Erle Stanley Gardner

The Case of the Long-Legged Models

Foreword

For some time I have been intending to dedicate a book with a suitable foreword to Michael Anthony Luongo, a quietly competent, exceedingly thorough expert in the field of legal medicine.

I first met Dr. Luongo several years ago when I attended a seminar on homicide investigation given under the auspices of Captain Frances G. Lee of New Hampshire in the Harvard Medical School.

At that time I was impressed with Dr. Luongo’s complete intellectual honesty, his sincerity, his self-effacing devotion to his profession.

Dr. Luongo is still a comparatively young man, yet he is a senior member of the Department of Legal Medicine in the Harvard Medical School. For many years he has been a teacher in the Harvard seminars on homicide investigation. He is an associate pathologist for the Massachusetts State Police, and a forensic pathologist certified by the American Board of Pathology.

One of Dr. Luongo’s outstanding traits is his desire for truth and his refusal to be stampeded into jumping to conclusions. It is a well-known fact in police circles that when officers are enthusiastically building up a case against some defendant, Dr. Luongo is quite likely to take the other side of the argument just to make certain the police don’t get off on the wrong foot.

At such times, I am told, he presents the opposing case with a brilliance that would be a credit to any of the skilled defense attorneys who have national reputations.

One thing is certain: By the time Dr. Luongo has permitted himself to reach a conclusion, it is the result of logic, scientific reasoning, keen perception and honest appraisal of the facts.

For some years I have been watching Dr. Luongo progress in his chosen profession, earning the respect of those who work with him, and building a nationwide reputation for intellectual integrity and fairness.

Men like Dr. Luongo are pioneering a new field of forensic medicine where the expert witness, instead of being a partisan advocate for the side which has called him, appears as an absolutely impartial scientist with high ideals, representing neither the prosecution nor the defense but only Truth and Justice.

And so I dedicate this book to my friend:

MICHAEL ANTHONY LUONGO, M.D.

Erle Stanley Gardner

Chapter One

Perry Mason, feeling Della Street’s eyes on him, looked up from his lawbook to regard the trim, efficient figure in the doorway.

“What is it, Della?”

“What is the status of an unmarried woman who is quote, keeping company, unquote, with an unmarried male?”

Mason cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “There is no legal status, Della. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” she said, “a Miss Stephanie Falkner is waiting in the outer office. She says she has been quote keeping company unquote with Homer Garvin.”

“Homer Horatio Garvin?” Mason asked. “Our client?”

“Not with Homer Garvin, Sr.,” she said, “but with Homer Garvin, Jr.”

“Oh, yes, Junior,” Mason said. “He is in the automobile business I believe. And what seems to be Miss Falkner’s trouble?”

“She wants to see you about a personal matter and hopes her Garvin contact will open the door to your interest in her problem.”

“What’s the problem, Della?”

“She inherited a gambling place at Las Vegas, Nevada. Her problem seems to concern that.”

Mason slapped his hand on the desk. “Put a dollar on Number Twenty-Six, Della.”

Della Street made motions of spinning a roulette wheel, then of tossing an ivory ball into the perimeter of the wheel. She leaned forward as though watching the ball with complete fascination.

Mason also leaned forward, eyes intent on the same spot at which Della Street was looking.

Della suddenly straightened with a smile. “I’m sorry, Chief, you lost. Number Three came up.”

She reached over to the corner of the desk and picked up Mason’s imaginary dollar.

Mason made a grimace. “I’m a poor loser.”

“What about Miss Falkner?” Della Street asked.

“Let’s call Garvin Sr. and find out the exact status of this woman. How old is she?”

“Twenty-three or twenty-four.”

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette.”

“Curves?”

“Yes.”

“Looks?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s talk with Garvin before we get our feet wet.”

Della Street moved over to her secretarial desk, asked the switchboard operator for an outside line, dialed the number, waited a moment, then said, “Mr. Garvin, please. Tell him Miss Street is calling... Yes... Tell him Della Street... He’ll recognize the name... Yes, Della Street... I’m secretary to Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer. Will you please put the call through to Mr. Garvin? It’s rather important.”

There was a moment of silence while Della Street listened to the party at the other end of the line.

“Well, where can I reach him on long distance?”

Again there was in interval of silence.

“I see,” Della Street said. “Please tell him that I called, and ask him to call me whenever he gets in touch with you.”

Della Street hung up the telephone. “That was Miss Eva Elliott, his very important secretary. She says that Mr. Garvin is out of town and she can’t give me any number where he can be reached.”

“Eva Elliott!” Mason said. “What’s happened to Marie Arden? Oh, I know. She got married.”

“About a year ago,” Della Street reminded him. “You sent her an electric coffee urn, a waffle iron, and an electric stewpan as a wedding present.”

“A year?” Perry Mason asked.

“I think so,” Della Street said. “I can look up the bill on the wedding presents.”

“No,” Mason said, “never mind. Come to think of it, we haven’t had any business dealings with Garvin since that new secretary came in.”

“Perhaps you aren’t even his attorney any more,” Della Street said.

“Now wouldn’t that be embarrassing,” Mason told her. “I guess I’d better talk with Miss Falkner and see what she has to say. Bring her in, Della.”

Della Street withdrew, returned a few moments later and said, “Miss Falkner, Mr. Mason.”

Stephanie Falkner, a long-legged brunette with gray eyes, walked calmly across the office, gave Perry Mason a cool hand, and murmured, “This is a real pleasure, Mr. Mason.”

The unhurried, well-timed precision of her motions indicated professional training.

“Please be seated,” Mason said.

“Now before you tell me anything, Miss Falkner, please understand that I have done Mr. Garvin’s legal business for years. There isn’t a great deal of it because he’s a shrewd businessman, and he keeps out of trouble. So he rarely has occasion to consult an attorney. But I consider him one of my regular clients and, in addition to that, I am his friend.”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, leaning back in the overstuffed, comfortable chair and crossing her knees.

“Therefore,” Mason went on, “before I could even consider handling any matter which you might want to consult me about I would want to take it up with Mr. Garvin, make a complete disclosure to him, and then make certain there would be no possibility of conflicting interests. Would that be satisfactory?”

“Not only would that be entirely satisfactory but I am here because you are Mr. Garvin’s lawyer. I want you to get in touch with him.”

“All right,” Mason said, “with that understanding, go ahead.”

She said, “I inherited an interest in a place at Las Vegas.”

“What sort of a place?”

“A motel and casino.”

“Some of those are fabulously large and...”

“Not this one,” she interrupted. “It’s rather modest, but it has a nice location and I believe it is capable of expansion.”

“How much of an interest did you inherit?” Mason asked.

“There’s a tight little corporation. My father was president. I inherited forty per cent of the stock. The other sixty per cent is divided among four individuals.”

“When did your father die?” Mason asked.

For a moment her face became completely wooden, then she said tonelessly, “Six months ago. He was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Mason exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said. “You may have read about...”

“Good heavens!” Mason exclaimed. “Was your father Glenn Falkner?”

She nodded.

Mason frowned. “The murder has, I believe, never been solved.”

“Murders don’t solve themselves,” she said, bitterly.

Mason said, “I don’t want to ask you to discuss anything that is distasteful to your or...”

“Why not?” she asked. “Life is filled with distasteful tasks. I made up my mind to suppress my feelings before I came in.”

“All right,” Mason said, “go ahead. Tell me about it.”

“My mother died when I was four. That was the beginning of a seven-year cycle of bad luck. At least that’s what Dad thought. He was horribly superstitious. I guess all gamblers are.

“Dad had been well fixed. He was cleaned out in the depression. He was out of money and out of work. He took whatever he could get. He started work in a speakeasy restaurant. The man who owned the place died. Dad bought out the heirs. He had the place built up when Prohibition was repealed.

“However, there’s no use boring you with a story of Dad’s hard luck. He had plenty. He also had some good luck. Dad was a gambler. He wasn’t a bootlegger but he was willing to operate a speakeasy restaurant. He was a plunger by nature, by inclination and by occupation.

“There are some things gamblers are good at, some things gamblers are bad at. Gamblers learn to control their emotions. Gamblers learn to be good losers. Gamblers become poker-faced and undemonstrative, and gamblers can hardly make a good home for girls, either teen-aged or younger. Gambling takes place at night.

“So I didn’t see much of my father. He kept me in boarding schools, and every time it would be the same story. Dad wanted me to have the best, but the best boarding schools don’t cater to the daughters of gamblers. So Dad would pose as an investor. The daughters of persons who gamble on the stock market are very, very eligible. The daughters of men who gamble across a table are very, very ineligible.

“It never occurred to Dad that it would be better and less cruel to put me in a school where I could sail under my true colors, where the standards weren’t so strict. He wanted me to have the best, so I met a lot of social snobs. I would last for a year, then somehow or other it would come out that Dad was a gambler and I’d have to leave.

“I absorbed some of my father’s philosophy. I became undemonstrative. I didn’t dare form friendships because I didn’t want to sail under false colors.

“So, as soon as I was old enough, I finished my education and went out on my own. I became a professional model. I made good money at it.

“Dad drifted into Las Vegas. In the course of time, he acquired some property, put a small motel on it, expanded as much as he could, and then wanted me to come and live with him.

“It was no go. He’d sleep until noon, get in about three o’clock in the morning. Property kept going up in value. A group of people got an option on some adjoining property. They wanted an option on Dad’s property. The idea was they were going to move our small units off the property, consolidate the two, put up a huge, expensive hotel with swimming pool, gambling, night club entertainment and all the rest.

“Dad was willing to sell out, but not for the price they offered. Dad learned he was dealing with a syndicate, found out what they had in mind, and held out for a good price.

“The syndicate was furious. When they couldn’t handle things any other way, they began to make threats. Dad laughed at them.

“That’s where Dad made his fatal mistake.”

“The syndicate killed him?” Mason asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. Her face was expressionless. “I don’t know. No one knows. Dad was murdered. That put fear into the hearts of the other stockholders. They wanted to sell for just about anything. From a business point of view, Dad’s murder couldn’t have been improved upon as far as the syndicate was concerned.”

“Go on,” Mason said, “what happened?”

“I inherited forty per cent of the stock. The remaining sixty per cent was owned by four people, each of whom had fifteen per cent. While I was still numbed by the news of Dad’s death, a man got busy buying up stock. Three of the other stockholders were only too willing to sell out for whatever the syndicate wanted to pay them.

“Before Dad’s death I had met Homer Garvin, Jr. We were keeping company. I saw something of his father. Immediately after the murder, Junior’s father asked me to tell him what I knew about my Dad’s death. I told him.

“Garvin Senior knew even before I did that the other stockholders would be willing to sell for just about anything they could get. He tried to beat this mysterious stock purchaser to it, but was too late. Mr. Garvin got to only one of the other stockholders in time. He bought his holdings.

“That’s the story to date. Mr. Garvin has fifteen per cent of the stock. I have forty per cent. Now a group calling itself a new syndicate wants to buy all the stock.”

“What do you want?” Mason asked.

She said, “I want to sell. However, I’m not going to let them murder Dad and then take my stock for some nominal consideration. Dad gave his life. I’m going to see that these people don’t benefit by his murder.

“Now then a man whom I will refer to as Mr. X is here in town. I don’t know whether he represents the so-called new syndicate or not. I know the man personally. I met him when I was doing model work in Las Vegas.

“All I know is that someone visited three of the other stockholders when they were frightened stiff, offered cash for their stock, paid the cash, had the certificates endorsed and then faded from the picture.

“That was all I knew until a few days ago. Then Mr. X sent in the endorsed certificates to be registered in his name.

“Then he phoned me, told me he was interested in buying my holdings as well as those of Mr. Garvin, and asked me to meet him tomorrow night at eight-thirty.

“I’d like to get in touch with Mr. Garvin and see if he wants to pool our interests. I don’t want to sell unless he sells at the same time. Otherwise they’d have control and freeze him out.

“Mr. Garvin is out of town. He left yesterday. I can’t find out where he is. His secretary hates the ground I walk on. She wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”

“How about Junior?” Mason asked. “Can’t he find out where his father is?”

“Junior is East attending a meeting.”

Mason said, “Mr. Garvin might not like the idea of your dealing with this man. He may suggest that I have the personal contact.”

“I know,” she said. “But with me it’s a matter of family pride. I’m going to carry on where Dad left off.”

“You’d like to see your father’s murderer brought to justice?”

“Naturally. That’s the second reason I came to see you.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“You know what happens with these gangster murders,” she said. “The police huff and they puff, and they mouth great threats to all gangsters. They righteously resolve in great headlines that this city will never tolerate gangsterism, that this murder will be solved.

“They’ve never solved a gangster killing yet that I ever heard of — except once when they convicted the wrong man.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Mason asked.

“After this stock sale goes through, I want to retain you to do something about my father’s murder. I want you to get a private detective to start looking into the case, to unearth clues that can be turned over to the police.

“Then I want you to sort of chaperon the case, to act as liaison man between the private detective and the police, to use your brains to interpret the evidence.”

Mason shook his head. “You don’t need to retain an attorney to see that the police solve a murder case.”

“What have they done so far?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither does anyone else.”

“Could this Mr. X have been implicated in the murder? He seems to have profited by it.”

“Certainly he could.”

“Then you should let Garvin conduct the negotiations.”

“When Mr. Garvin got this stock,” she said, “he thought he was buying something to give me as a wedding present. He thought I was to be his daughter-in-law. Now that situation has changed... radically.”

“Where can I get in touch with you?” Mason asked.

“You can’t,” she said. “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow morning. Will ten o’clock be all right?”

Mason glanced at Della Street, said, “Very well. Ten tomorrow morning.”

She included Della Street in her smile, said, “I take it I can get out through this exit door to the corridor?”

Mason nodded.

Stephanie Falkner glided to the door, opened it, turned, said in a calm, cool voice to Perry Mason, “Until tomorrow. And please reach Mr. Garvin in the meantime.”

Mason turned to Della Street as the exit door closed behind the young woman. “I don’t think I’d like to play poker with that young woman, Della.”

“Well,” she asked, “what do you think you are playing?”

“I’m damned if I know,” Mason told her. “I’m going down and talk to that new secretary of Garvin’s. Perhaps I can pry some information out of her.”

“Chief, if she makes that sale, if Homer Garvin says it’s all right, would you try to do what she asks and act as liaison man in this murder case?”

“I don’t know, Della. It would depend. I don’t think she needs to retain a lawyer for that.”

“Chief, I’m frightened. The pit of my stomach is telling my brain to try to keep you out of this mess.”

Mason smiled. “Well, I’ll go see Eva Elliott. Perhaps I can learn something from her. We’ll cross the other bridges when we come to them.”

Chapter Two

Eva Elliott, a tall, blue-eyed, blonde with penciled eyebrows, was seated at her secretarial desk. She had moved this desk to the opposite side of the office from that occupied by her predecessor. It was in a corner which framed her blond beauty against the dark mahogany paneling. Drapes on the windows had been carefully arranged so that the lighting made the corner seem to be part of a stage set.

As Mason opened the door the phone rang.

Eva Elliott flashed him a smile, picked up the telephone, held it dose to her lips, and talked for a few minutes in a low voice. Mason was barely able to hear the words.

“No, I can’t tell you when he’ll be in. I’m sorry. Yes, he’s out of town. May I take a message?

“Thank you. Good-bye.”

She hung up the receiver, turned to face Mason.

“I’m Perry Mason,” the lawyer explained.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, Mr. Mason, the lawyer!”

“That’s right.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Mason. I have a note for Mr. Garvin to get in touch with you just as soon as he comes in. Your secretary called, you know.”

“Thanks,” Mason said. “I see you’ve moved your desk.”

“No, I haven’t moved it, Mr. Mason.”

“Marie had it over...”

“Oh,” she said, “I moved it from where Marie had it. The light was all wrong.”

“What do you hear from her?” Mason asked.

“She has been in twice,” Eva Elliott said somewhat frigidly.

“What’s her name now?” Mason asked. “I always think of her as Marie Arden.”

“She married a man by the name of Lawton Barlow.”

“Oh yes,” Mason said. “I remember. Tell me, Miss Elliott, where is Mr. Garvin?”

“He’s away on a business trip.”

“When did he leave?”

“I... He wasn’t in the office all yesterday afternoon.” Mason regarded her with thoughtfully studious eyes. “Something unusual about it?” he asked.

“Nothing unusual at all, Mr. Mason. Mr. Garvin, as you know, makes a great many business trips. He has a lot of diversified investments and he has properties that are widely scattered.”

“I see,” Mason said. “I take it that you know I do all of his legal business?”

“I’ve heard him speak of you.”

“I’d like very much to get in touch with him.”

“Mr. Mason, may I ask if this is something which has to do with Miss Falkner?”

Mason’s face became expressionless. “Why?” he asked.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll put my cards on the table. I... Mr. Mason, it’s very important that we not be interrupted. Would you mind if I lock the office door? Then would you step into Mr. Garvin’s private office with me? We won’t be disturbed there.”

“Certainly,” Mason said.

She arose from behind the desk, walked with long-legged grace across to lock the door, then opened a door marked “Private.” Mason followed her into Garvin’s sumptuously furnished private office.

She turned to face Mason, her hands and hips pressing against the edge of Garvin’s desk. Her pose was that of a movie star holding her chin up so as to present the best camera angle.

“Mr. Garvin is going to be furious with me if he knows I have said anything about it to you. However, you are a good judge of character and you don’t need to have me point out that Stephanie Falkner is a very shrewd, very scheming, very selfish individual.

“Stephanie Falkner, as you probably know, was very friendly with Homer Garvin, Jr. Now Junior is carrying the torch for another girl, so Stephanie seems to be cultivating the father. Mr. Garvin is taking an interest in her. I don’t know exactly what her game is now, but I do know that it is something intended to be for the advantage of Stephanie Falkner.

“I don’t want to play cat’s-paw for her and I know you don’t. So please don’t take any story she tells at face value.

“Now I’d be fired if either of the Garvins knew that I had told you any of this. But I have a loyalty to them that is not going to be stifled by the dictates of expediency.

“Now then, Mr. Mason, are you going to accept this confidence in the spirit in which it is offered, or are you going to tell Mr. Garvin what I said?”

Mason smiled at her. “I’m going to accept it in the spirit in which it was offered.”

“Thank you,” she said, and with a swift gesture moved out front the edge of the desk to extend both of her hands to Perry Mason. “I think you’re wonderful!”

Mason left Garvin’s office, and telephoned Della Street.

“Della,” he said, “do we have the address of Marie Arden, who in now Mrs. Lawton Barlow?”

“I think so,” she said. “Just a minute. You want her phone number or her address?”

“Her address,” Mason said.

“Going calling?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Della Street gave him the address and said, “Give her my love.”

“I will,” Mason said.

He hailed a cab, gave the driver the address he had copied down in his notebook, then settled back against the cushions, narrowed his eyes in thoughtful concentration, and lit a cigarette.

At length the cab driver slowed, turned down a side street, and pulled in at the curb.

“This is the number,” the cab driver said.

Mason asked him to wait and walked up to the house. Before he could ring the bell the door was flung open.

“Gosh! Mr. Mason, but I’m glad to see you!” Marie Barlow exclaimed.

“You’re looking fine,” Mason said.

She laughed. “Don’t kid me. The baby’s due in nine weeks. I’m an elephant. I’m letting all the housework go and the place is a mess. Forgive the appearances. Sit down in that chair. It’s the most comfortable. Can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Mason said. “I’m trying to get some information about Homer Garvin.”

“About what?”

“To find out where I can reach him for one thing.”

“He’s away?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked with Eva Elliott?”

“I’ve talked with her.”

“And you didn’t get what you wanted?”

“I got virtually nothing,” Mason said.

Marie Barlow laughed. “Well, then you’ll know the way I feel when I go up to the office. I tried it a couple of times and then decided to forget it”

“Did you see Homer?”

“Neither time. I know he was busy once. The other time, I don’t think he was busy but she just wouldn’t ring.”

“What’s the idea?”

“I don’t know. Of course I was with Homer for twelve years. You get pretty close to a business and pretty close to a boss in that time. After Homer’s wife died, he really went all to pieces for a while. He was beginning to get back on his feet when I decided to take the matrimonial plunge. Believe me, Mr. Mason, I put it off for over three months just because I was afraid the job of having to reorganize the office on top of everything else would have a bad effect on Homer Garvin.

“Actually he found out I was putting it off. Of course when I came out with that sparkler on my finger he wanted to know when the event was going to take place. One thing led to another and he began to suspect that I was holding off on his account. So he told me to go ahead and get married before he fired me. Gosh, Mr. Mason! He’s a wonderful guy!”

“Was Stephanie Falkner in the picture while you were there?”

She shook her head. “She came later. Eva Elliott was Junior’s light of love at the time but he was beginning to cool off. He goes overboard for long-legged models with poise and curves.

“I believe Stephanie was just coming into the picture. Junior got his dad to put Eva Elliott in the office at a whale of a salary. She’s ornamental, unscrupulous and conceited. I’m a cat and I don’t like her. Her sole secretarial training consists of a course in typing and in watching glamorous secretaries on the screen and on television.”

“Then how can she handle Garvin’s business?” Mason asked.

Marie said with feeling, “That’s what I’d like to know.”

Mason said, “I think Garvin may be in Las Vegas. Where would he be staying?”

She thought for a minute and said, “Nine chances out of ten it would be the Double-O Motel. That’s one of the newer places. But surely Eva Elliott must know where he is.”

“She said not.”

Marie shook her head. “That was one thing about Homer. He would never be out of touch with the office; even when he didn’t want anyone else to know where he was he’d be in touch with me all the time so that I could reach him in case anything of real importance broke at this end.”

“Well, Eva Elliott seemed completely in the dark,” Mason said. “Of course it may have been an act.”

“May have been an act is right,” Marie said laughing. “But don’t let me prejudice you, Mr. Mason. You know how it is after a girl gets married. She gets a whole new life of her own. If anybody had ever told me that I’d let myself get out of touch with Mr. Garvin this way I’d have said he was crazy. But... well, I offered to stay there for a while helping Eva Elliott take over, but she wanted to be on her own, so I left and thought she’d be telephoning for help within the first twenty-four hours. She didn’t. I’ve never heard a squawk out of her.

“So I went in a few days later, said I was uptown doing some shopping, and just dropped in to have a talk with Homer and see if I could help. The atmosphere was formal and icy. She said Mr. Garvin was in a conference.

“Then the next time I went in was about two months later. She was frigidly polite. I hung around there for ten or fifteen minutes chatting.

She didn’t ring Mr. Garvin’s phone to tell him I was there and naturally I didn’t want to make an issue of it. So I left. I felt that after all he could get in touch with me if he wanted me.”

“Did he?” Mason asked.

She blinked her eyes rapidly, shook her head.

There was silence for several seconds. Suddenly she said, “Gosh! Mr. Mason, there must have been a hundred problems that came up on which they needed my help. I can understand why Eva Elliott didn’t call me. She’s a theatrical, stage-struck show horse, but for the life of me I can’t understand why Homer didn’t call up and ask me for information that I had at my fingertips. Eva Elliott would have had to dig that stuff out of the files, and even if she could have found it, she wouldn’t have known what to do with it.”

“You never called Garvin on the phone?”

“No, I didn’t. I... Well, I think it was up to him to have called me. I’m not going to put myself in the position of having that new secretary of his turn me down more than twice.”

“Well,” Mason said, “give me a ring once in a while, and run in and say hello when you get in circulation again. Della and I will both be glad to see you.”

“I most certainly will, Mr. Mason. Gosh! It was good to see you. Just like old times!”

She stood in the doorway watching him wistfully as he walked down to the taxicab, and was still standing there as the cab made a U-turn and started back toward Mason’s office.

Chapter Three

“Find out anything?” Della Street asked, as Mason latch-keyed the door of his private office.

“Uh-huh. I don’t know just how definite it is, but there’s certainly something sticky in the atmosphere around Garvin’s office. Just how long has it been since we’ve heard from him, Della?”

“I can look up the charge books, and...”

“Do that, will you?”

Della Street went out to the outer office and was back within a matter of minutes. “It’s been something over a year.”

“In other words, he hasn’t been in touch with me since he employed his new secretary,” Mason said.

“He probably hasn’t had any reason to get in touch with you.”

Mason pursed his lips. “A lot of changes seem to have taken place in Garvin coincidental with hiring that new secretary.

“All right, Della, we’ll take a chance. It may be that he’s having someone else do his legal work. Ring the Double-O Motel at Las Vegas and ask if Homer H. Garvin is there. Tell him that it’s Perry Mason calling. Be sure they get the name of the person calling.”

“Right away,” Della promised. “I’ll start Gertie working on the call.”

Della Street walked out to the switchboard, gave her instructions to Gertie and came back to Mason’s office.

The phone rang. Mason nodded to Della Street. She picked up the receiver, said, “Hello... Yes, he is... Just a moment, Mr. Garvin.

“On the line,” she said.

Mason picked up his telephone. “Hello, Homer, this is Perry.”

The voice which came over the line sounded guarded. “Oh, yes. Hello, Perry.”

“Are you where you can talk?” Mason asked.

“Only to a very limited extent,” Garvin said.

Mason said, “I have had a visit from a tall brunette with gray eyes who has a forty per cent interest in a company in which you’re interested. She’s been approached by certain interests that have something to do with...”

“Hold it!” Garvin said. “Don’t go any further. I’ll call you back. Where can I reach you in... in an hour?”

“I’ll wait here at the office,” Mason said.

“Wait there for an hour, and I’ll give you a ring. Good-bye.”

Garvin hung up the telephone.

“Well,” Mason said, “that gives me an hour to work on this brief. That’ll be after five. Ask Gertie if she’d mind staying for...”

“Gertie has a date tonight,” Della Street said. “I’ll be glad to stay, Chief.”

Mason said, “There’s so darn much mystery about this... Oh well, Garvin probably was talking from a phone in the lobby or something of that sort. We’ll hold everything until we hear from him.”

Mason plunged back into the lawbooks, his powers of concentration such that the other matter was absolutely dismissed from his mind. He was to all intents and purposes oblivious of the passing time.

Della Street saw that the office closed at five o’clock, then went out and sat at the switchboard until twenty minutes past five when the Garvin call came through.

Mason picked up the receiver, heard the long distance operator say, “Your party is on the line,” then heard the sound of coins being dropped in the coin box.

“What the thunder?” Mason said as soon as he heard Garvin’s voice on the line. “Why didn’t you call collect? You have an account here, you know.”

“I know,” Garvin said. “Can you tell me generally what this is all about, Perry? Be careful not to mention names.”

“Well, the young woman that I spoke to you about has received an offer. A mysterious Mr. X, who may be a representative of interests having headquarters where you are now, is going to talk with her tomorrow.

“She felt that it might be well for you and her to take concerted action. Any separate action would simply result in leaving the other party out on the end of a limb.”

“I see,” Garvin said.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” Mason went on. “I had the devil of a time locating you.”

“That’s all right... How did you locate me, Perry?”

“Through Marie Arden — Marie Barlow.”

“But I didn’t tell her where I was.”

“She knew where you would be staying in Las Vegas.”

“Well, why the devil didn’t you call my office? Why go get some secretary who hasn’t been with me for a year and...”

“Hold everything!” Mason said. “I talked with your secretary, Eva Elliott. She couldn’t give me any information.”

“She what?”

“Couldn’t tell me where you were.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Garvin said. “I’ve been in touch with Eva. I always keep in touch with the office.”

“Well, perhaps your call came through after I talked with her,” Mason said. “I was down there about... Oh, I don’t know... around two-thirty or two-forty-five, and she said she couldn’t tell me a thing.”

“I talked with her at eleven-thirty and again at one-forty-five in the afternoon.”

“Well, she may have felt I wasn’t entitled to the information,” Mason said. “Don’t get worked up about it.”

“Worked up about it!” Garvin exclaimed. “Why, I... Oh well, I guess you’re right, Mason. Now look, can you get the name of the party with whom this woman is dealing?”

“So far she’s referred to him as a mysterious Mr. X.”

“I’ve an idea who this fellow is,” Garvin said. “He’s tried to keep under cover. He’s dangerous.

“Now here’s what I want you to do, Mason. I want that woman protected. Tell her that you’re representing my fifteen per cent until I can get on the job personally. Find out who this party is who has been in touch with her, get his name and address, and the minute you get them, communicate them to me. Simply ring up the Double-O here and, if I’m not in, ask for Lucille. Give her the name and address.”

“Just ask for Lucille?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you want to fix a price on your stock?” Mason asked.

“Not now,” Garvin said. “I want to find out exactly how much money the other side is willing to pay. This person probably won’t make any offer, but I want you to let him know that you’re in the picture and that I’m in the picture. If he thinks he’s dealing with only one person and that that person is a woman, you can’t tell what will happen.

“Now look, Mason, I have only a minute to talk. There’s another party coming to meet me, and... Oh-oh, I’m sorry. That’s all. Take care of yourself. Good-bye.”

The phone clicked at the other end of the line.

Chapter Four

Stephanie Falkner showed up on the stroke of ten for her appointment.

Mason regarded her thoughtfully. “I’ve heard from Homer Garvin.”

“Where is he?”

“He called me,” Mason said, “from a pay station telephone. He was in Las Vegas when he telephoned. He wants me to act as his representative. He wants me to call on this party whom you refer to as Mr. X. He wants me to size the man up and feel him out. He doesn’t want to put any price on his stock until after I have explored the situation.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully.

“Is that all right with you?” Mason asked.

“It’s not what I had in mind, but anything Mr. Garvin wants is all right with me.”

“Would you care to tell me who Mr. X is and where I can find him?”

She hesitated a moment, said, “His name is George Casselman. I am to meet him at Apartment 211 at the Ambrose Apartments at eight-thirty tonight, and to save you the trouble of looking up the address, it’s 948 Christine Drive.

“Please remember to tell Mr. Garvin for me that I will be guided by his wishes in the matter. I will keep my appointment but only for the purpose of holding the situation open.

“Thank you very much for having been so patient with me and for seeing me, Mr. Mason, and good morning.”

She arose, smiled, turned her back abruptly and walked out.

Della Street said to Perry Mason, “I’d be willing to bet that her abrupt departure was because there’s something she was afraid you were going to ask her if she waited.

“Let me go out and talk with Gertie. Gertie gets some wild ideas at times, but she notices things while clients are waiting in the outer office and there are times when Gertie is almost psychic.”

Della Street left to talk with the receptionist, was back in a matter of seconds with a newspaper.

“No wonder!” she said.

“What?”

“Homer Garvin, Jr. returned home on an afternoon plane yesterday. He brought his bride with him. He was married in Chicago.”

“Oh-oh,” Mason said.

“Leave it to Gertie,” Della Street said. “She’s an incurable romanticist. She faithfully reads the society columns and all about the weddings. Would you like to look at a picture of Homer Garvin and his bride taken at the plane?”

Mason regarded the picture thoughtfully.

“A good-looking girl,” he said at length. “Anything about her background?”

“She has been a publicity model at once of the Las Vegas resorts,” Della Street said. “Young Garvin met her there a couple of months ago.”

“He works fast,” Mason said.

“Or she does,” Della Street pointed out.

“Well,” Mason said, “that can account for a lot of things. Ring up the Double-O Motel in Las Vegas, Della. See if you can get Homer Garvin. If you can’t, ask for Lucille and relay the message that the name Mr. Garvin wanted is that of George Casselman, that the address is 948 Christine Drive in the Ambrose Apartments, Apartment 211.”

