours before the Chief got there."

Drake slid into the big leather chair, swung his feet up over the overstuffed arm and shook his head sadly at Della Street. "That's what comes of trying to give service," he said. "Work yourself sick for a lawyer and you don't get any sympathy. It's a dog's life. A detective works day and night for a measly per diem while lawyers charge fees based on the results the detectives get for him."

Mason grinned and said, "That's the worst of a cold - it gives a man such a pessimistic outlook. Think how fortunate you are to have so much business, Paul. But if it's sympathy you're looking for, Della can hold your hand while you tell us what happened."

Drake suddenly galvanized into motion, his face twisting into contortions as his right hand shot for a hip pocket. He jerked out a handkerchief but failed to get it to his nose before he had sneezed explosively. He sadly wiped his nose, and said thickly, "The Seaton woman's disappeared. She didn't show at her apartment all night. I burgled the place again this morning and took a look around. It's just the way it was the last time we saw it."

Mason frowned thoughtfully. "She couldn't be hiding some place in the building, could she, Paul - perhaps in a friend's apartment?"

"I don't think so. Her toothbrush and tooth paste were hanging in a rack by the washbowl. She couldn't have gone out to get a new toothbrush and she'd almost certainly have sneaked back to the apartment to pick up hers even if she'd forgotten it when she went out to her friend's apartment."

"Then where is she?"

Drake shrugged his shoulders, twisted his face into a grimace, and held his handkerchief beneath his nose. He held the pose for several seconds, then his features relaxed while he sighed and said, "That's another complaint I have against the whole scheme of existence. Every time I hold my handkerchief to my nose I can't sneeze. When I put it back in my pocket, I can't ever get it out in time... Here's something funny, Perry: There are two other shadows on the job."

"Where?"

"Covering the Seaton house."

"Police?"

"No, I don't think so. My men figure them for private dicks."

"How do you know it's the Seaton girl they're after?"

"I don't, but it looks like it. One of them went up snooping around on the third floor. He may have even gone into the apartment... What did you want with Harry?"

Mason turned to Harry Coulter. "Did Brownley go directly to the beach last night?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"And you were tagging along behind?"

"Uh huh."

"Did any other cars pass you?"

Coulter thought for a minute, and then said, "Yeah. There was a big yellow coupe went past just before we got to the beach, and it was going like hell. There may have been some other cars that passed me before that, but I don't remember them. I had my hands full tagging old Brownley through the rain. But this yellow coupe was making knots per hour, and it was after we'd passed the main drag that it went past us."

"In other words, you were pretty well down to the beach?"

"That's right."

"How many people in the car, one or two?"

"One I think. And I think the car was a Cadillac, but I can't be positive."

Mason said slowly, "Check up on the cars out at Brownley's place, Paul. See if anyone has a car that answers this description. Also, while you're about it, see if you can find out from the servants if there was any unusual activity around the house after Brownley left and..."

"Say, wait a minute," Harry interrupted, his forehead creased in a frown, "maybe I know more than I thought I did." Mason raised inquiring eyebrows. "Down by the yacht club," Coulter said, "there were some cars parked. They looked as though they'd been there for ages. You know the way those birds do when they are out on a cruise. They run their cars off to the side of the road in that parking place, lock them up and leave them. There are some garages down there but most of the fellows..."

"Yes, I know," Mason interrupted, "what about it?"

"Well," Coulter said, "when I was running around trying to pick up Brownley's trail down by the place where he keeps the yacht, there were four or five cars parked out in the rain. I was pretty sore at myself for letting Brownley get away from me and I looked 'em over - not with the idea of remembering the cars - just to see if Brownley's car was one of them. When I saw it wasn't, I kept on going. But, come to think of it, one of those cars was a big yellow coupe, a Cadillac, I think. Now that may have been the car that passed me. I couldn't have told, of course, because it was raining cats and dogs when the car went past. I saw headlights in my rear-view mirror, then there was a big wave of water, and a car went past with a rush. Then all I could see was a tail light - you know how it is when a car passes you on a rainy night."

