The Case Of The Stuttering Bishop

"Now Eaves had a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus at stake, and that's a hell of a lot of money for a detective to pass up simply because he can't produce a granddaughter. And remember that about the only way you can prove an impostor ain't the real thing is to produce the real thing. Eaves had gone far enough with his investigation to become pretty well satisfied the real thing couldn't be produced. Now, of course the old man wanted proof before he paid over the money, but he also wanted to believe the girl was genuine. He wanted to be convinced. Eaves and the girl wanted to convince him. There wasn't anyone to take the other end of the argument. That's something like having a lawyer argue his case to the judge without having any witnesses or any lawyer on the other side."

Mason said thoughtfully, "You figure Eaves arranged with the girl to split any inheritance she'd get?"

Drake said impatiently, "Of course he did. Don't think Eaves would overlook a bet like that."

"And he's dead?"

"Uh huh."

Mason said slowly, "He wouldn't have kept this all to himself, Paul. There must have been someone else in on the deal, and now that Eaves is dead, there must be someone trailing along to get Eaves' cut out of the inheritance."

Drake nodded his head and said, "That's logical, but I can't prove anything."

"And then again someone who smells a rat might be trying to cut in, just on general principals," Mason pointed out.

"That's not so likely," Drake said. "It's a good set-up for a blackmailer, if the blackmailer knew what he was doing; but old Brownley wasn't a damned fool, and neither was Jaxon Eaves. They didn't make any splash in the newspapers when the girl moved in. She just slid quietly into the house and started living there, and Brownley casually announced she was his granddaughter, and after a while, the society editors started telling every time she went to Palm Springs and what she had on."

Mason nodded his head slowly. "Is she staying at the house now, Paul?" he asked.

"No, she left the place early this morning and went to the Santa Del Rios Hotel. You know a young kid like that didn't want to be around the house after the tragedy."

"That's what she says?" Mason asked.

"That's what she says," Paul Drake affirmed.

"Of course," Mason said, "she might have gone to the hotel so she could be more available for conferences with anyone who was interested in keeping her out of the murder mix-up."

Drake sneezed, wiped his nose and said, "I'm keeping her shadowed."

Mason started pacing the floor, his forehead puckered into a frown. Once or twice he shook his head dubiously, then paused in his pacing to stand with feet spread far apart and stare moodily at the detective. "That isn't going to get us anywhere, Paul," he said. "That's the sort of net which will catch all the small fish but let all the big ones get away."

"What do you mean?" Drake asked.

"If she's there in the hotel and some man is planning her campaign, that man will either be a detective or will be someone who was associated with Eaves when Eaves was alive. In other words, he'll know all about how detectives work and what to watch out for. He'll know darn well that we're having the girl shadowed, and he'll have some scheme figured out by which that shadowing won't do us any good, at least so far as he's concerned."

"Well," Drake said irritably, "what the hell can I do?"

Mason said slowly, "Nothing. We can't get in touch with the man we want by trying to follow his back trail." He turned to Della Street and said, "Della, could you get a henna pack that would make your hair look nice and red?"

"Yes. Why?"

Mason said moodily, "You could go into the Seaton girl's apartment just as though you owned the joint, finish packing up, take her trunk and suitcase and go to some new apartment."

"Wouldn't that put her in an awful spot?" Drake asked.

Mason, speaking in the moody monotone of one who is thinking out loud, said, "Breaking and entry, grand larceny and a few other things - if they could prove a criminal intent. If they couldn't prove criminal intent, there wouldn't be so much to it."

"But what would be the advantage?" Drake inquired.

"If the chaps who are watching that house," Mason said slowly, "are hired by someone who's interested in getting Eaves' cut out of the estate, they won't know anything about Janice Seaton except what they've been able to pick up from a description, and that'll mostly be a trim figure with red hair. When they see someone who answers that description checking out of the Seaton girl's apartment, they'll act on the assumption that two and two make four and won't ask her to go down to the bank to be identified."

Harry Coulter fidgeted uneasily in his chair and said, "You can't tell just what they're after, Mason. Looking at it one way..." He became silent in mid-sentence and shrugged his shoulders.

Della Street went to the closet, took out her hat and coat. "It'll take me about two hours to get that pack and get my hair dry, Chief," she said.

Mason nodded. The other two men stared at her in apprehensive silence.

CHAPTER 10

Mason waited in front of the hotel apartment house and frowningly consulted his wristwatch. He lit a cigarette and nervously paced up and down a strip of pavement. When the cigarette was half finished, a taxicab swung around the corner, with a small wardrobe trunk held in place by a strap. Mason gave one quick look at the cab, flipped his cigarette into the gutter, stepped back into the entrance of the apartment hotel and waited until he saw Della Street, her hair a bright auburn, step from the cab.

Mason turned, entered the lobby, nodded reassuringly to the clerk on duty at the desk and said, "I have my key, thanks." He rode up in the elevator to the tenth floor and opened the door of 1028. He closed the door, dragged up a chair, climbed on it and stood where he could look over the transom at 1027, which was directly across the corridor.

A few minutes later, he heard the sound of an elevator door, quick steps in the corridor, and then the rumble of wheels made by a hand truck. Della Street, preceded by one of the porters who carried a suitcase in one hand, a bag in the other, walked down the corridor. The porter paused in front of Room 1027 and said, "This is it - the one you reserved over the telephone. If it isn't right, we can change it."

"I'm quite sure it will be all right," Della Street said. "I'm familiar with the apartments. I had a friend who lived here once."

The porter opened the door, stood aside for Della to enter, then followed her with the suitcase. A second or two later, an assistant trundled the trunk into the apartment.

Mason leaned his arm against the sill of the transom and eased his weight against the wood. He saw the porter and the assistant come out to the corridor with broad smiles on their faces, slowing the door behind them.

There followed a long, tedious wait, while Mason shifted his position and smoked cigarettes, the stubs of which he ground out against the wood of the transom. He stiffened to attention as he heard the clang of the elevator door and then steps in the corridor. A tall man walked swiftly down the carpeted hallway. There was something furtive in his manner, despite the fact that he made no attempt to tread lightly. The man paused in front of Mason's door, raised his knuckles as though to knock, then squinted his eyes as he stared up at the number, turned sharply about, and knocked on the door of apartment 1027.

Della Street's voice called, "Who is it?"

"The engineer to inspect your light connections," the man said.

Della Street opened the door. The man entered the room without a word. The door shut with some violence.

Mason finished his cigarette and looked at his wristwatch. Seconds ticked into minutes. After five minutes, Mason started to smoke another cigarette, but extinguished it after taking no more than two puffs. From across the hall came the sound of a faint thud, a mere hint of muffled noise. Mason jumped down to the floor, sent the chair spinning half across the room with a quick twist of his wrist, jerked the door open, crossed the corridor in three swift strides, and twisted the knob of the door of 1027. The door was locked.

Mason, moving with cat-like agility, stepped back, lowered his shoulder, and went forward in a charge. He flung his full weight against the locked door, like a football player with only seconds to play in the final quarter bucking the line. Wood splintered as the lock gave way. The door slammed back on its hinges, struck against a door-stop, and came to a shivering pause. Mason saw a pair of wildly kicking legs, the broad shoulders of a man bending over a slender, struggling figure. Bedclothes had been dragged out from beneath the studio couch on which the pair were struggling, and the tall man was holding a thick quilt down on Della Street's face, muffling her cries, slowly suffocating her. He jumped to his feet and whirled to face Mason, his mouth distorted with the intensity of his effort, as a sprinter's face is twisted into a spasm when nearing the tape. The man's hand raced back to his hip pocket. "Hold it," he warned. Mason came forward in a charge.

Della Street flung off the guilt. The tall man whipped blued steel from his pocket. Mason, some ten feet away, stared into the ominous dark hole which marked the end of a .38 caliber revolver. The man braced his shoulder as though against an expected recoil. His lips were twisted back from his teeth. Mason stopped abruptly, shifted his eyes to Della Street. "Are you hurt, kid?" he asked.

"Get your hands up," the man with the gun warned. "Back up against that wall. When you get there, turn to face it and hold your hands just as high as..."

Della Street doubled up her body, braced her heels and shot forward. The man jumped to one side, but not in time to keep her from grabbing the arm which held the gun. Mason took two jumps and swung his right fist, catching the man flush on the jaw. The tall man staggered backward. Della Street, clutching for the gun, slid down the man's arm and fell, face forward, on the floor. She jerked the weapon from the man's nerveless fingers. The tall man regained his balance, lashed out a vicious kick at Mason, and picked up a chair.

Della Street, rolling over, the gun in her hand, screamed, "Watch out for him, Chief! He's a killer!"

Mason feinted a rush, stopped abruptly.

The man whirled the chair in a vicious swing, tried to check the momentum of that swing when he realized Mason's rush was a feint, but spun half around, off balance. He dropped the chair, and grabbed for Mason as the lawyer rushed. Mason knocked the man's left aside and sent his fist crashing into the other's nose. He felt the cartilage flatten out under the impact of his fist, saw the man stagger backward and drop abruptly to his hips. The tall man tried to say something, but the words only bubbled through the red smear which had been his nose and lips.

Della Street climbed to her feet, Mason caught the man by the collar, jerked him upright, spun him around, and slammed him down on the couch where he had been struggling with Della. The lawyer's hands made a swiftly thorough job of searching the man for weapons. "All right, buddy," he said, "talk!"

The man made gurgling sounds, pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket, carried it to his mutilated face, and lowered it, a sodden, red rag.

Della Street ran from the bathroom with towels. Mason handed the man one of the towels and said to Della, "Get some cold water." She brought in a pan of cold water. Mason sopped one of the towels in the water, held it against the back of the man's neck, dashed cold water over his face. The man said, in a thick, choking voice, the words sounding as though someone was holding a clothespin over his nose, "You've broken my nose."

"What the hell did you think I was trying to do," Mason asked, "kiss you? You're damned lucky I didn't break your neck!"

"I'll have you arrested for this," the man choked out.

Mason told him, "You'd find yourself facing a charge of assault with intent to commit murder. What did he do, Della?"

Della Street was half hysterical. "He got rough, Chief," she said, "and when I tried to blow the whistle to signal you, he jumped on me, punched the wind out of me, jerked the bedclothes out of the closet and tried to smother me. He was going to kill me."

The man groaned as he held towels to his face.

Mason said savagely, "I should have beaten your head in with a club; but, damn it, now I've spoiled your looks so Bishop Mallory can't identify you as the man who knocked him over the head."

Unintelligible words sounded thickly from behind the soggy towels.

Mason said, "Hell, we're not getting anywhere doing this. Let's see who this bird is." He calmly proceeded to go through the man's pockets. The man tried to push Mason away, then clutched his fingers for Mason's throat. Mason said, "Not had enough yet, eh?" and jabbed his fist into the pit of the other's stomach. As the struggle ceased he pulled objects from the man's pockets and handed them to Della Street. He discovered and passed over a wallet, a key container, a knife, a watch, a blackjack, a package of cigarettes, a cigarette lighter, fountain pen, pencil, and then a single key which had not been clipped into the leather key container. "Look 'em over, Della," he said, "and let's see who this bird is."

The man had fallen back on the couch now and lay perfectly motionless, only the hoarse sound of his sputtering breath, coming from behind the towels, showed that he was still alive. Della Street said, "He tried to murder me. I can tell the difference between someone just trying to smother my cries and someone really trying to kill me."

"All right," Mason said, "let's see who he is. Something tells me when we find out how this bird fits into the picture, we'll know a lot more than we do now."

Della laughed nervously as she opened the wallet. "My hand's shaking," she said. "Gosh, Chief, I was sc-c-ared."

Mason said, "We'll settle his hash. He's the one who knocked the bishop on the head. We can send him up for having that blackjack in his possession."

"Here's a driving license," she said, "made out to Peter Sacks. The address is 691 Ripley Building."

"Okay," Mason said, "what else?"

"Here are some business cards," she said, "State-Wide Detective Agency, Incorporated. Here's a license made out to Peter Sacks as a private detective."

Mason whistled.

"There are some papers in the wallet. Do you want those?"

"Everything."

"Here's a hundred dollars in twenties. Here's a wireless addressed to Bishop William Mallory, Steamship Monterey It reads: CHARLES W. SEATON KILLED SIX MONTHS AGO IN AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENT. I AM SETTLING HIS ESTATE. WRITING YOU IMPORTANT LETTER CARE OF MATSON COMPANY, SAN FRANCISCO. [Signed] JASPER PELTON, ATTORNEY."

"Now we're getting some place," Mason said. "What else, Della?"

"Here's a letter," she said, "from Jasper Pelton, an attorney in Bridgeville, Idaho. It's addressed to Bishop William Mallory, passenger on Steamship Monterey, care of Matson Navigation Company, San Francisco."

"Go ahead and read it," Mason said.

"My dear Bishop [she read], as the attorney settling the estate of Charles W. Seaton, I have received the radiogram which you sent Mr. Seaton, asking him to communicate with you immediately upon your arrival in San Francisco.

"Mrs. Seaton died some two years ago, leaving surviving her Charles W. Seaton and a daughter, Janice. Some six months ago Mr. Seaton was fatally injured in an auto wreck. He died within twenty-four hours after the injuries were received. At his bedside at the time of his death was his daughter, Janice, who is a trained nurse. I am mentioning this to you in detail because, during a lucid interval just before his death, Mr. Seaton very apparently tried to give us some message to be conveyed to you. He said several times, 'Bishop Mallory. Tell him... promise... don't want... read in newspaper...'

"I am giving you this verbatim because I took down as many of the words as we could understand. Unfortunately, Seaton was too weak to articulate clearly and most of his words were merely a rattle which could not be understood. He apparently sensed this and made several desperate attempts to get his message across, but died without being able to do so.

"At the time, I searched diligently throughout the United States for a Bishop Mallory, thinking that perhaps he might be able to shed some light upon what Mr. Seaton had been trying to tell us. I located a Bishop Mallory in New York and one in Kentucky. Neither of them remembered a Mr. Seaton, although they stated it might well have been possible Mr. Seaton had been in touch with them and they had forgotten about him, inasmuch as bishops come in contact with so many people.

"Mr. Seaton at one time had been in the possession of considerable property, but his financial affairs had become hopelessly involved within the last two years and, after deducting the claims which have been presented and allowed from the inventory value of the estate, it is doubtful if there will be much property to turn over to the daughter who is now, I believe, somewhere in Los Angeles. I do not have her present address, but will endeavor to get in touch with her through friends of hers and ask her to communicate with you. If you happen to be in Los Angeles you might locate her through the fact that she is a registered nurse.

"I am giving you this detailed information because I was a personal friend of Mr. Seaton, as well as a member of a fraternal organization in which he was active. I would like very much indeed to be able to send Janice something substantial from the estate, and if you know of any tangible or potential assets I would be glad to have you communicate with Miss Janice Seaton or with me."

"That all of it?" Mason asked.

"That's all of it except the signature. It's an awful scrawl."

"Well," Mason said, "we're commencing to get somewhere. Those are the papers that he..." He broke off as a voice from the door said, "What's coming off here?"

Mason whirled to face a dignified elderly gentleman whose close-cropped white mustache contrasted with the rich red of a florid complexion. The eyes were cold, steely and steady. From all appearances, the man might have been a banker, but there was an ominous menace in his eyes.

Mason said, "Where do you fit into the picture?"

"I'm Victor Stockton," the man said. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No," Mason told him.

"You don't mean anything to me either."

Sacks, on the couch, had struggled to a sitting position at the sound of Stockton's voice. He pulled the bloody towels from his face. The frosty, gray eyes shifted from Mason to Sacks. "What did he do to you, Pete?" Stockton asked.

Sacks tried to say something, but his swollen lips and broken nose made the words inaudible.

Stockton turned back to Mason. "This man's my partner," he said. "I'm working with him on this case. I don't know who you are, but I'm going to find out."

Mason, his hands at his side, said, "Your friend Mr. Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room in the Regal Hotel and stole some papers. Were you in partnership with him on that deal?"

Stockton's eyes remained cold, nor did they so much as falter, but a film seemed to have been drawn over them. "Got any proof?" he asked.