Della Street nodded, left the office and was back in ten minutes.

“I couldn’t get him, Chief, but I did talk with Lucille and left the message with her.”

“Did you get her last name or find out anything about her?”

“From the way she answered the phone I have an idea she’s the manager of the motel. I simply asked for Lucille and the woman who had answered said that she was Lucille. I told her my name and she asked if I had a message for Mr. Garvin. So I gave her Casselman’s name and address.”

Mason lit a cigarette, and frowned thoughtfully.

“So what do you do, if anything?” Della Street asked.

Mason said, “Under the circumstances, I think I am free to call on Mr. Casselman this evening before Stephanie Falkner gets there. I suppose further that a wedding present is in order for Homer Garvin, Jr. You had better organize yourself into a shopping department, Della... something around fifty dollars.”

“Will Casselman talk with you?” Della Street asked.

“I don’t know,” Mason said, “but if he’s in, I’ll talk with him!”

Chapter Five

Promptly at eight o’clock Mason parked his car across the street from the Ambrose Apartments and walked over to the entrance.

To the right of the door was a long row of push-buttons. To the right of each push-button was a name and an apartment number, and to the right of the card was the end of an old-fashioned speaking tube.

Apartment 211 had the name Casselman opposite it.

Mason pressed the call button.

Almost immediately there was an answer. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Mason.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you.”

“What about?”

“About some stock.”

A moment later the buzzer which released the electric catch on the front door sounded.

Mason pushed the front door open, climbed a flight of stairs to the second floor, walked down a corridor to where a figure was standing in a lighted doorway.

“You’re Mason?” the man asked.

“Yes. Casselman?”

“That’s right.”

“I wanted to talk with you about some stock. I’m representing Homer Garvin. Does the name mean anything to you?”

The man who had been silhouetted in the lighted doorway suddenly stepped back. The light from the inside illuminated sharp, thin features. The man was slender, alert and about thirty-five years of age. He was smiling broadly.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Mason. It means a good deal to me. Won’t you come in, please?”

Casselman flashed a glance at a wristwatch. “May I ask how you located me here?”

Mason said curtly, “I’m a lawyer,” as though that explained everything.

“Oh yes, I see. The question still remains that... Good heavens! You aren’t Perry Mason?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, well! This is indeed a pleasure.”

Casselman extended his hand. Mason shook hands. Casselman’s fingers were wiry and strong. “Sit down, Mr. Mason. Sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” Mason said, “I haven’t much time.”

Again Casselman looked at his watch. “I’m rather pressed for time myself, Counselor. I have another appointment. Shall we get down to business?”

Mason nodded, sat down and took a cigarette from his case.

“I take it you’re familiar with the outstanding stock in the corporation?”

“That’s right.

“I control forty-five per cent of the stock. Your client has fifteen per cent and Stephanie Falkner has forty per cent.”

“Uh-huh,” Mason said, exhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke, crossing his long legs, and settling back in the chair comfortably.

“These Nevada corporations are different from some of the others,” Casselman said. “Gambling is legalized in Nevada, and of course that makes a difference.”

“Naturally,” Mason said.

“Gambling attracts gamblers,” Casselman said.

“Exactly,” Mason observed.

“And since gambling is not legalized in other states, the activities of gamblers are quite frequently associated with illegalities.”

“Naturally.”

“That is something many people don’t appreciate in dealing with situations of this sort.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Let’s get down to brass tacks. What will Garvin take for his stock?”

“What will you give?”

“I am prepared to make one final definite offer.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll give thirty thousand dollars for that fifteen per cent of the stock.”

“It’s worth more.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. You are entitled to yours, I am entitled to mine. It’s worth thirty thousand to me only because it would represent the controlling interest.”

“I’ll pass the offer on to my client, but I don’t think it’s going to be satisfactory.”

“Well, that’s as high as we’ll go and I can point out one other thing to you, Mr. Mason.”

“What?”

“If by any chance we should get control of the corporation, that offer will of course be withdrawn. Once we get control we’ll buy out Garvin at our own price.”

“I don’t think so,” Mason said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t think you realize how much trouble a minority stockholder can be in a corporation of this nature.”

“Perhaps you don’t realize the type of person you’d be dealing with,” Casselman said.

“That’s entirely possible,” Mason told him. “Perhaps the others don’t realize the type of person they’d be dealing with.”

Casselman said, “Now, look, Mason, let’s keep this on a business basis. Let’s not get personal. You might get hurt.”

Mason said, “I’m not a damned bit afraid of getting hurt. I don’t frighten easily. Glenn Falkner was murdered. You went out and bought up three blocks of stock because the stockholders were frightened. Garvin isn’t frightened and I’m not frightened.”

“I don’t want any trouble, Mason,” Casselman said at length.

“Then don’t ask for it,” Mason told him. “For your information, Garvin won’t sell you his stock so you can get control of the corporation and then buy out the Falkner stock at your own price. We’ll offer you Garvin’s holdings as a part of a unit transaction with Stephanie Falkner.”

Casselman said suddenly, “All right. I’ll give her the same price. If you can...”

Abruptly the telephone rang. Casselman jumped nervously, said, “Excuse me a moment.” He walked into another room, picked up the telephone, and Mason heard him say, “Hello... You can’t — not now!” There was a moment’s silence, then Casselman said something in a low voice which Mason could not hear. After that he said, “Okay, give me two minutes,” and hung up without saying good-bye.

Casselman returned to the room, plainly uneasy and impatient, and said, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to have to ask you to excuse me. I have an appointment at eight-thirty, and a very important matter has come up which I have to dispose of between now and then.”

“Very well,” Mason said, moving toward the door. “How about giving me your telephone number?”

“I’m sorry. It’s an unlisted number.”

Mason stood with his hand on the knob, waiting.

Casselman said hurriedly, “All right, it’s Belding 6-9754.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, and moved out into the corridor. Casselman made no move to shake hands but hurriedly pulled the door closed. Mason noticed the door did not have a spring lock.

Mason left the apartment house, then sat in his car waiting. After a few minutes he saw Homer Garvin, Sr. drive up, jump from his car and hurry to the door of the apartment house.

Mason started to press his horn button, then something in Garvin’s manner caused him to change his mind. He sat watching, an interested spectator.

Garvin opened the outer door of the apartment house with a key and went in.

Three or four minutes later Garvin came back out, got in his car and had some trouble extricating himself from his parking place because of another car which had moved in ahead of him.

Mason pressed the button on his horn twice but Garvin, wrestling with the steering wheel, seemed too preoccupied to hear Mason’s signal.

It was just as Garvin moved out of the parking place that Stephanie Falkner drove up. She evidently saw Garvin as he drove out ahead of her car but did nothing to attract his attention. She did not see Mason but parked her car and went at once to the door of the apartment house.

Just as she was on the point of pressing Casselman’s bell, the door opened and a rather portly woman in the late forties emerged, then obligingly paused to hold the door open for Stephanie.

During the interval Mason had been waiting, only Homer Garvin and Stephanie Falkner had passed through the front door of the apartment house, and except for Garvin, the portly woman had been the only one to leave.

Mason waited a minute or two longer, then started his car and slowly circled the block.

It was quite dark. The only street illumination came from the lights at the corner. As Mason reached the front of the house again, he saw that Stephanie Falkner’s car was still parked in the place where she had left it.

The fourth time, Mason was halfway around when he saw the figure of a woman running down the service stairs at the back of the apartment house.

The lawyer slowed his car.

The woman ran to the alley, emerged on the lighted street and reluctantly slowed her pace to a walk.

Mason brought his car to a stop. “Want a ride, Miss Falkner?” She jumped back with a short half scream, then caught herself.

“Oh, you startled me!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Everything all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Get in. I’ll drive you to your car. Did you get an offer?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Thirty thousand. He said it was all he could pay.”

“Cash?”

“Yes. How long have you been out here?”

“Oh, for a while.”

“What are you doing?”

“I saw Casselman.”

“You did?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He didn’t say anything about it. Did he make you an offer?”

“How much?”

“I’d prefer to have Homer Garvin tell you about that. As a lawyer I’m in a position to get information but not to give out any.”

“I see,” she said.

“Did you accept his offer?” Mason asked, slowing his car to a crawl.

“Certainly not. I told you I wouldn’t. I told him I’d call back and let him know.”

“Get along all right?” Mason asked.

“Certainly.”

“Any threats?”

“Of course not.”

“Any trouble?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why didn’t you come out the front door?”

She caught her breath sharply. “Where were you?”

“Out back.”

She said, “I... he was talking over the telephone, and... well, I wanted to hear what he was saying. I sneaked out into the kitchen. It sounded as though the conversation might go on for a long time, then all of a sudden he hung up. I was trapped. He went back to the front room and, of course, saw I wasn’t there. So I sneaked out the back door and ran down the steps. In that way he won’t know I was listening. Later on I’ll tell him I got tired waiting and went out the front door while he was talking.”

“To whom was he talking?” Mason asked.

“I don’t know. The conversation wasn’t long enough for me to find out.”

Mason regarded her sharply. “You had some very compelling reason for trying to listen in on that conversation?”

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “Yes. I heard him use the name Garvin, and at first I thought it was... well, it might have been Homer Garvin calling.”

“Was it?”

“No. Apparently it was a woman.”

“You don’t know who this person was?”

“No.”

“Any idea?”

“It could have been Junior’s new wife. He was married in Chicago.”

“Could you gather from his tone whether it was a business deal or perhaps something involving a romantic attachment?”

“No.”

“Yet you heard some of the conversation?”

“Not enough to do any good.”

“You could hear the tone of his voice?”

“Yes.”

“And couldn’t tell from that what the conversation was about?”

“No.”

Mason regarded her thoughtfully.

“Well, here’s my car,” she said. “I’m living at the Lodestar Apartments. You can call me there after you get in touch with Mr. Garvin.”

There was a definite note of dismissal in her voice. She jumped out of Mason’s car, slid in behind the wheel of her car, turned the ignition key. The motor throbbed to life.

“I probably don’t sound like it,” she said, “but I’m very grateful to you.”

The car eased away from the curb.

Mason drove back to his office.

“Did you see Casselman?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded.

“How is he? Dangerous?”

“If you had your back turned.”

She said, “Homer Garvin phoned to say he’d be up here in about half an hour. He said he had just got in from Las Vegas.”

“When did he phone, Della?”

“Five minutes ago.”

Mason said, “Don’t let me forget to congratulate him on his new daughter-in-law, Della.”

Della Street laughed. “There was a certain urgency about his voice,” Della Street said. “I think perhaps he has other matters on his mind.”

They worked on letters until there was a tap at the door of Mason’s office. Della Street opened the door. Homer Garvin who, Mason’s records showed, was fifty-one years old yet who looked no older than forty, said, “Hello, Della,” surveyed her with pinpointed gray eyes and patted her shoulder. Then he came across to shake hands with Mason, looked at his watch and said, “We’re going to have to work fast, Perry. Have you seen Casselman?”

“Yes.”

“What did he offer?”

“Thirty thousand dollars for the fifteen per cent interest you own.”

“What did he offer Stephanie?”

“Thirty thousand dollars for the forty per cent interest.”

“That can’t be right, Mason! He surely wouldn’t offer the same price for fifteen per cent as for forty per cent.”

“Both represent a controlling interest.”

“Why... that just isn’t right. He... Let’s go see Stephanie. I have something to tell her. What did you think of Casselman, Mason?”

“He’s a cold-blooded crook, but I think he’d wilt in a face-to-face fight.”

Garvin said, “From information I have now acquired, I have every reason to believe he’s the man who murdered Glenn Falkner, Stephanie’s father.”

“Evidence you can take to the police?” Mason asked sharply.

“I think so, Perry. A few hours before his death, Glenn Falkner told a friend of his he had a business matter to discuss with Casselman. I have finally managed to track down the car Casselman was driving at the time of Glenn Falkner’s death. Casselman sold it within three days after the murder. He traded it in on a new car.

“Now you’ll remember Glenn Falkner was riding in a car with somebody at the time he was murdered. The car was seen to come down the street at pretty good speed. The door on the right-hand side was flung open, and a body was pushed out of the car. It hung half in and half out of the car for about half a block, then hit the pavement with a thud and rolled over and over. The car sped away.

“Horrified pedestrians ran up to the man and found that he was dead as a mackerel. He had been shot once in the head, twice through the body. One of the bullets was still in the body.

“The car Casselman was driving at that time, or at least the car that he owned at that time, had been pretty carefully cleaned up, but by looking with a magnifying glass I could still find several small spots down between the opening of the door and the side of the front seat. There is also a dent in the metal of the door frame which in all probability was made by a bullet.

“I got a detective over there in Las Vegas to make some tests for me. He’s a pretty good detective and understands something about scientific investigation. There’s a test for blood they can make with luminol, that brings out blood spots and causes them to glow in the dark. He treated this car with luminol and got a very strong blood reaction from folds in the leather upholstery in the front seat, from a spot down underneath the seat cushion, and from the spots I had found between the side of the seat and the door.”

“Of course,” Mason said, “that’s very interesting. It is a clue. It’s what we might call a suspicious circumstance. However, it’s not proof.”

“I know. When I confront Casselman with that proof he’s going to start explaining. Then I may get proof.”

“When you confront him with it?” Mason said.

“That’s right.”

“You’d better let the police do that.”

Garvin flipped back the lapel of his coat. “I’m not afraid of the cheap crook. I’d shoot the guy like a dog if he so much as lifted a finger against us.”

Mason said sharply. “Do you have a license to carry that?”

“Don’t be silly,” Garvin said. “I have something better than a license. I’m a deputy sheriff. I’m supposed to carry arms. I have several revolvers and I’m not foolish enough ever to be without one. If anybody ever tries to hold me up he’s going to have his hands full.”

Mason regarded Garvin thoughtfully. “Where do you keep those other guns?”

“Various places. Junior has one, there’s always one in my safe. I own a sporting goods store among my other investments. I always carry a gun. I’m never without one, day or night.

“It makes me sick to open the papers and read about thugs beating their victims to death, old women being robbed and clubbed.

“Someday one of those guys will tackle me and then there will be fireworks. Kill a few of those people off and it will be a good thing all around.

“The way it is now the honest citizen is disarmed by law. The crook carries a gun as a matter of habit. Arm the law-abiding citizens, kill off some of these crooks and we’d have a lot better law enforcement.”

Mason shook his head. “Police who have studied the situation don’t agree with you, Homer.”

“Sure,” Garvin said, “but their way isn’t working out so well, either.”

Della Street caught Perry Mason’s eye.

Mason got her signal, turned to Homer Garvin.

“By the way,” he said, “I see you’re to be congratulated on a new daughter-in-law.”

Garvin sighed. “Yes,” he said. “I haven’t seen her yet. I talked with her on the telephone and gave the couple my blessing.”

“She’s a nice-looking girl,” Della Street said.

“Leave it to Junior! He picks them nice-looking... The trouble with him is that he’s restless, no emotional stability. A year or so ago it was all Eva Elliott. He wanted to marry her. Then that blew up. I felt sorry for Eva and gave her a job in the office when Marie left. By that time, Junior was rushing Stephanie Falkner.

“You may not know it but that’s how I became interested in this Falkner corporation. Six months ago I thought that Stephanie Falkner was going to be one of the family — and, hang it, I wish she had been. There’s a fine, level-headed girl! She could have been a balance wheel for Junior.

“Well, I hope he settles down now. That was what he needed — to get married and settle down. He’s too darned impulsive.

“Mason, what the devil are we going to do about this situation with Casselman?”

“Let’s go have a talk with Stephanie Falkner,” Mason said.

“Do you suppose it’s too late?” Garvin asked.

“We can find out,” Mason told him. “Della, ring the Lodestar Apartments, and see if Stephanie can talk with me. You don’t need to tell her that Mr. Garvin is with me. Simply tell her that we’d like to come over.”

“You want me along?” Della Street asked.

Mason nodded. “There might be a stock pooling agreement to write up.”

Della Street went out to put through the telephone call.

“Gosh! What a pleasure it is to have a real dependable secretary,” Garvin said. “I can’t begin to tell you how I miss Marie Arden.”

“Marie Barlow now,” Mason said.

Garvin frowned. “There should be a law against secretaries committing matrimony,” he said. “Hang it, Mason! Do you know she’s never been in to see me since she got married. I just can’t understand it.”

“What makes you think she hasn’t been in to see you?” Mason asked.

“She hasn’t, that’s all. I’ve never heard a word from her, not even a telephone call.”

Mason said, “For your information, Homer, she was in twice to see you. She got such a cold shoulder from your new secretary that she made up her mind she wasn’t wanted.”

“You mean Eva Elliott kept her from coming in to see me?” Garvin asked incredulously.

“That’s right. She told her you were busy. She didn’t even offer to ring your telephone.”

“Why... why... Well, that makes me feel a lot better.”

“Better?” Mason asked.

“Yes,” Garvin said. “I fired Eva Elliott tonight. I got back and asked her what the devil she meant by not telling you where I was. She told me that I’d told her not to tell anyone and that she was simply following instructions.

“That girl is completely show crazy. She wants to dramatize everything she does in terms of what some actress has done on film somewhere. Believe me, Mason, she makes it a point to go to every movie she can find that features a secretary. She tunes in on every television program where there is a secretary playing a part. She studies the Hollywood concept of secretarial efficiency and then goes into the office and tries to act that part. It’s a case of a poor actress trying to take the part of a good actress who in turn is trying to follow the concept of a Hollywood director as to what a good secretary should be like. I got good and tired of it. I...”

Della Street returned from the switchboard, said, “Miss Falkner says to come right over.”

“Come on,” Mason said, “let’s go.”

Chapter Six

Stephanie Falkner opened the door, said, “Hello, Mr. Mason. Hello, Miss Street... Homer!”

Garvin said, “I tagged along, Stephanie.”

She gave him both of her hands. “Congratulations! Have you seen her?”

“Not yet,” Garvin said. “I’m just back from Las Vegas and I’ve been busy.”

“You’ll love her, Homer. I was in Las Vegas when she was a hostess and prop bathing girl at one of the pools. She’s a darling... Come on in! I’ll rustle up some chairs. I was just getting ready to call it a day.”

She ushered them into the simple apartment, said, “Can I buy you folks a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Garvin said. “We’re here on business.”

“Oh.” Her face fell.

Garvin said, “I’m going to give it to you straight from the shoulder, Stephanie. It’s about your father. I’m going to put it right on the line.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve been in Las Vegas, checking some angles I have up there. I have some sources of information.”

“Go on.”

He said, “I haven’t anything that I can go to the authorities with as yet, but George Casselman was the man who killed your father.”

“I see,” she said, her face suddenly wooden, and she added, “I wish I’d known that a little earlier this evening.”

“All right,” Garvin said, “let’s put it on a business basis. I picked up stock in that motel corporation to help you when I thought you were going to be one of the family.

“It isn’t efficient for that little motel to continue to operate as it’s now operating. The property has become too valuable. Taxes are too high. Yet you can’t do anything with that property as it is. There’s no chance of getting the property on the north, and the property on the south is controlled by this syndicate that wants to get the motel property in order to put up a reasonably big building which can pay off. It’s time for you to sell out.”

“Yes,” she said, “I think it’s time for me to sell out and pull up my roots here.”

Garvin said, “I think Casselman is a chiseler. I doubt if he actually represents the syndicate. I think he’s an independent operator, but of course the syndicate would be glad to do business with him if he had the property.

“It’s my plan to go direct to the syndicate and find out what their best offer is. In order to do that I want to be in a position to close out the deal. Now then tell me, what do you actually want for your stock?”

“I was offered thirty thousand dollars by Casselman,” she said. “I’ll take it if I can’t do better, but I don’t think that’s enough.”

“What would you take and be satisfied?”

“Anything over thirty thousand.”

“All right,” Garvin said, “give me a ten-day option to sell your stock at eighty thousand dollars, and if I can get anything above that, we’ll split the profits. You take half and I take half. I’ll put my stock in at the same time, at the same price ratio, and we’ll make a deal with the syndicate. We’ll split anything above that figure fifty-fifty.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Only you can’t get eighty thousand for my stock.”

“You have a typewriter here, Stephanie?”

She nodded.

“Then, let’s draw up a document. Mason, you can dictate it and we’ll sign it right now.”

“I can do it at my office in the morning,” Mason said.

“I’d like to get the thing cleaned up tonight.”

“All right,” Mason told him and motioned to Della Street.

Stephanie Falkner found stationery and carbon paper. Della Street sat at the typewriter and typed as Mason dictated a short form of agreement.

When he had finished, she ratcheted the paper out of the typewriter, handed one copy to Mason, one to Stephanie Falkner, one to Garvin.

“Okay?” Garvin asked Stephanie after he had read it.

“Okay,” she said.

“Let’s sign.”

They signed the agreement.

“Well,” Mason said, “I guess that covers everything we can do tonight. You’ll be in touch with me in the morning, Homer?”

“Probably,” Garvin said.

“And how about you, Miss Falkner? I can reach you here?”

“If anything turns up, yes.”

Garvin hesitated.

Della Street flashed Mason a glance, said, “Well, I’m a working girl. I should be getting home.”

“I’ll drive you home,” Mason said.

Garvin hesitated a moment, then said to Stephanie Falkner, “Now I’ll take that drink, Stephanie.”

Stephanie Falkner saw them to the door, stood watching them down the corridor, then, as they entered the elevator, closed the door gently.

“Now,” Mason said, “why should she keep insisting Casselman only offered her thirty thousand dollars for forty per cent of the stock when he offered me that same amount for fifteen per cent of the stock, and offered to buy it all at the same rate?”

“Any ideas?” Della Street asked.

“No,” Mason said, “but I’m certain that if it hadn’t been for that phone call he was going to make me a firm offer of eighty thousand for her stock and thirty thousand for Garvin’s stock.”

“Then the phone call caused him to change his mind?”

“Something did,” Mason said.

“Someone who saw him?”

“No one entered the apartment house except... Oh well, let’s let things wait until tomorrow. We may know a lot more when we see Garvin again.”

Chapter Seven

Mason swung his car into the parking lot the next morning, nodded to the attendant, pulled into his regular parking stall, walked over to the sidewalk, and was just turning in to the foyer of the building where he had his office when he became conscious of Della Street at his side.

“Hi, Chief,” she said in a low voice. “Thought I’d catch you before you’d get to the office. Want to keep walking?”

Mason glanced at her in surprise. “What’s wrong, Della?”

“Perhaps a lot.”

“Shall we go back to the car?”

“No, let’s just walk.”

They fell into step, moving along in a stream of early morning pedestrian traffic which was pounding its way along the sidewalk.

“What gives?” Mason asked.

Della Street said, “Lt. Tragg was in the office looking for you. I wouldn’t doubt but what he’s waiting in the foyer of the building to collar you as soon as you show up. I tried to ring you at your apartment, but you’d left.”

“What does Tragg want?” Mason asked.

She said, “George Casselman has become a corpse. A maid opened the door of his apartment and found him dead on the floor, a big bullet hole in the front of his chest.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Apparently about eight o’clock this morning. The news just came over the radio as I was...”

“No, no,” Mason said, “when was the time of death?”

“No information on that as yet.”

“Why does Tragg want to see me?”

“I’m just putting two and two together and making eight.”

“Good girl!” Mason said. “I have one very important thing to do. Let’s catch a cab and see if we can find out something important before we have to answer a lot of questions.”

Mason swung over to the curb, waited impatiently as the long line of morning traffic went streaming past. Finally he caught a vacant cab and said, “Lodestar Apartments.”

Della Street glanced at him. “We don’t telephone first?”

Mason shook his head.

“Surely, Chief, you don’t think...?”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “I’m not doing any thinking yet. I want information, then I’ll start thinking.

“For your confidential, private, and exclusive information, Homer Garvin called on George Casselman around eight-fifteen yesterday evening. He didn’t see fit to tell me about that visit, so I said nothing to anyone.

“Also, for your confidential information and as food for thought, if when Stephanie Falkner called on Casselman at eight-thirty last night she found she was interviewing a corpse, and had subsequently been asked what she had been offered for her stock, she’d have had to make up a fictitious figure.

“That might account for the discrepancy between what Casselman offered me for Garvin’s stock and what she said she had been offered for hers.”

“Oh-oh!” Della Street exclaimed. “I never thought of it in that light, Chief. I guess I’m a little dumb this morning.”

“Nothing dumb about the way you stood down there on the sidewalk waiting to catch me as I left the parking lot. You did a smooth job. I didn’t pick you out. That’s an art, blending with a crowd.”

She laughed. “Actually I was in the shoeshine stand. I had the shine boy shine my shoes, and then had him give me another shine. I was on my third shine when you showed up. I felt that I’d be conspicuous if I stood around on the sidewalk, and I didn’t know whether Tragg had any men on the job or not.”

“Good girl!” Mason said.

They were silent until the driver drew up in front of the Lodestar Apartments.

“Better wait,” Mason told him. “We’ll be back within a few minutes and then we’re going other places.”

“Okay, I’ll hold it,” the driver said.

Mason and Della Street entered the apartment house. Mason nodded to the man at the desk and walked across to the elevators so casually that no one asked him where he was going.

They took the elevator to the third floor, walked down to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment.

Mason tapped gently on the door.

Stephanie Falkner called through the closed door. “Who is it?”

“Mr. Mason.”

“Are you alone?”

“Miss Street’s with me.”

The bolt clicked on the door. Stephanie Falkner, dressed in a house-coat and slippers, said, “Everything’s in a mess. I’m a slow starter in the mornings. I’ve just had breakfast and haven’t cleaned up. Can I fix you some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” Mason said. “We just wanted to get a little information.”

“I presume it’s rather important to bring you out at this time in the morning.”

“It could be,” Mason said.

“All right, what’s the information?”

“When we left here last night, Homer Garvin was here?”

She nodded.

“How long did he stay here?”

For a moment her face broke into an expression of anger. “None of your damn business!” she flared.

Mason said, “I’m sorry. We’re making it our business. For your information, George Casselman turned up very, very dead in his apartment this morning.”

Her gray eyes surveyed Mason’s face, then shifted to Della Street’s face. “Sit down,” she said.

The folding bed had not as yet been made, and she seated herself on the edge of the bed.

Mason looked at the rumpled pillows on the bed, suddenly jumped to his feet, walked to the bed, jerked one of the pillows aside, and disclosed a snub-nosed revolver.

“What’s this?”

“What do you think it is? A toothbrush?”

Mason stood looking down at the revolver.

“Unless I’m greatly mistaken,” he said, “this is very similar to the revolver which Homer Garvin had in his shoulder holster last night.”

She said nothing.

Mason leaned over and picked up the revolver.

“In case you want to know,” she said after a moment, “Homer was concerned about my personal safety. He was going to try to do something with the syndicate and... well, you know what the syndicate did once before.”

“So he left his gun here with you for your protection?”

“That’s right.”

Mason looked the weapon over, smelled the barrel, frowned, swung open the cylinder, and said, “You seem to have one empty cartridge in the gun, Miss Falkner.”

“I don’t have any empty cartridges in any gun,” she said. “It is not my gun. I tell you Mr. Garvin left it here last night for my protection. I didn’t want it and I don’t want it.”

“But you did put it under your pillow?”

“Where would you put it?” she asked sarcastically.

Mason abruptly arose from his chair, put the gun back under the pillow where he had found it.

“Now what?” she asked.

Mason said, “I am not representing you. I am not your attorney. I am not a police officer, and I have no right to question you, but I want to know if you went out last night after we left you.”

She said, “I haven’t been out of this apartment since the last time you saw me.”

Mason nodded to Della Street.

“All right,” Stephanie said, “George Casselman has been murdered. He’s the man who killed my father. What do you expect me to do? Break down and have hysterics?

“Look,” she went on, “you’re a lawyer. You’re clever. You know the ropes. You’re representing Homer Garvin. You aren’t representing me. You’d do anything in your power to save your client. You’d throw me to the wolves so Homer Garvin could get away.”

“That’s rather an inaccurate description of my attitude,” Mason said, “but we’ll let it go at that. Come on, Della.”

Mason walked out.

“Now where?” Della Street asked as the door of the apartment closed behind them.

“Now,” Mason said, “we go hunt up Homer Garvin and we hunt him up fast. We hope we get there before the police do.”

“Do they have any line on him?” Della Street asked.

“They will if Stephanie Falkner tells them about the gun.”

“And will she tell them about the gun?”

“That,” Mason said, “is something on which I don’t care to speculate.”

“Do you think she will?”

“She will if she’s smart. Think what it would mean if that should turn out to be the murder weapon.”

“Shouldn’t you have taken it?”

Mason held the elevator door open for Della Street. “Not on your life,” he said. “It’s too hot for me to handle.”

They went down in the elevator, crossed the lobby, entered the cab, and Mason gave the address of Homer Garvin’s office.

“Think he’ll be there?” Della Street asked.

“He’ll either be there or we’ll find out where we can locate him,” Mason said. “This time we won’t take any back talk from a blond secretary who’s trying to make a production out of everything she does.”

The cab deposited them at the building where Garvin had his office. “Keep on holding it,” Mason said. “We shouldn’t be long.”

He and Della Street were whisked up in an express elevator.

Mason walked down the corridor to the door which said: “Homer H. Garvin, Investments. Enter.”

The lawyer twisted the knob, pushed the door, and recoiled in surprise.

The door was locked.

Mason looked at his watch. “Hang it! Garvin should be here or one of his secretaries should be in. She...”

“Remember,” Della Street said, “he told us that he’d fired her last night. Perhaps there was a scene, and she has decided he’s not entitled to two weeks’ notice, or he’s decided he doesn’t want her hanging around.”

“Well, there should be someone here,” Mason said. He knocked on the door of the office then walked around the corridor to the door marked, HOMER H. GARVIN, INVESTMENTS, PRIVATE, and knocked on that door.

“Guess there’s no one home,” Mason said. “Let’s go down to the lobby and get busy on the telephone, Della.”

“I don’t know the phone number of his apartment, and it’s an unlisted telephone, Chief.”

“That’s all right. We’ll get it from Gertie.”

Mason and Della Street went down to the lobby of the building where there was a row of telephone booths. Della Street got Gertie on the phone, got the number of Garvin’s apartment, dialed, waited, and said, “No answer.”

“All right,” Mason said to Della Street, “try Homer Garvin, Jr.”

“He’s on a honeymoon,” Della Street said.

“Not in the used car business,” Mason told her. “He had his honeymoon in Chicago. Say you want to talk with him personally. Don’t tell anyone who it is unless you have to. Say it’s about a car you want to buy, and you want to talk with him personally.”

Della Street nodded, put through the call, spent a few moments arguing with a salesman, then opened the door of the booth to say, “He’s coming on the line.”

“Okay,” Mason said, “let me take it.”

Della Street glided out of the booth. Mason slipped in to take her place.

A brisk voice came over the receiver. “Yes, hello. This is Garvin talking.”

“Perry Mason, Homer.”

“Oh, yes. How are you, Counselor?”

“Fine! Congratulations!”

“Well, thanks. Thanks a million!” he said. “It was... It was rather sudden — but after all, that’s the way I do things.”

“Going to be out there for a few minutes?” Mason asked.

“Sure, I’m on the job all morning. What can I do for you?”

“We’re coming out,” Mason said. “I want to talk with you.”

“Got a car to trade?” Garvin asked.