As Mason nodded, Paul Drake sneezed again into his handkerchief and said, "That's the first sneeze I've timed right since I caught this damn cold."

"You couldn't have caught the cold down there this morning," Mason pointed out. "It wouldn't have developed that soon."

"Yeah, I know," Drake said. "Probably I haven't got any cold. You're like the guys who stroll around the decks of steamers, smoking pipes and telling the green-faced passengers there ain't any such thing as seasickness - that it's all in the imagination. Ordinarily I'd hate to do this to you, Perry, but since you've been so damned unsympathetic, it's going to be a pleasure. You can play around with all the yellow coupes you want to, but when you get done, you'll find you're no place. This is one case where the police have got your client sewed up tight, and if you ain't careful they'll have you sewed up, too."

"What do you mean?" Mason asked.

"Just what I say. The police haven't been entirely asleep at the switch, and you left something of a back-trail yourself. The police can prove Brownley told you he was going to make a will which would put your client on the skids. They can trace you to a Western Union office where you sent a wireless to the Monterey and used a pay station telephone. They can prove you called Stella Kenwood's apartment where Julia Branner was staying.

"Now, after you telephoned Julia, she got a cab driver to take a letter to old man Brownley. Brownley read the letter and made some crack about having to go to the beach to get Oscar's watch back. He was excited as the devil."

"Did the cab driver give the letter to Brownley?" Mason asked.

"Not to the old man. He gave it to the grandson, and the grandson took it up. Old Brownley was asleep."

"Philip saw him read the letter?"

"That's right, and he said something to Philip about getting a watch back from Julia. Now the police figure she lured him down to the beach, climbed on the running board and gave him the works with a .32 automatic. She dropped the gun and beat it. An accomplice who was in on the play climbed into the car and drove it down to a pier, near which he had another car parked. He put the car in low gear, stood on the running board, opened the throttle, and jumped off. The car went into the drink."

"And I believe the car was still in low gear when they pulled it up, wasn't it?" Mason asked.

Drake, wiping his nose with his handkerchief, gave a muffled "Uh huh."

"And it's her gun," Coulter said. "She was carrying it under a permit issued in Salt Lake City."

Drake, sniffling, said, "What's more, they've got her fingerprint on the car window on the left-hand side. You see, Brownley was driving with the window rolled up because it was raining. When Julia came out, he rolled the window down to talk to her, but he didn't roll it all the way down. She stood on the running board, and hooked her fingers over the window and left some perfectly swell fingerprints on the inside of the glass. The cops got the car raised up before the water had eliminated the fingerprints."

Mason frowned. "Any chance she could have left her fingerprints on the car before Brownley started for the beach?"

"Not one chance in ten million," Drake said. "Now that's the gloomy side, Perry. Here's a silver lining to the cloud: There's a darn good chance this granddaughter who's living with Brownley is a phoney."

"Have you got any facts?" Mason asked.

"Of course I've got facts," Drake said irritably. "I don't know what they amount to, but they're facts. After Oscar's death the old man wanted to locate his granddaughter, so he got Jaxon Eaves to find her - or it may have been that Eaves came to old man Brownley and claimed that he could find the girl. I can't find out which is which.

"Now it isn't ethical for me to knock another detective agency, and it isn't nice to say anything against a man who's dead, but the story goes that old man Brownley agreed to pay twenty-five thousand dollars if Eaves could find the granddaughter. Now you figure twenty-five thousand bucks and add to it the possibility of a split on whatever inheritance the girl might get, and subtract that from Eaves' code of professional ethics, and you don't need to turn to the back of the book to find the answer. I will say this much for Eaves. He apparently tried his darnedest to locate the real granddaughter. He got as far as Australia, and then ran up against a brick wall.