Mason said, "You're damned right I've got proof."

Sacks made a lunge and tried to grab the letter from Della Street's hand. Mason caught his shoulder and pushed him back. Stockton started forward, his hand clawing at his hip.

Mason felt Della Street's body pressed against him, felt his right arm pulled slightly back. She pushed the cold butt of the .38 Mason had knocked from the detective's hand into his fingers. Mason moved his right hand forward. Stockton glimpsed the gun and froze into immobility. Mason said to Della Street, "Take down that phone and ask for police headquarters. Tell them..."

The man with the battered face swung his feet to the floor. Stockton nodded his head. Sacks ran in a staggering rush past Stockton, out of the door and down the corridor. Stockton turned deliberately on his heel and walked slowly from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Mason said to Della Street, "Are you hurt, kid?"

She smiled at him, shook her head, and explored her throat with the tips of her fingers. "The big baboon," she said, "tried to choke me. Then he got a knee in my stomach and got the bedclothes over my head."

"Did he know you were trying to signal me?" Mason asked.

"I don't think so. I tried to blow the whistle when the party got rough. I tell you, Chief, he was desperate. I saw panic and murder in his eyes. He's frightened stiff at something, and he's like a cornered rat."

Mason nodded and said, "Of course he's frightened."

"At what?" she asked.

Mason said, "Janice Seaton is the real granddaughter of Renwold Brownley. These detectives were in on the original crooked substitution and they've got to make it stick. With Brownley dead, they'll get a cut from the fake granddaughter, which'll make them independently wealthy. They're gambling with a fortune on one side and jail on the other."

"Wouldn't it have been logical for them to have killed Brownley?"

"Lots of people could logically have killed him," Mason told her. "My job is to find who did kill him."

"What'll I do with this stuff?"

"Give it to me," Mason said.

"You're going to keep it?"

"I'll hold it for evidence."

"Won't it be larceny? There's money in that purse. He might file a complaint..."

Mason interrupted savagely, "To hell with him! When the time comes, I'll turn these letters over to Jim Pauley, the house dick at the Regal, and he'll make a complaint charging these birds with burgling the bishop's room."

"You caved in the whole front of that man's face, Chief," she said.

His eyes were smoldering as he looked at her, his jaw pushed aggressively forward, "I wish to hell," he said, "that I'd made a better job of it." He crossed to the telephone, called Drake's agency, frowned when informed Drake was at a Turkish bath, and said to Drake's secretary, "Get all the dope you can on a private detective by the name of Peter Sacks. He thought Della Street was the Seaton girl and tried to bump her off... Get your men busy on that angle." Mason hung up the telephone. "Okay, kid," he said, "you go back to the office."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I," he told her grimly, "am going to the Santa Del Rios Hotel to interview the spurious granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley."

CHAPTER 11

Mason folded a twenty-dollar bill and slid it into the palm of the girl at the switchboard in the Santa Del Rios Hotel. "All I ask," he said, "is that you get her on the line for me. I'll take care of things after that."

"I have positive orders," she demurred. "She's been deluged by newspaper reporters."

"And she's dodging publicity?"

"I'll say. She's overcome with grief."

"Yeah," Mason said, "overcome with grief because she's inherited a few million and is going to get her paws on it."

"Are you a newspaper man?" the girl at the switchboard asked. Mason shook his head. "What then?"

"To you," Mason told her, "I'm Santa Claus."

She sighed and her fingers closed over the twenty dollars. "If I nod my head," she said, "get in booth two. I'll have her on the line. That's all I can do."

"That's all you have to do," Mason told her. "What's her number?"

"She's in Suite A on the second floor."

"Okay," Mason remarked and stepped back from the desk. The nimble fingers of the girl flew over the switchboard. From time to time she talked into the mouthpiece which was held in position on her chest so that the curved rubber transmitter was within a few inches of her lips. Suddenly she turned to Mason and nodded. Mason entered the booth, picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." A feminine voice of silken texture said, "Yes, what is it?"

Mason said, "I'm Mr. Mason here in the hotel, and I think I should discuss with you arrangements we're perfecting to keep newspaper reporters from bothering you. We've had a perfect swarm of them down here. They've been ordered to get interviews or else, and unless we cooperate I'm afraid you'll be seriously annoyed."

The voice said, "That'll be fine, Mr. Mason. I appreciate what you're doing."

"May I come up now?" Mason asked.

"Yes. Go to 209 and tap on the door. I'll let you in through there. Don't come to Suite A. I think that's being watched by the newspaper men."

Mason thanked her, hung up, took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on the door of 209. It was opened by an attractive young woman in green lounging pajamas who flashed him a seductive smile and locked the door behind him. Then she led the way through connecting doors across two bathrooms and three conventionally furnished hotel bedrooms, into a corner suite at the end of the wing, where luxurious furnishings and deep carpets created the atmosphere of a palatial home.

She nodded toward a chair and said, "How about a cigarette and a little Scotch and soda?"

"Thanks," said Mason.

While he selected a cigarette, she poured Scotch from a cut-glass decanter into a tall glass, dropped in ice cubes and squirted carbonated water into the glass. "Have you heard any news?" she asked. "Have they found Grandfather's body?"

"Not yet," he told her. "This must be quite a shock to you."

"It is," she said, "a terrible shock," and placed a jeweled hand to her eyes.

"Can you," Mason said, settling back in his chair, "remember anything of your early childhood?"

"Why of course," she told him, removing her hand and staring at him in steady appraisal.

"You were an adopted child, I believe."

"Say, what's the idea?" she asked, her eyes suddenly wary, her muscles stiffening as though she were ready to run. "You said you wanted to see me about keeping out newspaper reporters."

Mason nodded easily and said, "That was the stall Pete told me to use to fool the telephone girl. I supposed he'd tipped you off on it."

"Pete?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Sure," Mason said, blowing out a casual puff of cigarette smoke.

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

Mason frowned impatiently. "Listen! I haven't got all day on this thing. Pete Sacks and Victor Stockton told me to get in touch with you. Pete said not to let you know who I was, because he was afraid someone might be listening in on the telephone calls, so I was to pull that stall about keeping the newspaper reporters away from you, and he was to tip you off what it meant so I wouldn't have any trouble getting in. When you told me to come on up, I figured of course Pete had been in touch with you."

Her eyes studied the pink polish on her fingernails for almost ten seconds before she said, "Who are you?"

Mason said, "Look here; there's no chance Pete's double-crossing both of us, is there? You came over on the Monterey with Bishop Mallory, didn't you?"

She nodded her head, started to say something, then changed her mind, hesitated a moment.

Mason heard the faint sound of a door-latch clicking behind him, but was afraid to turn his head.

"Just who are you?" the girl asked again, and this time her voice seemed filled with more confidence.

A man standing in the doorway said, "His name's Perry Mason. He's a lawyer representing a couple of blackmailers who are trying to shake down the estate for a nice piece of change."

Mason slowly turned and encountered the steely eyes of Victor Stockton.

"A lawyer!" Janice Brownley exclaimed, getting to her feet, her voice showing consternation.

"Yes. What have you told him?"

"Nothing."

Stockton nodded and said to Mason, "It's time you and I had a little talk."

Mason said grimly, "When I talk to you, it'll be on the witness stand and under oath."

Stockton moved easily across the room, dropped into a chair and said, "Pour me a drink, Janice." His watchful eyes didn't leave Mason's face.

Janice Brownley splashed Scotch into a glass and fumbled for ice cubes with the silver tongs. Stockton settled back in the chair comfortably and said to Mason, "Don't be too sure. There's a warrant out for your arrest."

"For my arrest!" Mason exclaimed.

Stockton nodded and grinned. "Grand larceny, assault with a deadly weapon, and robbery," he said.

Mason's shrewd eyes studied the other man in critical appraisal. "Because of Sacks?" he asked.

"Because of Sacks," Stockton said. "You can't pull that stuff and get away with it."

Mason remarked grimly, "The hell I can't. You haven't seen anything yet. I was going to let the matter drop. But if you want to go ahead with it, we'll see where you get off. Sacks tried to commit murder. He pulled a gun on me and I smashed his nose and took it away from him. He got off lucky."

Stockton said to Janice Brownley, "Not too much soda Janice." He turned his frosty back to Mason and said, "Listen, I'm a detective. Pete's working for me. We've known for more than three weeks an attempt was going to be made to shake Brownley down. I didn't know just how it was going to be done. I figured it would be played through some lawyer. A smart lawyer would have kept himself in the clear by going to Brownley first and then letting Janice come to him with a proposition. A boob would have laid himself wide open to blackmail charges by coming to Janice first. In either event, it was a shakedown, so I figured on beating you to the punch. I tipped the old man off, and I told Janice just what she could expect. We were laying for you. Then you stole a march on us by killing the old man... Now, keep your shirt on. I don't say you did it, but you know who did it and I know who did it. That's put us in a funny spot, particularly if there isn't any will, or if the will should leave property to the granddaughter without specifying that by the word granddaughter he means the girl who is living in his house with him."

Janice Brownley silently handed him the glass. Stockton clinked the ice against the sides of the glass and raised it to his lips.

"So what?" Mason asked.

Stockton said, "You'd like to have me tell you that if you'd step out of the case, Pete Sacks would drop the charges against you. Then you'd use that statement to show the D.A. we were trying to use him for a cat's-paw. Well, Mr. Perry Mason, you've got another guess coming. That's a trap I'm not walking into."

"I'm still listening," Mason told him.

Stockton said slowly, measuring his words with scrupulous care, "It might be better business for Janice to make some sort of compromise. It's going to be darned near impossible for her to prove her relationship. On the other hand, it's going to be utterly impossible for anyone to disprove it."

"You have something in mind?" Mason asked.

"Have you?" Stockton countered.

"No."

"No offer of settlement?"

"None whatever."

Stockton said, "All right then, we're going to fight every inch of the way. There'll be no compromise. You've seen fit to mix in this thing, and now you're going to take it right on the chin. If you'd stayed in your office, minding your own business and practicing law, you'd have been in the clear. You didn't do that. You went running around, playing detective and acting smart. Now you've bit into something, and I'm going to let you try and chew it. Julia Branner had a pipe-dream which didn't work, so she bumped Brownley off to keep him from making a will which would knock her scheme into a cocked hat. It might have been a swell break if Bixler hadn't seen the whole thing. The way it stands now, Julie Branner's going to be convicted of murder as a principal. The girl she's trying to palm off as her daughter is going to be convicted of being an accessory after the fact, and you're going to be disbarred and convicted of assault with a deadly weapon, grand larceny, and robbery. After that, you can figure how a jury will feel about giving you three birds a slice of the estate - And don't slam the door as you go out."

Mason said, "I'm not slamming any doors just yet. And, by the way, Janice, where were you when your grandfather was killed?"

Stockton set down his glass. His face darkened a shade. "So," he said, "you're going to try something like that, eh?"

"I just asked a question," Mason said.

"Well, you ask too damn many questions. And, in case you want to know, Janice has a perfect alibi. She was with me."

A slow smile spread over Mason's face and he said, "Well, now isn't that nice. Janice is a ringer you've planted on the old man. She's about to get shown up and you are desperate so you..."

"Steal Julia Branner's gun, forge her name to a letter, and bump off the old man," Stockton interrupted. "The weak part about that is the taxi driver knows it was Julia who sent the message which lured the old man down to the beach. It was Julia Branner's fingerprints the police found on the car where she'd hung onto the window while she emptied her gun into him. It was Julia Branner's gun that did the killing, and it was Julia Branner's wet clothes the police found in her apartment when they made the pinch, before she'd quite got in bed."

"And in addition," Janice Brownley said, "there were..."

"Keep out of this, Janice," Stockton interrupted, without shifting his eyes from the lawyer. "I'll do the talking."

"Yes," Mason said sarcastically, "he's your alibi, Janice. He swears you were with him when the murder was committed, so you couldn't have done it, and you swear he was with you, so he couldn't have done it."

Stockton grinned and said, "And don't forget my wife. She was there, and a notary public who lives across the hall that I'd called in to make an additional witness." Stockton finished the last of his drink. His grin was slow, deliberate and unfriendly. "I've told you enough so you can see what you're up against," he said, "and that's all you're going to find out from us."

"What do you want?" Mason asked.

"Nothing."

"What's your proposition?"

Stockton grinned and said, "We haven't any. And what's more, we aren't going to make any. You're going to be too much on the defensive from now on to rig up any more blackmailing schemes."

Mason said sarcastically, "I presume that after Pete Sacks broke into Bishop Mallory's room, sapped the bishop with a blackjack and stole the bishop's private papers, the D.A. will consider it a felony for someone who's representing Bishop Mallory to recover the papers?"

Stockton shook his head. "Don't be funny. You know why you framed Pete into that trap just as well as I do. You wanted the key."

There was genuine surprise in Mason's voice. "The key?" he asked.

Stockton nodded.

"What key?"

"The one you got," Stockton said grimly. "Don't play so damn innocent."

"I got a bunch of keys," Mason said.

"As well as a hundred dollars in cash and a few other things. But what you wanted was the key."

Mason kept his face without expression. Stockton studied him for a moment and said, "Don't act so damn innocent. - Hell, you may be just a sucker, at that. How the hell do you suppose we knew the inside of this blackmail racket? We had a line into Julia Brownley before she even came to California. She figured Pete was a torpedo who was willing to bump anyone off, and she played right into his hands. She put up a proposition to Pete to kill Brownley before he could make another will. She had a man who was going to pose as Bishop Mallory long enough to make a deposition which would identify Janice Seaton as the real granddaughter. This bishop was a phoney who had been carefully rehearsed in the part he was to play. She might have fooled the old man, or she might even have been able to get a shake-down from Janice here, if she hadn't spilled the whole dope to Pete. She was playing Pete to be her right-hand man. She was going to get some lawyer who could put up a good fight, sell him on her story, and let him contact Brownley. If Brownley was willing to kick through in order to avoid a stink, she'd settle. If Brownley got tough she was going to bump him off, and Pete was the one she'd picked to do the dirty work. She gave Pete a key to her apartment and promised him twenty-five percent of whatever she and Janice Seaton got out of the deal. And, just to show you what a sucker you are, she'd even planned to contact the old man behind your back after you'd broken the ice. She was going to make a settlement with him and leave you out in the cold, and if she couldn't scare the old man into a settlement she was going to try and shake the granddaughter down for a few thousand and leave you holding the sack. - At that she might have had us worried if we hadn't had Pete in on the ground floor.

"After the murder, you were mixed in so deep you had to get her out in order to get yourself out. You had to get that key from Pete, because that key corroborated his testimony. So you trapped Pete into an apartment where you could beat him up and grab the evidence, but we've got just a little more on Julia Branner than you figured. You've made your bed, and now you can lie in it."

Mason got to his feet. Stockton set down the empty glass, took a step toward Mason and said, "And don't come here any more. Do you get that?"

Mason stared at the man moodily. "I have," he said, slowly, "already smashed one nose, and I'd just as soon smash another."

Stockton stood still, neither retreating nor advancing. "And you have already stolen some papers which were evidence in the case," he said. "When Pete tried to get back that evidence you swung on him and pulled a gun on me. Don't forget that. And if you keep on playing around with this bunch of blackmailers you're tied up with, you'll probably find yourself mixed in a murder charge."

Mason strode toward the door, but turned in the doorway. "How much of a cut are you supposed to get out of the inheritance for having dug up an heir to the estate?" he asked.

Stockton grinned mirthlessly and said, "Don't bother about it now, Mason. Write me a letter from San Quentin. You'll have more time to think things over when you get up there."

Mason left the room, took the elevator to the lobby, and was halfway across the sidewalk when someone touched him on the arm. He whirled to encounter Philip Brownley. "Hello," he said, "what are you doing here?"

Brownley said grimly, "I'm keeping watch on Janice."

"Afraid something's going to happen to her?" Mason asked.

Brownley shook his head and said, "Look here, Mr. Mason, I want to talk with you."

"Go on and talk," Mason told him.

"Not here."

"Where?"

"My car's parked at the curb. I saw you go in, and called to you, but you didn't hear me. I was waiting for you to come out. Let's sit in my car and talk."