“It’s a little more personal than that.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

Mason hung up the phone, nodded to Della Street, and they returned to the taxi. Mason gave the address of the block where Garvin had his used car market.

The cab driver slowed down as he came to the address. “Some place here you wanted?” he asked. “This is a used car lot.”

“That’s the place,” Mason said. “Right in there.”

“Okay.” The driver turned in through an archway over which crimson letters some six feet high spelled out: “GIVE-AWAY-GARVIN.”

The car purred into the lot. Cars were parked in a row under a shed on the edge of which were various messages: “IF THEY DON’T MOVE WITHIN THIRTY DAYS — I MOVE THEM! — GARVIN.”... “YOU CAN’T GO WRONG, BECAUSE I WON’T LET YOU! — GARVIN.”... “IF I BUY IT, IT’S GOOD! IF I SELL IT, I MAKE IT GOOD. — GARVIN.”

“Any place in particular?” the driver asked.

“To the office,” Mason said.

The office building was a one-story rambling affair. Several salesmen were on duty, talking with customers or looking for prospects.

Mason told the cab to wait, smiled at the salesmen, said, “I’m looking for the skipper,” and entered the office.

Homer Garvin, Jr. was twenty-seven years of age, unusually tall, with dark hair, dark restless eyes, and quick, nervous gestures. He was wearing an expensively tailored suit, and was talking over the telephone as Mason entered the office.

“All right. All right,” Garvin said into the telephone, looking up at Mason as he did so. “My lawyer’s here. I’ve got to talk over this thing with him. I’ll have to call you back... No, I can’t say when... I may be busy... Good-bye.”

Garvin slammed down the receiver, pushed back the swivel chair, jumped to his feet, and came toward Mason with outstretched hand.

“Well, well, well! How are you, Counselor. I haven’t seen you for quite a while!”

“It has been a long time,” Mason said. “Congratulations!”

Young Garvin bowed modestly. “She’s a wonderful girl, Counselor. I don’t know how I managed to hypnotize her. I guess it’s just good old salesmanship paying off. How are you, Miss Street? You’re certainly looking fine.”

“Thank you.”

Mason said, “We wanted to get in touch with your Dad, Junior, and his office is closed.”

“The office closed!” Junior exclaimed. “Why, the office should be open. Eva Elliott should be there.”

“I have an idea she’s no longer with your Dad. Do you know where he is?”

“Why no! I haven’t... The truth of the matter is I haven’t seen Dad since we got back... To tell you the truth, Mr. Mason, there’s just a trace of a misunderstanding, a little friction. Dad will come around all right, but he thought I was playing fast and loose, and — well, you know how it is. It’s hard for the older generation to understand us younger people. I venture to say my Dad had the same trouble with his father.

“We’re living at a much more rapid pace than we ever did before, and — well, things are different, that’s all. Now you take the way I run my business. I have to operate at high speed. I have to keep moving. I’m like a man skating on thin ice, and it affects the way I live, the way I feel, the way I think. But times are different from what they were a few years ago.”

“You’re talking about friction with your father over business matters?” Mason asked.

“No, a difference over personal affairs,” Garvin said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Mr. Mason. How about looking at a car while you’re down here. I’ve got just exactly the sort of car for you. Good, big, powerful, air-conditioned automobile that is in virtually new condition. You can make enough of a saving on it so you could count on economical transportation.”

“I’m afraid not,” Mason said. “How about Eva Elliott, your father’s secretary? If she isn’t at the office, where would she be?”

“You’d have to catch her at her apartment, I guess.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“Sure. Wait a minute. I have it here.”

Young Garvin opened a drawer in the desk, took out a little, black notebook, thumbed through the pages, said, “She lives in the Monadnock Apartments, Apartment 317, and her telephone number is Pacific 7-2481. But she’ll be at the office. She may have stepped out for a little while, but she’s there. She’s always there. She’s very dependable, that girl. I recommended her to Dad, and she’s making a wonderful secretary. Thoroughly efficient, up on her toes all the time. And she’s sure a pretty girl. Walk in that office and see her sitting there with the back lighting on her blond hair, and it’s a pretty picture.”

“Well, I’ll go take a look at the picture,” Mason said. “If your father gets in touch with you, tell him that I want to see him on a matter of some urgency.”

“I’ll do that,” Garvin promised. “How about a car for you, Miss Street? We’ve got some dandies here, and I’d be in a position to give you folks the real low-down. I’d not only give you a bedrock price, but I’d give you all the history of the automobile. You see I’m making a specialty these days of one-owner cars. Every car you see on this lot has only had one owner.”

“Some other time,” Della Street smiled. “Right now I’m a working girl.”

“Well, remember the address. Here, take one of my cards. You have to use transportation, and that’s quite a big item in a working girl’s overhead. I can cut your transportation costs right down to the bone.”

“Thank you,” Della said. “I’ll be in sometime.”

“Well, do that.”

Junior escorted them out to the taxicab, looked at the cab with some disfavor, said, “Just the mileage that you’re paying on this cab would... Oh well, never mind. I’ll tell Dad if he gets in touch with me, Counselor.”

The cab driver slammed the door and drove out of the used car lot.

Della Street looked at Perry Mason and suddenly burst out laughing.

Mason shook his head. “Well, he’s always trying.”

“Where to now?” the cab driver asked.

“Monadnock Apartments,” Mason said. “You know where that is?”

The driver nodded, eased the cab out into traffic. “About a ten-minute run,” he said.

“Okay,” Mason told him.

Della Street said, “Now the trouble Junior had with his father must have started when he telephoned him from Chicago and told him that he was married, or that he was just about to get married.”

Mason nodded.

“Do you suppose it was because his dad had suspected he was doing wrong by Stephanie Falkner?”

“It’s hard to tell what caused the trouble,” Mason said, “but evidently there’s a bit of feeling. It will be interesting to see what Eva Elliott has to say about the marriage.”

“There’s just a possibility,” Della Street said, “that Eva Elliott doesn’t feel very cordial toward you.”

“I would say that was a masterly understatement,” Mason said.

“And,” Della Street went on, “it’s only etiquette to call and ask if it’s all right to come up. A young woman quite frequently doesn’t look her best in the morning.”

“And if she says she doesn’t want to see us, then what do we do?”

Della Street thought that over. “Well,” she said, “that could prove embarrassing.”

“Exactly,” Mason told her. “So we’ll get up to the apartment as best we can, and then see what happens.”

The Monadnock Apartments proved to be one which had an outer door and a push button system, with communication from the apartments.

Mason found a key on his ring which fitted the outer door, and he and Della Street went to Apartment 317.

Mason knocked on the door of the apartment, one sharp knock, a pause, four short knocks, a pause, then two, short knocks.

Almost instantly the door was thrown open. Eva Elliott, dressed for the street, said, “Well, you have a crust to—” She stopped short as she saw Mason and Della Street on the threshold.

“Oh,” she said. “I thought it was someone else.”

“I want to talk with you a minute,” Mason said. “May we come in? This is Miss Street, my secretary.”

“I don’t have much time this morning. I’m going out. I have an appointment and...”

“It will only take a few minutes.”

She yielded the point with poor grace. “Well, come on in.” Mason and Della Street entered the apartment.

“You’re not with Mr. Garvin any more?” Mason asked.

“Thanks to you,” she said, but without bitterness, “I am not.”

Mason raised his eyebrows. “Thanks to me?”

“Mr. Garvin said that I should have told you where he was.”

“You knew?” Mason asked.

“I knew, but he told me not to tell anyone. In my vocabulary, Mr. Mason, anyone means anyone.”

“I see.”

“What would it mean to you?”

“Well,” Mason said smiling, “almost anyone. Do I gather that there are some hard feelings?”

She said, “If you ask me, I think the whole Garvin family stinks. I did think that only the son was a rotter, but I guess it’s a question of ‘like father like son,’ and vice versa.”

Mason said, “I dislike to see you lose your job on account of some misunderstanding, particularly one that had something to do with my calling on you.”

“Don’t give it a thought,” she said. “I’m a lot better off than I would be sitting in that stuffy, old office wasting my time. I’ve got places to go and things to do, and it’s about time I started.”

“Would you mind telling me about it?” Mason asked.

She said, “Mr. Garvin got back from Las Vegas. He had a chip on his shoulder and I knew it the minute he walked into the office. He had telephoned and asked me to wait until he arrived. He said I could have dinner and put it on the expense account. Not a word about overtime. Just a dinner on the expense account. And I have to watch my figure. I ate pine-apple and cottage cheese salad when I’d like to have had a big steak and everything that goes with it but you can’t have poise and avoirdupois at the same time. The plan I’ve laid out for my life calls for grace, a certain amount of poise and not too much avoirdupois.”

“Go on,” Mason said.

“Well, as you’re probably aware, Mr. Garvin has that private office of his fitted up so it’s almost an apartment. There’s a nice tile shower and dressing room. He has a little closet that is fixed up with an electric plate so he can warm up coffee and fix himself a snack whenever he doesn’t want to go out. He has a bar with an electric icebox. In fact, he sometimes uses the place as an apartment. I’ve known times, when he’s been expecting an important long distance call, that he’d stay right there in his office for twenty-four hours at a time.

“Well, he came back from Las Vegas and I could see that he was terribly worked up about something. I hoped he’d get it off his chest and leave me at least part of the evening free, but not him. He is just as selfish as his son. He told me he was all dirty and sticky from the trip, and he was going to take a shower. So he popped into his dressing room and took a shower, and left me cooling my heels out there in the outer office until he came out all nicely fixed up with a clean suit out of his closet, and then he proceeded to jump on me.”

“And you?” Mason asked.

She said, “I told him I didn’t have to take that from anybody. I told him that when he gave me instructions I followed them, and that, as far as I was concerned, he could take his job and give it to somebody else.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said that suited him all right, and I went out of the office.”

“What time was this?” Mason asked.

“He got in early enough, about eight-forty-five I guess, and he kept me waiting while he was getting all cool and comfortable so he could pick on me... I just kept getting madder and madder.”

“Now, wait a minute. What time did this interview take place?”

“I guess it was a little after nine.”

“And he told you he’d just got in from Las Vegas?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did he drive in from Las Vegas or fly?”

“I don’t know. He had his car with him but that doesn’t mean anything because he keeps four or five cars, and then whenever he wants he’ll pick up other cars from his son’s used car lot.”

“How long had he been in Las Vegas?”

“Two days.”

“May I ask what you intend to do now?”

“What I intend to do now,” she said, “is do what I should have done a long time ago: devote myself to my stage career.”

“I didn’t know you’d been on the stage.”

“Well, I... I didn’t say I’d been on the stage, but I’ve had training for the stage. I’m being interviewed this morning for a bit part and I’m going to have to go right now, Mr. Mason. I’m sorry. I don’t have any hard feelings against you but I think I’ve received a raw deal.”

“You’re finished at the office?” Mason asked.

“Am I finished? I hope to tell the world I’m finished... Now I don’t like to have to throw you out but out you go. You’ve taken up too much of my time already.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Garvin what happened? He’ll tell you.”

“I wanted to get your side of it.”

“If I gave you my side,” she said, “you’d be here all morning. His low-down son rushed me off my feet, and then when he began to get tired of me he wished me off on his dad as a secretary. Then the first thing I knew Junior was making a whirlwind campaign for Stephanie Falkner. Then he goes to Chicago and marries some babe he’s hardly had a chance to know. She’s some cutie from Las Vegas who came drifting into his used car lot — just by chance. He sold her a used car and she certainly sold him a bill of goods!

“Believe me, he won’t have her six months before he’s trading her in on another model. That man doesn’t know what he wants... Now come on. I’m awfully sorry but you’re going to have to leave. Be a sport and get out of here.”

“You have a car?” Mason asked.

“I’m getting a cab.”

“Going out to...”

“I’m going out to Hollywood, in case you’re interested.”

Mason said, “I have a cab waiting downstairs. You can ride with us as far as my office. That’s right on your way and that will save you getting a cab here.”

She looked him over and said, “Well, darned if you aren’t human after all. That’s a deal. Come on. Let’s go.”

She bustled out of the apartment, closed and locked the door, hurried to the elevator, and almost ran to the cab.

They drove to Mason’s office. Mason said to the cab driver, “Add a trip to Hollywood to what you have on the meter already, and tell me how much.”

The cab driver made an estimate.

“Here’s the fare and a tip,” Mason said. “Deliver the young lady where she wants to go.”

The cab driver touched his cap. Mason and Della Street got out of the cab and had no more than crossed the sidewalk when Lt. Tragg of the Metropolitan Homicide Squad fell into step beside them.

“Well, well,” he said. “So you’ve been out early birding this morning. Catch any worms?”

“Oh, we don’t call this early,” Mason said.

“It isn’t... I thought you were in the office, Miss Street.”

“I was,” Della Street said.

“You folks get around. You certainly do,” Tragg told them. “Well, let’s go up where we can talk.”

“About what?” Mason asked.

“Oh, about murder,” Tragg said. “It’s as good a subject as any, and it happens to be a subject in which we’re both interested, you on one side, I on the other.”

They walked silently across to the elevator, rode up to Mason’s floor, walked down the corridor. Mason unlocked the door of his private office, offered Tragg a cigarette, seated himself, held a flame to the tip of the officer’s cigarette, nodded surreptitiously to Della Street, and settled back in his chair.

“Well?” Mason asked.

“George Casselman,” Lt. Tragg said.

“What about him?”

“Dead.”

“How did he die?”

“A contact shot with a .38 caliber revolver.”

“When?”

“Sometime last night.”

“Where?”

“In the apartment where I understand you saw him sometime around eight o’clock.”

“Indeed,” Mason said. “How did you get that information?”

“That,” Tragg told him grinning, “is a professional secret. I’m keeping the extent of my information to myself. In that way you won’t know how much I know or how little I know. It gives me all the advantage in asking questions.”

“Assuming that I would be inclined to depart from the truth in my answers,” Mason said.

“That’s what I’m assuming,” Tragg told him. “Not that you’d lie, Mason, but you have a diabolically clever way of giving answers that don’t answer. Now you saw Casselman last night. What did you see him about?”

“A business deal.”

“What sort of a business deal?”

“One that involved a client’s affairs.”

“There you go again,” Tragg said. “I want to know what you were discussing.”

“My client’s affairs are always kept private,” Mason said. “There’s a code of legal ethics dealing with the matter.”

“Makes it very convenient for you in a murder case, doesn’t it?”

“At times,” Mason admitted.

Tragg studied him thoughtfully. “Now Casselman had some other appointments last night.”

“Did he?”

“Do you know with whom?”

“I know other people were going to see him — that is, Casselman was expecting them.”

“Who were they?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Lieutenant.”

“What do you mean, you can’t help me?”

“I mean just that. I can’t help you.”

“That could mean a lot of things. Either that you don’t know or that you can’t tell.”

“There’s still a third possibility,” Mason said. “Hearsay evidence is no good in a court of law. When I say that I can’t help you, it might mean that I had only some hearsay evidence, and that would be of no help at all.”

“You see what I mean?” Tragg said turning to Della Street. “What kind of an answer is that?”

Tragg turned back to the lawyer.

“Now I wanted to see you this morning before you’d had a chance to talk with any of your clients,” Tragg said. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out. I think perhaps Miss Street’s efficiency may have had something to do with that. However, Mason, we police aren’t entirely dumb. After I found out that you didn’t arrive at the office at your usual time and that Miss Street had stepped out on a matter of some urgency, I put two and two together and so I waited. When you drove up in the taxicab you were getting just a little careless. You should have paid off the cab a block from the office and walked the rest of the way. As it is now, I have the number of the cab, and as soon as I call the dispatcher the cab driver will be asked to report to us. Then we’ll know just where you went with the cab and gradually we’ll piece that cab trip together and perhaps find some very interesting stuff.”

“Doubtless you will,” Mason said. “I’m glad you called my attention to a mistake in my technique, Tragg.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tragg said. “I knew from the expression on your face, that as soon as you saw me you were mentally kicking yourself for not walking that last block.

“I suppose you’d have done it anyway if it hadn’t been for this cute blonde in the car with you. She’d have thought it a little strange if you’d stopped the cab a block from your office.

“Now then, that brings up the next pertinent question: Who was this blonde and why didn’t she get out when you got out?”

“The blonde,” Mason said, “was named Eva Elliott. She lives in Apartment 317 at the Monadnock Apartments. Her telephone number is Pacific 7-2481. She was formerly employed as a secretary for Homer Horatio Garvin, a client of mine, and was on her way to Hollywood to try out for a bit part. The young woman is more than mildly interested in a theatrical career.”

“Well,” Tragg said, “thanks for the information. I can cross that off.”

“What do you mean, you can cross that off?”

“It doesn’t have very much connection with the murder,” Tragg said, “or you wouldn’t have told me all of that. Now where else did you go with the cab?”

“That,” Mason said, “is a matter I don’t think I’m in a position to discuss at the moment.”

“I see, I see,” Tragg said. “Now this Eva Elliott had been secretary to Homer Garvin?”

“That’s right.”

“And Homer Garvin is a client of yours?”

“Yes.”

“When did he last consult you?”

“I take care of all his legal business, I believe,” Mason said. “Sometimes I will have quite a bit of work for him, and then at other times things will go along for months at a time without my hearing from him.”

Tragg turned again to Della Street. “Just listen to this fellow, Miss Street? Lots of interrogators would get sidetracked and forget what the question was about by the time they’d digested an answer like that. Now, let’s see, didn’t my question have to do with when Garvin had last consulted your employer? I’m afraid you’ll have to help me from getting lost in a maze of words, Miss Street.”

“As it happened,” Mason said, “I was the one who was trying to get in touch with Garvin. I was trying to get in touch with him Monday afternoon and I am still trying to get in touch with him.”

Tragg thought that over, then said, “You were trying to get in touch with him Monday afternoon?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re still trying to get in touch with him?”

“Right.”

“Now,” Tragg said, “would you go further and say that you had not seen Garvin between the time you first tried to get in touch with him Monday and the present time when you are still trying to get in touch with him?”

Mason grinned.

Tragg shook his head. “A man has to watch you all the time, Mason. It’s not what you say, but what you don’t say. Now for your information, I know that Homer Garvin saw George Casselman last night.”

“That he saw George Casselman last night?” Mason exclaimed.

Tragg nodded. “Now then, let me ask you a personal question.”

“What?”

“Did you go to Casselman’s apartment last night, then wait out by the back stairs, pick up a young woman and take her away in your car?

“A witness thinks you did. The light wasn’t too good, but this witness saw you well enough to recognize you.”

“Indeed.”

“Now then, could it be possible that some young woman pushed a gun up against Casselman’s breadbasket, pulled the trigger, then rang you on the telephone and said, ‘Oh, Mr. Mason, come at once. Something terrible has happened!’ Could it further be possible that you asked her what had happened, and she told you that she and Casselman had had a difference of opinion, that in order to frighten him she had pulled out a gun, that Casselman grabbed her and struggled for the gun, and in the struggle, much to her surprise, she heard the roar of an explosion and then Casselman fell back on the floor?

“And under those circumstances, could it have been possible that you suggested to her that it would be highly inadvisable to go out the front door, but that you would come to the service entrance and escort her out the back door and down to your automobile, and that in the meantime she was to say nothing about what had happened?”

Mason gave that matter thoughtful consideration. “You mean that I would advise her to say nothing to the police about what had happened?”

“I’m considering that as a possibility.”

“Not to report the body?”

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t that be rather unprofessional on my part?”

“It depends on how you look at it,” Tragg said. “A legal code of ethics can be interpreted in many different ways. It’s a well-known fact that your interpretation of a code of ethics is all in favor of your client. You wouldn’t want your client to do anything that would incriminate her no matter what the law on the subject might be.”

Mason deliberated for a moment. “I take it you mean that my obligation not to betray a client would control all of the other rules of ethics?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s an interesting possibility,” Mason admitted.

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Then I’ll answer it now. The answer is no.”

“You wouldn’t kid me?”

“No.”

“When did you first learn Casselman was dead?”

“Miss Street heard it on the radio this morning.”

“And told you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Early.”

“How early?”

“I can’t say.”

“And you went right out to start a cover-up?”

“I went right out to try to get in touch with a client.”

“Garvin?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to tell him Casselman was dead. I thought it might change some of his plans.”

“See Garvin?”

“No.”

“Talk with him?”

“No.”

“Well thanks, Mason. I wanted to ask. I was instructed to interview you.”

“I’m always glad to co-operate with the police,” Mason said.

Tragg drew his extended forefinger across his throat. “If everyone co-operated like you do, Mason, that D.A. wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.”

“No?”

“No, we’d never catch anyone so he wouldn’t have to try any cases... Well, I thought I’d give you an opportunity to come clean.”

“Thanks.”

“You have had an opportunity to come clean, you know. By the same sign if you’ve tried to gum up the works, you’ve done it after knowing what we’re looking for. That’s bad.

“Now we’re looking for Garvin. If you get in touch with him tell him to call Homicide and ask for me. Tell him it’s rather important.”

Tragg got up from his chair, stretched, yawned, said, “Thanks a lot for all the help you’ve given me, Mason. Not conscious help of course, but unconscious help. I can assure you it’s been considerable.

“By the way, just checking through the records, we note that Homer Garvin had himself appointed a deputy sheriff so he could carry a gun — a special deputy... You know the pitch — personal protection. Large sums of money late at night, and all that sort of thing. He’s quite an operator, I understand. Carries quite a bit of cash with him... You wouldn’t happen to know where Garvin’s gun is now, would you?”

“What gun?”

“The one Mr. Garvin usually carries with him.”

“Wouldn’t it be in Mr. Garvin’s possession?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure I don’t know,” Tragg said. “But,” he announced purposefully, “we intend to find out and you can gamble on that, Mr. Mason. Well, good morning. I won’t detain you any longer. I know that you’re busy. And after all, now that I’ve been here you’ll probably have some telephoning to do.”

“You haven’t tapped the line, have you?” Mason asked.

“No, no, no,” Tragg said. “We wouldn’t go that far. Well, I’ll be seeing you, Counselor. ‘Bye now.”

Tragg left the office.

Mason said to Della Street, “Get Marie Barlow on the phone, Della.”

“Marie Barlow...? Oh, Marie Arden. I can’t get used to her married name.”

Della Street called the switchboard and a moment later said, “Here’s Marie on the phone.”

“Marie,” Mason said, “this may be rather important. A lot of things have happened since I saw you last. Garvin may call you. If he does, I want you to tell him to get in touch with me at once, and tell him that he had better be a little careful how he does it because police are looking for him.”

“Good heavens! The police!”

“That’s right.”

“What makes you think he’ll get in touch with me?”

“Because I told him last night that you had been in to see him twice. It was news to him. His secretary had given him to understand that you’d never even asked for him.”

“What! Why that little, two-timing... why that...”

“Careful,” Mason said, “don’t get your blood pressure up. For your information, Eva Elliott was fired last night and is no longer with Mr. Garvin.”

“Well, good for the boss!” Marie exclaimed. “Who’s running the office?”

“So far no one,” Mason told her.

“Look, Mr. Mason,” she said, “I’m going back.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going back and open up that office for Mr. Garvin, and I’m going to stay on the job until he can get another secretary.”

“You can’t do that,” Mason told her.

“Why can’t I do it? I still have my old key to the office. I know the ropes. I know the clients. And while a lot of water has run under the bridge since I have been there, I know enough about his investments and his manner of operation so I can keep from lousing anything up.

“With my figure the way it is, I won’t be any ornament to the office the way Eva Elliott tried to be, but at least I can be efficient and I’ll answer the phone and see that he gets messages and see that the people who want to get in touch with him can get in touch with him.”

“That might not be advisable,” Mason said.

“What do you mean?”

“Some people,” Mason said.

She laughed. “I’ll use my discretion.”

“The situation may be a little different from what you anticipate. Some of the people who want to get in touch with him may be clothed with authority.”

She thought that over for a moment, then said, “Thanks for the tip, Mr. Mason. My husband has the car. I’m calling a taxicab. If you get in touch with Mr. Garvin, tell him I’m on the job, and that all he’ll owe me will be taxicab fare back and forth.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “It may be a good idea.”

He hung up the telephone, turned to Della Street. “I’m going out, Della. This time I’m going in my car, not in a taxicab.”

“Want a witness?” she asked.

“No, I think you can do more good right at the moment by staying on the job here and—” He broke off as the phone rang.

Della Street picked up her secretarial phone, said, “Who is it, Gertie? Yes, I’m quite sure Mr. Mason wants to talk with him... Homer Garvin on the line,” she said.

Mason grabbed the phone. “Hello, Homer. Where are you?”

Garvin said, “Listen closely, Mason. I may not have time for anything except a few words.”

“Shoot!” Mason told him.

Garvin said, “There’s a possibility Stephanie Falkner fired the shot that killed Casselman while she was acting in self-defense. I want you to get on the job and protect her.”

“All right,” Mason said. “If those are your instructions, that’s fine, but where the devil are you and what—?”

“I’m being a red herring,” Garvin interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m drawing the police off on a false scent. I’m going to try to keep on being a red herring. If I can get the police to accuse me of the crime, it will take a lot of the sting out of it when they finally back up and go after Stephanie.”

“Wait a minute,” Mason cautioned. “That’s dangerous. You may not be in the clear yourself.”

“I don’t want to be in the clear.”

“Flight,” Mason said, “can be taken as an indication of guilt and can be received in evidence as such.”

“All right then, I’ll resort to flight.”

“You can’t do that,” Mason protested. “You can’t pile up evidence against yourself. You may wind up behind the eight ball in this thing.”

“That’s all right. You take care of Stephanie. I’ll take care of myself. Your first duty is to Stephanie. Do whatever you can to protect her, regardless of where the chips fall.”

“Even if you become involved?”

“Even if I become involved.”

“What’s the idea?” Mason asked. “Just because your son was going with Stephanie Falkner and—?”

“Because,” Garvin interrupted, “I love the girl. I guess I always have. I had been afraid to admit it even to myself. I’m telling you that in confidence, Mason, and if you blab that to anyone, even to Della Street, I’ll break your damn neck. You wanted to know why. Now I’ve told you why.”

Mason paused thoughtfully.

“You on the line?” Garvin demanded.

“I’m on the line,” Mason said. “Here’s a piece of news for you. I talked with Eva Elliott. She’s out of your life for good and all. She won’t even go near the office. The place is closed up tighter than a drum.”

“We can’t have that,” Garvin said. “I’ve got a dozen deals pending and... You’ll have to get me someone, Mason.”

“I already have,” Mason said. “I talked with Marie Barlow on the phone. I told her Eva Elliott had been fired and that there was no one in the office. She’s grabbing a taxicab and going up. She has her old key. She says she’ll at least keep things in line.”

“That,” Garvin said, “is a load off my mind. Bless the girl. You said she was going to have a baby?”

“In about nine weeks.”

“Tell her to stick it out as long as she can,” Garvin said. “You may not hear from me for a while, Perry. I may be hard to find.”

“Damn it!” Mason said. “You can’t do that. You...”

There was a click at the other end of the line. The phone went dead.

Della Street raised her eyebrows in silent inquiry.

Mason said, “He may be stringing me along. He says he’s playing red herring. I’m to represent Stephanie Falkner and try to keep her from getting involved.”

“I heard your end of the conversation,” Della Street said. “What was it he said when you asked him if he felt he owed that duty just because his son jilted her?”

Mason grinned and said, “He told me that if I told anyone, even you, the answer to that, he’d break my damn neck... I’m going out, Della. I’ll be back in about an hour. If anybody wants me, you haven’t the faintest idea where I am.”

“Could I make a guess?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re going to Homer Garvin’s office and make certain there is no incriminating evidence for the police to find.”

“That,” Mason told her, “is an idea. It’s a very good idea. The only trouble is there are two things wrong with it.”

“What?”

“First,” Mason said, “as an attorney I couldn’t remove any evidence. That would be a crime. Second, I have something a lot more important to do.

“You must learn, Della, that an attorney cannot conceal evidence and he can’t destroy evidence.

“You must also learn that an attorney with imagination and an abiding belief in the innocence of the client he’s representing can do a great deal. We have two things to be thankful for.”

“What?”

“First, that we know in advance the police are going to trace the route taken by that taxicab, and second, the fact that Homer Garvin’s wife insisted their first child should be named Homer Jr.”

“That,” Della Street said, wrinkling her forehead, “is just half as clear as mud.”

“I’ll be back in an hour,” Mason said, and walked out.

Chapter Eight

Mason drove his car into the used car lot operated by Homer Garvin, Jr. He noticed that several salesmen were busy pointing out the good features of cars to prospective customers and was able to open the door of his car and get halfway to Garvin’s office before a salesman buttonholed him. “Want to make a deal on that car?” the salesman asked.

Mason shook his head. “I want to see Garvin.”

Mason opened the door of the office with the salesman at his heels. “That car of yours looks clean. We could make you a good deal on it, particularly if it’s a one-owner car,” the salesman said.

Mason paid no attention either to the salesman or to Garvin’s secretary, but crossed the office and jerked open the door marked, “Private.”

Homer Garvin looked up from his desk in surprise.

“Pardon the informality,” Mason said, “but this is important. I want to talk with you where we can be undisturbed. How the hell do I get rid of this salesman who is yapping at my heels?”

“There’s only one way that I know of,” Garvin said. “Buy one of our cars.”

Mason turned to the salesman. “This is a private conference. I’m not here trading automobiles.”

“Did you come in a cab or in your own car?” Garvin asked Mason.

“My own car.”

Garvin nodded to the salesman. “Take his car out for a little spin, Jim. See what sort of shape it’s in. Then check with our appraiser and see the best offer we can make. Mason is entitled to a top offer on his car and a discount on anything we have on the lot.”

“Go ahead,” Mason said, “if that will take the heat off. But we’re going places, Homer. If you have a man take my car out, you’ll have to furnish the transportation.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping,” Garvin said. He turned to the salesman. “Take one of the appraisers with you and put the car through its paces.

“All right, Mr. Mason, what can I do for you?”

Mason waited until the door had closed. “You got a gun?” he asked the young man.

“What’s the idea?” Garvin asked.

“I want to know if you have a gun,” Mason said. “I assume that you have. I know that you keep large quantities of cash on the lot here, and...”

“I’ve got a gun,” Garvin said.

“Got a permit?”

“Sure, I’ve got a permit. Good Lord! Mr. Mason, you don’t think I’m going to sit out here running a joint like this and be a pushover for any stick-up man that comes in, do you? I...”

“Let me see the gun you have in your desk,” Mason said.

Garvin regarded him curiously for a moment, then pulled open the upper right-hand desk drawer, took out a gun and slid it across the desk to Mason.

Mason picked up the gun, threw it down a couple of times in order to get the balance of the weapon, said, “This is a mighty good gun, Homer. It’s a duplicate of one your dad carries.”

“I wouldn’t have anything except the best, Mr. Mason. Dad gave me that. It’s just like...”

Mason pulled the trigger.

The roar of an explosion filled the little office. The bullet plowed a furrow across the polished mahogany of Garvin’s desk, glanced off the desk and imbedded itself in the wall.

“Hey! You damned fool!” Garvin shouted. “Put it down!”

Mason looked at the weapon in stupefied surprise.

The door of the private office burst open. A frightened secretary stood on the threshold. A broad-shouldered salesman advanced belligerently on Mason.

“Drop it!” he shouted. “Drop it before I break your jaw!”