Mason said, "I don't like the climate around here. A man by the name of Stockton is playing smart... Do you know Stockton?"

Brownley said slowly, "He's the one who helped Janice kill Grandfather."

Mason's eyes bored steadily into Brownley's. "Are you just talking?" he asked. "Or are you saying something?"

"I'm saying something."

"Where's your car?"

"Over here."

"All right. Let's get in it."

Brownley opened the door of a big gray cabriolet and slid in behind the steering wheel. Mason climbed in beside him, sitting next to the curb, and pulled the door shut.

"This your car?" he asked.

"Yes."

"All right, what about Janice?"

There were dark circles under Brownley's eyes. His face was white and haggard. He lit a cigarette with a hand that trembled, but when he spoke his voice was steady. "I took the message the cab driver left last night - or rather this morning," he said.

"What did you do with it?"

"Took it up to my grandfather."

"Was he asleep?"

"No. He'd gone to bed, but he wasn't sleeping. He was reading a book."

"So what?" Mason asked.

"He read the message and got excited as the devil. He jumped into his clothes and told me to have someone get his car out, that he was going down to the beach to meet Julia Branner; that Julia had promised to give him back Oscar's watch if he'd come alone without being followed and go aboard his yacht where she could talk with him without being interrupted."

"He told you that?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

"I advised him not to go."

"Why?"

"I thought it was a trap."

Mason's eyes narrowed slowly. "Did you think someone would try to kill him?"

"No. Of course not. But I thought they might try to trap him into some compromising situation, or into making statements."

Mason nodded. There was a moment or two of silence, and then the lawyer said. "Go on. This is your party. You're doing the talking."

"I went down personally and opened the garage so Grandfather could get his car out. When he came down I begged him to let me drive him. It was a mean night, and Grandfather isn't... wasn't... so much of a driver. He couldn't see well at night."

"And he wouldn't let you drive?" Mason asked.

"No. He said he must go alone; that Julia's letter insisted he must be alone and that no one must follow him, otherwise he'd have his trip for nothing."

"Where is this note?"

"I think Grandfather put it in his coat pocket."

"Go ahead... No, wait a minute. He told you he was going to his yacht?"

"That's what I understood him to say; that Julia wanted to meet him aboard the yacht."

"All right. Go ahead."

"Well, he went out of the garage and I went back to the house, and there was Janice, all dressed and waiting for me."

"What did she want?" Mason asked.

"She said she'd heard the commotion and thought perhaps there was something wrong and wanted to know..."

"Wait a minute," Mason interrupted. "How was she dressed - in evening clothes, or what?"

"No, she had on a sport outfit."

"Go on," Mason said.

"She wanted to know what had happened, and I told her. She was furious with me for letting Grandfather go, and said I should have stopped him."

"Then what?"

"Then I told her she was crazy; that I couldn't have held him with a block and tackle, and I went upstairs. I waited for her to come up. I heard her come up just behind me, and then, after a minute or two, I heard her leave her room and start downstairs again. So I sneaked out in the hall and took a look down the stairs. She was tiptoeing so as not to make any noise, and she was wearing a rain coat."

"What sort of a rain coat?" Mason asked tonelessly.

"A very light yellow rain coat."

Mason pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it silently. "Go on," he said.

"She sneaked downstairs," Brownley said, "and I followed her."

"Trying not to make any noise?"

"Yes, of course."

"Go on."

"She went to the garage and took out her car."

"What sort of a car?"

"A light yellow Cadillac coupe."

Mason settled back against the cushions. "You saw her leave?"

"Yes."

"How long after your grandfather left?"

"Just a minute or two."

"All right, what did you do?"

"I waited until she'd left the garage and then I sprinted for my car and got it started. I didn't turn on the lights, and followed her."

"Could you keep her car in sight?"

"Yes."

"You had told her your grandfather was going down to his yacht to meet Julia?"

"Yes."

"And she went down to the beach?" Mason asked.

"I don't know. That's what I wanted to tell you about."

"But I thought you said you'd followed her!"

"I did, as well as I could."

"Go ahead," Mason told him. "Tell me in your own way just what happened, but tell it to me fast. It may be important as hell."

"She was driving like the devil," Brownley said, "and it was raining pitchforks. I had to keep my lights out, and it was all I could do to follow her..."

"Skip all that," Mason told him. "You followed her, did you?"

" Yes."

"Okay. Where did she go?"

"She went down Figueroa to Fifty-second Street, and then she turned off and parked the car."

"On Figueroa, or on Fifty-second?"

"On Fifty-second."

"What did you do?"

"Slid my car into the curb on Figueroa, switched off the ignition and jumped out."

"And of course that's on the road to the beach," Mason commented musingly.

Brownley nodded.

"Go on," Mason told him impatiently. "What happened?"

"She was walking ahead of me in the rain. In fact, she was running."

"Could you see her?"

"Yes. The light yellow rain coat showed up as a light patch. I ran as hard as I could without making any noise, and of course, I could go faster than she could. That light-colored rain coat was easy to follow. I could see it indistinctly, but you know how it would be..."

"Yes. I know," Mason said. "Where did she go?"

"She walked four blocks."

"Walked four blocks!" Mason exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Why didn't she drive?"

"I don't know."

"You mean to say she was driving a light yellow Cadillac coupe and she parked it on Fifty-second just off Figueroa and then walked four blocks through a driving rain?"

"She ran most of the way."

"I don't care whether she was running or walking. What I mean is, she left the car and went on foot?"

"Yes."

"Where did she go?"

"There's a little apartment house there. I don't think it has over eight or ten apartments in it. It's a frame house, and she went in there."

"Any lights?" Mason asked.

"Yes. There were lights on the second floor in the right-hand corner and on one side - it's only a two-story building. The shades were drawn, but I could see the light through the shades, and occasionally I could see a shadow moving across the curtains."

"You mean you stayed there and watched?"

"That's right."

"How long?"

"Until after daylight."

Mason gave a low whistle.

"I went up to look the place over," Brownley said, "and as nearly as I could figure from the mail boxes, the front apartment was in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Victor Stockton. I couldn't tell whether the side apartment which was lighted was in the name of Jerry Franks or Paul Montrose."

"And you stayed there until after daylight?"

"Yes."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, after it got light I moved farther away of course. And then I could see the back of the building as well as the front. There were a bunch of vacant lots along there and I found one where I could stay and watch."

"And it had quit raining then?"

"It was just quitting."

"Then what happened?"

"Then Janice and a short, chunky fellow, with a felt hat, came out of the place and walked rapidly down the sidewalk toward Figueroa Street. It was daylight then and I didn't dare to crowd them too closely. I waited until they'd got quite a start. You know, it wasn't bright daylight, just the gray of dawn."

"And Janice was wearing her rain coat?"

"Yes."

"The same one she had worn earlier?"

"Yes, of course."

"What did she do?"

"She and this fellow climbed in her car and turned it around and started back toward town. I made a run for my car, but by the time I got into it, started it and turned around they were far enough away to be out of sight. I stepped on the gas and finally caught up to where I could see them. I turned up the collar of my overcoat so they wouldn't recognize me, and turned on my headlights so it would be hard for them to see what the car looked like."

"But they knew, of course, you were following, after you turned your headlights on?"

"I guess so, yes. But they didn't slow down any or try to ditch me."

"There were other cars on the road?"

"Not very many. I think I met one or two, and maybe passed one. I can't be certain. I was watching Janice."

"And what did she do?"

"She drove directly to this hotel. She and this man got out. I had a chance to see him then. I think he has gray eyes and a gray mustache. He wears glasses and..."

"Ever see him again?" Mason asked.

"Yes. He's up there now. He went in about fifteen or twenty minutes ago."

"The same man?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Look here," Mason said slowly, "there was a back exit from that apartment house?"

"Yes."

"Did you watch it while you were shadowing the place?"

"No. That's what I've been trying to explain. I watched the front and that was all. After it got light enough to see, I got where I could see both front and back, but that was only a few minutes before they came out."

"And lights were on in these apartments when Janice got there?"

"Yes."

"And you stayed there all the time, watching the place?"

"Yes."

"But she might have gone in the front, out the back and then returned through the back door any time before daylight. Is that right?"

"Yes, of course she could have done that."

"And you think she did?"

Brownley nodded.

"What makes you think so?"

"Because she was desperate. She's an impostor. She was going to be showed up and sent to jail."

Mason said slowly, "The thing doesn't make sense."

Brownley's tone was impatient. "I'm not claiming it makes sense," he said. "I'm telling you what happened."

Mason frowned thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette for several minutes, then slowly opened the door of the car.

"Have you told anyone about this?" he asked.

"No. Should I?"

Mason nodded and said, "Yes, you'd better tell the D.A."

"How will I get in touch with him?"

"Don't worry," Mason said grimly, "they'll get in touch with you," and slammed the door of the car shut behind him.

CHAPTER 12

Mason, his face wearing a worried frown, sat in the visitor's room and looked through the wire mesh to where Julia Branner sat directly across from him. A long table stretched the length of the room. Down the center of the table ran the wire mesh, separating visitors from prisoners. A jail matron stood at the far corner of the room on the jail side. On Mason's right, back of a barred partition which was between Mason and the door, two officers were on duty. Back of them was a little room containing a veritable arsenal of revolvers, tear bombs and sawed-off shotguns.

Mason tried to hold Julia Branner's eyes with his, but she kept avoiding his gaze. Mason said, "Julia, look down at my hand - not that one, the other one. Now I'm going to open that hand causally. There's something in the palm. I want you to look at it and tell me if you've ever seen it before."

Mason glanced at the matron, looked out of the corner of his eye at the two officers, slowly opened his right hand, but carefully avoided letting his own eyes drop. Julia Branner stared as though fascinated at the hand. Slowly, Mason closed it again into a fist and pounded gently on the table as though emphasizing some point. "What is it?" he asked.

"A key."

"Your key?"

"What do you mean?"

"A man by the name of Sacks," Mason said, "a private detective, is going to claim you gave him that key and..."

"It's a lie! I don't know any Sacks. I don't..."

"Wait a minute," Mason cautioned. "Not so loud. Take it easy, sister. You probably didn't know him as Sacks, and of course you didn't know he was a detective. He's a tall, broad-shouldered chap, about forty-two or forty-three, with gray eyes and regular features - that is, he did have regular features," Mason added with a grin. "His features aren't so regular now."

"No," she said, putting her hand to her mouth, "I never saw him. I don't know him."

"Take your hand from your mouth," Mason said, "and quit lying. Is this the key to your apartment?"

"I haven't any apartment."

"You know what I mean - the one where you were living with Stella Kenwood."

"No," she said in a faint voice. "I don't think that's the key. It's a frame-up."

Mason said, "Why did you send a message to Renwold Brownley, telling him to go down to the water-front?"

"I never did."

"Don't try to pull that," he said, frowning irritably. "They can prove you did. There's a taxi driver and..."

"I'm not going to say anything more," she interrupted, clamping her lips together. "I'll take my medicine if I have to."

"Look here," Mason told her, "I had faith in you and I tried to help you. You're not playing fair with me. I may be able to get you out of this, but I've got to know just exactly what happened. Otherwise, I'm like a prize fighter going into the ring blindfolded. You mustn't tell anyone else, but you've got to tell me."

She shook her head.

Mason said, "I tried to give you a square deal. Now you're lying down on me."

"You don't need to handle my case," she said. "Just get out of it. It's probably the best thing for you to do."

"Thanks for the advice," Mason said sarcastically, "but you've got me in so deep I can't get out, and you know it. I don't know how much of what I've heard is true. Perhaps you didn't plan to drag me into the case and leave me holding the sack, but it sure looks as though you did. If I try to get out now and they convict you, I'll either go up as an accessory or I'll be disbarred, and, so far as I'm concerned, it won't make a whole lot of difference which - and I think that's just the way you planned it. You wanted to get me in so deep I couldn't quit. I started playing around the edges and got in over my head before I knew where the deep spots were. Now I've got to get you out in order to get myself out."

She kept her lips tightly compressed. Her eyes remained downcast.

"Look here," Mason told her, "the story is that you got someone to impersonate Bishop Mallory so you could talk me into taking the case. Then you were going to make a quick clean-up and get out. Now somewhere there's a real Bishop Mallory. You may or may not be the real Julia Branner. Janice Seaton may or may not be your real daughter, and she may or may not be Renwold Brownley's granddaughter. There are things about this case that don't look good and don't smell good, and, in addition to all of them, there's a murder to be explained and..."

The woman interrupted him with a half scream. She jumped to her feet, turned toward the matron and said, "Take him away! Take him away! Don't let him talk to me!"

The matron rushed toward her. One of the officers jerked out his revolver, clicked back the lock on the barred door and moved aggressively toward Perry Mason.

Mason dropped the key from his right hand into his vest pocket and got to his feet.

"What the hell's the idea?" the officer asked.

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said calmly, "You can search me. Hysterics, I guess."

The matron led Julia Branner from the room.

Mason paced the floor of his office impatiently. Della Street, worried, sat at her desk, an open notebook in front of her. Paul Drake, freshly emerged from a Turkish bath, sprawled over the leather chair. His cold had vanished, save for an occasional sniffle.

"Tell me what you know first," Mason said to the detective, "and then I'll tell you what I know."

Drake said, "The case is nutty, Perry, any way you want to look at it. I wish you'd get out of it and stay out of it. Julia Branner is a bad egg. There's no question but what she bumped him off. There's a lot of other stuff mixed in it, but I don't think it's going to do you any good. There's..."

"What's the other stuff?" Mason asked.

"Janice Brownley took her car out of the garage less than five minutes after the old man left," Drake said, "and young Brownley followed her out. A couple of detectives, Victor Stockton and Pete Sacks, have been handling the thing for Janice Brownley and probably for the old man. Now Janice..."

"Wait a minute," Mason interrupted. "We were wondering who had fallen heir to Jaxon Eaves' cut. Now why don't these two detectives fit into that picture? You told me yourself that Eaves collected a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus for finding the girl and undoubtedly had an arrangement by which he was going to get a cut out of any inheritance she received."

Drake shook his head lugubriously. "That won't do you any good, Perry," he said. "Let's suppose that Eaves did run in a ringer. Let's suppose Stockton and Sacks did inherit his interest in the case. That doesn't help you any, because Julia Branner couldn't find the real granddaughter any more than Eaves could, so she decided to run in a ringer and collect, but she got vicious about it and evidently got tied up with a gang of crooks. The theory the D.A.'s working on - and he's got some straight dope on it from someone - is that Julia decided to wait until Bishop Mallory was taking a sabbatical year where he couldn't be reached, then she was to have someone who claimed to be Bishop Mallory contact a lawyer with a build-up. She picked on you. After you'd been sold, you were to pull the chestnuts out of the fire. But she couldn't even wait for that. She bumped off Brownley to keep him from upsetting her apple cart. Remember, she hated his guts. Personally, I think the woman's a little off in the upper story. She's brooded over this thing until she's nutty, and she's just at an age when you can't tell what form her nuttiness is going to take.

"At that, these detectives took an unfair advantage. Sacks is just a big bruiser, but Stockton is deadly as hell. He's got brains, and don't ever kid yourself he hasn't. Sacks, acting under instructions from Stockton, contacted Julia and gave her a song and dance about being a torpedo who would bump off anyone so it could never be traced, and Julia fell for it hook line, and sinker... That's the story I get from the newspaper men. And I think Jaxon Eaves used Sacks in the original substitution - getting him to pump Julia. Then afterward, when Eaves died, Sacks cut Stockton in on the deal."

"Why can't Pete Sacks be lying?" Mason asked. "If there's a big cut coming to him of the inheritance, why wouldn't he make this whole story up out of whole cloth, just so he could get Julia in bad?"

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, "He would, but the D.A. believes he's telling the truth. Perhaps you can make a jury believe he's lying, but what's the D.A. going to be doing with you, before you get Sacks before a jury?"

"Do you know anything more about where Janice Brownley went?" Mason asked.

"She's got an air-tight alibi."

"Really air-tight, or does it just look air-tight?"