Mason, still holding the gun, backed away. “Lord!” he said, “I didn’t know it was loaded.”

Garvin motioned the others back. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s Perry Mason, the lawyer.”

“It isn’t a stick-up?” the man asked.

Garvin shook his head.

Mason glanced ruefully at the desk. “My gosh!” he said, “I was just giving the trigger a little try and... That’s certainly a smooth mechanism.”

“Of course, it’s a smooth mechanism,” Garvin said. “That’s the reason I keep it here. It’s well oiled. It’s a beautiful gun. It’s built like a watch. It has the smoothest action I can find on the market. And because I keep it for protection, I keep it loaded. There’s very little percentage in clicking an empty gun at a bandit who is trying to hold you up.”

Mason slid the gun back to Garvin. “I guess I’ve got no business handling these things,” he said.

Garvin said drily, “You seem to know a lot more about them in court than you do when you’re visiting clients.”

Mason turned to the secretary and the salesman. “I’m sorry. I guess I’ve made a commotion. I owe your boss a new desk.”

“And close the door,” Garvin said, “when you go out.”

The secretary held the door open. The broad-shouldered salesman backed out rather reluctantly. The good-looking secretary closed the door.

“All right,” Garvin said. “Now what? If you were anybody but Perry Mason, that act would have been convincing.”

Mason grinned. “Put the gun in your pocket and come along.”

“With the gun?”

“With the gun. You may need it.”

“All right, I’ll put another shell in before—”

“No, no. Just the way it is,” Mason told him.

“All right, where do we go?”

“We take a little ride.”

Garvin picked up a phone, said, “Get Ralph for me... Ralph, I’m going out on a personal demonstration. Get me that x-60 job we took in yesterday. Have it out in front right away... That’s right! When I say ‘right away’ I mean right away!”

Garvin surveyed the damaged desk. “Makes quite a groove,” he said. “That was a swell-looking desk, but I didn’t know the veneer on it was so thin. May I ask what’s the idea, Mr. Mason?”

“The general idea,” Mason said, “is that I want you to demonstrate this x-60 job you’re talking about.”

“You’re going to love it,” Garvin said. “It’s a sports job and it has more horses under the hood than you can use under ordinary conditions. But when you’re out on the highway, and you want to pass somebody, you pass him. You pass him right now, without any long, drawn-out agony while you’re driving along the road two abreast. You get back in your lane of traffic before anybody has a chance to come around a curve and smack you head-on, and—”

“I don’t pass people on an approach to curves,” Mason said.

“You may think you don’t,” Garvin said, “and you may try not to. But when you’re driving over a strange road, unless you’re fully familiar with the grades you’ll find that sooner or later you’ll be going on what you think is a level road, but actually it’s a pretty good grade. The topography of the country is such that you’ll be fooled. You’ll try to pass someone on what looks like a sufficiently adequate space of open road, and—”

“Save it!” Mason told him. “Let’s take a look at this x-60 job of yours.”

“Right this way,” Garvin said.

He led the way out through the outer office. The secretary standing by the water cooler, a glass of water in her hand, her face still pale, looked at Mason as one regards a creature from another planet.

Garvin held the door open, said, “Get right in. Get in behind the wheel of that car, Mr. Mason.”

Mason hesitated at the sight of the sports automobile which was drawn up in front of the place.

“Ever driven one of them?” Garvin asked.

“No.”

“Get in, try it and overcome both your prejudices and your ignorance at the same time. Greatest little job on earth! Compact! Efficient! Snappy! Distinctive! That’s the kind of job you should be driving, Mr. Mason.”

“Hang it!” Mason said, “in a car like that I’d stand out like a sore thumb. I’d go to call on a client and a hundred motorists driving by would see the car parked in front of the place and would say, ‘Why, that’s Mr. Mason’s car. He must be in there calling on a client.’ ”

Young Garvin grinned. “Would that be bad?” he asked.

“That,” Mason said, “would be fatal.”

“Not the way we understand publicity in the used car business,” Garvin said. “The canons of professional ethics prevent you from advertising but there’s nothing that says people can’t talk about you. Slide in behind the wheel, Mr. Mason. Go ahead... I did what you wanted and it’s cost me a desk. This isn’t going to cost you a cent — unless you buy it.”

Mason slid in behind the wheel.

“Turn the key all the way to the right,” Garvin instructed, walking around the car and climbing in beside Mason.

Mason turned the key to the right. The motor gave one quick throb, then subsided into subdued pulsations which seemed as smooth as the ticking of a watch.

“Slide it into gear,” Garvin said, “and push down the throttle. Easy!”

Mason put the car into gear, pressed the throttle slightly and the car shot ahead as though it had been launched from a catapult.

“I said, ‘Easy!’ ” Garvin warned.

Mason spun the wheel just in time to catch a break in traffic and glide out onto the highway.

“You’re riding a polo pony now,” Garvin warned. “The slightest touch on that wheel, the slightest touch on the throttle brings action.”

“I’ll say it brings action,” Mason said.

“You’ll get to like it,” Garvin told him.

“If I live long enough,” Mason said dubiously.

“May I ask where we’re going?” Garvin inquired.

“For a ride,” Mason told him. “I am testing out your x-60 job.”

“Suits me,” Garvin said. “Take a couple of corners where there isn’t any traffic. Get accustomed to the feel of that steering wheel and, for heaven’s sake, go easy on the throttle.”

“Hang it, Garvin!” Mason said, “this car is ten years too young for me.”

“On the contrary,” Garvin said, “a car of this sort should never be sold to anyone younger than you are. This car should only be operated by someone who has the judgment and wisdom which comes from mature experience.”

Mason looked at him in surprise. “Are those your real sentiments about sports cars?” he asked.

“Hell, no!” Garvin said. “That’s good salesmanship. Where are we going?”

“Places,” Mason said.

“Well, get this baby out on the freeway where we can roll it along a little bit. I want you to see what acceleration is.”

“No,” Mason said, “I’m getting along all right. I’m studying.”

“The car?”

“Hell, no!” Mason said. “I’m studying salesmanship.”

Homer Garvin laughed.

Mason drove for several minutes then swung the car into a side street.

Garvin said suddenly, “Hey! Wait a minute! What’s happening here?”

Mason braked the car to a stop in front of the Lodestar Apartments. “We have a job to do.”

“Now just a— Wa-i-i-i-i-i-t a minute!” Garvin said. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but the answer is no.”

“Come on,” Mason told him.

“I’m a married man,” Garvin told him.

“How does it feel?” Mason asked him.

“I don’t know yet. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable experience so far, but... I can see where it has advantages and disadvantages. However, I do have the most wonderful girl in the world, and I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize her happiness or mine.”

“I wouldn’t want you to,” Mason said. “Come on along.”

“What do you have in mind? Are you going to ask me to make some sort of a statement or...”

Mason said, “I want you to keep your mouth shut. I want you to listen. If you feel like it you can nod your head.”

“And if I don’t feel like it?”

“Just stand there and take it.”

Garvin said, “Mason, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope I do, too,” Mason told him, “and we haven’t much time to do it. Now let’s get started.”

Mason led the way into the apartment house, up to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment. The lawyer tapped on the door of the apartment. There was the rustle of motion from the other side of the door, then the door opened a crack.

“Who is it?” Stephanie Falkner asked.

She saw Mason and said, “Oh, Mr. Mason!” She threw the door open, then her eyes widened as she saw Homer Garvin, Jr. standing just behind Mason.

“Now get this straight, Stephanie,” Homer Garvin said. “Whatever this is all about, it’s Mr. Mason’s idea. None of it is mine.”

“Shut up,” Mason told him. “Come in. Keep quiet!”

Stephanie Falkner fell back. Mason escorted Garvin into the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him.

“Congratulations, Homer!” Stephanie said.

“Shut up, both of you,” Mason snapped. “We don’t have much time. Stephanie, Homer Garvin has been concerned about your safety. Despite his recent marriage, you remain a very dear friend. In view of what happened to your father and because he has learned through me that negotiations are again pending with what is probably the same syndicate, he feels that you should have something for your protection.”

“For her protection?” Garvin asked.

“Shut up,” Mason said. “Give her the gun.”

Garvin hesitated a moment, then reached in his pocket and pulled out the gun.

“Take it, Stephanie,” Mason said.

“What do I do with it?”

“You might try putting it under the pillow,” Mason told her.

Garvin said, “One shot has been fired. Mr. Mason—”

“Quiet!” Mason said. “You told me you didn’t intend to say anything and now you want to do all the talking.”

“Stephanie, Homer Garvin is very much concerned about your safety. He wants you to have a weapon so that you can protect yourself. There is no secret about this. There’s no reason for any deception. If anyone asks you where you got the gun, you can tell them that it is a gun you received from Homer Garvin, and conversely if anyone asks you where the gun is you got from Homer Garvin there is no reason why you shouldn’t hand over this gun.

“You will note that one shot has been discharged from this weapon. That was the condition of the weapon when it was given to you. You have no idea as to who discharged the cartridge, where or when. If anyone wants to know the answer to those questions, it will be necessary for them to check with Homer Garvin.

“Thank you very much for your courteous attention and I think it was a splendid gesture on the part of Mr. Garvin to see that you were protected.

“That’s all. Come on, Homer.”

Mason opened the door of the apartment. Stephanie Falkner regarded them with puzzled eyes. The gun lay on the table in the middle of the room.

Homer Garvin said, “I’d have told you about it before you read it in the papers, Stephanie, only I—”

“You don’t have to explain, Homer,” she said. “I understand perhaps a lot more than you think. I understand your restless nature, your ceaseless attempt to make over your environment. After all, there’s no reason why we can’t be friends.”

Homer pushed past Mason, stepped forward and extended his hand. The two shook hands.

Mason, holding the door of the apartment open, said, “Homer Garvin, if you don’t get out of here, I’ll call a taxi and ride back in that.”

“That does it, honey,” Homer Garvin said. “I’m selling the sucker a car.”

“More power to you,” Stephanie Falkner said, and then added, “You may need it.”

Garvin stepped into the hall, and Mason shut the door of the apartment.

They took the elevator to the ground floor and were starting across the lobby when Mason suddenly grabbed Garvin’s arm and said, “This way, please.”

Mason led Garvin over to the seats by a table covered with reading matter. He grabbed a magazine, pushed Garvin down on the seat, shoved the magazine in his hands, picked up a newspaper and sat down beside him.

The door of the apartment house opened.

Lt. Tragg of the Homicide Squad, accompanied by Sgt. Holcomb and the taxi driver who had driven Mason earlier in the morning approached the desk. They talked briefly with the attendant, then entered the elevator.

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go, and let’s hope they didn’t notice that sports car in front.”

“What the hell do you mean, didn’t notice it?” Garvin said. “That’s like suggesting a banker doesn’t notice the steam Calliope in a circus parade as it goes by during a directors’ meeting.”

“That,” Mason said, “is what I’m afraid of. If you’re going to do business with me on an automobile, you’ll have to get something dark, quiet, and conservative.”

“I have just the thing for you,” Garvin said.

“What is it?”

“A secondhand hearse. It’s only had one owner.”

Chapter Nine

At two-fifteen the telephone in Mason’s private office rang and Della Street said, “Marie Barlow is on the phone, says it’s rather urgent.”

Mason nodded, took the telephone, said, “Hello, Marie. This is Perry Mason.”

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad I caught you. Two officers of the Homicide Squad are here, Lt. Tragg and Sgt. Holcomb. They have a search warrant authorizing them to search Mr. Garvin’s office for bloodstains, blood-stained garments, or other evidentiary matters in connection with the perpetration of a homicide in connection with the death of one George Casselman. What do I do?”

“Dust off the chairs,” Mason said. “Invite them to make themselves at home. Tell them to search all they damn please. Have them give you an inventory of anything they take from the office. Give Sgt. Holcomb my compliments, and ask him to try to refrain from leaving burning cigarettes on the office tables and desks so they leave burnt smudges.”

“That should do it,” she said.

“That will do it,” Mason told her. “Telephone me when they leave.”

Mason hung up the phone, said to Della Street, “Well, here’s where trouble starts. I’m going down the hall to see Paul Drake. Call me there if anything breaks.”

Mason walked down the corridor, pushed open the door of the entrance office on which a sign read “DRAKE DETECTIVE AGENCY.” He said to the receptionist, “Paul in?”

She nodded.

“Busy?”

“No. Mr. Mason. Go right on down. Want me to announce you?”

“No need unless there’s someone with him.”

“He’s alone.”

Mason pushed open the gate which led to a corridor flanked by small, cubbyhole offices each just big enough to interview a witness in privacy or where an operative could prepare a typewritten report.

Drake’s office was down at the end of the corridor and was slightly larger, having room for a desk and a couple of extra chairs. Four telephones were arranged in a row on the desk.

Drake was checking a report as Mason pushed open the door.

“Hi, Paul.”

“Hi, Perry.”

“Want a job?”

“Sure.”

“George Casselman.”

“He was murdered last night,” Drake said.

“You keep up on your murders, don’t you?”

“So do you, if I may say so.”

Mason grinned. “I’m particularly interested in the time of death, any suspects the police may have, any information they may uncover, anything you can get on the background of Casselman.

“I’d suggest you grub around in Las Vegas, because I think he has a Las Vegas background. I don’t know how long he’s been living in the apartment where the body was found. I want to get everything. The works.”

“I can give you some information right now,” Drake said. “Casselman was a penny ante racketeer.”

“Gambler?” Mason asked.

“Not so much gambler as petty rackets.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “See what you can find out. I can give you one tip.”

“What?”

“You remember a man who was killed here a few months ago, fellow by the name of Falkner — Glenn Falkner?”

“Oh yes, gangster killing, wasn’t it?”

“It was not,” Mason said. “That is, I don’t think it was, although the police have listed it as a gangster killing, and as a result not too much was ever done on it.

“Because Casselman had some connections in gambling circles and Glenn Falkner did too, police have made a check on Stephanie Falkner, the daughter of the man who was murdered a few months ago.”

“You representing her?” Drake asked.

“I’m looking out for her interests, Paul.”

“Okay, I’ll get busy. What is this? Big, medium-sized, or small job?”

“Whatever is necessary to get the information. Start out easy and finish up hard.”

Drake reached for a telephone. “Okay, Perry, I’ll start some men on it right now. I have a man down in the press room at headquarters who gets stuff as fast as it’s available for the papers.”

“Have him keep an ear cocked,” Mason said, “and shoot the information down to the office as soon as you get it.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’m started.”

Mason walked back to his own office, heard steps in the corridor behind him, turned and saw Stephanie Falkner hurrying down the corridor.

“Well,” Mason said, “what brings you here?”

“Oh, Mr. Mason, I’m so glad I found you. May I see you a moment?”

“Come on in this way,” Mason said, fitting a latchkey to the door of his private office.

He opened the door, and said, “We have company, Della,” and ushered Stephanie Falkner into the office.

“What’s new?” he asked.

“The police came to my apartment within a few minutes after you left. The gun was still on the table. I forgot about it for the moment and then tried to hide it by throwing a scarf over it when they came in. I’m afraid I was a little clumsy.”

“What happened?” Mason asked.

“They grabbed the gun. They smelled it, broke it open, wanted to know where I got it.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I told them Homer Garvin had given it to me for protection, that he thought perhaps my life was in danger.”

“You didn’t tell them whether it was Senior or Junior?” Mason asked.

“Was I supposed to?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Mason said.

“Well, from the manner in which the whole situation developed, I... well, I just told them so much and then didn’t tell them any more. They asked me about when I had last seen Mr. Garvin.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Told them that I had seen him that morning. That seemed to excite them a lot and they put through a couple of phone calls then left in a hurry.”

“No further questioning?”

“No further questioning.”

“All right,” Mason said, “they’ll question you again. When they do, I want you to do something.”

“What?”

“Tell them that you won’t answer any more questions unless I am present.”

“But Mr. Mason, isn’t that equivalent to...? Well, doesn’t that... I mean, isn’t that virtually an admission of guilt?”

“They may think it is,” Mason said, “but we’re playing for big stakes in a no-limit game. Don’t answer any more questions. Don’t even give them the time of day. Don’t tell them what the weather is, or where you were born. Think you can do that?”

“I can, if you want me to.”

“I do. Garvin asked me to protect your interests.”

“Mr. Mason, I... There’s one thing I thought I should tell you. Homer Garvin came back last night...”

“Now do you mean Senior or Junior?”

“The father.”

“All right,” Mason said, “he came back. What happened?”

“He said he couldn’t sleep. He wanted to talk to me. We had a nice long talk.”

“What time did he leave?”

“That’s the thing that... well, it was around midnight when he left.”

“That’s fine,” Mason said. “Don’t answer any questions. Just don’t be too available.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Mason nodded to Della Street, said, “Do you like this dress on her, Della?”

“Very much indeed,” Della Street said.

“I don’t,” Mason said. “I don’t think it’s photogenic. I don’t think she’ll take good pictures in that dress... How long would it take to pick out a dress which would have good striking black and white lines that would photograph well? Something with a deep V in front and white lines that emphasize the figure?”

“It might not take long,” Della Street said, then at the expression on Mason’s face, hastily said, “Again it might take quite a while to get exactly what you have in mind.”

“You see,” Mason said to Stephanie Falkner, “you’re going shopping.”

“When?”

“Now. Got any money?”

“Yes.”

“Then shop. Make yourself conspicuous when you shop. Try on a lot of dresses. Be difficult. Have it so the salesgirls will be sure to remember you.”

“Then what?”

“Then,” Mason said, “keep in touch with me by telephone. If you want to reach me at any time and the office is closed, telephone the Drake Detective Agency, tell them who you are, and leave a message. I want to know where I can get in touch with you at all times.”

“The Drake Detective Agency?”

“That’s right. That’s the one down the hall. Give her one of Paul Drake’s cards, Della.”

“And I’m not to talk with the police?”

“Not with the police. Not with the newspaper reporters. Not with anyone unless I am present. Don’t absolutely refuse to talk, simply refuse to talk with anyone unless I am present. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the other gun?”

“It’s in a place where no one will ever find it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m absolutely positive.”

“All right,” Mason told her, “get started on your shopping tour. That will probably keep you pretty well occupied until the stores have all closed.”

Stephanie Falkner went out. Della Street eyed Perry Mason quizzically. “It’s a crime to conceal evidence?” she asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Mason said. “But it’s no crime to advise a client not to talk. And it’s a breach of ethics for a lawyer to fail to protect the best interests of his client.”

Della Street studied the expression on his face for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Chapter Ten

The telephone on Della Street’s desk rang sharply.

Mason picked up the instrument, said, “Yes, Gertie, what is it? Della’s out. Oh, Marie Barlow? Put her on.”

Marie Barlow’s voice said, “Hello.”

“How’s everything coming?” Mason asked.

“All right.”

“The search finished.”

“Yes.”

“Did they take anything?”

“Not a thing. They prowled around, seemed terribly disappointed, and left.”

“It may be a trap,” Mason warned. “How’s the office?”

“I’ve never seen such an unholy mess in all my life!”

“What do you mean, a mess?”

“I mean a mess. I don’t think this girl had the faintest idea about how the business was handled, or how the files were kept. I have already found duplicate files. I have found correspondence filed in the wrong places. I can’t find any system to the way she handled bills payable.”

“Such as what?” Mason asked.

“Take that apartment house out on Seaforth Avenue, for instance, the one that Mr. Garvin bought just before I left. There have been electrical repair bills on it for over three thousand dollars, and that’s just too darn much.”

“Perhaps television was installed in the different apartments,” Mason said.

“Well, I’m checking on it, but after the way I left things, it’s certainly an Alice in Wonderland situation now.”

“Okay,” Mason told her, “straighten things out the best you can. Keep in touch with me. And tell Garvin I want to see him if he calls in.”

“Should I tell him about the search warrant if he calls in over a public telephone?”

“Sure,” Mason said. “Give him all the information you have.”

“I was thinking that he might be calling on a party line of some sort, or there might be a leak over a public telephone.”

“There’s apt to be a leak over any telephone,” Mason told her. “You have to take that chance.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll get busy trying to straighten out the mess up here.”

Mason had hardly hung up the telephone when he heard Paul Drake’s code knock on the corridor door of his private office. He swept open the door, said, “Come on in, Paul.”

Drake said, “Thanks, Perry,” moved over to the client’s chair, sat conventionally for a moment while he was fishing a notebook out of his pocket, then whirled around so that he was sitting crosswise in the chair, one rounded leather arm propped against the small of his back, the other furnishing a rest for his long legs.

“Now this is a hell of a mess, Perry!” he said.

“What?”

Drake said, “I’m afraid you’re in for some unpleasant publicity, Perry.”

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked, raising his eyebrows.

“You know the columnist Jack Crowe who runs the daily column in the paper entitled, ‘Crowe’s Caws’?”

Mason nodded.

“Well,” Drake said, “somebody down at young Garvin’s secondhand car lot came up with a story about you handling a gun that you didn’t think was loaded, and blowing a furrow all the way across the top of young Garvin’s desk.”

Mason looked sheepish. “Good heavens, Paul! Don’t tell me that’s going to get in the papers?”

“Not going to get in the papers!” Drake said. “A choice item like that? Hell! You couldn’t have pulled the job under more auspicious circumstances as far as publicity is concerned, if you had been trying to...”

Drake stopped abruptly.

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked.

Drake regarded Mason thoughtfully. “That was a helluva statement I just made,” he said. “It’s given me a little food for thought.”

“What statement?”

“That if you had been trying to get publicity you couldn’t have done it under more auspicious circumstances. You’re getting the publicity all right... I couldn’t believe the story when I first heard it. I’m beginning to believe it now.”

“I was careless,” Mason admitted.

“Well,” Drake said, “just for your information Crowe got the tip, and he’s printing a humorous article about the lawyer who is so full of technical information about firearms that he can make the ballistic experts look foolish on the witness stand, pulling the ‘didn’t-know-it-was-loaded’ line the minute he gets his hands on a firearm.”

“That would be very, very embarrassing,” Mason admitted.

“That’s what I thought when I first heard it,” Drake commented thoughtfully.

“You’re changing your mind, now?” Mason asked.

Drake’s eyes took on a faraway look as he gazed over toward the windows in unblinking concentration. Abruptly he jackknifed himself up out of the chair.

“What makes you think you can get away with this stuff, Perry?”

“I don’t,” Mason said.

“Then what’s the idea of trying it?”

“It gives the columnists something nice to write about. Having gone that far, Crowe will follow up on the story the next day.”

“Well,” Drake said, “my face is a little red, Perry. I thought I had a hot tip and... Perry, are you certain you haven’t violated the law?”

Mason grinned. “I guess perhaps I have, Paul, but by the time the smoke blows away, discharging a firearm within the city limits is the only thing they can actually hook me on.”

Chapter Eleven

When Mason entered his office on Thursday morning, Della Street had a copy of the morning newspaper placed on his desk. The paper was folded over so as to leave the column entitled, “Crowe’s Caws” in the most visible position.

Mason had just started to read the column when Della Street came in from the outer office.

“Hi, Della,” Mason said. “I gather that I am the subject of a little publicity.”

“Quite a little publicity,” she said.

Mason read:

“Perry Mason, the spectacular trial attorney, whose cases have such a tendency to explode into courtroom pyrotechnics, and who has won many a courtroom battle by proving that his technical knowledge of forensic ballistics is at least the equal of that of the expert whom he is cross-examining, proved to be not quite so adept when it came to handing firearms on a practical basis.

“Seems Stephanie Falkner, the attractive young woman whose father was murdered some time back in a case which so far has never been solved, received some threats which caused Perry Mason considerable concern. Homer Garvin, the high-powered used car salesman, and Stephanie had at one time been quite ga-ga. It is to be presumed that Garvin’s recent marriage terminated the romance, but apparently not the friendship.

“When the noted lawyer called to Homer Garvin’s attention the fact that Stephanie might be in danger, Garvin promptly produced a gun and suggested that Miss Falkner be given an adequate means of protection.

“Perry Mason was all in favor of the deal, and picked up the gun to test the balance, and decide whether the mechanism functioned perfectly.

“It functioned.

“The result was considerable excitement in the offices of the used car dealer, a long deep furrow, ploughed in the veneered desk, and a rather red face on the noted attorney.

“Inasmuch as Mason’s face rarely becomes red, the occasion was considered unique by an interested but somewhat apprehensive audience. However, all’s well that ends well, and, since police have been wondering whether the gun which they found in Stephanie Falkner’s apartment with one exploded shell in the mechanism had been used in connection with a homicide, it gives this column great pleasure to point out that they need look no farther than Homer Garvin’s desk to find the bullet that is missing.

“It was reported that the used car dealer had been planning on having a new desk installed immediately, but as salesmen piloted in a procession of potential customers to view the damages, and the customers somehow affixed their signatures on dotted lines before leaving the place, Garvin has decided to feature the ‘wounded’ desk as his main attraction — sort of a corpus deskus.”

Mason had just finished reading the account in the paper when the telephone on Della Street’s desk jangled.

Della Street answered the telephone, and nodded to Perry Mason. “It’s Paul Drake. He’s coming right down.”

“Hear anything from Homer Garvin?” Mason asked her after she had hung up.

“Senior or Junior?”

“Either.”

“Junior telephoned. He’s tickled to death with the publicity. He’s sold five cars to prospective purchasers who originally came in to survey the damage in the desk.”

“He’d better give me a commission,” Mason said. “Hear anything from Stephanie Falkner?”

“Not a word.”

“That’s a little strange, Della.”

“She may be a late sleeper,” Della Street said.

Mason frowned. “Give her a ring. Wake her up.”

Della Street picked up the phone, said, “Ring the Lodestar Apartments, Gertie. We want to talk with Stephanie Falkner.”

While she was waiting, Paul Drake’s knuckles tapped the code knock on the door.

Mason got up to let him, and Della Street said, “She doesn’t seem to answer, Chief.”

“Tell Gertie to keep trying,” Mason said. “Hi, Paul, what’s new?”

Drake said, “George Casselman had a criminal record. He served time, once for pimping, once for extortion. He was killed sometime between seven and eleven-thirty o’clock Tuesday night by a .38 caliber bullet which was fired from a gun that was held against Casselman’s chest. It made what is described in medical circles as a contact wound. You know what a contact wound is.

“The muzzle of the gun is held directly against the body into which the shot is fired. The bullet not only enters the body, but a lot of explosive gases from the gun also enter and cause quite a bit of internal damage.”

“Anyone hear the shot?” Mason asked.

“Apparently not. In cases of contact wounds, the sound of the shot may not be much louder than that of an inflated paper bag being smashed.”

“Then no one heard it?”

“No one heard it.”

“What else, Paul?”

Before Drake could answer, the telephone on Della Street’s desk rang again.

Della Street picked up the telephone, said, “Hello,” in a subdued voice, then said, “Yes, he’s here,” turned to Paul Drake and said, “For you, Paul. It’s your office. They say it’s most important.”

Drake moved over to the telephone, said, “Hi, this is Paul,” waited a moment, then said, “The devil!..” There was a long silence. Then, “They’re sure...? Okay.”

Drake hung up the phone and stood for a moment in puzzled perplexity.

“Well,” Mason said impatiently.

“This,” Paul said, “is the best-kept secret of the day. Police knew about it yesterday and managed to keep it buttoned up.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Bullets fired from the gun police found in Stephanie Falkner’s apartment match the fatal bullet that killed George Casselman.”

“Which gun?” Mason asked sharply.

“Which?” Drake asked in surprise. “Why, there’s only one, the one Garvin gave her.”

Mason’s eyes narrowed.

Drake said, “This means that you had the fatal gun in your possession and that you discharged one shell into the desk at Homer Garvin’s office in the used car lot. Quite naturally police felt at first that you were engaged in some sort of a hocus-pocus trying to confuse the issue somehow. They picked young Garvin up and are giving him a shakedown. The original idea was that you must have planted the murder weapon in his desk.”

“They’ve changed their minds now?” Mason asked tonelessly.

“They’re changing their minds,” Drake said. “At the moment they have a brand new suspect, in the person of Mrs. Homer Garvin, Jr. It seems she was employed as a resident hostess, bathing beauty and ornamental model at one of the Las Vegas hotels out on the strip. She knew Casselman. No one seems to know how well. They found Casselman’s unlisted number written down on a memo pad by her telephone.

“Casselman was a blackmailer. The young woman just got married. Figure that one out and you have a perfect sequence.

“That, in the words of the police, makes your clumsy attempt to fake a didn’t-know-it-was-loaded accident at Garvin’s used car lot a diabolically clever attempt to mix up the ballistic experts.

“Police don’t like that. The ruse almost worked. They’re examining all the evidence carefully. The D.A. would love to book you. If he could catch you tampering with evidence, he’d turn the department upside down trying to get a conviction.”

Mason nodded to Della Street. “Tell Gertie to get Junior on the telephone. He probably won’t be in, but have Gertie leave word for him to call.”

Mason pushed back the chair from his desk, got up and began pacing the floor. Abruptly he turned, said to the detective, “Paul, I want to know what’s going on. I want all the information you can get on what the police are doing. They probably have both Stephanie Falkner and Garvin, Jr. Thank heavens Senior is across the State line! They’ll have to unwind some red tape before they can drag him in. There’s something fishy about this whole business.”

Drake said, “Watch yourself, Perry. Keep in the clear on this thing. Police are going to want to know how it was that you had such unerring insight as to go out to Garvin’s used car lot, ask for a gun, fire a bullet into Garvin’s desk, and then take the gun up and leave it with Stephanie Falkner in a place where police would be sure to find it.”

“You aren’t telling me anything,” Mason said, “but there’s a lot back of all this that you don’t know. Get busy and start finding things out.”

Drake nodded, left the office.

Mason continued pacing the floor for a while, then whirled to face Della Street. “There’s only one answer, Della.”

“What?” she asked.

“Homer Garvin, Sr.,” Mason said, “must have a key to the office at Junior’s used car lot. Garvin, Sr. had possession of the murder gun. He knew that Garvin, Jr. kept a gun in his desk. So Garvin, Sr. went out and substituted guns. He put the murder gun, which must have been reloaded, in Junior’s desk where police would never think of looking, then took Junior’s gun out of the desk. He fired one shot through that gun, then took it up and left it in Stephanie Falkner’s apartment. His idea was that the police would find the gun with the empty shell, think that Stephanie had killed Casselman, and then be forced to abandon that theory because they would find that the gun she had hadn’t been used in the crime. That’s why he was so anxious to have me do everything I could for Stephanie.”

“Go on from there,” Della Street said.

“So that’s where I inadvertently nullified everything he had done,” Mason said. “Feeling certain that the police would pick up Stephanie Falkner for questioning and feeling that, by that time, they could well have found out Garvin, Sr. had given her a gun, or that they would search for a gun, I conceived the idea of having Garvin, Jr. also give her a gun. In that way, if the police found the one gun, they would hardly keep on searching for another gun. And if they knew Garvin, Sr. had left a gun with her and demanded she produce it, she could have produced the gun that Garvin, Jr. left and so mixed the case all up.

“As it happens by one of those particular coincidences which sometimes occur in real life, my brilliant idea backfired. I went out and got the very gun that Garvin, Sr. was trying to keep from ever being associated with Stephanie Falkner. I took that gun to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment and left it right where police would be sure to find it.”

“Where does that leave you?” Della Street asked apprehensively.

“I’m darned if I know where it leaves me, Della. The police can’t say I was concealing evidence. I went out and dug up the very bit of evidence they wanted so badly, and placed it in the possession of the woman they probably had pegged as their number one suspect.

“At the moment I’m not concerned where it leaves me, but where it leaves my clients.”

“And,” Della Street asked, “who do you suppose fired the fatal bullet from the gun in question into the body of George Casselman?”

“Now there,” Mason said, “you raise quite a question.

“In the minds of the police, Junior’s new wife now becomes a prime suspect, or perhaps Junior himself. Police won’t credit me with good faith. They’ll naturally think I was trying to take the heat off Junior and his wife by implicating Stephanie Falkner.

“I have an idea that Junior and his wife are going to be very, very angry. They’ll feel I went out there with the murder weapon, that I asked Junior for his gun, that I did a little sleight-of-hand substitution, and under cover of the confusion resulting from the apparently accidental discharge of the weapon managed to substitute the murder gun in place of the one Junior had given me. Junior thereupon walked into my trap, took the gun up to Stephanie Falkner and left it with her.

“I can also imagine that when Garvin, Sr. reads the papers he’s going to be cursing me for a clumsy lout.”

“And the police?” Della Street asked.

“The police will naturally assume that whatever I did was designed to confuse the issues. They will now be able to prove that I had the fatal gun in my possession. Once having reached that point they’ll drag me into it as deep as they can drag.”

“Can they prove it was the fatal gun?”

“They can now.”

“How?”

“By that bullet which was fired into Junior Garvin’s desk. If it wasn’t for that bullet, they’d have one hell of a time proving that I ever had the fatal gun.

“Once they recover that bullet, which eyewitnesses can testify was fired by me, they can show it came from the fatal gun. Remember, Della, I went out there to see Casselman. It’s not too utterly improbable that the D.A. may try to claim I committed the murder.”

“Then if it wasn’t for the bullet you fired into Junior’s desk, they couldn’t absolutely prove that the gun you had in your possession was the fatal gun?”

“They could prove it by inference,” Mason said, “but that’s all.”

“Chief, couldn’t I get Paul Drake to go out there and get that bullet? If police don’t think of it in time and that bullet has disappeared...?”

Mason shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Because, Della, Paul Drake has a license. He doesn’t dare to cut corners. They’d take his license away. The minute you suggested anything like that to Paul Drake he’d be in a panic.”

Della Street thought the situation over. “Just where did that bullet go, Chief?”

Mason said, “I fired the gun at the desk on an angle, hoping that the bullet would glance up into the wall.”

“Did it?”

“I think it did.”

“And just why did you fire it?” she asked.

Mason grinned. “So that the gun the police found in Stephanie Falkner’s apartment would have one discharged cartridge case in the cylinder. Then in case the police should have been looking for a gun with one discharged cartridge, they’d quit looking as soon as they found this gun I’d had Junior leave there.”

“So what do we do now?” Della Street asked.

“Right now,” Mason said, “we can’t do anything except wait.”

“That,” Della Street said, “is the most difficult thing I know of. I’m afraid my nerves are giving out. I’m going to skip down and get something for my head. I’ll be right back.”

“What’s the matter?” Mason asked sharply.

She averted her eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I kept thinking about Stephanie Falkner and Garvin, Jr. I don’t know why — I guess I’m just getting...”

Mason said, “You’re overworked, Della. You’re putting it altogether too much time at the office and taking too many responsibilities. You can’t keep on supervising the work that goes out of here, handling mail, apportioning work to the stenographers, and checking the work they do, running the office, and at the same time trying to keep up with me on these cases.”

“Well, it is something of a strain,” she admitted, “but it’s never bothered me before. It was just last night, I... I just couldn’t sleep. I guess it was the romantic angle. Imagine how Stephanie must have felt when she picked up the paper and found Garvin, Jr. had married without telling her. And Garvin, Sr. was so anxious to have her in the family.

“I went to sleep and then woke up crying. I... I couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Mason said, “Della, get out of here. Jump in your car. Go on out to your apartment and forget about this whole business. You take a sleeping pill and get to bed. I’ll call you if any emergency comes up. Tomorrow may be a hectic day but nothing much is going to happen today because police won’t dare to make any definite move with things all mixed up the way they are now. Police will try to unscramble the mess before they do anything.”

“And when they make a move, they’ll make it against you?” she asked.

“They will if they have a chance,” Mason said. “Hamilton Burger, the District Attorney, will see to that. And Sgt. Holcomb would back him up in it.

“Hang it!” he said irritably, “it shows how circumstances can betray you and how coincidences can make a mess. You go on home, Della.”

“You’ll promise to call me if anything urgent develops?”

“Cross my heart,” Mason said.

“Well,” she surrendered, “I think I will. I feel like a wet dish rag.”

“You may be coming down with something,” Mason said. “You’d better see a doctor before—”

“No,” she said, “I just feel that if I could get some sleep it would be all I needed. I should have taken a sleeping pill last night, but I waited so long that I knew if I took one I wouldn’t be much good today.”

“You go take a sedative right now, and go to bed,” Mason said. “What’s more, watch yourself. If you develop any fever, call a doctor. I’m inclined to agree with you. I think all you need is a good rest, but make sure.”

“All right,” she told him, “and you remember, you’re to call me if anything urgent develops.”

Mason nodded and resumed pacing the floor.

Chapter Twelve

Homer Garvin, Sr. called just before noon.

“Good work, Perry!” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Mason asked.

“You should know,” Garvin said.

“Where are you?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada.”

“I’m afraid,” Mason said, “there have been some developments that you don’t know about, Homer, some complications that...”

“I know all about them,” Garvin said. “That’s why I’m calling. I’m over here in Nevada, but I’m keeping in touch with developments. I have my own sources of information.”

Mason said, “Did you know about the police picking up your son and his wife for questioning? Did you know about the gun I accidentally discharged and which turned out...?”

“I know all about it,” Garvin said. “You’re doing all right, Mason. Now remember this: it’s your duty to protect Stephanie Falkner at all costs.”

“What about your son and his wife?”

“Do what you can,” Garvin said, “but don’t bother about them. Police can’t make any case against either one of them, and they’ll drop them like hot potatoes when they finish their investigative work.”

“Do you want me to represent them?” Mason asked.

“Go ahead. Represent everybody,” Garvin said, “but primarily you’re representing Stephanie Falkner.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll take care of myself. But I want to know something about my rights.”

“What about them?”

Garvin said, “I’m over here at the Double-O Motel. I’m registered under my own name. I haven’t resorted to flight. I can prove that I have business here. I expect police to locate me at any moment.

“Here’s what I’d like to do, Mason. I’d like to simply sit tight and refuse to answer any question on the grounds that I have no information that would be of value and that I do not intend to volunteer any statement until my attorney can be with me.”

Mason said, “That might put you in an embarrassing position as far as the public is concerned. It wouldn’t endear you to the police, and they’d pin something on you if they had a chance.”

“Let them pin,” Garvin said.

“You know,” Mason told him, “there’s some evidence in this case that points toward you.”

“There’ll be more before I get done,” Garvin told him. “You represent Stephanie. She’s the one who is going to need the representation. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

Garvin said, “Do anything you can to keep police from building up a case against her. I’ll take care of myself. Now here’s what I want to do. I want to refuse to make any statement to the police...I don’t have to talk, do I?”

“Not if you tell them you won’t make any statement except in the presence of your attorney.”

“And you’re my attorney,” Garvin said. “Also I take it it’s very inconvenient if not impossible for you to come to Las Vegas, Nevada.”

“I have very urgent matters in my office here at the moment,” Mason said.

“That’s what I thought,” Garvin said. “I’m willing to make a statement, but only in the event that you are present at the time. Now then, I want to know what will happen if they try to get tough with me.”

“You’re out of the State,” Mason said. “They can charge you with murder, and try to extradite you.”

“I take it,” Garvin said, “that, since I’m out of the State, they won’t be in such a hurry to try to arrest me on a definite charge.”

“They’ll want to feel they have a pretty good case before they do anything,” Mason said.

“That’s what I thought.”

“But they may feel they have a pretty good case,” Mason warned.

“In which event, we’ll sit tight and make them prove it beyond all reasonable doubt.”

“Don’t waive extradition,” Mason warned.

“I won’t waive anything except my hands.”

“I’m afraid police are interrogating Stephanie Falkner right now.”

“Sure, they are. They’re also interrogating my son and his bride. You know, Mason, the more trails they have to follow the more confused they’ll get. I don’t know just how you did what you did, but you did a wonderful job. Now if you want to get in touch with me, just ring the Double-O Motel and leave any message you want with Lucille.”

“Okay,” Mason told him, “and if you should call me and I’m not in, or if you want to call me at night, get in touch with the Drake Detective Agency. You’re going to have a bill to pay on this, Homer.”

“I don’t expect something for nothing,” Garvin said.

“I’m keeping some private detectives on the job. I just want to be sure that...”

“You do anything you see fit,” Garvin interrupted. “Spend as much money as you want. I’ve never kicked about your charges yet, and I’m not going to begin now. But whatever you do, be sure to protect Stephanie Falkner. Good-bye.”

Mason was just dropping the receiver into its cradle when he heard the sound of a key at the lock of the door to his private office.

Mason whirled just as the door opened, and Della Street stood in the doorway.

“Now what?” Mason said. “I told you to go home and rest, Della, to take a sleeping pill and...”

“I didn’t need one, Chief,” she said. “I got some headache medicine downstairs. I went home and relaxed and feel a lot better... I got to thinking about what Mr. Garvin had said to us about buying cars.”

“Go on,” Mason said, suddenly straightening in the chair.

“Well,” Della Street said, “after all there is a terrific depreciation in buying new cars, and if you know someone who is in the used car business and who will give you a good deal...”

“Della,” Mason interrupted, “do you mean to say that instead of sleeping you went out to Junior Garvin’s used car lot and...”

“But I wasn’t sick, Chief. I simply had a headache and I hadn’t slept well last night, but the headache medicine quieted my nerves and made me feel all right.”

“Go on,” Mason said, “what did you do?”

“Well, I just kept thinking about what Garvin had told us. You see my car didn’t seem to be running right. I stopped by the used car lot. After all, it’s right on my way to the office. Well, only a few blocks out of the way.”

“All right,” Mason said, “what did you do?”

“Junior Garvin wasn’t there,” she said, “but I met one of the nicest salesmen, and he knew that Junior Garvin was your friend. I told him that Junior had offered to make either or both of us a good deal. He had a car there that was just a dream of a car.”

“You bought it?” Mason asked.

“Well,” she said, “I’m giving it serious consideration. I tried to telephone you to ask you what you thought about it, but there was something wrong with the line. I couldn’t seem to get a connection.”

Before Mason could say anything, Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door of the office.

“Let Paul in, Della,” Mason said.

Della Street opened the door.

“Hi, Della,” Drake said. “Well, Perry, you’d better get ready to receive official visitors.”

“Why?” Mason asked.

“Police are biting their fingernails, tearing their hair, and raising hell generally,” Drake said, “but I have one tip that may help you. That’s why I dashed in, to tip you off to something that may help.”

“What?”

“Police overlooked a bet. It didn’t occur to them to go down and dig the bullet out of the desk at young Garvin’s place until just a few minutes ago. Sgt. Holcomb went down there with the ballistic experts, and what do you think they found?”

“What?” Mason asked.

“Some souvenir hunter had made off with the bullet. It had struck the desk at an angle, glanced into the wall, and hit a steel girder. Somebody had made just a little hole in the plaster and lifted the bullet out as neatly as could be.”

Mason frowned for a moment, then whirled to face Della Street.

“Can you imagine that!” Della exclaimed. “Now who in the world could have done that, Paul?”

“Some souvenir hunter,” Drake said, and then added, “It may louse up the whole case.”

“I don’t see just how,” Della Street said, her manner demure, her eyes innocent.

“It makes one link in a chain of proof turn up missing,” Drake explained. “Police don’t like that. Also they’re mad because it will now appear they were caught napping.”

“How did you get the information, Paul?” Mason asked.

“It came in a roundabout way,” Drake said evasively.

“All right,” Mason said. “Give.”

“Well, this columnist Crowe ran that paragraph in his column, and naturally it attracted a lot of interest. So it was only natural that he’d want to keep in touch with things and get a follow-up if possible.”

Mason nodded.

“Well,” Drake went on, “he’s quite friendly with the head salesman at Junior Garvin’s place. So when the police came out there searching for the bullet and found that someone had beat them to it, this salesman learned about it and of course relayed the information on to Crowe. Crowe is running quite a paragraph on it tomorrow morning, although of course the police don’t know that. I have a confidential source of information in Crowe’s office. I’d advised this source of information that I was interested in any follow-up material and I received this tip on the phone just a few minutes ago.”

“All right,” Mason said, “thanks a lot, Paul. Keep on the job and let me know. Put out as many men as you need to give this case a thorough coverage.”

“Within reasonable limits?” Drake asked.

“Within no limits at all,” Mason said. “I want the facts.”

“Okay,” Drake said, “I’ll keep digging.”

“And thanks for that tip, Paul. It may be very, very important.”

“That’s okay,” Drake said, obviously pleased. “I’ll keep you posted, Perry.”

He left the office.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Mason turned to Della Street.

“All right, Della,” he said, “now let’s have the real story. You...”

The door from the outer office was pushed open and Sgt. Holcomb came in unannounced.

“Well,” he said, “a little conference, eh?”

“A little private conference,” Mason said.

“That’s all right,” Sgt. Holcomb grinned. “Go right on talking. I instructed Gertie out there not to announce me. I told her I’d just come right on in.”

“Nothing like making yourself at home,” Mason said.

“That’s right.” Holcomb agreed, standing by the door leaning his back against the wall. “I represent the majesty of the law. The law doesn’t sit outside and wait in anybody’s outer office. When we have to see somebody, we see them.”

“Don’t you even announce the fact that you are coming?” Mason asked.

“Some of the officers do,” Holcomb said. “I don’t. I don’t believe in tipping a man off. I like to watch his face during the first second or two after he sees me walk in.”

“And did you learn anything from my face?” Mason asked.

“I think I did. I know damn well you didn’t want to see me. That’s one thing.”

“Well, since you’re here, you may as well sit down. Take your hat off, and let’s see what we can do for you.”

“I’m comfortable the way I am,” Holcomb said.

“All right, what do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“I’m not a mind reader, Sergeant, so I don’t intend to waste my time speculating on what it is you want. Previous experience has shown me you are quite able to express your ideas, your wants, your likes and your dislikes. Now start talking.”

“You’re the one to start talking,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “You went down to Homer Garvin’s used car lot and fired a gun into Garvin’s desk.”

“An accidental discharge of a firearm, my dear Sergeant,” Mason said. “I intend to reimburse Mr. Garvin for the desk. No one was hurt, and I fail to see why it should arouse any interest on the part of the police.”

“The interest on the part of the police,” Sgt. Holcomb said with elaborate sarcasm, “comes from what you doubtless consider purely a minor matter: the fact that this gun was the murder weapon which was used to kill George Casselman in the Ambrose Apartments the night before.”

“Are you certain?” Mason asked.

“Of course, I’m certain! Now then I want to know where you got that gun?”

“The gun,” Mason said, “was given to me by Homer Garvin, Jr. I asked him if he had a gun, and he said he did. He said that he had one that he used to protect himself against holdups. In the used car business they sometimes take in quite a bit of money in the form of cash. Garvin, I believe, has a permit to carry the weapon. He said that he did. That, however, is something which you are in a position to look up much more easily than I am.”

“So Garvin gave you that gun?” Holcomb asked.

“He handed me the gun, or rather he showed it to me. I reached out, picked it up, and tried the balance of it. I threw it down the way a man will in trying out the balance of a gun, and I guess in doing so I must have inadvertently pulled the trigger. In any event, Garvin didn’t tell me that it was loaded.”

“You thought he’d be protecting himself with an empty gun?” Sgt. Holcomb asked.

“I don’t know that I gave the matter any thought at all. I wouldn’t tell you that I actually did intend to snap the trigger, nor on the other hand would I go so far as to say that I didn’t intend to snap the trigger. I was testing the balance of the gun, and it went off.”

“And what happened after that?” Holcomb asked.

“Stephanie Falkner is a client of mine. She was, I felt, in some danger. Her father had been murdered, and the murderer is still at large as far as we know. I suggested to young Garvin it might be a good idea for him to take the gun and leave it with her for a short time. You see he and Stephanie Falkner had been quite good friends before his marriage.”

“So I understand,” Holcomb said drily. “Now then, Mason, you know damn well that the gun you got from Garvin wasn’t the murder weapon that killed George Casselman.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, Sergeant. I didn’t think it was either. But since the police have so dogmatically asserted that it was the weapon, I didn’t feel in a position to contradict them.”

“You know what I mean,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “You substituted weapons. You had the murder weapon in your possession. You had received it from a client. You had that gun concealed on you when you went down to call on Garvin. You asked Garvin if he had a gun. He told you he did. He put the gun out on the desk. You fired Garvin’s gun so as to divert attention from yourself and in the resulting confusion switched guns.”

“Then,” Mason said, “it is now your contention that Garvin’s gun was not the murder weapon.”

“That’s what I think.”

“And you think that I had the murder weapon with me and that I substituted it for Garvin’s gun?”

“That’s right.”

“Well,” Mason said, “you can quite soon test the accuracy of your conclusions by taking the number of the murder weapon and tracing it on the firearms registration.”

“We’ve done that,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “The gun was purchased by Homer Garvin, Sr., the old man.”

“Then how did Garvin, Jr. get it?”

“His father has a sporting goods store among his other investments.

He took three identical guns, snub-nosed, two-inch barrel, detective guns, kept two for himself and gave one to his son.”

“Kept two for himself?” Mason asked.

“That’s what the boy tells us.”

“Then the firearms register shows the gun that I received from young Garvin was a gun that had been given him by his father. Is that right?”

“The firearms register shows that the gun with which the murder was committed was one of three weapons purchased by Homer Garvin, Sr. Now we know damn well that the gun you got from young Garvin wasn’t the gun that was used in committing the murder.”

“How do you know?” Mason asked.

“Because young Garvin is able to account for the possession of that gun every minute of the time during the evening on which the murder was committed.”

“Then it couldn’t have been the murder gun.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Sgt. Holcomb said.

“Well, make up your mind,” Mason told him. “First, you claim it was the murder gun, then you claim it wasn’t the murder gun.”

“You know what I mean. You substituted the murder gun. You knew that the murder gun was a gun which had been purchased by Homer Garvin’s father. He had given it to Stephanie Falkner. She went out and killed George Casselman with it. She called on you for help. You took the murder gun to young Garvin’s place of business, got his gun, fired it into the desk, and then in the resulting confusion you switched weapons and got him to take the murder weapon up to Stephanie Falkner.”

“Can you tell me any reason why I should take the murder weapon and leave it for police to find?” Mason asked.

Sgt. Holcomb stroked the angle of his jaw. “I don’t know why you did all this stuff, but you sure as hell did it. Now then, I’m telling you something else, wise guy. You aren’t in the clear on this thing yourself.”

“No?” Mason asked.

“No,” Holcomb said. “The best medical evidence we can get indicates that Casselman could have met his death at the time you were calling on him.”

“Meaning that I committed the murder?” Mason asked.

“Meaning that you could have committed the murder. I’ll say this for you, Mason, I don’t think you would have gone up there and murdered him in cold blood, but if he had made some threats, if he had started reaching for a gun, you could damn well have poked that gun in his guts and pulled the trigger.”

Mason smilingly shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that, Sergeant. You’ll have to get something more than mere speculation to make a case. George Casselman was alive and well when I left him. I do know that he was expecting some mysterious visitor.”

“Stephanie Falkner,” Sgt. Holcomb said.

“Not Stephanie, Sergeant. Her appointment was later. This was someone who telephoned and was coming right up.”

“How do you know?”

“Casselman asked me to leave. He said he was expecting someone. He said there were complications.”

“And you left?”

“Yes.”

“And then went around to the back of the apartment so you could wait until a mysterious young woman came running down the service stairs and then you picked her up.”

“Did I do that?” Mason asked.

“You did exactly that,” Sgt. Holcomb said, “and that mysterious young woman, whoever she was, was the murderer. You’re trying to protect her. You knew that she was going to call on Casselman. She came running down the stairs and told you she’d killed Casselman. She shoved the murder weapon into your hand and asked you what she should do. You told her not to worry, that you’d dispose of the murder weapon in such a way that you’d mix the facts in the case all up.”

“Well,” Mason said, “it’s an interesting theory. I think you’re going to have a lot of trouble trying to prove it, Sergeant, because it happens to be incorrect.”

“We’ve got the proof,” Sgt. Holcomb said.

“Indeed,” Mason said.

“We have witnesses who saw you waiting out there in back, who saw you picking up this young woman and driving away with her. We have witnesses to the fact that you had the murder weapon in your possession, that you fired a shot from the murder weapon into the desk out there at Garvin’s used car lot.”

“And how are you going to prove it was the murder weapon?” Mason asked.

“By the bullet, you dope! Our ballistic expert can tell whether the bullet you fired out there came from the murder weapon. If it did, then it’s a fair inference that you got the murder weapon from this young woman who ran down the back stairs from Casselman’s apartment. On the other hand if it turns out that bullet was not fired from the murder weapon, then it proves you switched guns right there in Garvin’s office.”

“Well, well,” Mason said. “Under your reasoning I’m hooked either way.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that?”

“It seems unfair somehow,” Mason said sarcastically. “I can’t feel that it’s fair to say that if the bullet came from the murder weapon I’m guilty of switching evidence and that if the bullet didn’t come from the murder weapon I’m still guilty. It seems you’re a little biased in your thinking, Sergeant.”

Sgt. Holcomb said, “This is the same old razzle-dazzle. Every time we start working on a shooting case, you go drag in some extra guns and then start a sort of shell game trying to confuse the issues.”

“Anything wrong with that?” Mason asked.

“It’s illegal, that’s all.”

“Then I trust I’ll be charged with whatever crime I’ve committed.”

“You sure will in this case,” Holcomb promised. “This time we have you dead to rights. You went too far out on a limb this time.”

“You certainly credit me with a diabolical ingenuity,” Mason said.

“I’ve simply learned your technique,” Holcomb told him. “Now do you want to kick through and tell us what happened? Do you want to admit that that’s what you did?”

Mason shook his head.

“If you do,” Holcomb said, “and if you come clean, we may be able to give you the breaks. If you don’t, we’ll take the bullet we recovered from the wall out there at Garvin’s place, we’ll match it up with the gun you had in your possession, and so help me, we’ll crucify you. We’ll throw the book at you!”

Della Street coughed significantly.

“That,” Mason said, “would seem to be a very definite threat.”

“That is a very definite threat,” Holcomb told him.

“All right,” Mason said, “I understand the point you’ve made, and I can’t help you. All I can tell you is that I did not substitute any guns, that to the best of my knowledge the gun that young Garvin showed me out there, the gun which he took from the drawer of his desk is exactly the same gun that he took up to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment.”

“By saying that,” Sgt. Holcomb said, “you have made yourself an accessory after the fact. You’re concealing evidence. You’re acting the part of an accessory.”

Mason shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Okay, wise guy,” Sgt. Holcomb said. “You asked for it.”

He turned on his heel and walked out.

Mason waited until he was sure the Sergeant was out of the office, then turned to Della and said, “Della, did you go out and get that bullet?”

“Why, Chief,” she said, her eyes wide with surprise, “what in the world gave you any idea like that?”

“Did you? I gathered Holcomb was trying to scare me with a bluff.”

“If I had swiped that bullet as a souvenir, would it be serious?”

“It could be very serious.”

“Then if I had done it, and told you I had done it, that would put you in a very embarrassing position, would it not?”

Mason thought that over for a minute, then said, “Have it your own way, Della.”

“Thank you,” she said demurely.

Chapter Thirteen

Shortly after two-thirty Della Street entered Mason’s private office and said apprehensively, “Junior is out there.”

“Garvin?” Mason asked.

“That’s right.”

“He wants to see me?”

“He wants to see you very much indeed,” Della Street said.

“How is his disposition?”

“His disposition as indicated by his manner is very, very bad. He has chips on both shoulders. He wants to fight.”

“Then you’d better send him in right away,” Mason told her.

“Chief, let me have Paul Drake come down, or send a bodyguard, or...?”

Mason shook his head.

“Young Garvin is big and tough and strong,” she said. “You know what it would do to the case if there was a knock-down-drag-out fist fight right here in your office.”

“Send him in,” Mason said. “I think he’ll listen to reason.”

“He doesn’t act as though he would.”

“Send him in anyway,” Mason said, “and we’ll get it over with. If he sees Paul Drake here, he’ll know that I sent for him to act as bodyguard, and then he’ll feel that I’m afraid of him. That wouldn’t be good. Let’s have it out man to man and straight from the shoulder right now. I’ll see if I can clear up some things in Junior’s mind.”

“Well, here goes,” Della Street said, “but I don’t like it.”

A moment later the door literally burst open and young Garvin came striding into the office.

“What the hell are you trying to do, Mason?” he shouted.

Mason said, “Sit down, Junior, take a load off your feet, and off your mind. Suppose you tell me what’s the reason for all this outburst.”

“I want to know what the hell you’re trying to do dragging my wife’s good name through all this muck and mire.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was dragging your wife’s good name through the muck and mire.”

“Well, everybody else is aware of it, even if you’re not.”

“Precisely what did I do?” Mason asked.

“You have made her the number one suspect in the killing of George Casselman.”

“How?”

“By getting me to take that gun up to Stephanie Falkner. Damn it, Mason, I don’t intend to stand for that. I’m going to hold you strictly responsible both as an attorney and as a man. You’re going to account to me legally and unless you can give me some satisfactory explanation, I’m going to bust you in the puss before I get out of here.”

Mason regarded the younger man with steely-eyed scorn. “So you think it would do some good to bust me in the puss, as you express it?”

“It would give me the greatest personal satisfaction,” Garvin told him.

“It might also get you a broken jaw,” Mason said. “The point is, however, would it do your wife any good? Would it do your case any good? You let the newspapers get the idea that you’re having trouble with me over this thing and you’ll really make a story of it.”

“They’ve made a story out of it anyway.”

“No, they haven’t,” Mason said. “They won’t dare to publish the full implications with the full sensational embroidery unless you give them a peg on which they can hang a lot of innuendos. Now either sit down and tell me calmly what this is all about, or else get the hell out of the office and let me try to figure the thing out.”

Garvin took a couple of steps toward Mason’s desk, paused uncertainly before the look in the lawyer’s eyes, detoured a little to the side, and propped one hip against a corner of the big desk.

“Dawn worked in Las Vegas,” he said angrily. “Casselman knew her and...”

“Now I take it Dawn is your wife?” Mason asked.

“Yes, Dawn Joyce. Casselman knew her and Casselman was always on the prowl. A girl in that kind of work gets hungry for real friendships. The tourists come and go. The transients make passes at her, and that’s all they’re thinking about.

“Casselman was a local man. He was friendly, and... well, Dawn liked him.”

“They had dates?” Mason asked.

“Apparently so.”

“Did she know he was here in town?” Mason asked.

“She knew he was here. After the write up in the paper — well, Casselman called her, just a social call, just a matter of wishing her every happiness in the world.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Mason said.

“The hell of it is,” Garvin said, “in the apartment where Casselman lived police found a notebook by the telephone with some numbers in it. He’d written down Dawn’s telephone number, and she’d written down his unlisted number. It was on a pad by her phone.”

“Anything else?” Mason asked tonelessly.

“Tuesday night, when Casselman was killed,” Garvin said, “I had to go out to interview a car dealer about taking twenty used cars off his hands. He was stuck with them and he knew it. He wanted to get his money out of the old cars so he could put it into new merchandise. It looked like a good opportunity for me to make a appointment with him.”

“You had an appointment with him?”

“Yes.”

“What time?”

“Don’t bother about that,” Garvin said angrily. “I can prove where I was every minute of the time.”

“Carry a gun with you?” Mason asked.

“I did not. I left it in the desk drawer.”

“I see. And where was your wife?”

“Where any wife would be at that time. She was home waiting for me, and she was just a little bit angry because I broke in on a honeymoon to go out and close a business deal.”

“She was there when you got back?”

“Of course she was.”

“And what time did you get back?”

“About nine-thirty or ten. I can’t remember just what time. It was along in the latter part of the evening.”

“And all this time your gun was in the drawer of the desk at your office?”

“During my conference it was. I got it after the conference and took it home.”

“And your wife doesn’t even have a key to the office?” Mason asked.

Garvin hesitated.

“Well,” Mason asked, “does she or doesn’t she?”

“The unfortunate part of it was she did have a key. But she didn’t use it. I... hang it, Mason! I tell you she was home.”

“All right, she was home,” Mason said.

“But the point is, she can’t prove it. She was home alone because I was out on this damned used car deal. She’s got no way of proving that she was home.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Mason said. “If anybody wants to prove anything on her, let them prove that she wasn’t home.”

“Well, there’s one unfortunate thing,” Garvin said.

“What?”

“I tried to call her on the telephone and apparently I dialed the wrong number. She didn’t answer, and...”

“You don’t need to tell anybody about that,” Mason said.

“It was in connection with this business deal. I talked with this fellow and I wanted to get some data about some of my accounts receivable. It was in a little notebook that I thought I had with me, but I’d left it on the dresser.”

“And you telephoned your wife?”

“That’s right.”

“And got no answer?”

Garvin nodded, then added, “I apparently dialed the wrong number.”

“You gave up after the one call?” Mason asked.

“No, I called her twice.”

“No answer either time?”

“No answer.”

“How far apart were the calls?”

“Five or ten minutes. But I tell you, Mason, I’d only moved in to this new apartment about two weeks ago, and I had evidently transposed a couple of the figures in my mind. I dialed the wrong number. I must have, because she was there. And I mean she really was there. She isn’t the sort of girl who would lie to you. That’s one thing about Dawn, she’ll hand it to you straight from the shoulder.”

“The man with whom you were transacting the business knew you’d put through the calls?” Mason asked.

“Yes, that’s the devil of it. He has no way of knowing that I dialed the wrong number. Even I wasn’t aware of it at the time.”

“But you did put through the calls and received no answer?”

“Yes.”

“And as far as the man who was on the other side of the desk was concerned, you were dialing the right number and got no answer?”

“Yes.”

“And because you were expecting your wife would be home, you probably made some remark to him about it being strange there was no answer?”

“I guess I did.”

“What time did you put these calls through?”

“Around nine o’clock, I guess.”

“What time did you leave your home?”

“I never got a chance to get around there during the evening, Mason. I was demonstrating a car and then we had a sales meeting, and then this deal came up on the block of used cars, and I dashed down to get to this used car dealer before someone else beat me to it. I stopped for a hamburger on the way, and that’s all I had to eat.

“I really didn’t have any dinner, just that sandwich. I was intending to get back earlier than I did and take Dawn out for a good dinner some place.”

“You got back along in the latter part of the evening?”

“That’s right.”

“And had only had this sandwich?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask your wife to go out?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“She was angry because I hadn’t been home for dinner, because I’d gone out to make a business deal so soon after we’d been married. We had a little argument.”

“That’s all you have to tell me?” Mason asked.

“That’s all, except this boneheaded stunt of yours of shooting a bullet hole in my desk and... And now the officers claim that gun was the murder gun. It’s absolutely impossible! It’s utterly ridiculous! But if they keep messing around with it, they’re going to drag Dawn’s name into the newspapers.”