"It looks air-tight, and I think it is air-tight. Victor Stockton has already reported to the D.A. He says Janice telephoned him that she thought her grandfather had gone out to make some sort of a deal with Julia Branner, and she wanted to talk things over with Stockton. Stockton wanted to come to see her, but she said she was all dressed and could drive down to his place quicker, so Stockton told her to come ahead. He lived down on Fifty-second Street, and, as I told you, he's a foxy guy. He had his wife present when Janice arrived, and then he went across the hall and got a notary public out of bed and had the notary come in."

"And the notary was there all the time?"

"Yes."

"In the same room with Janice and Stockton?"

"That's my understanding."

Mason shook his head and said, "I don't like it, Paul."

"You shouldn't," Drake said grimly.

"If Bishop Mallory was the real McCoy," Mason said. "then..."

Della Street interrupted to say, "There's another wireless from Captain Johanson on the Monterey, Chief. They've found a couple of suitcases labeled 'William Mallory, Stateroom 211,' but Stateroom 211 is taken by people who don't answer the description of William Mallory and claim they never heard of him. The suitcases contain several yards of bandage and a suit of black broadcloth, an ecclesiastical collar, and black shoes. They were delivered to Stateroom 211 together with the baggage which really belonged there."

Mason sat down at his desk and made little drumming motions with the tips of his fingers. "And that doesn't make sense," he said. "Suppose Bishop Mallory is a phoney. Then where is the real bishop? On the other hand, if this was the real bishop, why should he have played ring-around-the-rosy and ducked out of the picture?"

Drake shrugged his shoulders and said, "I've got one more thing on Bishop Mallory. This is a tip which Jim Pauley, the house dick at the Regal Hotel, gave me. Before we had the bishop spotted, and before our men got on the job, a man called on Mallory. His name was Edgar Cassidy. Pauley knows him. He visited the bishop in his room and was there for about half an hour."

Mason's face showed keen interest. "Good Lord, Paul," he said, "this is the break we've been looking for. Someone who knows the bishop could tell us whether..."

"Hold everything," Drake interrupted. "It's just a false alarm. I rushed men out to interview Cassidy. He said that a friend of his in Sydney had written him Bishop Mallory was a good scout and was going to be visiting in Los Angeles at the Regal Hotel and to do anything he could for the bishop. Cassidy's quite a yachtsman. He has a neat little job, the Atina, which he uses for swordfishing. He thought the bishop might like to go out, so he dropped in to get acquainted. His testimony isn't going to help you a damned bit. He said his friend had told him the bishop was an enthusiastic fisherman, but when he contacted the bishop he didn't even get to first base. The bishop apparently wasn't interested in fishing and wasn't even cordial. Cassidy was sore when he left."

Mason resumed pacing the floor. Suddenly he paused to turn to the detective. "Cassidy's a yachting enthusiast," Mason said. "Find out if Cassidy knows Bixler. When you stop to think of it, Bixler's story about walking through the rain at that hour in the morning sounds just a little bit goofy."

Drake pulled a notebook from his pocket, scribbled a note and said without enthusiasm, "Okay, I'll find that out."

"And in the meantime," Mason said significantly, "it might be a good-plan if Pauley didn't say anything to the D.A.'s men about Cassidy. I don't suppose they could use Cassidy's testimony, because it's all hearsay and conclusions, but I'd just as soon the newspapers didn't get hold of it."

Drake grinned and said, "Don't worry, Perry, that's all taken care of already. Pauley's a good friend of mine, and a little salve goes a long way with him... How about young Brownley? We can't find out anything about where he was when the murder was committed, but his car wasn't in the garage this morning."

"I've talked with him," Mason said, "and he's going to talk with the D.A. His story isn't going to hurt Janice Brownley at all, but I still think there's something phoney about that alibi, and I don't trust Stockton."

"Stockton's nobody's fool," Drake said warningly. "Don't tangle with him, Perry, unless you have to."

Mason fished in his vest pocket and pulled out a key which he tossed to the detective. "I have to," he said, "meaning that I already have. I'm in this thing up to my necktie, Paul. That key may fit the apartment where Julia Branner was staying, out at 214 West Beechwood. I want you to find out if it does, and I want you to find out just as fast as you can, and then go back to your office where I can get you on the telephone."

Drake stared moodily at the key and said, "How did you happen to get the key to Julia Branner's apartment, Perry?"

Della Street sucked in a quick breath and said, "Why, Chief, isn't that the key..."

She bit the sentence in two and lapsed into abrupt silence. Mason stared moodily at her and said, "I'm going up to the district attorney's office. These smart dicks are trying to pin something on me, and I don't like it."

Drake said warningly, "This is a hell of a time for you to be going to the district attorney's office, Perry."

"Ain't it," Mason said, and slammed the door behind him.

CHAPTER 13

Hamilton Burger, the district attorney, had the build of a huge bear. He was a broad-shouldered, deep-chested, thick-waisted individual with a manner of dogged determination, short restless arms which moved with well-muscled swiftness as he made gestures. He looked across the desk at Perry Mason and said, "This is rather an unexpected pleasure." His voice showed the surprise, but not the pleasure.

Mason said, "I want to talk with you about that Branner case."

"What about it?"

"Where do I stand in it?"

"I don't know."

"A man told me today," Mason said, "that a warrant was going to be issued for my arrest."

Burger looked him squarely in the eyes and said, "I think it is, Perry."

"When?"

"Not until I've made a complete investigation."

"What's the warrant about?"

"Assault and battery, grand larceny and conspiracy."

"Want me to explain?" Mason asked.

"You don't have to," Burger told him. "I know pretty much what happened. You were shadowing Janice Seaton's apartment. You wanted her in the worst way. A couple of private detectives were also on her trail. She showed up and went to another apartment. The other side got there first. That didn't suit you. You busted in and tried to pull a fast one and it came to a show-down. You smashed a guy's nose, stole his evidence against Julia Branner, pulled a gun on his partner, spirited the Seaton girl out and hid her. That may be your idea of the way to win lawsuits, but it's my idea of a way to get in jail."

"Want to hear the facts?" Mason asked.

Burger studied Mason for a moment and said, "You know, Perry, I've always had a great deal of respect for you, but I've always known that some day your methods were going to get you in trouble. You can't pull the stuff you do and get by with it. You've been lucky as hell, but there was bound to come a day of reckoning. It looks like this was it. I'm not going to persecute you, and I'm not going to give out any information to the newspapers until I know definitely just where we stand, but I'm inclined to think you've just about finished your professional career, and it's a damned shame.

"You know, I've always had a horror of prosecuting innocent men. I want to be certain a person's guilty before I bring him into court. You've got a wonderful mind. There are times when you've unscrambled some mighty tough cases which would otherwise have resulted in the escape of the guilty and the conviction of the innocent, but you simply won't keep within ethical limits. You won't sit in your office and practice law. You insist on going out to try and get hold of evidence, and whenever you do, you start matching wits with witnesses and pulling some pretty fast plays, altogether too damn fast."

"Finished?" Mason asked.

"No, I haven't even started."

"Then let me interrupt," Mason said, "to tell you something."

"Perry," Burger said, "I've fought you in court. A couple of times you've made me seem pretty damned ridiculous. If you had come to me with some of the evidence you had in those cases I'd have co-operated with you. You chose to grandstand in court. That's your privilege. Now I'm called on to prosecute you. I'm going to do my duty. I don't think I hold any malice, in fact I like you personally, but you were bound to get it sooner or later. You're a pitcher that insists on going to the well too often. Therefore, I want you to understand me when I tell you that anything you say can be used against you, and it will be. There's going to be nothing confidential about this interview."

"All right," Mason said. "A couple of smart dicks come snooping into your office with a lot of stuff about me, and you fall for it without even giving me a chance to explain where I stand."

"It happens," Burger said, "that one of those smart dicks, as you call them, had some very tangible and incriminating evidence involving Julia Branner. He'd communicated with me about it and was acting under my instructions."

"All right," Mason said grimly, "here are the facts. You were right when you said I was looking for Janice Seaton, but I didn't find Janice Seaton. I wanted to find her, and I wanted to find out who the two men were who were sticking around waiting for her to show up. They weren't your men, and they weren't mine. I took a chance that they didn't know Janice Seaton, but only had her description. Her outstanding characteristic was a bunch of red hair, so I got Della Street, my secretary, to dye her hair, show up in the Seaton girl's apartment, check out and go to another apartment, where I'd rented a place directly across the hall so I could watch the door. I'd told Della that when anyone came in she was to string them along and find out who they were and what they were after. If the party got rough, she was to blow a whistle.

"All right, Della went to this apartment. This guy Sacks busted in on her. She was going to leave the door open. Sacks locked it. I heard something which didn't sound just right and busted in the door. I was just in time to keep Sacks from murdering Della Street. He was trying to smother her. He pulled a gun on me. I took it away from him and smashed his nose."

Burger's face showed surprise. "And it wasn't Janice Seaton at all?"

"No. It was Della Street."

"Sacks claims to have had plenty of evidence against her to convict her of several felony charges. He claims he was trying to call the police and she jumped on him, that he tried to take her in custody and you busted in."

"He choked her," Mason said, "and was trying to smother her with bedclothes when I busted in the room... Does that mean anything to you?"

The district attorney nodded. "Yes," he said, "it means a lot."

Mason got to his feet. "All right, I just wanted to tell you."

"That," Burger said, "doesn't explain a lot of other things."

"What, for instance?"

"I don't want to give away my case against the Branner woman," Burger said slowly, "but Sacks met her and posed as a mobster. She offered him a big reward to kill Brownley. She gave him the key to her apartment. That key was evidence. It corroborates the story Sacks told me. When you beat him up you took everything from his pocket. You had no right to do that, Perry, under any circumstances. Among several other things, you took that key. I want it."

"I haven't got it," Mason said.

"Where is it?"

"I can produce it a little later on," Mason told him. "Have you anything except the word of this man that it really is the key to Julia Branner's apartment?"

"Yes, I have," Burger said. "But when you return the key, if it isn't the right one, I won't have anything except your word that it's the same key you took from Sacks. That's going to put you in rather an embarrassing position, because Sacks swears he went up to call on Julia Branner at about three o'clock in the afternoon and used the key, and Victor Stockton was with him and corroborates everything Sacks says."

"Why did Sacks go there?"

The district attorney said, "That's part of my case. I don't intend to disclose it. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, Perry. I'm going to hold a prompt preliminary examination in the Branner case. If you want to co-operate with me in having a complete investigation of that case, you can walk into court at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and we'll start examining witnesses. If you do that I won't have any warrant issued against you or say anything about my warrant being issued until after the evidence is all in and I know more where we stand."

"That's rushing things pretty much," Mason said. Burger shrugged his shoulders. "I could demand more time than that," Mason said. Burger lit another cigarette and said nothing. "Do I understand," Mason said, "that if we don't go into court tomorrow morning you'll order a warrant for my arrest?"

"No," Burger said slowly, "I don't want you to put it that way. I'm not trying to force you. I'm simply telling you that I want to investigate the circumstances thoroughly before a warrant is issued. I'm offering you one way of assisting that investigation. If you don't want to take it, I'll make an independent investigation."

"And order a complaint filed and a warrant issued?" Mason asked.

"That," Burger said, "will depend on the result of the investigation."

Mason stared steadily at the district attorney and then said bitterly, "You're giving me a hell of a break! A couple of private dicks that you don't know anything about show up with a cock-and-bull story, and you swallow it hook, line and sinker. I tell you that they're crooks, that the guy tried to kill Della Street when he thought she was the Seaton girl, and you promise to make an investigation. You're worked up a lot more over my busting the guy's nose than over his trying to kill Della Street."

Burger shook his head and said patiently, "You make it sound pretty bad, Perry, but that's not a fair statement."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because when you assaulted this man you took some of the evidence that I was relying on to help you get a conviction in the Branner case. Of course, it might have been just a coincidence, but the fact remains that these two chaps had a piece of evidence which was going to put your client in bad and you met up with them, smashed the chap's nose and took the evidence with you. Asking me to believe that's just a coincidence is, on the face of it, a lot."

"How much value could you put on evidence like that?" Mason protested. "It would be an easy matter for those chaps to get a key to the apartment. Give me twenty-four hours and I'll get you a key to any apartment in the city."

Burger said doggedly, "That's not the point, Perry, and you know it's not the point. That key may be trivial in itself and standing by itself, but it doesn't stand by itself. It's simply one link in the chain of evidence against your client. It's all right for you to claim it's a weak link, but that doesn't explain how you happened to assault a witness and take that bit of evidence away from him. That makes it look as though you knew it was a most important bit of evidence. I'm not taking their word against yours; I'm telling you frankly that I'm going to make an investigation and I'm not going to do anything until I've concluded that investigation. But these men are asking for a warrant. The story is going to get out to the newspapers that you beat up one of them, pulled a gun on the other and stole a piece of corroborating evidence which a jury might regard as a considerable importance. If you think I'm going to sit back and take that, you're mistaken. I've told you what I was willing to do, and that's all I'm willing to do. That's absolutely definite and absolutely final. You can either accept my proposition or not, just as you see fit."

Mason pushed back his chair and said, "Let me telephone you a little later on, can I?"

"I think we can decide the matter now," Burger told him.

"I'll telephone you within ten minutes."

"Very well," Burger said.

Mason didn't offer to shake hands. He left the office, stepped into a public telephone in the corridor, called Paul Drake and said, "Paul, did you try that key?"

"Yes," Drake said. "It fits."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. I opened both the outer door and the apartment door. Where does that leave you, Perry?"

Mason said, "I don't know, Paul. These dicks have hypnotized Burger. That key was evidence against Julia. It was pretty weak evidence before I took it, but my grabbing it made it loom like a ferry boat in a fog. It was a tough break. I'll be seeing you." He hung up the telephone, stepped back to the district attorney's office and said to the girl at the information desk, "Please tell Mr. Burger that Perry Mason will agree to hold the preliminary examination of Julia Branner at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. We can stipulate away all the red tape."

CHAPTER 14

Judge Knox nodded to George Shoemaker, one of the most skillful of the trial deputies in the district attorney's office. "You may proceed," he said, "with the testimony in the preliminary hearing in the case of People versus Julia Branner upon stipulation of the Defense that witnesses are now to be examined by mutual consent and that the Defense waives any question as to time."

"So stipulated," Mason said.

Shoemaker said, "We will call Carl Smith." A stockily built man in the uniform of a cab driver came forward, sheepishly held up his hand, was sworn and took the stand.

"Your name's Carl Smith, and you are now and were on the fifth day of this month a cab driver?"

"I was."

"Do you know the defendant, Julia Branner?"

The cab driver looked down at Julia Branner who sat in tight-lipped rigidity slightly behind Perry Mason. "Yes."

"When did you see her for the first time?"

"On the night of the fifth, about one o'clock in the morning. She put in a call and I answered it. She gave me a letter addressed to Renwold C. Brownley and told me to take it out to the Brownley residence. I told her it was pretty late to do anything like that and she said it was all right, Mr. Brownley would be glad to get the letter."

"Anything else?"

"That's all she told me. I took the letter out. A young man opened the door when I rang the bell at Brownley's house. I gave him the letter. He said he'd take it to Mr. Brownley. I asked him what his name was and he said..."

"Just a moment," Mason snapped. "I object to any conversation between these two people on the ground that it is merely hearsay and not part of the Res Gestae."

"Sustained," Judge Knox ruled.

Shoemaker, with a triumphant smile, turned toward the courtroom and said, "If Philip Brownley is in the courtroom, will he please stand up?" Philip Brownley, looking very slender and pale in a blue serge suit, got to his feet. "Have you ever seen that man before?" Shoemaker asked the cab driver.

"Yes. He's the man I gave the note to."

"That's all," Shoemaker said.

Mason waved his hand and said, "No questions."

"Philip Brownley, will you take the stand?" Shoemaker asked.

The young man came forward and was sworn.

"Are you acquainted with Carl Smith, the witness who has just testified?"

"Yes."

"Did you see him on the morning of the fifth?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you anything?"

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"A letter addressed to my grandfather, Renwold C. Brownley."

"What did you do with it?"

"I took it immediately to my grandfather."

"Had he retired?"

"He was reading in bed. It was his custom to read until late in the evening."

"Did he open the letter while you were there?"

"Yes."

"Did you see the letter?"

"I didn't read it, but he told me what was in it."

"What did he tell you was in it?"

Mason said, "I object, your Honor, on the ground that it's not the best evidence; that it's hearsay and is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial."

Judge Knox said, "I will sustain the objection."

"What," asked Shoemaker, frowning, "did your grandfather do or say immediately after receiving the letter?"

"Same objection," Mason said.

"I won't admit any statement as to what was in the letter nor whom it was from," Judge Knox ruled, "but I will admit, as part of the Res Gestae, any statements that might have been made by Mr. Brownley as to what he intended to do or where he intended to go."

Philip Brownley said in a low voice, "He said he had to go down to Los Angeles harbor at once to meet Julia Branner. I understood him to say he was going to meet her aboard his yacht."

"Move to strike out the part about meeting Julia Branner," Mason said, "as not responsive to question, incompetent, irrelevant, immaterial and hearsay."

"I will reserve a ruling," Judge Knox said, "but I'll leave it in if subsequent testimony shows it to be what I consider part of the Res Gestae."

"It's too remote to be part of the Res Gestae," Mason objected.

"I don't think so, Mr. Mason. However, that will depend somewhat on the evidence. You may renew your motion later on if, after the evidence is all in, it appears to be too remote."

"Did he say anything else?" Shoemaker asked.

"Yes. He said the she-devil had kept his son's watch for years and now she was willing to let it go."

"Move to strike that out," Mason said, "as not being part of the Res Gestae and as being an attempt to show the contents of a written document by parol; as hearsay, incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial."

"Motion is granted. It will be stricken," Judge Knox ruled. "It is not part of the Res Gestae."

"What did your grandfather do?" Shoemaker asked.

"He dressed, went to his car and drove out of the garage about two o'clock."

"You're acquainted with Perry Mason, the attorney who is representing the defendant?"

"Yes."

"Did you see him on that same evening, or rather on the evening of the fourth?"

"Yes. It was around eleven o'clock, between eleven o'clock and midnight."

"Did you talk with him?"

"Yes."

"Did you discuss your grandfather's will with him?"

"Yes."

"Did he discuss a conversation he had had with your grandfather?"

"In a way, yes."

Mason said, "Your Honor, I object to an attempt to prove that conversation until proof has been made of the corpus delicti."

Shoemaker said, "Your Honor, I'm not going any farther into the conversation at this time. Later on I expect to prove that Perry Mason learned on the evening of the fourth that Renwold Brownley intended to execute on the morning of the fifth documents which would transfer the bulk of his estate to his granddaughter, Janice Brownley; that Mason communicated that information to his client, and that this furnished the motive for murder. However, I am not going into it at the present time. You may cross-examine, Mr. Mason."

Mason said, "You were waiting for me when I left your grandfather's house?"

"Yes."

"How long had you been waiting?"

"Only a few minutes."

"You knew when I left the room where I had been talking with your grandfather and went to my car, didn't you?" Mason asked.

"Yes. I heard you leave the room."

"And then you went out to stand in the driveway and wait for me. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"But," Mason said, "your clothes were soaking wet. It was raining hard, but not hard enough to wet you to the skin in the few seconds which clasped between the time I left the room where I was with your grandfather and the time you met me in the driveway. How do you account for that?"

Young Brownley lowered his eyes and said nothing.

"Answer the question," the Court ordered.

"I don't know," Brownley said.

"Isn't it a fact," Mason asked him, "that you had been standing out in the rain before I left the house? Isn't it a fact that you could hear much, if not all, of what was said in my interview with your grandfather? Weren't you listening outside one of the windows?"

Brownley hesitated. "You answer that question," Mason thundered, getting to his feet, "and tell the truth."

"Yes," young Brownley said after a moment, "I stood outside of the window and tried to hear what was being said. I couldn't hear it all, but I heard some of it."

"So," Mason said, "you knew then that your grandfather was going to execute these documents in the morning, documents which would irrevocably place the bulk of his estate in the hands of the young woman who was living there in the house as Janice Brownley."

"Yes," Philip Brownley said slowly.

"So," Mason went on, "so far as motive is concerned, you had a motive for murdering your grandfather. In other words, you stood to profit by his death. If he died before those documents were executed, your inheritance would have been one-half of the estate, in the event Janice Brownley was really a granddaughter. And if it could be proved that she was not the granddaughter, your inheritance would have been the entire estate. Is that right?"

Shoemaker jumped to his feet. "Your Honor," he shouted, "I object! The question is argumentative, irrelevant, incompetent and immaterial. It's not proper cross-examination. It calls for a conclusion of the witness upon matters of law."

"I am asking it," Mason said, "only to show bias on the part of the witness."

"I think," Judge Knox ruled, "that the question is argumentative and calls for a conclusion. If you want to prove it, you'll have to do it by asking the witness how much of the conversation was heard, just what was said, and leave the legal effect of it for the Court to determine."

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I have no further questions of the witness."

Shoemaker hesitated as though debating the advisability of asking further questions on re-direct, then shook his head and said, "The witness is excused. Call Gordon Bixler."

Gordon Bixler, a bony-faced individual of about forty-five, wearing a gray business suit, took the witness stand and testified that his name was Gordon Bixler; that he was a yachtsman, was the owner of the yacht Resolute; that on the night of the murder he had been on a trip to Catalina in his yacht; that he had returned in a driving rain and had telephoned from the clubhouse for his Filipino boy to meet him with a car; that he had then attended to certain details in connection with the mooring of his yacht and leaving it in condition for the next cruise; that his Filipino boy had not shown up; that he had waited for more than an hour and had heard an automobile in the road near the clubhouse; that he had gone out to investigate, thinking his Filipino boy had become confused, since he had only been at the Yacht Club on one previous occasion; that he had started walking toward the headlights of the automobile whose motor he had heard, and had observed that the car was being driven very slowly; that, while he was watching it, a woman who wore a white rain coat walked out from the side of the road; that the car stopped and the young woman stepped to the running board, and spoke for a few moments to the driver of the car; and thereupon the woman stepped back to the ground and the car ran slowly on down the road and had almost reached the witness when it turned into a side street, over to another road, speeded up, turned and circled back; that it had almost reached its original position when he saw the young woman in the white rain coat step out from the shadows, and jump to the running board of the car; that by this time the witness thought his Filipino boy had had trouble of some sort and thought that he might be able to get the man in the car to give him a lift; that he started walking toward the car and suddenly saw several stabbing flashes and heard the rapid reports of a gun; that he thought there were five shots in all, but there might have been six; that he saw the woman in the white coat jump from the running board and run to the shadows. A Chevrolet automobile, which had been parked in the shadows of a crossroad, roared into motion and swept down the road away from him at high speed. The witness ran to the other automobile. A man's body was lying with the left arm and shoulder and the head hung over the left-hand door of the car. Blood was running from bullet wounds down the outside of the car and collecting in a pool on the left-hand running board. The man was Renwold C. Brownley and was dead. The witness had met Brownley on several occasions, and there was no chance he could be mistaken.

The witness then admitted that he became rattled and confused; that he ran blindly through the rain until he encountered a car driven by some man whom he did not know, but who had later turned out to be Harry Coulter, a private detective; that in company with this detective, the witness searched for the Brownley car and failed to find it that they had telephoned officers, who had finally arrived and taken up the search; that the time, as nearly as he could fix it, when the shooting took place was about two forty-five in the morning, that he had telephoned for officers about ten or fifteen minutes past three o'clock.

Shoemaker turned the witness over to Mason for cross-examination.

"You were badly rattled?" Mason asked.

"I was, yes, sir. It was all so sudden and so unexpected that I became very much confused."

"Why didn't you get into Brownley's car and drive it and him to the nearest hospital?"

"I just never thought of it, that's all. When I saw this dead man sprawled out with his head and shoulders hanging over the window, and realized it was Renwold Brownley and that he'd been murdered, I became confused."

"And you were pretty much confused before you recognized Brownley, weren't you? The knowledge that this woman in the white rain coat had fired several shots at close range at the driver of that car had naturally upset you, hadn't it?"

"Yes, sir, it had."

Mason placed the tips of his fingers together and took his eyes from the witness to stare intently at his fingertips. "It was raining?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Raining hard?"

"Well, it wasn't raining quite as hard then as it had been a little while before. There had been a let-up; but it was raining."

"This was near a yacht club of which you are a member?"

"Yes."

"There's a fence separating that yacht club from the highway?"

"Yes."

"No street lights?"

"No."

"It wasn't moonlight?"

"No, sir."

"No stars visible?"

"No, sir... I see what you're getting at, Mr. Mason, but there was plenty of light to enable me to see what I've testified to."

"What was the source of that light?"

"There's a mast in front of the clubhouse of the yacht club and there are flood-lights on this mast to illuminate the moorings and the parking spaces where members keep their cars."

"And how far were those flood-lights from the place where the crime was committed?" Mason asked.

"Perhaps three or four hundred feet."

"So that this road was brightly lighted?"

"No, sir. I didn't say that."

"But it was lighted?"

"There was some light."

"Enough to enable you to see objects distinctly."

"Understand, Mr. Mason," Bixler said with the belligerent manner of one who had been carefully coached to avoid a certain trap, "this woman wore a white rain coat which made her quite visible after she stepped out of the shadows. The road was dark, all right, and there were deep black shadows, but when the woman stepped to the running board of the car there was enough illumination so I could see her figure quite distinctly. I couldn't see her features and I haven't tried to identify her."

"Your identification," Mason asked, "is due to the fact that she wore a white rain coat. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"How do you know it was white?"

"I could see it was white."

"Couldn't it have been a light pink?" Mason asked.

"No."

"Or a light blue?"

"No."

Mason suddenly raised his eyes from his fingertips to stare intently at the witness. "Are you willing to swear," he asked, "that it was not a light yellow?"

The witness hesitated, then said, "No. It wasn't a light yellow."

"Didn't have any yellow in it?" Mason asked.

"No, sir."

Mason said slowly, "You understand, there's a distinction between pure white and a light buff, or a cream color?"

"Yes, sir, of course."

"And sometimes, even in daylight, it's difficult to distinguish these colors?"

"Not particularly. I know white when I see it. This was a white rain coat."

"For instance, this sheet of cardboard," Mason said, whipping an oblong of pasteboard from his pocket, "is it white or yellow?"

"It's white."

Mason took another sheet of dead-white cardboard from his pocket, held it up, side by side with the other, and a titter ran through the courtroom.

Bixler said hastily, "That's my mistake, Mr. Mason. That first piece of cardboard had some yellow coloring in it. It looked white because you were holding it up against your dark suit. But, now I see the white cardboard placed beside it, I can see the difference in color."

Mason said casually, and after the manner of one who is seeking to help a witness clarify his testimony, "And if a white sheet had been held back of that rain coat you saw the night of the murder it would have helped you to detect the light yellow tint in the rain coat, just in the same way this white card has enabled you to see the difference between it and the yellow card. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," the witness said, then lowered his eyes and said, "I mean, no, sir. That is, I think it was a white rain coat."

"But it might have been a light yellow one?" Mason asked, gesturing with the hand which held the two pieces of cardboard so that the witness's eyes shifted to the pieces of cardboard.

Bixler glanced helplessly at the deputy district attorney, at the unsympathetic faces of spectators in the courtroom. He slumped within his clothes as though his self-assurance had been suddenly deflated. "Yes," he said, "it might have been a light yellow rain coat."

Mason got slowly and impressively to his feet. Staring steadily at the confused witness, he said, "How did you know Brownley was dead?"

"I could tell by looking at him."

"You're positive?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you were badly rattled at the time?"

"Well, yes."

"And you didn't feel for his pulse?"

"No, sir."

"You could only see him in the illumination which came from the dash light of the automobile?"

"Yes, sir."

"You've never studied medicine?"

"No, sir."

"How many dead people have you ever seen in your life - I mean before they were embalmed and placed in coffins?"

The witness hesitated and said, "Four."

"Had any of those persons died by violence?"

"No, sir."

"So this was your first experience in viewing a man who had been shot, is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you're willing to swear the man was dead when you made no examination?"

"Well, if he wasn't dead he was certainly dying. Blood was spurting from those wounds."

"Ah," Mason said, "he might have been dying, but not dead."

"Well, perhaps."

"And when you say that he was dying, you don't claim to have any medical skill, and had never before seen any man who was dying from gunshot wounds?"

"No, sir."

"And had never seen a man die from gunshot wounds?"

"No, sir."

"But you do know generally that sometimes men are shot, sometimes seriously, and ultimately recover, don't you?"

"Well... yes. I've heard of such cases."

"Now, do you want to swear that this man was dying?"

"Well, I thought he was dying."

"You wouldn't think much of a doctor who took a look at a man in the dim light given by the dash light of an automobile and then turned away and said the man was dead or dying and nothing could be done for him, would you?"

"No, sir."

"You'd expect a doctor to listen for heart action with a stethoscope, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yet you expect to look at the first man you had ever seen shot and be able to tell more than a trained physician, who had handled hundreds of similar cases, and without making the examination the physician would have had to make in order to reach an opinion?"

"Well, no, sir, I wouldn't say that."

"Well, then, you don't know the man was dying, do you?"

"Well, I knew he had been shot."

"Exactly," Mason said, "and that's all you know, isn't it?"

"Well, he was lying there all slumped over in a heap and he'd been shot, and there was blood on his head and on his clothes."

"Exactly," Mason said, "that's all you can swear to. You heard shots fired, ran to the car, saw a man slumped over and bleeding, and that's all you know, isn't it?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"You don't know whether he was dead?"

"No."

"Nor whether he was dying?"

"No."

"Nor whether the shots were more than mere flesh wounds."

"Well... no, I didn't examine him."

"That," Mason said, "is all."

"No re-direct," Shoemaker said, hesitating a moment.

"Call your next witness," Judge Knox ordered.

Shoemaker called the police officers who had answered the telephone call to the harbor. They testified to the search they had made for the automobile, of finally discovering bloodstains on the pavement; of tracing the reddish stains, which had been mixed in with the rain water, until they came to a pier; that they had grappled and had pulled an automobile to the surface; that the car was that of Renwold C. Brownley; that it had been left in low gear and was still in low gear when recovered; that the hand throttle had been pulled open and that, after the car had been recovered, tests made with it showed that the position of the hand throttle was such that the car would go exactly 12.8 miles per hour in low gear with the hand throttle in the same position as when the car had been recovered; that they had found a .32 caliber Colt automatic on the floor of the car; that they had found some empty cartridges; that they had recovered from the upholstering of the car two bullets, one of which had evidently missed the occupant of the car, the other showing evidences of having passed through human flesh.

At this point, Judge Knox announced that the hour was twelve-thirty, and adjourned court until two o'clock in the afternoon.

Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake went to lunch in a little restaurant on North Broadway, where they were able to secure a booth.

"What do you make of it, Paul?" Mason asked.

"You going to make a fight on the question of corpus delicti?"

"Yes. I had been hoping I could do it all along. But I wasn't certain what Bixler would testify to. I was afraid he might swear positively the man was dead, and stick to it. As it is, I think I can get the case thrown out of court."

Drake nodded. "You made a swell job of that cross-examination, Perry. Bixler was so rattled Shoemaker was afraid to try any re-direct."

"Isn't that going to be a highly technical defense?" Della Street asked.

Mason said grimly, "You're damned right it's going to be a technical defense. But, nevertheless, that's the law. Many people have been hanged on circumstantial evidence, where it subsequently appeared that the supposed victim never had been killed, but was alive and well. And that's the reason they made the law the way it is. The term, corpus delicti, means the body of the Offense. In order to show it, in a charge of homicide, the Prosecution must show death as the result, and the criminal agency of the defendant as the means. Now the Prosecution's going to run up against one big hurdle on this corpus delicti business. They can't show death, and if they're not careful, I can trap them into being crucified by their own proof."

"How do you mean?" Della Street asked.

"It's a goofy crime," Mason said. "The woman, whoever she was, fired the shots from the automatic, and then beat it. Now, the evidence shows that she beat it in her own car, going at high speed. Someone drove Brownley's car into the bay. That someone couldn't have been the person who did the shooting, because she had been seen by the Prosecution's own witness dashing madly away from the scene of the crime. It's improbable that she had a confederate who remained in the background while the shooting took place, only to step out subsequently and drive the car off the end of the wharf.