“Not unless you do something that drags it in,” Mason said. “The officers think that I had the murder gun in my possession, that I went out to see you, got you to produce your gun and fired your gun into the desk. Then I supposedly switched weapons on you in the confusion, so that the gun I gave you was the murder weapon, and I slipped the gun that was in your desk drawer in my pocket.”

Garvin’s face showed his surprise. “You say the officers think that?”

Mason nodded.

“But why?” Garvin said. “They’re trying to sell me on the idea that my wife went down to the office, got the gun... They’ve insinuated that Casselman was trying to blackmail her, and— How do you know what the officers are thinking?”

“Because,” Mason said, “they’ve just been here and virtually threatened me with arrest for concealing evidence and a few other things.”

Garvin slowly straightened away from the desk. “By George!” he said, “I never thought of that, but you could have done it. I thought I smelled a rat. You’re not so dumb as to let a gun go off accidentally.”

“Therefore,” Mason said, “if I had the murder weapon in my possession, if I went out there and got you to produce your gun from your desk drawer and then if I fired your gun into the desk, I certainly made a sufficient commotion so that in the confusion I could have substituted the murder gun in place of your gun.”

“You sure could at that,” Garvin said.

“Now then,” Mason said, “which gun was it that I fired? The gun that you took out of the desk, or the murder gun that I had with me?”

“You discharged my gun, the one that I took out of the desk,” Garvin said unhesitatingly.

“You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely certain. I remember every move you made. I remember producing the gun and handing it to you. You took it in your right hand and swung it up and down two or three times getting the balance of it, and about the third time you tried it you fired it right into the desk.”

“The gun that you handed me?”

“The gun that I handed you,” Garvin said. “But you certainly could have switched guns afterwards, because everyone was dashing in to the office. I remember you holding the gun in your hand, and then you— Good heavens, Mason! That’s what you did!”

“The police seem to think so.”

A grin spread over Garvin’s features. “Now that puts a different aspect on the whole business. How are they going to make any trouble for Dawn if you had an opportunity to switch weapons? All right, Mason, they say all’s fair in love and war. As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to play along with the police on the theory they have.”

“Well,” Mason said, “why the deuce do you think I gave you the tip in the first place?”

Garvin thought things over. Suddenly he moved over toward the lawyer, and shot out his hand. “Shake hands, Mason,” he said. “You’re... You’re a gentleman! Wait till I get hold of Dawn and tell her about this!”

Garvin started for the door, closed his hand around the knob, then suddenly turned back to face the lawyer.

“Any time you want a good deal on a sports car, Mason, I’ll make you a very extra special price on that X-60 job you were interested in.”

“Thanks,” Mason said, “but I wasn’t interested in it.”

“Well, I’ll make you a mighty good price on it anyway.”

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “Can you tell me everyone who has keys to your office?”

Garvin seemed surprised. “The janitor of course, my wife, my secretary.”

“Your dad?”

“Oh sure. I have a key to his office, and he has a key to mine. We don’t ever use them but we have them.”

“I was just checking,” Mason said.

“You don’t want to sign an order for that sports job?”

Mason smiled and shook his head.

“Let me know when you change your mind.”

Garvin whipped the door open, and walked out into the corridor.

Mason returned to his desk.

Della Street said with admiration in her voice, “That was some exhibition of salesmanship, Mr. Perry Mason!”

Mason might not have heard her. “Get down to Paul Drake’s office, Della. Ask him to get men on the job in Las Vegas and find out everything we can find out about Dawn Joyce.”

Chapter Fourteen

Less than an hour after Junior Garvin had left the office, Della Street’s telephone rang. She talked for a few moments, then said, “Just a moment. I’ll see.”

She placed her hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone, said, “Chief, it’s Marie Barlow. She’s uncovered some things that bother her.”

“What?” Mason asked.

“Apparently some errors that are more serious than mere errors.”

“Let me talk with her.” Mason said.

Mason picked up his own telephone, said, “Connect me on Della Street’s line, Gertie, and leave Della Street on there so we can both listen.”

A moment later Mason heard the click of the connection and said, “Hello, Marie, this is Perry Mason. I’m on the line. What is it?”

“I didn’t want to bother you, Mr. Mason,” she said, “but I wanted you to know about it. There’s something wrong here.”

“What?”

“Checks have been made out on bills that have been received but the firms to whom the checks were paid apparently didn’t have any orders to do any work.

“For instance, I’ve uncovered several receipted bills from the Acme Electrical and Plumbing Repair Company. The total of the different statements amounts to over six thousand dollars.

“Now there are canceled checks showing that payments have been made in the exact amount of the respective statements. The statements aren’t itemized. They’re only general; such as, repairs and wiring on a certain building.”

“Well, why not ring up the Acme Company and ask them what it’s all about?” Mason said. “Tell them you’re preparing a statement for property appraisers for income tax, and you want itemized bills and want to know how the orders were placed?”

“I already thought of that,” she said. “There’s only one thing wrong with it.”

“What?”

“There isn’t any Acme Electrical and Plumbing Repair Company listed in the book.”

“What about the street address?”

“There’s a street address,” she said. “1397 Chatham Street, and apparently there isn’t any such firm at that address.”

“What about the bill?” Mason said. “The billhead — is it printed?”

“It’s printed, and looks very imposing. It has a place for job numbers, ledger numbers, order numbers, and all of that. They’re all filled in in pen and ink, and look very fine, but there isn’t any such company. Apparently no such job was performed and...”

“How about the checks?” Mason asked. “How were they endorsed?”

“With a rubber stamp and then cashed. The bank’s closed, and I can’t get any information on that until tomorrow morning.”

“Well,” Mason said, “let’s start checking, Marie, but don’t get stampeded into doing anything until we know a little more about it. What does it look like to you?”

She said, “It looks very much to me as though someone found out that Eva Elliott was green on the job and simply had billheads printed and sent in a bill to see what she would do. The first one was only three hundred and twenty-six dollars and eighty-five cents.”

“What did she do?”

“She made a check.”

“Then the check must have been mailed,” Mason said.

“The check was mailed all right, and cashed.”

“Go on,” Mason said, his voice showing his interest. “What happened after that?”

“After that, nothing happened for a month, and then there was a bill for seven hundred and eighty-five dollars and fourteen cents. It was paid, and the next month bills came in for three jobs. They were in various amounts, but the total was twenty-nine hundred dollars and some odd cents.”

“Found anything else?” Mason asked.

“The next month there were three more bills. That’s all so far for the Acme Electric and Plumbing Repair Company, but if someone had found out it was that easy to get Eva Elliott to send out checks, I have a hunch it didn’t stop there.”

“How were the checks signed?” Mason asked.

“By Garvin. You know the way Mr. Garvin does. He’ll have his secretary type out checks for bills that come in, and on the 8th of the month he’ll sign all of the checks so as to get his cash discounts. Now that’s another crazy thing. Eva Elliott made out checks for the bills and didn’t take off the two per cent cash discount even when the billheads said right out in printing at the top: ‘Two per cent cash discount if paid by the tenth.’ ”

“All right, Marie, I’ll check into it. Thanks a lot for calling. What was that address again?”

“I have it, Chief,” Della Street said. “1397 Chatham Street.”

“We’ll take a look,” Mason said. “How’s everything coming, Marie?”

“Oh, it’s a mess,” she said, “but I’m getting it straightened out a little at a time.”

“Don’t overwork,” Mason told her. “You’ll be there tomorrow?”

“I’ll be on the job tomorrow.”

“I’ll try to run in. I’d like to have a look at some of those statements.”

“Okay, I’ll be here.”

“Bye now,” Mason said, and hung up.

He looked at Della Street and frowned. “Now that’s something,” he said. “We’d better ask Paul Drake to take a look at this address on Chatham Street and see if he can find anything about the Acme Electric and Plumbing Repair Company.”

“Well,” Della Street said, “that’s something for even a motion picture secretary. Just open the letters, take out the bills, type out checks and send them in for the boss’s signature, then mail out the disbursements.”

Mason grinned. “Some system of bookkeeping, but it seems to have paid off all right.”

“At least for one person,” Della Street said.

Gertie opened the office door, said excitedly, “Here’s the afternoon paper, Mr. Mason, with a photograph in it showing a bloody footprint in Casselman’s apartment and there’s someone from Las Vegas calling, a woman who says the only name you know her by is Lucille.”

“Put Lucille on,” Mason said, as Della Street took the newspaper from Gertie’s hand and relayed it across the desk to him.

Gertie hurried back to the switchboard.

Mason picked up the telephone, waited until he heard the connection being made, then said, “Yes, hello. This is Mr. Mason talking.”

The woman’s voice was urgent with excitement. “Mr. Mason, I guess you know who I am. This is Lucille at the Double-O Motel.”

“Go on, Lucille,” Mason said.

“Mr. Garvin simply had to talk with his son about an urgent matter.”

“Telephone?” Mason asked.

“No, personally. He chartered a plane.”

“Go on.”

“He took elaborate precautions to see that he wasn’t followed to the airport.”

“Go on.”

“He told me that he would telephone me at three o’clock on the dot, at six o’clock on the dot, at eight o’clock on the dot, and at ten o’clock on the dot, that he’d be back by ten. He said if I didn’t get any one of those calls, I was to call you and tell you. Otherwise, I wasn’t to let you or anyone else know where he was.”

“Okay,” Mason said. “I gather that the three o’clock call didn’t come through.”

“That’s right. I haven’t heard from him at all. I wanted you to know.”

Mason said, “Thanks. That means he’s been picked up. There’s nothing we can do until they book him. We’ll stay on the job. Thanks for calling.”

Mason hung up the phone, started studying the picture on the second page of the afternoon newspaper.

“Interesting?” Della Street asked.

“Very,” Mason said. “You can see there’s a man’s footprint here, a footprint which has been made with a bloody shoe and there’s a heel mark, the stamp of a fairly new rubber heel. Police have been able to make out the name: ‘The Spring-Eze.’ ”

Mason pushed back the paper and started pacing the floor.

At length he paused and regarded Della Street quizzically.

“It’s my contention, Della, that an attorney doesn’t have to sit back and wait until a witness gets on the stand and then test his recollection simply by asking him questions. If facts can be shuffled in such a way that it will confuse a witness who isn’t absolutely certain of his story, and if the attorney doesn’t suppress, conceal, or distort any of the actual evidence, I claim the attorney is within his rights.”

Della Street nodded.

“In this case,” Mason went on, “the facts keep shuffling themselves. Usually the police get the main suspect, but have difficulty finding the murder weapon. Here they have the murder weapon and have so many main suspects, they don’t know what to do.”

Della Street said, “In this case you’re one up on them. Knowing that you didn’t switch weapons you know the murder weapon was in Junior’s desk.”

Mason nodded. “The only trouble, Della, is that I don’t know who put it there, and I won’t know until I can talk with Garvin Senior.”

“And if he didn’t put it there?”

“Then the murderer did.

“We’re going to have to work late tonight. Police are holding Stephanie Falkner. Now they’ve also picked up Garvin Senior. He made the mistake of underestimating the police.

“We’ll get Paul’s men to check various job printing establishments and see if we can find where these billheads of the phony repair company were printed. How’s your headache?”

She looked at him, then slowly closed one eye. “Much better,” she said.

Chapter Fifteen

Mason and Della Street entered the dimly lit interior of the cocktail lounge.

“Well,” Della Street said with a sigh, “this is a welcome and relaxing atmosphere after the tense strain of working on a case.”

Mason nodded. “We’ll sit and relax, have a couple of cocktails, then get a nice steak dinner with baked potato and all the fixings. We can have a bottle of stout with the steak, and... However, Della, let’s just check before we sit down. I’ll give Paul Drake a ring to let him know where we are.”

Mason stepped into the telephone booth, dialed Paul Drake’s number, said, “Perry Mason talking. Put Paul on, will you?”

Paul Drake said hello, and Mason said, “we’re just letting you know where we are, Paul. We’re going to take time out for a couple of cocktails, a good dinner...”

“Hold it!” Paul Drake interrupted.

“Not yet,” Mason said. “A bottle of stout with the steak, perhaps a little garlic toast, and...”

“Hey! Whoa! Back up!” Drake shouted into the telephone. “You’re wasting precious time.”

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“Lt. Tragg of Homicide telephoned not over five minutes ago. They’re frantically trying to reach you.”

“Why?” Mason said.

“Homer Garvin, Sr. is being held for questioning in the office of the District Attorney. He refuses to make any statement unless you are present. The D.A. is going to call in newspaper reporters and let them know of developments unless you show up and unless Garvin quote satisfactorily explains unquote certain evidence against him.”

Mason hesitated for a moment.

“You there?” Drake asked.

“I’m here,” Mason said. “I’m thinking. All right,” he said, reaching a sudden decision, “where is Garvin now?”

“At the D.A.’s office.”

“Tell them to expect me,” Mason said. “I’m coming up.” He slammed up the telephone, jerked the door open.

“Oh-oh,” Delia Street said, “here goes a perfectly good dinner.”

“That’s right,” Mason told her. “It’s postponed. Garvin, Sr. is in custody. They have him at the D.A.’s office. He refuses to make any statement unless I’m present, and demands that they notify me as his attorney.”

“And they did?”

“They did.”

“That means they’re laying a trap for you too,” Delia Street warned.

“I know it,” Mason told her. “However, I’m going to walk into it. Take my car, go to the office and wait. I’ll get back there just as soon as I can and then we’ll go to dinner. I’ll take a taxi to the D.A.’s office. Okay, Delia, be seeing you.”

Mason thrust the keys to the car into her hand, dashed to the door, jumped into a waiting taxi and said, “You know where the District Attorney’s office is? I’m in something of a hurry.”

The lawyer sat on the edge of the seat while the taxi driver twisted and wormed his way through traffic.

As the cab came to a stop against the curb, Mason handed the driver a five-dollar bill, said, “A good ride, keep the change,” and sprinted for the elevators.

A uniformed officer sat at the reception desk in the District Attorney’s office.

Mason said, “I’m Mason. I think they’re expecting me.”

“Go on in,” the officer said. “He’s in Hamilton Burger’s office. Last on the left.”

Mason pushed open a swinging door, strode down a hallway flanked with officers, pushed open the door of an office marked “Hamilton Burger, District Attorney, Private,” and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

They were seated in shirtsleeves in a tight little group: Lt. Tragg of Homicide, a uniformed officer, a shorthand reporter, Homer Garvin, and Hamilton Burger, the barrel-chested, grizzly bear of a District Attorney.

The room was filled with a heavy aroma of cigarette smoke.

Hamilton Burger cleared his throat importantly, but first nodded to the shorthand reporter.

“Mr. Mason,” he said. “Mr. Perry Mason. Please come in and be seated. Let the records show that Mr. Perry Mason has arrived. Now Mr. Garvin, you have stated that you would explain matters only when your attorney was present. I am now asking you to explain the bloodstained shoe, and the print of that bloodstained shoe in the apartment of George Casselman, who was murdered last Tuesday night.”

Mason said, “Just a moment, gentlemen, if my client is going to make any statement, I want to talk with him first.”

“We’ve waited long enough already,” Hamilton Burger said.

“If I am denied an opportunity to confer with my client before this conference goes on,” Mason said, “I will simply advise him not to answer any questions and you can keep right on waiting.”

“In that event, we will not try to protect him as far as publicity is concerned,” Hamilton Burger warned. “Mr. Garvin is a responsible businessman. I have explained to him that we don’t want to work any injustice, that we don’t want to drag his name into this case so that there will be any unfavorable publicity.”

Mason said, “Let the record show that I have demanded an opportunity to confer with my client before the interrogation proceeds further, that I have been answered with a threat by the District Attorney to call in reporters and crucify my client with publicity.”

Hamilton Burger got to his feet, his face dark with anger.

Tragg said, “Just a minute.” He arose, walked over and whispered in the District Attorney’s ear.

“We’ll give you ten minutes,” Hamilton Burger said after a moment. “There’s an office in there on the left.”

Mason nodded to Garvin. “This way, Garvin.”

Garvin was out of his chair with alacrity. Mason opened the door and disclosed a secretarial office equipped with a typewriter desk, a machine, a cabinet of stationery, and several chairs.

Mason looked the place over quickly, then moved over to another door and opened it, disclosing a small coat and hat closet.

“In here,” he said to Garvin.

Garvin entered the closet. Mason switched on a light. They stood close together within the narrow confines.

Mason said, “That room is probably bugged. I didn’t like the expression on Burger’s face. He gave in too easily. Keep your voice low. Now tell me what the devil this is all about and tell me fast.”

Garvin said, “I should have told you before, I guess. I— Hang it, Mason! I was disappointed in my son.”

“Lots of parents are disappointed in their children.”

“Well, it’s all right now. I thought for a while he was marrying the wrong girl, but now I think he married the right girl.”

“By that, do you mean you think Stephanie Falkner is mixed up in this murder?”

“By that,” Garvin said, “I mean that I’m in love with Stephanie Falkner. I guess I always have been in love with her ever since I met her. I wanted Junior to marry her. That is, I thought I did. But when he married someone else, I... I knew I should have been disappointed, but I wasn’t. I was suddenly elated.”

“Have you told her about it?” Mason asked.

“I’m afraid I hinted at it. That’s all there’ll ever be to it. I’m old enough to be her father.”

“Barely,” Mason said. “Some women prefer older men.”

Garvin brushed the subject aside impatiently. “It’s not in the cards, Mason, but I’m telling you that one fact so you can understand the situation.”

Mason said, “We only have a minute. Give me facts, and give them to me just as fast as you can dish them out. You took that murder gun down to your son’s office and planted it in his desk. I wanted to divert attention from the gun you had left with Stephanie, and thought I could do something smart. I loused things up, and—”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute,” Garvin said. “You’re all wet. I didn’t put any gun in my son’s desk.”

Mason said impatiently, “You went to Casselman’s apartment before you went to your office. Did you kill him or not?”

Garvin said, “Don’t be silly. Stephanie saw him after I did.”

“Just what did you do?”

Garvin said, “I stopped in to see Casselman on the way to my office. I had just driven in from Las Vegas. It was around eight-fifteen. I had a key that worked the lock on the outer door of the apartment. I didn’t want to tip him off by ringing his bell.

“You know how these street doors on apartment houses are, Perry. Almost any sort of key will work them. Well, I went up and knocked on Casselman’s door. He opened it, but didn’t invite me in. He seemed strangely disturbed when I told him who I was.

“He told me he had someone with him and was all tied up. He said I should return at eleven o’clock and he’d see me then. Then he all but slammed the door in my face. I took the stairs to the street.

“I don’t know how you found out about this, Mason. I haven’t told a soul.”

“Never mind how I found out,” Mason said. “You went to your office from Casselman’s apartment?”

“Not directly. I stopped to get gas and called Las Vegas. Then I went to my office. I have a little emergency apartment fixed up in connection with my office. I had previously telephoned on ahead and asked Eva Elliott to wait for me. I wanted some information on some business matters, and wanted her to give it to me personally.”

“All right,” Mason said. “You went to your office. What happened?”

“I changed my clothes and took a shower. I told Miss Elliott to get the information for me while I was taking the shower and put it on my desk. After my shower, I asked Eva Elliott what the devil she meant by not telling you where I was. One thing led to another and I fired her. You know what happened after that.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Mason said.

“Well, I went to see you, and then we went down to see Stephanie Falkner, and...”

“And you were at Stephanie’s when we left,” Mason said.

“I stayed there for a short time. I tried to let Stephanie know how much I had wished to have her in my family.”

“What about the gun?” Mason asked.

“I always carry a gun. I have a shoulder holster and my suits are tailored so I can carry the gun under my left arm without it showing. I took my gun out of the holster and gave it to her.”

“Was that gun fully loaded when you gave it to her?”

“Of course.”

“Had it been fired?”

“That gun hadn’t been fired for months, Mason. I’m telling you this, but I’m not going to tell anyone else. Before I left Las Vegas I removed the shells in the gun and put in fresh shells. I intended to get rough with Casselman and I wanted to be armed when I called for a showdown. I felt I might need my gun.”

“All right,” Mason said. “Go ahead. What happened?”

“I keep another gun in my safe in the office. I was going to see Casselman at eleven, but I didn’t tell anyone about that appointment. I wanted to be armed when I saw him, so after I left Stephanie’s apartment I returned to my office, got the other gun out of my safe, put that gun in my shoulder holster, and then went to call on Casselman.”

“That was at eleven o’clock?”

“Perhaps five or ten minutes either way.”

“All right, what happened?”

“I used my key on the front door. I went up to Casselman’s apartment. I knocked and got no answer. I tried the apartment door. It was unlocked. It had a key lock, not a night latch. I could walk right in, and I did.

“Casselman was in there, sprawled in a pool of blood. He was dead as a mackerel. I looked around. Some woman had stepped in the blood and there was the imprint of her foot and heel plate as plain as could be.

“I felt certain it was the print of Stephanie’s shoe. I had to know for sure. So I left Casselman’s apartment leaving the door unlocked.

“I went to Stephanie’s apartment. She was in bed. She got up and let me in. I didn’t tell her where I had been or what I had found. I told her I was terribly nervous and simply had to see her and talk with her for a while.”

“All right. What happened?”

“I tried to tell her something about how I felt toward her without going too far. I told her to call on me if she ever needed a friend.

“I could see the gun I had given her was under the pillow. I made an excuse to handle it very briefly. When she had her back turned, I surreptitiously opened the cylinder and sure enough one shell had been fired since I had given her the gun.

“She was wearing a bathrobe, pajamas and slippers. I saw a pair of shoes. I managed to get a good look at them. One of them was still damp. Evidently it had recently been washed. There was a metal heel plate, it matched the imprint of the bloody shoe print I’d seen in Casselman’s apartment.”

“Did you ask her about it?” Mason asked.

“No. I stayed until around midnight. I told her I wanted her to know I’d be her friend if anything ever happened and she needed a friend, and then I left. I knew I had work to do.”

Mason regarded him with level-lidded appraisal. “You went back to Casselman’s apartment?”

“Yes. I went back and took time enough to eliminate all evidence that could point to Stephanie.”

“What did you do?”

“I am kicking myself for overlooking the one real golden opportunity I had. I had that other gun of mine in my shoulder holster while I was in Stephanie’s apartment that second time. I should have simply made a substitution, then and there. But I was too shocked to think clearly.”

Mason, his face only a matter of inches from the other man’s, regarded him with steady concentration. “You’re not lying to me, Homer? You didn’t switch guns?”

“Definitely not. I tell you, Mason, that gun had been fired between the time I left it with her and the time I returned.”

“So what did you do in Casselman’s apartment?” Mason asked

“I did the only thing that could be done. The blood that outlined the print of Stephanie’s shoe had dried. At first I thought of trying to scrub it up, but I was afraid there would still be traces they could find and I was afraid of being caught in there with the murdered man. I knew I had to work fast. I put my own foot in the puddle of blood and pressed down enough to get blood all over the sole of my shoe and particularly on my heel. The blood was thick and sticky by that time. I pressed my own bloodstained shoe directly over the print that had been made.

“I decided to take the heat off Stephanie in every way I could. I left several clues that would point to me. I wanted to be a red herring. Then I left the State, intending to keep out of the way of the police here so they couldn’t question me. However, after this other matter came up, Junior was destroying your work. I felt I had to see him personally and tell him to sit tight.

“I thought I had eluded the detectives who were shadowing me in Las Vegas. Evidently, I played right into their hands. They waited until my chartered plane landed, and then they picked me up and brought me here for questioning. I refused to make any statement until you were present, and that’s the story to date.”

“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go back and face the situation. You follow my lead. I’ll do most of the talking. Don’t tell them anything unless I give you an okay. You’re going to have to take the newspaper publicity. That’s the weapon they’re holding over you to make you talk. Under the circumstances, you can’t avoid it. Come on. Let’s go.”

Mason opened the closet door, turned out the light, led the way across the secretarial office and back to Hamilton Burger’s office.

“Well?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“What do you want to know?” Mason asked.

Burger said, “Mason, I’m calling your attention to a photograph. You’ve seen a reproduction of this photograph in the press. I want you to study a glossy print of the original photograph. You can see some things on there you can’t see in the newspaper reproduction.”

Burger handed Mason the glossy eight-by-ten print showing the pool of blood on the floor and, quite plainly, the print of a foot.

“Go ahead,” Mason said. “What do you want to know?”

“Now this information,” Burger said, “we would like to have come from your client rather than from you, Mr. Mason. We want to know if that is the print of your shoe, Garvin?”

Garvin looked at Mason. Mason smiled and shook his head.

“Now wait a minute,” Hamilton Burger said, his face coloring. “We’re in this thing in good faith. Garvin at least intimated that he would tell us his story straight from the shoulder if we gave him an opportunity to get in touch with his attorney. Either you folks talk or you don’t talk!”

“And suppose we don’t talk?” Mason asked.

“Then you’d both be sorry.”

Burger said, “I’m going to ask you, Garvin, if you went to a shoe shop at 918 Mowbray Street and had a pair of rubber heels put on a pair of new shoes about three weeks ago?”

“Answer that,” Mason said.

“I did,” Garvin admitted.

“I’m going to show you a pair of shoes and ask you if those are the shoes on which you had those rubber heels installed?”

Burger opened a drawer in his desk, took out a pair of shoes, and handed them to Garvin.

“Where did you get those?” Garvin asked with some surprise.

“Never mind,” Burger said. “Are those yours?”

Garvin looked them over. There were several peculiar bluish stains on the sole of one of the shoes.

“Yes,” he said.

“For your information,” Burger went on, “those shoes have been given a benzidine test for blood. Those purplish stains you see are where there was a reaction indicating the presence of blood on that left shoe. Now in view of that, do you have any statement you want to make as to how that blood got on that shoe?”

“I don’t think I care to make any statement on that at this time,” Garvin said.

“All right,” Hamilton Burger said with ponderous patience, “I’m now going to show you a color photograph,” and handed it to Mason.

“Look that over carefully, Mason,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”

Mason said, “I see a footprint.”

“Look it over carefully.”

Mason studied the photograph.

Hamilton Burger said, “If you study that photograph carefully, you will see something quite plainly which you could only barely detect on the black and white photograph, but which nevertheless is shown here. It’s another footprint, the print of a woman’s shoe directly under the print of Homer Garvin’s shoe. You can see the imprint of the heel plate on the very tip of the heel.

“Now then, Garvin, I’m asking you if you didn’t go out to George Casselman’s apartment after he had been killed, knowing he had been killed, for the purpose of leaving evidence there that would confuse the issues. I am asking if you didn’t deliberately step in the puddle of blood and then place your own footprint over this Woman’s footprint with the deliberate intention of obliterating and concealing that footprint?”

“Just a moment,” Mason said, “as I understand it, that would be a crime.”

“Permit me to congratulate you upon your knowledge of the law,” Burger said sarcastically.

“Under those circumstances, I advise my client to refuse to answer the question,” Mason said.

Burger took a deep breath, “Garvin, I am going to show you a fingerprint which was recovered from the knob of the back door. I may further state that someone had evidently wiped the knob of that back door clean of fingerprints. There was only one fingerprint on it, and that was a very plain, legible fingerprint of the ball of a thumb which had obviously been deliberately placed in the exact center of the knob after the surface had been wiped clean of any other fingerprints.

“That thumb print is yours, Garvin. There can be no mistake about it. I am going to ask you the circumstances under which you made that print on the doorknob?”

“Just a minute,” Mason said, “if your contention is correct, and if Garvin was the one who wiped off the doorknob and then left his fingerprint on it, he would be guilty of a crime?”

“He would be guilty of a crime,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Then I advise him not to answer,” Mason said.

Hamilton Burger turned to Mason. “You yourself made an elaborate switch so you could juggle the murder weapon around in this case, Mason. I’m going to give you one chance to come clean. I want you to tell how that murder weapon came into your possession.”

“And if I tell you the truth, you won’t prosecute me?”

Hamilton Burger thought that over, looked at Mason with suppressed hatred in his eyes. “I’m trying to be fair about this thing, Mason. I’m not going to come out and make a lot of specific promises, but what you say now will greatly affect the attitude of the District Attorney’s office.”

Mason said, “I went out to Homer Garvin, Jr.’s place. I asked him if he had a gun. He gave me a gun. I discharged the gun so that the bullet ploughed a furrow in Garvin’s desk. I took Garvin, Jr. to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment. He gave her the gun. Now I’ve told you the truth. What are you going to do?”

“I know that you switched guns out there, and that because of that switch young Garvin acted as your cat’s-paw and took the murder weapon up to Stephanie Falkner.”

Mason turned to his client. “There you are, Homer,” he said. “That’s a pretty good indication of what his promises are worth. If you tell him something that doesn’t conform to his cockeyed theory of the case he says it can’t be the truth. He’ll only believe the things he wants to hear.”

Burger pushed back his chair, started to get to his feet, thought better of it, settled back again in the chair.

Tragg said, “May I ask a question, Mr. District Attorney?”

“Sure, go ahead. Ask all you want,” Burger said.

Tragg said, “Mason, do I have your personal assurance, man-to-man, that you did not substitute any gun out there at young Garvin’s place?”

“You have that assurance,” Mason told him.

Tragg turned back to Hamilton Burger. “I tell you, Burger, there’s something about this whole thing that is a lot deeper than we think at the present time. I personally can’t conceive of any reason why Mason would have substituted weapons. I personally want to carry on this investigation on the theory that a weapon wasn’t substituted, and that the gun Garvin, Jr., took out of his desk was the murder weapon.”

“It couldn’t have been,” Hamilton Burger said flatly.

Lt. Tragg snapped, “Don’t be silly!” then corrected himself quickly. “There are certain things about this case which don’t fit together. Mason would have had no possible incentive for—”

“That’ll do,” Burger interrupted. “Watch yourself, Lieutenant. We’re here to get information, not to give it. And I prefer to carry on our own arguments in privacy, not where Mr. Perry Mason can drink everything in with the idea that he can capitalize on the things we don’t know.”

Mason arose. “I take it then, the interview is at an end?” he said. “My client has refused to answer any more questions. I have answered your questions fully and frankly. I have given you every bit of information I could without violating my professional duty to safeguard the confidences of a client.”

Hamilton Burger jerked a contemptuous thumb. “There’s the door,” he said.

“How about Garvin?”

Burger jerked his thumb upward. “Your client,” he said, “is going to spend quite a little time in a hotel at the expense of the taxpayers.”

“Gentlemen,” Mason said, “I wish you a very good evening. Garvin, my instructions to you are to make no statement of any sort.”

Hamilton Burger picked up the telephone, said to someone at the other end of the line, “Okay, send in the newspaper reporters.”

Mason took the elevator down to the curb, caught a cab back to his office.

Della Street, waiting apprehensively, said, “How did it go, Chief?”

Mason shook his head. “There’s something in this case I don’t understand as yet.”

“How about the police?”

“There’s a lot in the case they don’t understand.”

“And what about Homer Garvin?”

“Garvin,” Mason said, “is going to be charged with being an accessory after the fact, and I’m afraid they’ve got the deadwood on him.”

“And what else?”

“And Stephanie Falkner is being charged with murder, first-degree murder.”

“And you?”

Mason grinned. “Garvin and I are being put on ice. The D.A. will get his murder firmly established and then he’ll claim we’re accessories.”