"The only other explanation is that Brownley was unconscious when Bixler looked in the car; but that after Bixler left Brownley recovered consciousness enough to try to drive the car in search of help; that he managed to get the car started, but was driving more or less blindly through a lashing rain, became confused on roads, and drove himself off the end of the pier."

Drake nodded slowly.

"Now, then," Mason said, "if when they recover Brownley's body, they find he died of drowning, it doesn't make any difference whether he might have died of the gunshot wounds within the next thirty minutes or the next thirty seconds. The fact that his death occurred from drowning, rather than from the wounds, means they can't convict Julia Branner of murder, because the wounds weren't the actual cause of death. That's a technical point, but it's been adjudicated."

Della Street frowned at her coffee cup and said, "Listen, Chief, on all your other cases you've been representing someone who was innocent. You've managed to bring the case to a spectacular conclusion by showing that the Prosecution had made a bad guess. People are for you. You have a reputation now, both as a lawyer and a detective; but the minute you resort to the ordinary tactics of the average criminal lawyer, you're going to turn people against you. If you use your ingenuity to get a guilty woman acquitted on a technicality, people are going to think you are tied up with murderers. They're going to lose their respect for you."

Mason said slowly, "In other cases, Della, I was more or less in the clear. On this case I'm in up to my necktie. They're going to put Pete Sacks on the stand. The minute they do that, and he testifies that Julia Branner asked him to murder Brownley and gave him the key to her apartment, and then says that I trapped him into a position where I stole that key from him, it's going to look like hell. That key wouldn't have been important if I hadn't taken it - but when I grabbed it, I made it the most important bit of evidence in the case. If the district attorney overlooks it, the Bar Association won't."

"Could you keep Sacks from testifying if you tripped them up on this corpus delicti business?" Drake asked.

"That's exactly the point," Mason told him. "That's why I'm making this defense. If I can beat the case on the corpus delicti, I'll get Julia Branner off temporarily. They'll throw this case out of court and everything will then wait until they recover Brownley's body. Sacks will never get a chance to tell his story, and the key won't seem so important. When they do find the body, the chances are I can prove Brownley died by drowning. Then, if the district attorney proceeds against me, it'll look like spite work. I've got to beat them on this corpus delicti angle. And after I do that, I've got to find more facts that will help our theory of the case."

The detective said, "I've got men working on every angle of the case, Perry, but I can't find out a damn thing that's going to help us any. I've traced Mallory from the time he left the steamship in San Francisco until he arrived in Los Angeles. He stayed at the Palace Hotel in San Francisco, went directly there from the ship, and as nearly as the hotel employees in San Francisco can tell, the bishop who checked out was the same bishop who checked in."

"That bishop," Mason said, drumming with his fingertips on the edge of the table cloth, "in some way is the key to the whole business. Why did he call on me? Why did he disappear? If he's the real goods, why did he take a runout powder? If he's an impostor, why didn't he pull a more convincing fade-out... telephone me he had to leave on a secret mission and ask me to carry on? There were plenty of ways he could have kept up the pretense, yet eased himself out of the picture. The darn case is driving me nuts because I can't get a toe-hold. I'm clawing at a blank wall. And why does Julia Branner act the way she does? Why won't she talk to me? Can't she see she's sending herself to the gallows and putting me in an impossible position?"

"Perhaps she won't talk because she's guilty," Della Street suggested.

"I'm not so certain she's guilty," Mason remarked. "The theory of the crime the Prosecution has worked out doesn't sound any too logical. She may be protecting someone else and may be innocent, herself."

Drake said, "Forget it, Perry. How in hell could anyone have framed this crime on her? She wrote the note to Brownley. When they find his body they'll find the note in his pocket. It will be in her handwriting. It will crucify her. She lured him down to that place near the waterfront. There's no possibility of doubt on that score. She wanted him killed, both for her daughter's sake, and because she hated him. How could anyone have taken her gun without her knowing it, have gone to the very place where she instructed Brownley to be, dressed in exactly the same clothes, and driving the same make of car? Remember, Julia Branner didn't write that note until after you'd telephoned her and told her what was in the wind. Therefore, her whole scheme of luring Brownley to the waterfront was hatched after that time; and anyone who wanted to frame her must necessarily have started from scratch after that note was written. I tell you, it's impossible."

Mason looked at his watch and said, "Well, we'll go back to court and see what develops. We're not licked yet by a long ways."

"If Pete Sacks ever takes the stand and swears you framed him and stole that key from him, it doesn't make much difference what happens after that. Public sentiment will have turned definitely against you," Drake said. "You've got to keep him from telling his story, either by this corpus delicti defense or in some other way."

Mason shrugged his shoulders.

Della Street said, softly, "Listen, Chief, you put me on the stand and let me tell my story. Do it just as soon as you can after Sacks tells his story. I'll fix him. I'll tell what he tried to do to me, and, after that, people will want to lynch him. And if Shoemaker wants to try to rattle me on cross-examination I'll do plenty to him."

Mason squeezed her hand and said, "Good girl. I know I can depend on you."

As they left the restaurant, Drake said to Mason in a low tone, "You can't let her do that, Perry. It'll look as though you two trapped Sacks, that Della led him on by luring him to her apartment. It looks too damned much like a badger game. It'll put Della in a hell of a position before the public."

Mason said gloomily in the same low, growling tone of voice, "Do you think you're telling me anything? But don't let her know. I'm not even going to put her on the stand."

Della Street said, "What are you two getting your heads together about? You sound as though you were hatching up some deviltry. Come on or you'll be late for court."

CHAPTER 15

Shoemaker put witnesses on the stand in rapid succession, after the manner of a prize fighter who is facing a groggy opponent and is anxious to press the advantage. A ballistics expert testified the bullets found in the car had been fired from the .32 automatic found on the floor of the car. A hardware dealer from Salt Lake produced records showing that Julia Branner had purchased the automatic from him. An officer on the Salt Lake police force showed that Julia Branner's permit to carry a weapon described the same automatic and gave the number which appeared on the gun. A fingerprint expert testified that after the car had been pulled from the water it had been dried and an attempt made to develop latent fingerprints; that on the upper edge of the glass on the left-hand door, a fingerprint had been discovered which coincided with the middle finger on the left hand of the defendant.

Shoemaker rose to his feet, said dramatically, "Call Peter Sacks to the stand."

Sacks, his nose and cheeks completely concealed by a smear of bandages and strips of adhesive tape, came forward and was sworn.

"Do you know the defendant, Julia Branner?" Shoemaker asked, after Sacks had testified to his name, age, and address.

"Yes," Sacks said in a thick voice.

"Did you ever have any conversation with her in which she mentioned Renwold Brownley?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Perry Mason, the attorney who is representing her?"

"Yes."

"When you had your conversation with Julia Branner who was present?"

"Victor Stockton."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

"Where did the conversation take place?"

"At the United Airport at Burbank."

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm a private detective."

"Had you had any previous correspondence with the defendant in this case?"

"Yes, sir."

"During that conversation, had you posed as being a certain type of person?"

"Yes, sir. I'd posed as a mobster and boasted of the murders I'd committed for money."

"What was the date of the conversation you are testifying about, at which Mr. Stockton was present?"

"On the fourth day of this month."

"At what hour?"

"About ten o'clock in the morning."

"Now what was said, and by whom was it said?"

Mason got to his feet and said, "Your Honor, it now appears that the Prosecution are seeking to link the defendant with the crime of murder, yet the Prosecution have failed to establish any murder. I object to the question on the ground that it is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial; that no proper foundation has been laid; that it is not part of the Res Gestae, and no part of the corpus delicti; that the Prosecution, to date, have signally failed to prove the corpus delicti."

"We don't have to prove it as we would in a Superior Court," Shoemaker interposed. "This is only a preliminary. We only have to prove that a crime has been committed and that there's reasonable cause to believe the defendant committed it."

"Nevertheless," Mason said, "you can't prove murder in any court without proving the corpus delicti. Now, according to the Prosecution's own theory, someone, other than the defendant, must have driven Renwold C. Brownley's automobile from the place where the shooting occurred, to the wharf. The defendant had gone, if we are to believe the testimony of Mr. Bixler. Now, what is more reasonable than to suppose that Mr. Brownley, himself, recovered consciousness, started to drive the car, became confused in the rain, and drove it off the end of the wharf? In that event, he would have met his death by drowning, and not from gunshot wounds. And, in order to prove murder, the Prosecution must prove death as a direct result of the act of the defendant."

"Not at all," Shoemaker argued vehemently. "If, your Honor, Counselor's contention is correct and Mr. Brownley did die of drowning, the drowning would have been caused by the unlawful acts of the defendant, to wit, the shooting which incapacitated him from driving his car intelligently."

"But," Mason said, "you haven't proved that the shooting incapacitated him from driving the car. You haven't proved how many times he was shot, whether any of the shots were in a fatal place, or whether they were merely flesh wounds. The gun was a small caliber gun and it's very possible the bullets followed around under the skin without penetrating any vital organs. Moreover, if this man met his death by drowning, unless the defendant, or some accomplice drove that car off the end of the pier, the defendant certainly can't be held responsible for a death by drowning. The minute you concede there's even a possibility Brownley recovered consciousness and drove that automobile into the bay, you have made a stronger argument against your case than anything I can say. You, yourself, tacitly admit that you aren't convinced by the evidence you yourself have produced!"

Shoemaker's face flushed. "This," he roared, "is an attempt to thwart justice by a technicality which..."

"Just a moment," Judge Knox interrupted, "the Court has been giving this matter some thought, ever since it noticed the remarkably ingenious cross-examination of the witness Bixler. There's some question here as to the means of death. There's even some question as to whether death itself has been proved. It is reasonable to suppose that Renwold Brownley was in the automobile when it went over the edge of the wharf, but there's not evidence indicating that such was the case. I am fully aware that the degree of proof required to bind the defendant over is not the same as that required in a Superior Court upon a trial of the issues on the merits; but I am also aware that if I should dismiss this case at the present time, the defendant will not have been in jeopardy and therefore can again be rearrested when the body of Renwold Brownley is discovered. I think you will admit, Mr. Deputy District Attorney, that you would hardly care to prosecute this defendant in a Superior Court upon a charge of murder, until after the body itself has been discovered."

"That's not the point," Shoemaker said, very evidently keeping his temper by an effort. "This is only a preliminary. We want to get the defendant bound over. We want to get the evidence in such shape we know where we stand. And there are other reasons why we are particularly anxious at this time to get the evidence of these witnesses before the public... that is, before the Court."

Mason shrugged and said, "Counsel's tongue slipped. He meant before the public."

Knox frowned and said, "That will do, Mr. Mason. You will refrain from making any such comments and confine yourself to the question under discussion." He glowered at Mason for a moment, then turned hastily away to keep from smiling.

Shoemaker, so indignant as to be speechless for the moment, stood groping for words with which to clothe an effective argument.

"I'm going to adjourn this case until tomorrow morning at ten o'clock," Judge Knox said. "At that time, Counsel can argue the question; but I am very much inclined to hold that at the present time the corpus delicti has not been shown, and while perhaps technically I should confine myself only to a question of whether a crime has been committed, I'm inclined to take a broader view of the situation, particularly because a dismissal of the case at this time would not be a bar to a subsequent prosecution."

"But," Shoemaker protested, "would your Honor claim that we haven't shown a sufficient case of assault with a deadly weapon?"

Judge Knox smiled and said, "And would the district attorney's office be willing to have the Court bind over the defendant only on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder and release her from a murder charge?"

"No!" Shoemaker shouted. "We're going to prosecute her for murder. That's what she's guilty of..." As he realized the full effect of his statement, he let his voice drop into a low tone, hesitated for a moment, then sat down uncertainly.

Judge Knox let his smile become a grin. "I think, Counselor," he said, "your own argument illustrates better than anything I could say the fallacy of your present contention. Court will take a recess until tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. The defendant is, of course, remanded to the custody of the sheriff."

Perry Mason glanced over his shoulder at Paul Drake. The detective had produced a handkerchief from his pocket and was mopping his forehead. Mason himself heaved a sigh of relief as Judge Knox arose from the bench. Turning to Julia Branner, Mason said, "Julia, won't you please tell me..."

Her lips clamped in a thin line. She shook her head, arose from the chair and nodded to the deputy sheriff who was waiting to take her back to the jail.

CHAPTER 16

Della Street twisted her fingers around Perry Mason's right hand, where it rested on the steering wheel and said, "Chief, isn't there something I can do? Couldn't I go talk with the district attorney?"

He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Couldn't I take the rap? Couldn't I say that I took the stuff, that I took the key?"

"No," he said, "Burger's after me. He doesn't think he's holding any malice, but, for a long time now, he's been predicting that I'd come a cropper. Naturally, he's prejudiced in favor of making his predictions come true."

"Chief," she said, snuggling close to him, "you know I'd do anything, anything."

Mason kept his left hand on the steering wheel, slipped his right hand about her shoulders, squeezed her affectionately. "Good kid, Della," he said, "but there's nothing you can do. We've just got to take it."

"Listen, Chief," she said, "how was that crime committed? It doesn't sound reasonable that the district attorney's theory is right."

"Julia might have done the shooting in a wild blaze of temper," he admitted, "but in that case there'd have been some sort of an argument first. She didn't lure him down there to kill him, that's a cinch. Otherwise, she wouldn't have left so broad a back trail."

"Then why did she lure him down there?"

"That's something I can't tell you," he said, "but it has something to do with our stuttering bishop, our disappearing Janice Seaton, and perhaps a few others."

"And she didn't intend to kill him when she left the apartment?"

"Not one chance in a hundred," Mason said.

"But didn't you tell me that when you went there in the morning Stella Kenwood had been sitting up all night, that her attitude showed she knew Julia Branner had gone out to do something that was going to get her into trouble if she was caught?"

Mason suddenly slammed the brakes on the car, skidded into the curb, kicked out the gear lever and stared at Della Street with wide eyes. "Now," he said, "you're talking."

"What do you mean, Chief? You mean...?"

"Wait a minute," he said, "I want to think." He sat there in the car, the motor running, traffic streaming past. Once or twice he nodded his head. Then he said, "Della, it's so damned wild that it doesn't sound logical, but it's absolutely the only thing which will explain the facts in this case, and, when you stop to think of it, it's so absolutely plain and open that the great wonder is we didn't realize it before. Have you got your shorthand notebook with you?"

She opened her purse and nodded her head.

Mason slammed home the gear shift lever, kicked in the clutch. "Come on," he said, "we'll go places." He swung the car out from the curb and made time to the frame apartment house on Beechwood, rang Stella Kenwood's bell, received an answering buzz which released the catch on the door. "Come on, Della," he said, "we'll go up. When we get in that room, pull out your notebook and take down everything that's said and don't lose your head, no matter what happens."

They climbed the stairs and walked down the corridor to Stella Kenwood's apartment. Mason knocked on the door. Stella Kenwood opened it, peered at him with a white, anxious face, blinked her faded, watery eyes, and said in a thin, expressionless voice, "Oh, it's you."

Mason nodded.

"Come in," she said.

"My secretary, Miss Street."

"Yes, I saw her in court today. What does it mean, Mr. Mason? Aren't they going to take any evidence against Julia?"

Mason said, "Sit down, Mrs. Kenwood. I want to ask you some questions."

"Yes," she said tonelessly, "what?"

Mason said, "Your daughter has been in an automobile accident. I want you to prepare yourself for a shock."

Her mouth sagged open. Her eyes grew wide.

"My daughter?" she asked.

"Yes."

"But I haven't any daughter... she's dead. She died two years ago."

Mason shook his head and said, "I'm sorry, but it all came out. She's dying and she wants you to come to her. She made a complete confession."

The woman sat perfectly still, staring at Mason with her tired eyes, her white face apathetic and hopeless. Finally she said in a tired voice, "I knew something like this would happen. Where is she?"

"Get your hat," Mason said, "we'll go to her. How long had you been planning on the substitution, Stella?"

"I don't know," she said in that same lifeless voice, "ever since Julia told me about her daughter, I guess. I realized what a chance there'd be for some girl."

"So you got in touch with Mr. Sacks?"

"Yes. He was a detective in Salt Lake."

"And he worked through Jaxon Eaves here?"

"That's right. Tell me, how did the accident happen?"

"A crash at a crossing," Mason said. "Come on, we'll have to hurry to get there in time."

The woman buttoned a faded blue coat with threadbare elbows about her thin frame. Mason said to Della Street, "Get District Attorney Burger on the line and tell him to meet me in the reception room of the Good Samaritan Hospital. Read him this conversation over the telephone. Tell him to burn up the road getting there."

Stella Kenwood said, "He won't try to make things hard for my daughter now, will he? If it's the end, he won't trouble her with a lot of questions, will he?"

"I don't think so," Mason said. "Come on, let's go."

He left Della Street in the apartment while he escorted Stella Kenwood down the stairs and into his car. He raced the car into speed, said to Stella Kenwood, "I'm afraid you'll have to make a complete statement to the district attorney in order to get him to let you be with her at the last."

"There's no hope?" she asked.

"None whatever," Mason told her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I tried to do what was best, but somehow I knew it was going to work out all wrong, and then when it looked as though we were going to be exposed..."

Mason roared the car into speed.

"Yes?" he prompted. "When it looked as though you were going to be exposed, then what?"

She took a handkerchief from her purse, sobbed into it quietly, nor would she answer any more questions.

Mason looked at his wristwatch from time to time, drove his car frantically through traffic. He skidded to a stop in front of the Good Samaritan Hospital, helped Stella Kenwood from the car. They walked up the stairs through an entrance door and into a reception room. Hamilton Burger, his face wearing a puzzled frown, arose to meet them. A man with a shorthand notebook open in front of him sat at a table. He did not look up as they entered.

Perry Mason said, "Stella, you know the district attorney?"

"Yes, he questioned me the day they took Julia to jail."

Mason turned to the district attorney. "Burger," he said, "this is the end. Stella Kenwood's daughter is dying. We want to get all of the preliminaries over with as soon as possible so Stella can be with her daughter. Perhaps I can save time if I give you the highlights of the story as her daughter told it to me. Then Stella can confirm it and you can let her go in to the bedside.

"Stella Kenwood had a daughter about the same age as Julia Branner's daughter. Julia Branner had an apartment with Stella in Salt Lake and told Stella her history. Stella realized what a wonderful chance there'd be to get her daughter a home with a millionaire if she could convince Brownley that her daughter was his granddaughter. She talked with Peter Sacks, who was a private detective in Salt Lake. He got in touch with Jaxon Eaves. The less said about their methods, the better, but because Stella had secured all of the facts and all of the little incidental details from Julia, she managed to make a build-up which completely fooled Brownley. And so Stella Kenwood's daughter became Janice Brownley, and Julia knew nothing whatever about it. As Janice Brownley, the Kenwood girl won Brownley's confidence, became a favorite, was in line for an enormous inheritance.

"Then she went to Sydney, Australia, returned on the Monterey, going, of course, under the name of Janice Brownley, granddaughter of Renwold C. Brownley. Bishop William Mallory was a passenger on that boat, and Bishop Mallory hadn't forgotten. He asked questions, and, in a panic, the girl realized that her answers were inadequate and that Mallory suspected the truth. She wirelessed her mother, and her mother appealed to Sacks, who was now living in Los Angeles, where he could protect his interests.

"Stella was anxious to keep Julia from finding out about it. You see, they'd persuaded Renwold Brownley that it would be very poor business to permit any publicity when the girl came to live with them, so it was all handled very quietly. Sacks, of course, was frightened because he thought the bishop might go directly to Brownley.

"But the bishop did a little wirelessing on his own account, definitely ascertained that the girl he had met on the boat was an impostor and then wired Julia Branner to meet him in Los Angeles, and, in Los Angeles, Bishop Mallory also found Janice Seaton, the real grandchild. From a letter received from an attorney who was probating the estate of the last of Janice's adopted parents, Bishop Mallory learned there was no longer any need to keep the pledge of secrecy he had given when the girl was adopted. Furthermore, the bishop received evidence indicating to him that when Seaton lay dying, realizing his own financial affairs had become so hopelessly involved he couldn't leave the girl any substantial amount of property, he had tried to get a message to Bishop Mallory asking the bishop to disclose the girl's real identity. Seaton was too far gone to make his message clear to those who were listening; but he said enough so the bishop knew what was wanted and decided to act accordingly.

"When Julia showed up, Stella was frantic. She got in touch with Sacks. Sacks realized he had to get the real granddaughter out of the way if he could.

"This is right, is it, Mrs. Kenwood?"

She nodded her head and said in a low voice, "Yes, that's right as far as I know. You know more about the bishop than I do. But the rest of it's right. Go ahead, let's get it over with."

Mason said, "They were frantic. Sacks was willing to go to any lengths, even murder, and then Julia threw Stella into a panic by announcing she was writing a note to get Brownley to meet her down at the harbor, where she was going to show him his real granddaughter. You see, Janice Seaton had grown to look very much like her father. Julia had seen her that afternoon, and felt that if Brownley could see her he'd recognized the family resemblance right away. She knew she had one sure way of luring Brownley to a rendezvous with her, and that was Oscar Brownley's watch, the one Renwold had given him. Renwold wanted that watch very, very badly.

"Stella knew that would be the end of everything. The conspiracy would be discovered. She didn't care for herself, but it would mean jail for her daughter. She was desperate, so she slipped the gun from Julia's purse. She told Julia to take her Chevrolet and she borrowed or rented another Chevrolet. Julia was wearing a white rain coat. Stella dressed herself in a white rain coat. She raced down to the beach and actually beat Julia there, but her plan almost went astray when Julia showed up before Brownley. In fact, Julia was the one who first climbed on the running board of Brownley's car. That's when Julia left the fingerprint on the window of the coupe. But Stella hadn't given up hope. Julia had intended to have Brownley drive slowly around a bit so that she could see he wasn't followed. Stella knew that, and she decided to take a chance. She kept hidden while Brownley drove in a big loop around a couple of the streets, then ran out from the shadows and beckoned to Brownley. Brownley naturally stopped the car. Stella jumped to the running board, fired five shots from Julia's automatic, dropped it inside the car, raced for her machine and drove away.

"In the meantime, Julia, as soon as she heard the shots, had run to her own car; but she didn't get it started for a few minutes. Stella beat Julia home, undressed, and waited for her. Julia was so excited she didn't go directly back to the apartment, but drove around for a while, calming her nerves."

Mason turned to Stella Kenwood and said, "That's right, Stella, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said, "that's right."

"And that key Sacks had," Mason said, "was the key to the apartment, all right, but Stella had given it to him instead of Julia. That's right, isn't it, Stella?"

"That's right," she said, "but my daughter doesn't know anything about my shooting Brownley. No one knows anything about that. I would have told Pete Sacks what I intended to do, if I could have got him on the telephone, but I couldn't get him. When I knew what Julia intended to do, I just couldn't see my daughter go to jail. I didn't intend to frame the crime on Julia - not at first. I just wanted a gun and I didn't have one, so I took the one out of Julia's purse. But how could my daughter have confessed all this to you, Mr. Mason, when she didn't know it herself?"

Mason said, "I'm sorry, Stella. I had to trap you into a confession."

"How much of this did my daughter tell you?"

"None of it."

"Then she isn't... isn't?..."

Mason shook his head and said, "No, Stella, she isn't hurt. I had to do it this way in order to right a wrong. It was the only way I could think of."

Stella Kenwood slumped wearily in her chair, then started to cry. "It's a judgment," she said. "I guess I couldn't have gone through with it anyway. I wish you gentlemen could see my side of it... life always so hard... I was fighting for my daughter. I didn't care for myself... here was this opportunity going to waste. Julia wouldn't let Brownley have her daughter, and Brownley wanted a granddaughter, so I gave him one... And then the bishop showed up, and Pete Sacks told me we'd all go to jail. I didn't care for myself. It was for my daughter. I'm willing to die. Go ahead and let the law kill me, but please don't be too hard on my girl. She did it because her mother told her to."

A nurse entered the room and said to Hamilton Burger, "Mr. Burger, your office wants you on the telephone."

"Not now," Burger said, his eyes on Stella Kenwood. "Tell them I can't be interrupted. There are one or two matters I want to clean up here before..."

The nurse said, "They said I was to tell you it was very important; that it was a new development in the Brownley matter."

Burger frowned thoughtfully. "I can plug a phone in here," the nurse said.

Burger nodded to the nurse, turned to Stella Kenwood and said, "Are you going to make a written statement, Stella?"

She said, "Why not? I've told you everything, and I feel better. I'm a wicked woman, but I don't want my daughter to suffer."

The nurse brought a desk telephone, plugged it in and handed it to Burger, who said, "Hello," and then frowned thoughtfully as he listened for several seconds. He glanced significantly at Perry Mason and said, "Leave things just as they are. Don't touch anything. Get Philip Brownley and Janice Brownley to make the identification; but don't let them see it until I get there. Have a shorthand reporter on the job. You'll have to stall things along for a few minutes because I can't get away from here for ten or fifteen minutes yet. I'm getting a written statement." He hung up the telephone, caught the significance of Mason's lifted eyebrows and nodded his head. "Yes," he said, "found just a few minutes ago."

Stella Kenwood, her chin sunk on her chest, had apparently paid no attention to the conversation.

CHAPTER 17

The speedometer needle of Mason's car quivered at around seventy miles an hour. Della Street, in the front seat beside him, lit a cigarette with the electric lighter, took it from between her lips and proffered it to Mason.

"No, thanks, Della," he said, "I'll drive now and smoke afterwards."

Paul Drake, in the back seat, yelled, "Take it slow, Perry. There's a curve ahead."

Mason said grimly, "When you were at the wheel, you looped the loop on this curve and thought it was funny. Now I'm driving, and you'll take it and like it."

The car screamed into the curve, lurched, straightened, skidded and then, as Mason depressed the foot throttle to the floorboards, came out of the turn and into the straightaway. Drake heaved a sigh of relief and let go his hold of the robe rail. Della Street, exhaling cigarette smoke, said, "Do they know whether he died from drowning or from the gunshot wounds, Chief?"

"If they know, they aren't saying," he told her. "It'll probably take a fairly complete post-mortem to tell."

"And you've already pointed out to them what they're up against," she said. "If he died by drowning, they can't convict Stella Kenwood of murder. Just what could they do to her?"

"Prosecute her for assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder. However, having guessed wrong on the crime the first time they made a pass at it, it isn't going to be so easy to get a conviction in front of a jury. Burger will realize that, so he'll move heaven and earth to make a perfect case now."

"And if he died of the gunshot wounds?" she asked.

"That'll make a murder case out of it," Mason said, "only then they've got to prove how the car happened to be driven over the edge of the wharf, and that's not going to be so easy, because, regardless of what the autopsy surgeons say, if Renwold Brownley was able to drive the car off the wharf, a jury won't think he was dead when he went over the edge. And there'll be a lot of sympathy with Stella Kenwood. Then, if Brownley was killed by the bullets, someone must have driven the car over. That someone would have been an accomplice."

"Of course," Della Street pointed out, "he could have recovered consciousness and started to drive the car. He could have put it into low gear and, in a half-conscious condition, driven along the pier thinking it was a road. Then he could have died with the car still in gear, and the weight of his body depressing the foot throttle..."

Mason interrupted with a laugh and said, "That's something that could have happened. Remember that a district attorney has to prove to a jury beyond all reasonable doubt what actually did happen."

Drake yelled, "For God's sake, Della, quit talking so much and let him drive the car. That truck almost sideswiped us! It was the hand throttle which sent the car over the pier. You're a swell secretary, but don't try to make a detective out of yourself, because women can't develop the type of minds detectives need to have - and don't distract Mason's attention with a lot of arguments, or we'll all be corpses!"

Della said, "It's your cold that makes you such a grouch, Paul. Don't think just because you're a man, God gave you a corner on detective ability."

"That isn't what I meant," Drake explained. "I don't want to argue it now; but being a detective means you have to remember thousands of details and automatically fit any theory into the facts. You illustrated the point just now by forgetting about that hand throttle."

Mason grinned and said, "Don't argue with him, Della. He's got a cold and he's full of dope, fever and egotism."

Della Street lapsed into frowning silence. Drake closed his eyes. Mason, devoting his entire attention to driving the car, sent the speedometer needle shivering upward.

"Did Mr. Burger arrange to have both Janice Brownley and Philip Brownley come down to identify the body?" she asked at length.

Mason nodded.

"Why?" she wanted to know.

Mason said, "We'll know more about that when we get there. Incidentally, Paul, I'm getting a theory about this case. It's never going to be really solved until we've found out about that stuttering bishop. Is Harry Coulter going to be there?"

"Yes. He got the flash, and should be there before we arrive, or get there right afterwards."

"I want him to look over that car of Janice Brownley's," Mason said. "It's a yellow Cadillac. I want him to see if there's anything about it he can recognize."

Drake nodded, and Mason slowed as he approached the more congested district of the harbor.

"Her alibi's pretty air-tight," Drake pointed out, as Mason made a boulevard stop. "Paul Montrose has a pretty good reputation. He's a notary public working in a real estate office. He swears that Stockton got him out of bed to come in and join the party."

"Why did he do that?" Mason asked, throwing the car into second and stepping on the throttle.

"Because Stockton wanted some disinterested witness to back up his testimony."

"He had his wife," Della volunteered.

"Yes, but he wanted someone else," Drake said wearily.

"And," Mason said, frowning, "this was before Janice arrived, wasn't it?"

"Yes, about five minutes before, according to Montrose's statement."

"Well, we'll see what we'll see," Mason said, swinging the car to the right. "Hello, there are a lot of cars here."

"Mostly news photographers," Drake said. "Wait a minute, this cop is going to stop us."

A uniformed policeman stepped out, held up his hand and said, "You can't go out on the pier, boys."

While Mason hesitated, Drake, with the ready wit of a detective who has had to resort to extemporaneous prevarications on numerous occasions to crash police lines, pointed to Della Street and said, "We've got to go there. This is Janice Brownley. District Attorney Burger told her to get here just as fast as she could to identify the body of her grandfather."

"That's different," the officer admitted. "I had instructions about her, but I thought she was already there."

Drake shook his head and said, "Drive on, Perry. Be brave, Janice. It'll soon be over."

Della Street dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, and the officer stood to one side.

"Suppose Harry Coulter could get through all right?" Mason asked.

"Sure," Drake said, "it's a cinch. He probably couldn't get his car through, but you can leave it to Harry to think up some excuse which will get him past a cop who's as dumb as that one."

Mason said, "There's a yellow Cad coupe over there, Perry. Let's park in close to it, give it a once-over and see if it's Janice's car."

Mason swung his car in close to the big yellow coupe. Drake jumped from the rear seat, walked boldly to the side of the coupe, flung open the door, looked at the registration certificate and said, "Okay, Perry, it's her car."

Mason said, "There may be some distinguishing mark on it that Coulter might have remembered, perhaps a dented fender or... Hello, what's this?" He paused to look at a dent in the left front fender. "This has been done recently," he said.

"It's just a fender dent which might have been done in a parking lot," Drake observed, coming to stare at the fender.

Della Street, looking over the leather upholstery in the car, called out excitedly, "Chief, look here!"

They hurried back to join her, and she pointed out several reddish-brown spots on the deep leather-covered shelf which was just back of the front seat. For a moment the three of them stood staring at the stains. Drake said, "You've got a good eye, Della. Those things are all but invisible against this russet leather."

She grinned and said, "Just the feminine ability to observe things, Paul. A man wouldn't see them."

"And that's why they were overlooked," Mason said.

"Do you suppose Janice could have been at the beach and loaded her grandfather's body into the car and...?"

"Not much chance," Mason said. "Let's get away from here. Those bloodstains are evidence. They've been overlooked. If anyone knows we've discovered them, the stains will be removed before we can prove their significance."

"But what are they evidence of?" Drake asked.

"We'll figure that out later," Mason said.