“And how are you going to combat a situation of that sort?”

Mason said, “We’re going to have to trust to a faith in human nature, a lot of mental agility and considerable ingenuity. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, the District Attorney will have the Grand Jury indict Stephanie Falkner for the murder of George Casselman by noon tomorrow. He’ll then hold Homer Garvin, Sr. as an accessory, and probably won’t make any very serious objection to letting him out on bail. He’ll hold that charge over him as a club hoping that sooner or later the pressure will build up to such an extent that Garvin will cave in and help him.”

“And in the meantime?” Della Street asked.

Mason grinned. “In the meantime, Della, we’d better get that dinner we were talking about. It may be the last good meal we’ll thoroughly enjoy together.”

“You mean they’ll arrest you?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” Mason said, “but somehow I have a feeling this may be the last meal we’ll really enjoy for quite some time. Let’s go!”

Chapter Sixteen

Paul Drake slid into his favorite position, sitting crosswise in the big, overstuffed, leather chair, the small of his back propped against one big, rounded arm, his knees propped over the other, the legs dangling.

“Well, you’ve got a bear by the tail in one hand, and a tiger by the tail in the other. Perry,” he said.

“Homer Garvin, Sr. was indicted for being an accessory in the murder of George Casselman. His bail was set at a hundred thousand dollars. He made bail almost immediately and will be out within an hour or two.

“Stephanie Falkner is held for first-degree murder, without bail. The Grand Jury indicted her about an hour ago. There’s an open trial date on the calendar and the District Attorney is yelling for an immediate trial, pointing out that defense attorneys are always trying for delay, delay, delay, and he’s making a great grandstand in the press.”

“What have you found out about Dawn Joyce?” Mason asked.

“It’s a little difficult to get a line on a girl like that,” Drake said, “particularly after she’s just married someone of family and means.

“You know how it is with any show girl or model. As a matter of fact, most models are steady-going, hard-working girls. A good many of them are married, have kids, make good mothers, and wonderful wives. But there’s a provincial attitude on the part of the public. The fact that a girl is photographed in bathing suits or does kicks in front of an audience causes lots of people to get funny ideas.

“Over in Las Vegas, you can pick up gossip on Dawn Joyce. She lived in an apartment by herself. She worked part of the time as a show girl in a chorus. She worked part of the time as scenery, one of the girls who puts on a tight-fitting bathing suit and drapes herself around the pools in the various hotels. Then she’d act as a shill on the side, dolling herself out in low-cut, strapless dresses, circulating around the gambling tables, being easy to get acquainted with, and helping the suckers who wanted to gamble to make a little bigger bets and stay with the wheel a little longer than would otherwise be the case.”

“Commission?” Mason asked.

“Apparently not,” Drake said. “She was on a salary and all this was part of the job. There was nothing crude, no attempt to strong-arm a guy into playing; but you know how it is; a man will stay with the game and buy two or three more stacks of chips if there’s an amiable, attractive, young woman standing alongside of him pouring chips across the board. He hates to have it appear that he’s a piker when some young woman is giving him an appreciative eye, and at the same time is apparently plunging with her own money.”

“And winning?” Mason said.

“Exactly,” Drake observed. “You don’t know just how they do it, but you watch them and they sure seem to win a lot more than the casual tourists. Of course, you can account for that in part, because they know the game. They know when to bet heavy and when to bet light. In the second place, it makes a lot of difference if you have an unlimited bank-roll. Of course, they never cash in on their chips, and they know there’s lots more where the last stack came from. Gamblers tell me that lots of people lose out at gambling because they don’t have the guts to pile it on heavy enough when they’re winning, or the prudence to tap it light when they’re losing. Gamblers say luck comes in waves. You’re hot and then you’re cold. When you’re hot you want to pour it on for all it’s worth, and when you’re cold you want to pull in your horns until you get hot again.

“I don’t know whether there’s anything to it or not. Personally I’m a poor gambler. Anyhow I’m just telling you about Dawn Joyce. She’s easy on the eyes, and she showed as much scenery as the law allowed.

“Now she knew this fellow Casselman. There’s no doubt about that. She went out with him on several occasions as a private date. She seemed to like him, or else they had some kind of a business deal hooked up. No one knows.

“Casselman was a blackmailer, but I can’t prove that on him. No one knows just how he lived. He was a sharpshooter. He hung around the Strip in Las Vegas, and he managed to make a pretty good living doing nothing. He made it in cash. He didn’t use bank accounts, and he didn’t make income tax returns. He just drifted along on a hand-to-mouth basis.

“Lots of people come to Las Vegas. Some of them are tourists who are just passing through. Some of them are a cafe society set from Los Angeles and San Francisco.

“A man who had a good memory for faces and figures could make money by remembering things other people would like to forget. That would particularly be true if he had a few show girls giving him tips about who did what and when and where.”

“Yes,” Mason said, “I can see. And that might be hard to trace.”

“It is hard to trace,” Drake agreed. “Casselman had about fifteen hundred dollars in his wallet when he was shot. As far as anybody-can tell, that’s every cent he had in the world and yet you know damn well it wasn’t. He’s got money stashed away somewhere, either in a safety deposit box under another name or buried or hidden somewhere. In any event, he could have gone and put his hand on cash when he needed it. There were times when he paid out as much as ten or fifteen thousand dollars for options on property for a quick deal, and he’s produced the cash every time, a nice assortment of hundred-dollar bills.”

“And the income tax people have never looked him up?” Mason asked.

“Never made a pass at him as far as I can find out. The guy was a smooth operator. He kept in the background, and he had never made the mistake of making that first income tax return. As far as the records were concerned, no one knew he was alive.

“There’s plenty of tie-in between Dawn Joyce who is now Homer Garvin, Jr.’s wife, and George Casselman who is now a corpse. For some reason, Mrs. Garvin, Jr. would like very, very much indeed to have the entire matter hushed up. Whatever her connections with Casselman and her Nevada activities were, she doesn’t care about having them aired in the daily press, particularly in view of the fact that she’d like to be received into the upper crust as the wife of Junior Garvin.”

“How does he rate?” Mason asked.

“That depends on the class of person you ask. He’s a plunger and wild. But he may steady down, and his old man is well thought of, although the old man never goes in for any of the social stuff.

“The kid went into this used car dealing and, believe me, he works it fast. He believes in quantity turnover and he’ll take small profits if he can’t make big profits. But he wants turnover and he gets turnover. He has evidently made quite a bit of money out of the car business, and he’s plunging in real estate, taking options on various bits of property, and there again he makes quick turnovers. He managed to find out where some property was going to be condemned by the State. No one knows exactly how he found it out, but he showed up with a string of options, and naturally the State was anxious to do business with one man who had control of a big percentage of the property, and who was willing to make a fast buck and let it go at that.”

“What did you find out about the Acme Electric and Plumbing Repair Company?”

“Both the Acme outfit and the Eureka Associated Renovators received mail at 1397 Chatham Street, a rooming house. Some man rented a room there and received all the mail. He seldom slept there, but kept his rent paid and dropped in from time to time.”

“Description?” Mason asked.

“General,” Drake said. “Fits almost anyone. Because he kept the rent paid in advance, no one paid much attention to him.

“I can give you one tip on this murder trial, Perry. Hamilton Burger is going to leave Dawn Joyce out of it just as much as he can. His idea is that you made a switch in murder weapons, and he thinks he can prove it. He thinks he’s got the deadwood on Stephanie Falkner.

“Of course, you can try to bring in the idea that Dawn Joyce could have been the killer by introducing evidence about that gun, but the minute you do that, Burger is going to go all out with the contention that you went down there with the murder gun, that you pulled a fake accident in order to divert attention, and switched guns simply to drag in Dawn Joyce as a red herring.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I guess we’ll give him all the chance he wants to make that claim. He can’t prove I switched guns.”

“Apparently he can’t prove it,” Drake said, “and that’s burning him up. He can surmise and that’s about all... You’re representing Stephanie Falkner?”

“I’m going to represent her.”

“Look, Perry, just off the record, what does she say? What happened?”

“There,” Mason said, “is the thing that bothers me. She won’t say a word, except to assure me that she didn’t shoot Casselman. She says she’s innocent of any crime. She won’t amplify that statement. She says that there is something she would have to disclose if I started cross-examining her that no one knows and she doesn’t intend ever to let it come out.”

“Something in her past?” Drake asked.

“I assume so,” Mason said. “She’ll break down her reserve and tell me her story eventually but right at the moment she’s sitting tight.

“She says they are going to have to prove her guilty before they can convict her and she says they simply can’t do anything more than direct suspicion toward her way with some very inconsequential circumstantial evidence... And she may be right at that.”

“Well,” Drake said, “I wish you luck.”

“There’s just a chance I could need it,” Mason told him grinning.

“What about the place where those billheads were printed? Can you get any line on that?”

“Not so far. We’re telephoning like mad, and we’re covering all the more likely job-printing establishments with personal investigators. So far no luck.”

“Keep after it,” Mason said.

Drake lurched up out of the chair. “We’ll sure do that, Perry, and we’ll let you know anything that turns up.”

Chapter Seventeen

Hamilton Burger arose to make his opening address to the jury.

“In this case,” he said, “I am going to be brief and factual. It is the intention of the prosecution to avoid all dramatics and to present the case with such mathematical certainty that there can be but one inescapable conclusion.

“On the seventh day of October of this year, George Casselman met his death. Medical evidence will show you ladies and gentlemen of the jury that a revolver was placed against Casselman’s body just below the heart and slightly to the left of the median line. The trigger was pulled. The shot was what is known as a con-tact wound. That is, the muzzle of the revolver was firmly held directly against the body of the victim. In this way, the gases from the exploding shell as well as the bullet went into the victim’s body. Under those circumstances, the sound of the report would have been greatly muffled.

“The prosecution intends to show that the defendant, Stephanie Falkner, had an appointment with George Casselman. She went to keep that appointment by entering the front door of Casselman’s apartment. Sometime later she was seen surreptitiously leaving the apartment by way of the back door.

“We expect to show you that she stepped in the blood of her victim, that she went to the bathroom and tried to wash the blood from her shoe. She left a footprint etched in blood on the floor, and she left towels in the bathroom that bore traces of human blood and bits of material which came from her shoe.

“Her friend, Homer Garvin, tried to cover up the traces of her crime and did obliterate much of the evidence. For that he will in due time be tried, but enough evidence remains to convict this defendant.

“We expect to prove with mathematical certainty that the gun with which the murder was committed was in the possession of the defendant. An ingenious device was used by her attorney, Perry Mason, to confuse the issues on that point, but bear well in mind that the fatal weapon was found in her possession. Let her explain how that came about if she can.

“Mr. Perry Mason, the attorney who is representing both this defendant and Homer Garvin, has not been indicted as an accessory or an accomplice at this time. However, he has not been granted any immunity. We will ask you, ladies and gentlemen, to weigh the evidence and bring in a verdict of first-degree murder against this defendant. After that verdict is in, you may leave it to us to take such additional steps as will deal with the persons responsible for juggling evidence and obstructing the administration of justice. You are not to concern yourselves with that aspect of the case except as it shows certain things which explain the physical facts. Your sole concern is as to whether this defendant murdered George Casselman.

“We shall expect a just verdict and a fair verdict at your hands.”

Hamilton Burger turned with dignity and walked back to his seat at the counsel table.

Judge Hilton Decker looked at Perry Mason.

“Does the defense wish to make an opening statement now, or wait until later?”

“We will wait,” Mason said.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Decker said.

Hamilton Burger’s chief trial assistant, Guy Hendrie, took charge and called as the prosecution’s first witness one of the radio officers who had entered the Casselman apartment and who described briefly the body on the floor, the pool of blood, and the fact that the Homicide Squad had been promptly notified.

There was no cross-examination.

The prosecution’s next witness was Sgt. Holcomb, who took the stand with an air of importance, testified to his connection with the Homicide Squad, the fact that he had arrived at the scene, had been in charge, had directed the taking of photographs, and eventually the removal of the body, that thereafter fingerprint men had been instructed to try to develop latent fingerprints.

Again there was no cross-examination.

The photographer who had taken the pictures was sworn and the various pictures were introduced in evidence, including a color picture of the bloodied footprint on the floor.

Again there was no cross-examination.

Judge Decker glanced sharply at Mason, started to say something, then changed his mind.

The autopsy surgeon testified to the nature of the wound and the course of the bullet. The wound, he explained, was what was known as a contact wound. He stated that the one shot had been almost instantly fatal, although there had been a brief period of unconsciousness during which there had been a very large internal and external hemorrhage. He identified the fatal bullet which had been recovered from the body of the decedent.

He fixed the time of death as being probably between seven o’clock in the evening of the seventh of October and midnight. He had performed an autopsy at noon of the eighth and he fixed the probable time of death as between twelve and seventeen hours prior to the autopsy although he was inclined to consider fifteen to sixteen hours prior to the autopsy as being the most logical time.

Again Mason failed to ask any questions on cross-examination.

At that point, Guy Hendrie recalled Sgt. Holcomb to the witness stand.

“I am showing you herewith a certain Colt revolver of .38 caliber, and I will ask you if you have seen that gun before?”

“Yes, sir. I have.”

“When did you first see it?”

“On the eighth of October, around eleven forty-five o’clock of that day.”

“Where did you first see it?”

“In the apartment of Stephanie Falkner, the defendant in this case.”

“Where was it in that apartment?”

“Lying upon a table near the center of the room.”

“Did you take or did you cause a photograph to be taken of the apartment?”

“I did, yes, sir.”

“And does that photograph show where the gun was found?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you have a print of that photograph with you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sgt. Holcomb produced a photograph.

“We ask that it be received in evidence,” Hendrie said.

“Just a moment,” Mason said, “I would like to ask a question of the witness in connection with this photograph.”

The jurors, impressed by the fact that this was the first attempt Mason had made to cross-examine a witness, turned to regard him with considerable interest.

“This photograph shows a weapon on the table, Sergeant,” Mason said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that the same weapon which you have identified?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that weapon in the same position in which you found it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then the photograph must have been taken before the weapon was moved?”

Sgt. Holcomb hesitated a moment, crossed his legs. “Well, the weapon was picked up, examined, and then returned to the same place where it had been found.”

“Who examined it?”

“I did.”

“Anyone else?”

“Lt. Tragg of Homicide was with me at the time.”

“And of what did the examination consist?”

“We broke open the cylinder, we saw that there was an empty cartridge directly underneath the firing pin, we smelled the barrel.”

“Did you dust it for fingerprints?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then the weapon was returned to the exact position in which it had been found so that it could be photographed.”

“And then this photograph was taken?”

“Yes, sir. That is right.”

“Now if you know,” Mason asked, “was any attempt made to connect the fatal bullet in this case with this weapon?”

“Just a moment,” Hamilton Burger said. “That is going to be proven by my next witness. I will have the ballistic expert on the stand, and he can be cross-examined.”

“That’s quite all right,” Mason said. “All I am asking this witness is whether such an examination was made?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?” Mason asked.

“Shortly after the weapon was recovered. I don’t know exactly the time, but it was within a few hours.”

“What do you mean by a few hours?” Mason asked.

“Just a short time, a very brief interval.”

“As much as twenty-four hours?” Mason asked.

The witness hesitated.

“As much as forty-eight hours?” Mason asked.

“No, it wasn’t forty-eight hours.”

“It could have been twenty-four hours?”

“It could have been. I think it was much less.”

“Who put the weapon back on the table in the exact place where it was found?”

“I did.”

“How did you know where that exact place was?”

“I remembered it.”

“Did you mark it in any way?”

“No.”

“Now when you entered the room,” Mason asked, “and found this weapon, was the muzzle pointing toward the door or was it pointing away from the door?”

“It was on the table as shown in that photograph.”

Mason, holding the photograph so the witness couldn’t see it, repeated, “Was the muzzle pointed toward the door or away from the door?”

“At this moment, I can’t remember. I knew at the time. The photograph will show its exact position. I replaced the gun within five minutes of the time I picked it up and while its position was fresh in my mind.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, “these are all the questions I have in regard to the photograph, if the Court please.”

Hendrie said, “I now wish to offer the photograph in evidence.”

“No objection,” Mason said.

Hendrie turned to the witness. “Did the defendant make any statement to you with reference to the gun?”

“Yes, I asked her about the gun, and she said Mr. Homer Garvin had given it to her.”

“Did you have any further conversation with her?”

“Yes, I asked her about the discharged shell in the gun and she said she knew nothing about it, that the weapon was in the same condition as when she had received it.”

“We ask that the weapon be marked for identification.”

“So ordered,” the Court ruled. “It will be People’s Exhibit Number 30, and the photograph is in evidence as People’s Exhibit Number 29.”

“You may inquire,” Hendrie said.

“Did she say whether or not she had received the gun from Homer Garvin, Sr., or Homer Garvin, Jr.?”

“Just that she had received it from Homer Garvin. That was all she said.”

“Did she say when she had received it?”

“No, sir. She didn’t.”

Hamilton Burger said, “If the Court please, we expect to connect up the time element. However, in that connection, I will ask Sgt. Holcomb one question. What time did you arrive at the defendant’s apartment, Sergeant?”

“It was almost exactly eleven forty-five.”

“No further questions,” Mason said.

“Call Alexander Redfield,” Hendrie said.

Redfield, the ballistics expert, who had been cross-examined by Mason in several other cases and who had learned to be very wary indeed of Mason’s ingenuity on cross-examination, took the oath and settled himself cautiously on the witness stand.

From Hendrie’s manner, it was apparent that there was a certain feeling of exasperation on the part of the prosecuting attorney toward Redfield, that Redfield, on the other hand, knowing Mason’s ability as a cross-examiner and his knowledge of the subject of ballistics, was determined to give only such evidence as was completely unassailable.

“I show you People’s Exhibit Number 30, the weapon which has just been received in evidence. Are you familiar with that weapon?”

Redfield took the exhibit in his hands, studied it carefully, checked the serial number, then said, “Yes, I am familiar with it.”

“I show you a bullet which has previously been introduced in evidence as People’s Exhibit Number 14, the fatal bullet. Are you familiar with that bullet?”

The witness took a magnifying glass from his pocket, carefully inspected the base of the bullet, then said, “Yes, sir. I am familiar with that bullet. It has my secret mark on it.”

“That bullet has already been identified as the fatal bullet,” Hendrie said. “Now can you tell us whether or not that bullet, Exhibit 14, was fired from the gun, Exhibit 30?”

“Yes, sir, that bullet was fired from this gun,” the witness said.

“Could it have been fired from any other gun?”

“No, sir. It was fired from this gun.”

“You may cross-examine,” Hendrie said.

“No questions,” Mason announced.

“Call Paul Clinton,” Hendrie said.

Paul Clinton came forward, took the stand and identified him* self as a scientific investigator in the employ of the police department. He qualified himself as an expert in the science of developing and comparing fingerprints, in making chemical tests for bloodstains, in the grouping of blood, in making various types of analysis.

“Did you have occasion to search the apartment occupied by the defendant in this case?” Hendrie asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“On the ninth day of October.”

“Of this year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find any wearing apparel in the apartment of the defendant which was stained with blood?”

“I did. Yes, sir.”

“What article did you find?”

“I found a left shoe with blood on the sole and on the heel.”

“Were you able to get enough blood to type the stain?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you able to get enough blood to determine that it was human blood?”

“No, sir. The shoe had been carefully and thoroughly washed, but chemical tests gave a typical blood reaction.”

“Do you have that shoe with you?”

“I do, yes, sir.”

“Produce it, please... This is the shoe which you found in the defendant’s apartment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything distinctive about that shoe?”

“Yes, sir, the sole is of a certain patented composition.”

“I will ask you if you found any soiled towels in the Casselman apartment?”

“I did, yes, sir. I produce herewith one towel which I consider especially significant.”

“Why?”

“It had blood smears on it. It had been used to wipe off some bloodstained object. In addition to the bloodstains or smears, there was a very small bit of foreign matter adhering to the towel. Spectroscopic analysis showed that bit of foreign matter to have exactly the same component parts as the sole of this shoe.”

Hendrie said, “I ask to have the shoe introduced in evidence as People’s Exhibit Number 31, the towel as People’s Exhibit 32.”

“No objection,” Mason said.

“So ordered. They will be received in evidence,” Judge Decker ruled.

“Now I’m going to call your attention to the photograph, Exhibit Number 12, which has been received in evidence. I am going to ask you if you have made a careful study of that photograph?”

“I have. Yes, sir.”

“What did you find from your study?”

“I found that there are evidences of this color photograph of two footprints. There is the evidence of a shoe with a fairly high heel which has been covered with a metal plate held in place by four brads.

“Subsequent investigation convinced me that this heel plate bore the number ‘thirty-three.’ In part, the numbers which had been stamped into this plate are obliterated but in this photograph which I hold in my hand, it is possible to detect faint traces of the number thirty-three. This footprint made with the heel print bearing the number thirty-three has been almost obliterated by the footprint of a man wearing a much larger shoe and this footprint had been superimposed upon the other print at a time considerably later than the making of the first print.”

“Can you tell how much later?”

“I would say probably two or three hours later.”

“Referring now to the article of wearing apparel, the shoe which you found in the defendant’s apartment, and which has been received in evidence as Exhibit Number 31, have you been able to determine whether this particular shoe which you hold in your hand made the bloody print which you have testified to finding underneath the print made by the larger shoe?”

“If the Court please,” Mason said, “I object to that question as calling for a conclusion of the witness in a manner which invades the province of the jury. It is for the jury to determine whether this shoe made that print, if it should appear there is any print there, and the witness is not testifying purely to a figment of the imagination.

“This witness can testify as to what he has found. He can testify as to an opinion in connection with the legitimate field of expert evidence, but he cannot invade the province of the jury.”

Judge Decker said, “Let me see that photograph and the shoe please.”

The judge studied the photograph and the shoe for some seconds, then said, “the objection will be sustained. The jurors can and will draw their own conclusions. This witness can testify only as to the facts from which such conclusions can be drawn.”

The prosecution took the ruling with poor grace. “If the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said ponderously getting to his feet and frowning with displeasure, “this witness has qualified himself as an expert.”

“He may give his opinions as to collateral matters,” Judge Decker ruled. “He may set forth the various factors in this case, but on the question of whether this identical shoe made this identical print which the witness claims he has been able to decipher from the photograph, the Court feels it would be invading the province of the jury to permit an answer to the question.

“The Court may point out that, while the witness contends there were two footprints visible in the photograph, that very point may be contested by the defense.”

Hamilton Burger slowly sat down.

Hendrie resumed the examination. “You have testified that the second print, the one made with the man’s shoe, and which covers the first print, was made some two hours later?”

“I would say approximately two or three or perhaps four hours later.”

“How can you determine?”

“There are certain changes in blood which take place when the blood leaves the body. Blood will coagulate in some three minutes or less. After it has coagulated or clotted it can be restored to liquid form by pressure or by certain types of agitation. In this case it is my opinion that the person wearing the man’s shoes stepped in the pool of blood after it had coagulated and that the track which was made thereafter shows distinctly certain characteristics which indicate the condition of the blood, a condition which, in my opinion, would probably indicate an interval of some time, probably two or three hours.”

“Have you examined a man’s shoe which could have made the Covering track shown in this photograph?”

“I have.”

“Do you have that shoe with you?”

“I do.”

“Will you produce it please?”

The witness delved into his bag and produced a shoe.

“Is there something distinctive about this shoe?”

“There is.”

“In what way?”

“There is a relatively new rubber heel on the shoe and there is a little defect in that rubber heel which can be noticed here and the same defect in exactly the same place can be seen in this photograph of the track.”

“Have you tested this shoe for blood?”

“I have. Yes, sir.”

“Did you find blood on it?”

“Yes, sir. My chemical tests showed the presence of blood.”

“Those tests are responsible for the discoloration of the shoe?”

“That is right.”

“Where may I ask did you get this shoe?”

“From a suitcase, the property of Homer Garvin, Sr.”

Hendrie said, “May we have this shoe marked People’s Exhibit Number 33 for identification. Now, Mr. Clinton, did you examine the Casselman apartment for latent fingerprints?”

“I did.”

“What did you find?”

“The doorknobs of all doors had been carefully wiped by someone so that there were no latent fingerprints on any of the knobs with one exception.”

“And that exception?”

“The back door. There was a left thumb print on that back door without anything else in the line of a latent fingerprint appearing on it.”

“Do you know whose fingerprint it was that was found on the door of this apartment?”

“Yes. sir.”

“Whose was it?”

“The fingerprint of Mr. Homer Garvin.”

“Cross-examine,” Hendrie said turning to Perry Mason.

Mason said, “How do you know that the room had been wiped clean of fingerprints?”

“Because normally there are fingerprints in every room. There are latent fingerprints some of which are smudged, some of which can be developed so that they can be identified. But when one finds a complete absence of fingerprints, it indicates that someone has removed all fingerprints, particularly from objects like doorknobs.”

“When was this done?” Mason asked.

“I can’t tell you when it was done.”

“You found a fingerprint on the knob of the back door?”

“Yes, sir. A left thumb print.”

“And you were able to identify that?”

“I did. Yes, sir. It was the left thumb print of Homer Garvin.”

“Senior or Junior?”

“Senior.”

“When was it made?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Was it made before the murder was committed?”

“I don’t know. I do know that it was made after the knobs had been wiped clean of fingerprints, and since there was only the one fingerprint on all the doorknobs, I know that the cleaning of these objects for fingerprints must have been done while Mr. Garvin was in the room.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there were no other fingerprints. If he had entered the room after the knobs had been cleaned, there would have been fingerprints on the knobs where he had entered the room, where he had touched the doors, but, since there was only the one absolutely perfect fingerprint, which had been made by pressure of the thumb against the knob of the door, I know that the articles had been wiped clean at a time when he was in the room.”

“This fingerprint was on the knob of the back door?”

“Yes, on the knob of the back door.”

“Wasn’t it possible that someone could have wiped the finger-prints from the inside of the knobs and that Mr. Garvin, coming up the back stairs of the apartment and finding the apartment door slightly open, had decided to close it, that he had reached in and, in doing so, had touched his thumb to the knob in this manner?”

“No, sir. That fingerprint was deliberately left on the doorknob. It was not in a position where a person would have normally placed his hand to close the door.”

Mason said, “Someone could have reversed the doorknobs, could they not?”

“What do you mean?”

“The rounded doorknob is placed on a square spindle and held in place by a setscrew. The knob which you found on the inside of the door could at some previous time have been on the outside of the door, could it not?”

“It could have, yes,” the witness reluctantly conceded.

“And the print of Mr. Garvin could have been made on the outside knob, and thereafter someone wearing gloves could have conceivably transferred the outer knob to the inside?”

“Well, of course, if you want to engage in fanciful speculation as to the things which could conceivably have happened, it could have been done.”

“That’s all,” Mason said.

“Now then, if the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said, getting to his feet, “I am going to call a hostile witness. I am going to call Homer Garvin, Sr. to the witness stand.”

“I take it,” Judge Decker said, “you wish to be permitted to ask leading questions, on the ground that you are dealing with a hostile witness. I think, however, the better practice is to call the witness to the stand and proceed with the interrogation. Then if there are objections on the ground that the questions are leading, the Court will rule on those objections at the time they are made.”

“Very well, Your Honor. Come forward, Mr. Garvin.”

Garvin came forward, was sworn, and took his position on the witness stand.

“I am going to call your attention to a shoe which has previously been marked People’s Exhibit 33 for identification. I am going to ask you if that is your shoe.”

“That is my shoe.”

“Did you wear that shoe on the night of October 7th of this year?”

“I did.”

“Did you deliberately step into a pool of blood in the apartment of George Casselman in the Ambrose Apartments at Number 948 Christine Drive, and thereafter place your foot over a footprint which you found etched in dried blood in that apartment?”

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” Mason said.

“The objection will be overruled.”

The witness said, “I refuse to answer.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that the answer may tend to incriminate me.”

“Your Honor, I now ask that the shoe previously marked People’s Exhibit 33 for identification be received in evidence.”

Judge Decker hesitated a moment, then said, “There appearing to be no objection, it is so ordered.”

“Did you enter Apartment 211 of the Ambrose Apartments at 948 Christine Drive on the night of October seventh?” Burger asked the witness.

“Yes.”

“At what time?”

“Perhaps about eleven or eleven-thirty in the evening.”

“Did you at that time by the means of a cloth or some other manner deliberately remove fingerprints from certain objects in that apartment?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that the answer may incriminate me.”

Hamilton Burger, seeing the rapt attention of the jurors, and knowing that the answers of the witness were the psychological equivalent of affirmative answers, smiled.

“On the seventh day of October, did you give or loan a weapon to the defendant in this case and tell her that you wanted her to have this weapon for her own protection?”

“I did.”

“Was that weapon the revolver which I now hand you and which is marked People’s Exhibit Number 30?”

Garvin examined the gun. “I believe that is the weapon. Yes.”

“I will ask you to describe in detail your movements on the night of October 7th.”

“I returned from Las Vegas. I went to my office where I have a shower, a wardrobe, and some clothes. I took a shower and changed my clothes.”

“Then what did you do?”

Mason said, “Now, if the Court please, I object on the ground that the movements of this witness are incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, except as to the two matters on which the witness has already testified; to wit, that he was in the apartment of Casselman sometime in the vicinity of eleven o’clock, and that he loaned the defendant the weapon People’s Exhibit Number 30. Aside from that, any other activities engaged in by this witness are incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

“They may be very pertinent,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Then show that they are pertinent by showing what you want.”

Judge Decker frowned. “This is a very peculiar situation,” he said, “It is quite apparent to the Court what the prosecution seeks to prove by this witness, and, in view of the testimony, the time element is not too remote.”

“However, if the Court please,” Mason said, “it is quite possible that this witness may have done certain things that might be incompetent as far as the issues in this case are concerned.”

“The Court is going to sustain the objection,” Judge Decker said, “although it is apparently a close point. Quite evidently the witness has reached definite decisions in his own mind as to where he intends to exercise the privilege of his constitutional right not to incriminate himself. The Court can very readily understand that there is no Statute of Limitations which has run in the matter, and this witness is facing a very real danger in that after the conclusion of this case he is to be tried on certain matters concerning which he is now being interrogated.

“Under the circumstances and in view of the situation, I think the Court will narrow the examination, particularly in view of the fact that the testimony of this witness is being used to build up a case against the defendant. It is quite possible that certain things he might have done cannot be considered as being binding upon the defendant unless there was some unity of purpose or unless the actions were a part of some pact or design which had been mutually agreed upon.”

“Very well,” Hamilton Burger said, “we’ll prove some of these activities by other witnesses.”

Hamilton Burger engaged in a whispered conference with Hendrie, then said, “Where did you get this gun which has been introduced in evidence as People’s Exhibit Number 30?”

“I owned a sporting goods store among some of my other investments. While I was the owner of that sporting goods store I withdrew three guns from the stock.”

“And what did you do with those weapons?”

“I kept two for myself. I gave one to my son.”

“And those you kept for yourself?”

“I customarily carried a gun with me. I also kept a spare gun in my office. When I was absent I locked this gun in the safe.”

“Let’s put it this way,” Hamilton Burger said. “Let’s call the gun which you gave your son the ‘Junior Gun,’ let’s call the gun you put in your safe the ‘Safe Gun,’ and the gun which you carried in your holster the ‘Holster Gun.’