They walked down the pier some twenty yards to where an ambulance had been drawn up. A group of men with cameras and flash bulbs were taking close-ups of Philip Brownley and Janice Brownley. Hamilton Burger nodded to Perry Mason. "It's the body all right?" Mason asked.

"Yes, it's Renwold C. Brownley. The body evidently spilled out of the car, and the tide washed it back under the pier."

"Did he die by drowning or by gunshot wounds?" Mason asked.

Burger shook his head.

"Can't tell or won't?" Mason asked.

"I'm not making any statements right now," Burger announced.

Mason looked over toward the ambulance. "May I see the body?"

"I think not, Perry. Julia Branner's out of it. You're not going to defend Stella Kenwood, are you?"

"No, one client in a case is enough for me."

Drake muttered in Mason's ear, "There's Harry Coulter. I'll get him to take a look at that yellow Cad."

Burger turned away, and Mason said, "Have him do his looking from a distance, Paul. Let's not show that we're taking any interest in that car. I want to figure out those bloodstains before we do anything more."

As Drake moved away, Philip Brownley came up to Mason and said, "Horrible, isn't it?"

Mason stared at him steadily. "No more horrible than it has been all along, is it?"

Young Brownley gave a visible shudder. "Finding Grandfather's body this way brings the tragedy of it all home to me so forcibly."

"You saw the body?"

"Yes, of course I had to identify it."

"How was he dressed?"

"Just as he left the house."

"How about the pockets of the coat, any documents?"

"Yes, there were some papers. They were pretty badly water-soaked. The police took them."

"Did you get to see them?"

"No, the police were very secretive about it... Tell me, Mr. Mason, you intimated when you were cross-examining me that if Grandfather didn't leave a will, and Janice isn't the granddaughter, I'd inherit the entire estate. Is that the law?"

Mason, staring at him steadily, said, "You'd like to squeeze Janice out of it, wouldn't you?"

"I'm just asking you what the law is. You know how I feel about her. She's an adventuress."

"I think," Mason told him, "you'd better consult a lawyer yourself. I don't want you for a client."

"Why not?"

Mason shrugged his shoulders and said, "I might want to take an adverse position."

"You mean representing Janice?"

"Not necessarily," Mason said.

"What do you mean then?"

"Figure it out," Mason told him.

The clanging gong of the ambulance called for the right of way. The car purred into slow motion, then, as it cleared the crowd, moved into greater speed. Drake took a few steps toward Perry Mason and nodded his head significantly. Mason moved over to join him.

"Harry says it looks like the car," Drake said, "but there are no distinguishing marks on it that he could remember well enough to swear to in court. If it isn't the car he saw, it's almost a dead ringer for it."

"And it was parked down near the place where Renwold Brownley kept his yacht?"

"Yes."

Mason touched Drake's arm and pointed across to where some yachts were moored. "Take a look, Paul," he said, "isn't the name on that yacht the Atina?"

Drake squinted his eyes and said, "It looks like it to me, Perry."

Della Street said positively, "Yes, that's the Atina."

"That's the yacht owned by the Cassidy who called on Bishop Mallory?"

Drake nodded.

Mason said, "Della and I are going places. I've got a hunch, Paul. Suppose you and Harry go take a look aboard the yacht."

"What for?" Drake asked.

"For anything you may happen to find," Mason said slowly.

"We may have some trouble getting aboard. There's a watchman, and it's a private mooring."

Mason said irritably, "For the love of Mike, do I have to tell you how to run a detective agency?"

"No, you don't," Drake drawled. "All I'm trying to find out is how strong we should go. How important is it that we get aboard that yacht?"

Mason, squinting his eyes against the sunlight which was reflected from the water of the bay, said, "Paul, I think it's damned important. You and Harry get aboard that yacht."

"That's all we wanted to know," Drake said. "Come on, Harry."

Mason motioned to Della Street. "Come on, Della," he told her, "we've got a job."

"What sort of a job, Chief?" she asked.

"Checking the records of receiving hospitals," he told her. "Let's go."

Della Street emerged from the telephone booth with a list of names. "These are the emergency cases you wanted to know about," she said, "together with the outcome. Numbers three, four and ten are dead. They were all identified. Number two is the only one who's still unconscious and unidentified."

Mason took the list, nodded and said, "Come on, we're going places." He snapped on the ignition, slammed the car into gear and started driving at high speed back towards Los Angeles.

"What did you think Drake was going to find aboard the Atina?" Della Street asked.

"Frankly," he told her, "I don't know."

"Why didn't you stay to find out?"

"Because," he said, "I doped out a theory of the case which may hold water."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you," he said, "when I see whether it checks out. In solving a crime, a man has to figure out lots of theories. Some of them hold water, and some of them don't. A man who wants to build up a reputation for himself will keep his thoughts to himself until he knows that they check out."

Her eyes were tender as she studied his profile. "Do you want to build up a reputation for yourself, Chief?" she asked softly.

"And how!" he told her. They made the rest of the trip in silence. Mason brought the car to a stop before a hospital. Together they entered the office, and Mason said, "We want to look at the man who was picked up with a fractured skull on the morning of the fifth."

"He's not allowed visitors and..."

"I think," Mason said, "we can identify him."

"Very well. One of the internes will permit you to enter the room. He's still unconscious. You'll have to promise to remain absolutely silent." Mason nodded. The girl pressed a bell and said to a white-robed intern who appeared, "Please take these parties to 236. It's a matter of identification. They've promised to remain silent."

They followed the intern down a corridor and into a ward past long rows of beds to a cot which was in a corner hidden by screens from the rest of the ward. The intern folded back one of the screens. Della Street gasped, and her hand shot to her throat.

Mason stared down at the unconscious figure, then nodded to the intern, who replaced the screen. Mason pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. "See that this man has the best medical attention money can buy," Mason said. "Transfer him to a private room and give him a day and a night nurse."

"You know him?" the intern asked curiously. Mason nodded and said, "The man is Bishop William Mallory of Sydney, Australia."

CHAPTER 18

Mason sat in the swivel chair behind his office desk, body tilted back, feet propped on the edge of the desk, ankles crossed. He was smoking a cigarette, and a satisfied smile played around the corners of his lips.

Della Street, perched informally on the corner of the desk, grinned across at him and said, "All right, Mr. Human Enigma, what's the theory? It's held water, so kick through and tell me what it is. Don't be such a tightwad. How did you know that was Bishop Mallory, and what did you expect Drake was going to find aboard the Atina?"

Mason studied the twisting smoke from his cigarette for a few seconds, then began to speak in a low, meditative voice. "Julia didn't intend to kill Brownley, but she did want him to go down to the beach. Therefore, there was something she expected to do when he was at the beach, something which was important enough so that some other people were willing to kill Brownley in order to keep him from doing it.

"Now there's only one answer, only one logical conclusion. Janice Seaton looked enough like the dead Oscar Brownley so that the minute Renwold clapped eyes on her he'd know she was Oscar's daughter, and, since Oscar only had one daughter, that would put the fake Janice Brownley out on the end of a limb. So, naturally, when Stella realized that Julia Branner had some hold by which she could make Renwold Brownley go to the beach, and knew that while he was at the beach he was going to be confronted with his real granddaughter, whose features would be unmistakable proof of her identity, Stella was faced with a show-down. She didn't care on her account. What she did was done through mother-love, a warped mentality, and because of a situation a couple of crooks had engineered her into. She had a rain coat which was very similar to that worn by Julia Branner, which was probably a coincidence, because she didn't intend to be seen, but she did intend to kill Renwold Brownley with Julia's gun, so she loaned Julia her car and then made arrangements to get another.

"Now then, look at the case from the other end. Julia evidently knew that the matured Janice Seaton was the spitting image of Oscar Brownley. This was one bit of irrefutable proof none of us had taken into consideration. But how did Julia know it? The only way she could possibly have known it is that she must have seen Janice arriving here from Salt Lake City. Since only Bishop Mallory knew the whereabouts of the real Janice, it follows, therefore, that Mallory must have met her and brought mother and child together before Julia Branner came to my office and before Drake's men got on the job shadowing Mallory at the Regal Hotel.

"Now then, Julia wanted Renwold to go to the beach. She was going to meet him. She was going to take him to Janice Seaton, and she intended at that time to furnish Brownley with unmistakable proof of Janice Seaton's relationship to him. Therefore she must have intended, first, to show him the family resemblance, and, second, to confront him with Bishop Mallory. Therefore Bishop Mallory was to be someplace at the beach; but Bishop Mallory knew he was being followed, knew that an attempt had been made on his life and doubtless surmised that the people he was fighting would be only too willing to murder Janice Seaton if they could locate her, so Bishop Mallory went to the beach and disappeared. He used the Monterey as a means of disappearance. He might have chosen any one of a dozen different stepping stones toward invisibility. The reason he chose the Monterey was because it was conveniently located. Therefore, he must have arranged for a hiding place near the waterfront, and he had been called on earlier in the day by Cassidy, who was the owner of the Atina.

"What's more reasonable than to suppose that Bishop Mallory and Janice were waiting for Julia and Renwold Brownley aboard the Atina? The bishop was smart enough to know that the other side would kill Janice if they had a chance, and therefore Julia had insisted that Renwold Brownley was to come alone. She was to meet him at a spot close enough to enable her to take him at once to the Atina, yet far enough removed from the place of concealment so the other side wouldn't know where Janice was hidden, if Brownley should mention where he was going.

"Now notice the peculiar series of events which are so closely interwoven that they fairly scream at the real solution. Stella Kenwood started out on her own, determined to kill Renwold Brownley, but she says her daughter wasn't to know anything about it, because she didn't want to involve her daughter in murder. She was making a mother's sacrifice. Philip Brownley talked with his grandfather just before Renwold left for the beach. Renwold Brownley told Philip generally what was in the note, and said he was to meet Julia Branner and go aboard a yacht. Philip Brownley didn't hear him clearly, because as soon as he heard the word 'beach' and 'yacht' the association of ideas made him think at once of his grandfather's yacht which was moored at the beach, so young Brownley reported to the fake granddaughter that Renwold had gone down to meet Julia aboard his yacht, and the fake Janice reported over the telephone to Victor Stockton, who must have arranged at once to kill Brownley and to get an ironclad alibi for Janice, who would be a logical suspect. Now why does a man arrange an alibi in advance?"

Mason paused to peer steadily at Della, who, with a little gasp, said, "Why, because he knows he's going to need one."

"Exactly," Mason said. "In other words, the minute Victor Stockton went to such elaborate pains to give Janice Brownley an alibi, it was because he knew she was going to need one. Therefore, he knew that Renwold Brownley was going to be murdered, but he didn't know Stella Kenwood had already arranged for the murder, because Stella wasn't going to let her daughter know anything about it.

"Therefore Stockton worked out a swell scheme for a murder. Janice was to come to his house, but leave her car parked some four blocks from his place. She probably didn't know what Stockton had in mind. Stockton's accomplice could then take Janice's car to the beach to lie in wait for Renwold. Renwold would recognize Janice's car. He had unlimited confidence in Janice and would unhesitatingly approach the car, to be met with a fusillade of shots which would kill both Julia and Renwold Brownley. So Peter Sacks picked up Janice's car as soon as she left it. He rushed to Brownley's yacht, intending to kill Brownley and, perhaps, Julia Branner. Now Sacks had received his information through Stockton, who, in turn, had received it from Janice, who thought Renwold was going to his yacht instead of to another yacht.

"Therefore, at the time of the murder, we have Julia Branner waiting at the beach to make certain Renwold was driving alone and was not followed. We have Stella, who had arrived on the scene first, determined to kill Brownley. We have Peter Sacks waiting in Janice Brownley's automobile in front of Renwold Brownley's yacht, and we have Bishop Mallory and Janice Seaton waiting aboard the Atina, which was also moored in the yacht basin.

"When Stella pulled the trigger of the automatic, the shots were plainly audible to both Sacks and the bishop. Both must have realized what those shots might mean. Harry Coulter was driving a car, and the sound of his motor and the rain on the roof kept him from hearing the shots. Bishop Mallory didn't have a car, so he started for the scene of the shooting on foot. Sacks started in Janice Brownley's car and therefore was the first to arrive. He saw what had happened, probably made a closer examination than Bixler had and saw Brownley wasn't dead. He slid into Brownley's car, threw it into gear, ran it to the nearest pier, pointed it for the bay, left it in low gear and opened the hand throttle. Then he went back to Janice's car and started to drive away, only to encounter Bishop Mallory running toward the scene of the shots. Sacks recognized the bishop, swung the car toward him and smacked the bishop down, fracturing his skull and probably thinking he'd killed him. But he didn't want Bishop Mallory found there, so he loaded him into the car, carried him to the outskirts of Los Angeles and then dumped him out, after first removing all evidence of the bishop's identity and..."

Mason was interrupted by Paul Drake's code knock on the door. "All right, Della," he said, "let's see what Drake's uncovered."

Della started to the door, paused halfway to say, "But why wouldn't Julia Branner have talked, and why wouldn't Janice Seaton...?"

"Because," Mason said, "Julia Branner thought Bishop Mallory and her daughter were keeping quiet because of some very important reason. She wasn't going to say a word until she knew where they stood. Janice Seaton knew that Bishop Mallory had placed her aboard the yacht telling her not to move from it until she heard from him. She probably thought there had been some trouble in getting Renwold Brownley to come down to the yacht. Unless I miss my guess badly, she doesn't even know anything about the murder."

Della Street nodded, opened the door. Drake burst excitedly into the office and said, "You'll never guess what we found aboard that yacht, Perry - not in a hundred years! We found..."

Della Street interrupted him to say, "Janice Seaton, still waiting for Bishop Mallory to return. She didn't even know Renwold had been murdered."

Drake stared at her with his mouth sagging open. "How the hell did you know?" he asked.

Della Street closed her right eye in a surreptitious wink at Perry Mason. "Elementary, my dear Watson," she said, "elementary. My feminine mind reasoned it out from the facts of the case."

Drake sat down weakly in the nearest chair. "I," he announced, "will be damned."

CHAPTER 19

It was noon of the next day that Mason hung up the telephone, nodded to Della Street and said, "The autopsy shows he met his death by drowning."

"Where does that put everyone?" she asked.

"It makes Stella Kenwood guilty of a technical assault with a deadly weapon. It makes Peter Sacks and Victor Stockton guilty of first degree murder. The autopsy shows Brownley would probably have bled to death from a bullet wound which had severed one of his large arteries, but it also shows unmistakably that his death was actually caused by drowning."

"Can the district attorney prove the conspiracy between Sacks and Stockton?"

Mason grinned and said, "That's up to him. I'm not running the district attorney's office, but I think he can. Stockton left himself wide open when he arranged such an elaborate alibi for Janice before he had any reason to believe Brownley was going to be murdered."

"I take it," she said slowly, "that in the future Burger won't be so quick to issue warrants for your arrest."

Mason grinned and said, "As a matter of fact, Burger has asked me if I'll have dinner with him this evening. He wants to 'talk over the case.' Now that Bishop Mallory's regained consciousness and is going to live, Burger's got a pretty good case. I drove over to the hospital this morning to see the bishop. Mallory remembers seeing the yellow coupe, saw it swerve and deliberately drive into him. That, of course, is the last he remembers, but with the dent on the fender and human bloodstains on the back of the seat, Burger's got a pretty good case of circumstantial evidence. And remember, these men are rats. They'll turn on each other when it comes to a show-down, particularly if the D.A. can make Sacks think Stockton deliberately engineered it so he'd be in the clear and Sacks would climb the thirteen steps to the gallows."

"It all clicks, Chief," said Della slowly. "But there's one thing that still puzzles me. If the bishop is a real bishop, and not a phoney, what about that stutter?"

Mason grinned. "I thought of that myself," he said. "I asked Mallory about it this morning. He told me all about it: It seems that when he was a boy, he used to stutter. He cured himself of the habit, but every time he got an emotional shock, the stutter would come back to him. When he met the false Janice Brownley on the ship, and realized that she was a fake, and that his promise to Charles Seaton kept him from exposing a serious crime, he was so upset that he began stuttering again. He was still suffering from that shock when he came into my office."

The End