“Now I will limit this question to certain specific activities. Isn’t it a fact that after you gave the defendant the Holster Gun you returned to your office, unlocked your safe and put the Safe Gun in your shoulder holster?”

“Is there any objection?” Judge Decker asked.

“No objection to that question,” Mason said.

“Well,” Judge Decker said, “it seems to me... However, if there is no objection, I will permit the answer.”

“Did you do that?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“That very evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When did you do that?”

“About... I would say about ten-fifty-five.”

“Then did you return to the apartment of the defendant after that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, then, after you had returned to the apartment of the defendant, did you have occasion to again see the Holster Gun, which is now Exhibit Number 30?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was it?”

“It was on the bed of the defendant, under the pillow.”

“Did you at that time examine the gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you have it in your hands?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you, at that time, notice that since the time you had given the gun to the defendant the gun had been fired?”

“Objected to as leading and suggestive, incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” Mason said.

“The objection is overruled.”

“It is further objected to that it calls for the conclusion of the witness.”

“On that ground,” Judge Decker ruled, “I think perhaps there should be some further examination for the purpose of laying a foundation.”

“I will put the question this way,” Hamilton Burger said. “Was there something about the weapon when you saw it that second time at the defendant’s apartment which caused you to make a detailed inspection of the cylinder of the weapon?”

The witness hesitated, crossed his legs.

“You’re under oath,” Hamilton Burger thundered at him, “and there’s nothing in this question which calls for evidence which will incriminate you in any way. I am asking you if you, for some reason, made an examination of that weapon.”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“What did you find?”

“I found that the cylinder contained an exploded cartridge,” the witness said.

“What was the condition of the gun when you gave it to the defendant earlier in the evening?”

The witness hesitated. “It was fully loaded,” he said at length.

“You know that of your own knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it?”

“Because just prior to leaving Las Vegas, I had reloaded the gun with fresh ammunition. I had reason to believe that I might, later on in the day, be in a position of some danger.”

“And the reason that you went to the apartment of George Casselman later on that evening was that you had reason to believe the defendant might have used the weapon which you gave her to kill George Casselman? Isn’t that right?”

“Objected to, if the Court please,” Mason said, “on the ground that the question is incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and I assign the asking of that question as prejudicial misconduct on the part of the prosecution. This defendant is not bound by any reasoning or any ideas or any surmises or anything else which may have been in the mind of this witness.”

“The objection is sustained,” Judge Decker ruled. “The prosecution certainly should realize that the thoughts within the mind of this witness are not binding upon this defendant. This entire matter is being developed in an exceedingly unusual way. The Court, is mindful of the fact that this is not a case against this witness, but is a case against this defendant, and that her guilt or innocence can only be established by certain pertinent rules of evidence. The jurors are instructed to completely disregard this question by the District Attorney, and also any inference which may have been drawn from that question by the jurors. Proceed, Mr. District Attorney.”

“That’s all,” Hamilton Burger said, smiling triumphantly.

“Just a moment,” Mason said. “I have one question on cross-examination. Why did you give the defendant what the District Attorney has referred to as the Holster Gun, the gun which is now Exhibit Number 30?”

“Because,” Homer Garvin said, “she had at one time been engaged to my son, Homer Garvin, Jr. I had looked forward to having her in the family as a daughter-in-law, and then when it turned out that the engagement had been broken, I suddenly realized — I realized that I loved her.”

Stephanie Falkner, sitting behind Mason at the bar, suddenly put a handkerchief to her eyes and started sobbing.

“Now then,” Mason said, “I will ask you one more question. Prior to the evening of October seventh of this year, had you uncovered information which led you to believe that George Casselman had been the one who had murdered Glenn Falkner, the father of the defendant?”

The effect upon the jurors was electrical.

“Your Honor, Your Honor!” Hamilton Burger shouted, getting to his feet, gesticulating. “That question is absolutely incompetent, the asking of that question is misconduct on the part of the attorney for the defense. It is not proper cross-examination. It is no part of the case. It has no bearing in any way. The prosecution is not bound by anything this witness may have thought.”

“The objection is sustained,” Judge Decker said.

Mason smiled. “Now then did you on the evening of October seventh communicate to the defendant in this case the fact that in your opinion George Casselman had killed her father?”

“The same objection,” Hamilton Burger shouted.

“Same ruling,” Judge Decker said.

“Just a minute,” Mason said. “The prosecution called for part of a conversation which took place when this witness gave the defendant the gun. I am now asking this witness if something to this effect was not said when the gun was given to the defendant. In other words, when the prosecution calls for part of the conversation, I have a right to call for all of it.”

“The witness may answer the question,” Judge Decker ruled, “with the understanding that it will be limited to any statement which was made as part of the same conversation concerning which testimony was given on direct examination.”

“Yes, sir,” Garvin said. “I told her that I felt Casselman had killed her father, and that I was afraid he might try to kill her. I felt that she was in danger and I gave her this weapon so that she could protect herself. I told her to keep it in her possession at all times because I felt that I was in a position to develop a case against Casselman which would enable the authorities to arrest Casselman for the murder of her father and to prosecute him.”

Mason said, “Thank you. That is all.”

“No questions,” Hamilton Burger snapped.

“Now, if the Court please,” Mason said, “I move to strike out the entire testimony of the witness Garvin.”

“On what grounds?” Judge Decker asked.

“On the grounds that there is no evidence whatsoever showing that the defendant knew of the things Garvin was doing or had any inkling of what he intended to do. She is not bound in any way by anything he might have done in the mistaken belief that he was aiding her.

“Let us suppose that for some reason this witness had decided in his own mind that I had killed George Casselman. In order to protect me, he went to the Casselman apartment. He found that Casselman had been murdered but there was no evidence to indicate that I had committed the murder. I had not communicated with him in any way. I had not asked him to do anything. He tried to protect me by removing certain evidence. I certainly am not bound by the fact that he removed that evidence.”

Hamilton Burger still on his feet said, “Just a moment, Your Honor. Just a moment! I want to be heard on this. There are certain peculiar conditions existing in that Casselman apartment. The doorknobs were wiped clean of fingerprints. The footprint of a woman’s shoe, which the evidence now shows to be the defendant’s shoe, was obliterated by this witness. We have a right to show the physical conditions in that apartment and how they occurred.”

“You have a right to show the physical conditions,” Judge Decker said. “You have the right to show that someone wiped the latent fingerprints from the doorknob. But that doesn’t mean that you have a right to show that this was done by some friend of the defendant unless you can show that the defendant had some knowledge of the action and acquiesced therein, or suggested the action in some way.”

“Exactly, Your Honor,” Mason said, and sat down.

Judge Decker frowned. “This entire matter is highly unusual. It has been presented in a most unusual manner, and the Court is willing to confess that when the stock objections as to testimony being incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial were made almost as a matter of routine, the Court didn’t realize exactly what was in the mind of counsel. The Court feels that counsel should have elaborated upon this point at that time.”

“If I had done so,” Mason said, “and the Court had sustained the objection, the prosecution would have achieved a notable triumph in that the inference would have been plain to the jurors who would have felt that evidence was being withheld on a technicality.”

“Well, there is certainly a part of this witness’s evidence that is pertinent,” Judge Decker said. “He gave the defendant the gun. He testified that, when he gave the defendant the gun, it was fully loaded. He has testified that later on that same evening he saw the gun for the second time, and that at that time it had one empty cartridge in the cylinder.”

“We will not include that evidence in our motion to strike,” Mason said. “Nor do we include evidence as to the shoe being that of the defendant. But we do object to all questions asked the witness as to his entering the apartment of George Casselman and we move that that portion of the evidence be stricken.”

“The Court is inclined to go along with you on that point, Mr. Mason. However, it is now approaching the hour of the evening adjournment. The Court will take the matter under advisement until tomorrow morning. In the meantime, the Court will take a recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning, during which the jurors are instructed not to form or express any opinion as to the merits of the case, not to discuss the evidence, or permit anyone to discuss it in their presence. The jurors will refrain from reaching any opinion until the case has been finally submitted. Court will take a recess until ten o’clock.”

Chapter Eighteen

Hamilton Burger saved his surprise witness for the morning.

“Call Homer Garvin, Jr.,” he said as soon as Court had reconvened and it was stipulated the defendant was in Court and the jurors were all present.

Junior Garvin came forward, his lips a tight line of determination.

He was sworn, gave his name and address, and established his relationship as the son of the witness, Homer Garvin, who had previously testified.

“Now,” Hamilton Burger said, holding an extended finger in front of the witness, “I am going to ask you to listen very carefully to my questions and to answer those questions, and not to volunteer any information. It has been established that your father purchased three guns, identical in appearance, caliber and make. For convenience in the testimony we have designated the gun which he gave you as the ‘Junior Gun,’ the one which he had in his holster early in the evening of October Seventh of this year as the ‘Holster Gun,’ and the one which he had in his locked safe as the ‘Safe Gun.’ Do you understand these designations?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It now appears without contradiction that during the evening of October Seventh your father gave the defendant Stephanie Falkner the gun we have described as the Holster Gun, that he later on went to the safe and put the gun we have referred to as the Safe Gun in his holster.

“It also appears that one of these three guns was the murder weapon and it is now in Court as Exhibit Number 30. You understand these facts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. I now want to ask you about the weapon your father gave you which we will refer to as the Junior Gun. I am going to ask you whether on the 8th day of October of this year you gave Mr. Perry Mason this gun?”

“I did.”

“Did Mr. Mason have it in his hands?”

“He did. Yes, sir.”

“Did Mr. Mason do anything with that gun?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” Mason said.

“I propose to connect it up,” Hamilton Burger said.

“I think we should have something more than the District Attorney’s statement that he proposes to connect it up,” Mason said. “I would like to ask the witness a question simply on that phase of the case.”

“Very well,” Judge Decker said.

“Was that gun,” Mason asked, “the one we are referring to as the Junior Gun, the same gun which I now show you and which has been introduced in evidence as People’s Exhibit Number 30?”

The witness looked at the gun, said, “Definitely not. It was a gun exactly like this, in appearance, but it wasn’t this gun.”

“In that case, if the Court please,” Mason said, “anything that the witness might have done with any other gun is certainly not binding on this defendant, and is entirely outside the issues of this case.”

“I think that is correct,” Judge Decker said. “The objection is sustained.”

Hamilton Burger said angrily, “Well, I’ll get at it in another way. You see this gun People’s Exhibit Number 30?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever seen that gun before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Perry Mason handed it to me.”

“When?”

“On the eighth day of October of this year.”

“And what did you do with that gun?”

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial,” Mason said. “Whatever I did is not binding on the defendant.”

“The Court is inclined to overrule that objection,” Judge Decker said. “It now appears that the witness has identified the gun positively, the gun which is Exhibit Number 30.”

“What did you do with that gun?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I took it to the apartment of Stephanie Falkner.”

“The defendant in this case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I didn’t do very much. I stood there like a bump on a log, while Mr. Mason recited some rigmarole to the effect that the defendant was in danger of some sort and that I was bringing her a gun that she could use for defense.”

“Now you say that Mr. Mason handed you this gun?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“On the eighth day of October of this year.”

“Where?”

“Out at my place of business.”

“Prior to that time had you handed Mr. Mason a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what gun was that?”

“It was the gun we are referring to as the Junior Gun. It was identical in appearance with the one that I am now holding, which is the murder weapon, and which is marked People’s Exhibit Number 30.”

“You gave Mr. Mason that gun which we are calling the Junior Gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what did Mr. Mason do with that gun?”

“He discharged that gun.”

“You mean he fired it?”

“Yes, sir. The bullet ploughed into my desk.”

“I show you a photograph which purports to be a picture of a desk with a long furrow stretching along it, and ask you if you know what that picture represents?”

“That is the desk in my office approximately as it exists today. It is a picture of the desk immediately after Perry Mason had fired this shot into it.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then during the confusion incident to firing that shot, Mr. Mason substituted this gun, which I hold in my hand, and which is People’s Exhibit Number 30, in place of the gun I had handed him which we are calling the Junior Gun. He handed the murder gun back to me under such circumstances that I would think it was the Junior Gun and suggested that I give it to Stephanie Falkner.”

“And by so doing apparently accounted for the discharged shell in the cylinder of the gun, and also at the same time sought to establish the fact that the murder gun, Exhibit 30, had been in your possession during the time the murder had been committed? Is that right?”

“Objected to as argumentative,” Mason said, “and I assign the asking of the question as misconduct.”

“The objection is well taken,” Judge Decker said, “and the District Attorney is admonished to refrain from such questions. That is purely argumentative and calls for a conclusion of the witness as to what happened. The jurors will disregard the question and will not draw any inference from it. Now proceed, Mr. District Attorney, and please ask questions which are within the scope of the issues and are proper.”

Hamilton Burger flushed at the rebuke of the Court, turned to Perry Mason and said, “Cross-examine.”

Mason said, “You have testified that I substituted this murder gun, Exhibit 30, for the Junior Gun which you had given me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see me do that?”

“Certainly not. You did it when you had created so much excitement through the discharge of the Junior Gun that you were able to do it without anyone seeing you.”

“Then how do you know I did it if you didn’t see me do it?”

“It is a matter of simply putting two and two together.”

“In other words, you have reached a conclusion in your own mind as to what must have happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are testifying not as to any fact concerning which you know, but only as to a conclusion which you have drawn from certain facts?”

“From certain inescapable facts,” Garvin said.

“But nevertheless your testimony concerning the substitution of the gun is a conclusion?”

“A conclusion based on inescapable facts.”

Mason smiled at the frowning Judge and said, “Your Honor, I move to strike out the evidence of this witness in regard to the substitution of the guns on the ground that it is a conclusion.”

“The motion is granted,” Judge Decker snapped. “It should be quite apparent that the District Attorney must have been familiar with the testimony of this witness and must have known that the witness’s testimony was based on a conclusion.”

“Just a moment, if the Court please,” Hamilton Burger said. “I think the Court is being unduly harsh with the prosecution on this matter. If the Court will permit me, I will again examine this witness and establish facts which, as the witness has stated, are irrefutable. They lead to an inescapable conclusion.”

“Let the jurors draw that conclusion then,” Judge Decker said. “Don’t put on witnesses who will testify as an absolute fact to conclusions which they have drawn.”

Hamilton Burger, his face flushed, turned to the witness. “You have stated that you gave Mr. Mason a gun?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have stated that it was not this gun, the murder weapon, Exhibit Number 30, but the gun we are referring to as the Junior Gun, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know the Junior Gun which you gave him was not the murder weapon, Exhibit 30?”

“I know it was not because the evidence shows that this gun which I am holding in my hand was used to kill George Casselman on the evening of October seventh of this year. It was absolutely impossible for the Junior Gun which I gave Mr. Mason to have been so used.”

“Why was it impossible?”

“Objected to,” Mason said, “as being an attempt to cross-examine the prosecution’s own witness. I move to strike out the statement that it was impossible that the gun he handed me could have been the murder weapon on the ground that that is a conclusion of the witness and is not responsive to the question.”

“The motion is granted,” Judge Decker snapped.

“But Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger protested, “I certainly am entitled to show...”

“You are entitled to show facts, and nothing but facts.”

“Very well,” Hamilton Burger said. “You gave Mr. Mason a gun?”

“Yes, sir. I gave him the weapon we are designating as the Junior Gun.”

“Where did you get that gun?”

“From a drawer in my desk.”

“Where did you get the gun before that?”

“From my father. He gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Sometime around last Christmas. I think it was a Christmas present.”

“Where was that gun on October seventh?”

“In my possession.”

“During all of the time on October seventh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you do with that gun?”

“I gave it to Perry Mason.”

“And what did Perry Mason do with it?”

“He discharged it.”

“And then what happened?”

“Then Mr. Mason handed me a gun and suggested I take that to Stephanie Falkner.”

“Was that the same gun you handed Mr. Mason?”

“No.”

“Now just a moment,” Judge Decker said. “You have drawn the conclusion that it could not have been the gun? Isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The answer will be stricken. The prosecution will kindly refrain from leading this witness into a position where an opinion or a conclusion is offered as evidence. Now just state the facts.”

“Very well, I had this gun in my possession. I gave it to Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason fired the gun. Then he handed me back a gun, and asked me to deliver that gun to Stephanie Falkner. I did.”

“What did she do with the gun?”

“She placed it on a table in the living room in her apartment.”

“Then what did you do?”

“Then Mr. Mason and I left the apartment.”

“Then what happened?”

“As we started across the lobby, we saw two officers entering the apartment house.”

“Do you know those officers?”

“I do now. I didn’t then.”

“What were their names?”

“Sgt. Holcomb and Lt. Tragg.”

“Now the gun that you gave Mr. Mason had been in your possession, you say, all during the 7th of October of this year?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cross-examine,” Hamilton Burger said triumphantly to Perry Mason.

Mason arose to his feet, faced the witness. “You say that the gun you gave me had been in your possession all of the seventh of October?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had been out to lunch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take the gun with you?”

“No, sir.”

“Where was it?”

“In my desk drawer.”

“Was the desk locked?”

“No, sir.”

“You consider that that was being in your possession?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where were you on the evening of October seventh?”

“I was calling on a customer about a car deal.”

“Did you have the gun with you?”

“The gun was in my desk.”

“When did you take it out of your desk?”

“After the conference was over. I returned to my office, took some cash out of the safe, and slipped the gun into my pocket.”

“And then took it home?”

“Yes.”

“What time was it that you took it home?”

“About nine-thirty or ten o’clock, as nearly as I can judge.”

“You had recently been married?”

“Yes.”

“Did you keep the gun in your pocket after you got home?”

“No, sir. I took it upstairs and put it on the dresser.”

“What time did you go to bed that night?”

“About half an hour after I got home.”

“What did you do with the gun?”

“I left it on the dresser.”

“Was your office locked on the evening of the 7th of October?”

“Yes.”

“Who has a key to that office?”

“I have a key. My father has a key, my secretary has a key, and the janitor has a key.”

“Did your wife have a key?”

The witness hesitated, then said in a surly voice, “Yes, my wife had a key.”

“And what did you do when you got up the next morning?”

“I dressed and had breakfast, I shaved, I cleaned my teeth,” the witness all but shouted in his anger.

“And then what?”

“Then I went to my office.”

“And did you take the gun with you?”

The witness started to say something, then suddenly stopped, checked himself, thought for a moment, said, “I— As a matter of fact, I did not.”

“What did you do with that gun, the one we have been referring to as the Junior Gun?”

“I left it on the dresser in my house.”

“And then?” Mason asked.

“Then my wife telephoned and I asked her to bring the gun to me.”

“So,” Mason said, “you assume that the gun which you handed me was the same gun which you took home on the night of October seventh. Is that right?”

“There was only one gun. My wife took it off the dresser.”

“How do you know she took it off the dresser?”

“Well, why... of course, I wasn’t there.”

“Exactly,” Mason said. “So for all you know you may have handed me the murder weapon which could have been given you by your wife.”

The witness jumped from the stand.

“That’s a lie! I resent that!!!”

“Sit down,” Judge Decker said. “The witness will sit down and remain in order.”

Hamilton Burger said, “If the Court please, that last question was argumentative, it was not proper cross-examination, it contained a dastardly insinuation, it...”

“And as far as this witness knows,” Judge Decker said, “it is true. The witness may resent it if he likes, but Mr. Mason is representing a defendant in a murder case. The objection is overruled.”

“Now then, if the Court please,” Mason said, “I again move to strike out all of the evidence in this case concerning the identity of the gun which was handed me by the defendant because it is now apparent that the entire testimony was based on hearsay testimony.”

“I’ll connect it up! I’ll connect it up,” Hamilton Burger shouted.

“How will you connect it up?” Judge Decker asked.

“By putting the wife of this witness on the stand.”

Judge Decker shook his head. “The jurors will be permitted to consider the testimony of this witness insofar as it relates to what the witness did. But as far as the identity of the weapon which was handed Mr. Mason is concerned, it now appears that all testimony along that line was founded upon hearsay evidence and it will go out.”

Judge Decker turned to the discomfited District Attorney. “Now, Mr. Prosecutor,” he said, “if the Court might make a suggestion, it would seem that a bullet was fired from whatever weapon Mr. Mason had in his hand. That bullet certainly didn’t fade into thin air. You have a ballistic expert here who has testified, and test bullets have been fired from this gun which is Exhibit 30. It would certainly seem to the Court that there would be no great difficulty in demonstrating whether the weapon which was discharged either accidentally or otherwise by Mr. Perry Mason at that time was Exhibit 30, or was some other weapon.”

“We can’t prove it, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Why not?” Judge Decker asked.

“Because someone took that bullet as a souvenir.”

“Didn’t the police take it?” Judge Decker asked sharply.

“No, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Very well,” Judge Decker snapped, “you can’t penalize the defendant in this case because of the negligence of the police. The ruling of the Court will stand.”

“I have no further questions of this witness,” Mason said affably.

“You may leave the witness stand,” Judge Decker said. “That’s all, Mr. Garvin.”

Garvin, his face livid, passed close to Perry Mason on his way from the courtroom. “I’ll kill you for this,” he said under his breath as he walked past the lawyer.

“Just a moment, Your Honor,” Mason said. “I do have one more question of this witness. Will you please return to the stand, Mr. Garvin?”

Garvin hesitated.

“Return to the stand,” Judge Decker ordered.

Garvin retraced his steps to the stand.

“As you were just about to leave the courtroom, and as you walked past me just now,” Mason said, “you said something to me. What was it?”

“Oh, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said. “I object. This is not part of the case. Whatever the witness’s personal feelings toward Perry Mason may have been, they certainly can’t affect the prosecution. I will confess that I have been and am very exasperated over the manner in which this entire hocus-pocus was handled.”

“Your feelings don’t enter into it,” Judge Decker said. “You’re not on the stand. The defense has every right to prove any bias on the part of the witness.”

“What did you say?” Mason asked.

Garvin shouted, “I said I’ll kill you for this and, by God, I will!”

“That’s a threat?” Mason asked.

“That’s a promise,” Garvin shouted. “I’ll...”

“You will spend twenty-four hours in jail for contempt of Court,” Judge Decker snapped. “The courtroom is no place for threats such as you have just made. This witness has been repeatedly warned. I can realize that the witness is under an emotional strain, but the witness will spend twenty-four hours in jail for contempt of this Court. Mr. Bailiff, will you please take the witness into custody.”

The bailiff stepped forward, touched Garvin on the arm.

Garvin straightened, and for a moment it looked as though he would completely lose control of himself. Then with poor grace, he followed the bailiff from the courtroom.

“Call Eva Elliott,” Hamilton Burger said.

Eva Elliott was obviously prepared to take full advantage of the dramatic aspects of the occasion. She had the appearance of a woman who had spent hours at a beauty salon as she walked with slow, deliberate grace to the witness stand.

“What is your occupation?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“I am a model and an actress.”

“What was your occupation on October seventh of this year?”

“I was employed as a secretary by Homer Garvin, Sr.”

“How long had you been so employed?”

“Nearly a year.”

“Referring to the seventh of October, I will ask you if anything unusual happened in your office on that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“Now just a minute,” Judge Decker said. “There seems to be no objection by defense counsel, but it would seem that there should be some connection here. Anything which happened on the seventh of October outside of the presence of this defendant would have no bearing upon the case unless there is some evidence indicating that the defendant consented, acquiesced, or in some way profited therefrom or that it is part of the res gestae.”

Hamilton Burger said, “We want to show exactly what Mr. Garvin did on that day. We want to show that he knew of certain things and was in a position to communicate them to the defendant.”

Judge Decker looked at Perry Mason. “Is there any objection from the defense?”

“No objection,” Mason said smiling.

“Very well. Go ahead and answer the question,” Judge Decker said, but his eyes, sharply accusing, regarded Perry Mason’s bland countenance.

“Well, what happened?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“Mr. Garvin telephoned me from Las Vegas. He told me to wait at the office until he arrived.”

“What time did he arrive at the office?”

“Around eight forty-five, almost an hour prior to the time he said he would arrive. He was highly nervous and he refused to talk with me until after he vanished into his bathroom and took a shower.”

“Now just a moment,” Judge Decker said. “Mr. Garvin was called as a witness by the prosecution. Are you now attempting to impeach your own witness, Mr. Prosecutor?”

“The witness was a hostile witness,” Hamilton Burger said. “He is quite definitely affiliated with the defendant, as was disclosed by his testimony.”

“Nevertheless he was a witness called by the prosecution.”

“There is no objection on the part of the defense,” Mason said.

“Well, there should be,” Judge Decker snapped.

Mason merely inclined his head out of deference to the Court, and continued to sit there saying nothing.

“Very well,” Judge Decker said, controlling himself with a visible effort, “under the circumstances, there being no objection, the witness will be permitted to answer the question.”

“You’re certain of the time element?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“Absolutely certain,” she said. “I resented being treated as a chattel. I felt that anything Mr. Garvin wanted to say to me could have been said before he—”

“Just a minute,” Judge Decker interrupted. “Your thoughts are not important as far as this case is concerned. You are simply asked if you were sure of the time.”

“I am sure of the time.”

“Now did Mr. Garvin say anything to you about Mr. Casselman?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“Yes.”

“Who was present?”

“Just Mr. Garvin and myself.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘I have just talked with the man who I am certain killed Stephanie Falkner’s father. I have made an appointment to see him at eleven o’clock tonight.’ ”

“Then what did he do, if anything?”

“He took off his coat. I noticed the revolver which was in his shoulder holster. He took off this shoulder holster and placed it on his desk, and then went into the shower room to take a bath.”

“Can you identify the gun which was in that shoulder holster at that time?” Hamilton Burger asked.

“No, sir. I cannot. I am afraid of guns. I didn’t go near it. However, it looked exactly like the gun marked People’s Exhibit 30.”

“You may inquire,” Hamilton Burger said, turning to Perry Mason.

“Now what time was this?” Mason asked.

“When he arrived at the office, it was about a quarter to nine.”

“He told you he had already seen Casselman?”

“His exact words were ‘I have just talked with the man who I am certain killed Stephanie Falkner’s father. I have made an appointment to see him at eleven o’clock tonight.’ ”

“You remember his exact words?”

“I do.”

“But he didn’t mention Casselman by name?”

“He meant Casselman all right. He said...”

“I am not asking whom he meant. I am asking if he used Casselman’s name.”

“He did not use Casselman’s name.”

Mason said, “I have no further questions.”

Burger said, “I’ll call Mrs. Garvin, Jr., to the witness stand.”

Mrs. Garvin, a long-legged redhead, strode to the witness stand with every appearance of perfect composure. She smiled at the jurors, crossed her knees so as to display just the right amount of nylon, turned courteously and expectantly to the District Attorney.

Hamilton Burger said, “You are the wife of the witness Homer Garvin, Jr., who has just testified in this case. I show you a weapon marked People’s Exhibit Number 30, and ask you if you have ever seen that weapon before?”

“I can’t say,” she said smiling. “I have seen a gun which looked very much like that, but I am not an expert on firearms.”

“Where did you see that gun?”

“My husband left it on the dresser.”

“When?”

“On the night of the seventh of October.”

“At what time?”

“At approximately ten-thirty o’clock.”

“Did you see that gun on the eighth of October?”

“I did. Yes, sir.”

“And what did you do with reference to it, if anything?”

“I telephoned my husband at his office that he had left a gun on the dresser.”

“When did you telephone him?”

“When I got up and saw the gun there.”

“That was after your husband had gone to his office?”

She smiled and said, “I am a newlywed, Mr. Burger. I am trying to train my husband right. I let him get his own breakfast, and I sleep until about nine-thirty.”

The audience laughed. Judge Decker smiled, and the jurors grinned. The good nature of the witness and her complete poise were making a terrific impression.

“What did you do with reference to that gun?”

“Following my husband’s instructions, I took the gun to him at his office.”

“When?”

“At about ten-thirty on the morning of the eighth of October of this year.”

“Do you know whether that was the weapon we are referring to as the Junior Gun, or whether it was People’s Exhibit Number 30?”

“No, sir. I do not know. All I know is that I took the gun from the dresser to my husband. I can’t even swear that there was no discharged cartridge in the gun at that time. I do know that my husband took a gun from his pocket when he was undressing at about ten-thirty on the night of October seventh. I do know that a gun similar in every way to that gun was still on the dresser at ten o’clock in the morning. I am quite certain no one entered the bedroom after we retired. I do know I took the gun which was on the dresser to my husband at his office on the morning of October eighth at about ten-thirty o’clock. I know nothing more than that.”

“Cross-examine,” Hamilton Burger said.

Mason said, “Mrs. Garvin, were you home all during the evening of October seventh?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know your husband rang twice on the phone and received no answer?”

“He told me such was the case.”

“You want the jury to believe you were there but didn’t answer the phone?”

“I was sound asleep for about an hour, Mr. Mason.”

“Did you tell your husband that?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It was our honeymoon. My husband went chasing off on a business deal. He didn’t come home for dinner. I wanted him to realize I didn’t like such conduct. I let him know I was hurt and a little angry. If he had known I had gone to sleep while I was waiting for him to return he wouldn’t have been quite so concerned. I wanted him to be concerned. So I didn’t tell him I was asleep. I think I convinced him he must have dialed the wrong number.”

“Twice?”

“Twice.”

“Didn’t he require a lot of convincing?”

“Yes. A bride is in a position to convince her husband a little more easily than at any other time in her married life.”

“Did you lie to him?”

“Heavens, no! I suggested he had dialed the wrong number. H didn’t ask me if I had been asleep, so I didn’t tell him.”

Mason said, “Getting back to this gun, Mrs. Garvin. For all you know that gun may have had one discharged shell in it when you took it to your husband’s office.”

She smiled sweetly and said, “Then, after you fired a shell into my husband’s desk, there would have been two discharged shells, Mr. Mason.”

“Assuming,” Mason said, “that the gun which your husband gave me was the same gun which you had taken to his office.”

“A bride must always assume that her husband is truthful, Mr. Mason.”

“That’s all,” Mason said.

Burger’s next witness was Lorraine Kettle, a spare-framed widow of fifty-six who testified that she lived in an apartment on the ground floor of the Ambrose Apartments. At about eight forty-five on the evening of the seventh of October, she had seen a woman descending the service stairs leading from the back door of George Casselman’s apartment.

She had, she said, felt the woman might have been a burglar, so she had left her own apartment by the back entrance and had followed this woman at what she referred to as “a discreet distance.”

“Were you close enough to recognize her?” Burger asked.

“I was.”

“Who was she?”

“That woman sitting right there, the defendant, Stephanie Falkner.”

“What did she do?”

“She walked across to the sidewalk and then a man stopped his automobile and called to her. She got in that car. They drove away.”

“Who was that man, if you know?”

“Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer, sitting right there.”

“Cross-examine,” Burger snapped.

“How did you happen to be looking at the back stairs of the Casselman apartment?” Mason asked.

“I had seen young women go in there before. This time I was determined to complain.”

“You mean you had seen this defendant go in there before?”

“I can’t swear it was her.”

“You mean prior to October seventh?”

“Yes.”

“And had seen women leave by the back door?”

“I can’t swear I’d seen more than one woman.”

“You followed this woman who left on October seventh?”

“I followed the defendant, yes.”

“Why did you follow her?”

“I wanted to see who she was.”

“That was the only reason?”

“Yes.”

“You intended to follow her only far enough to get a good look at her?”

“Yes.”

“And then you were going to turn back?”

“Yes.”

“You were still following her when she got into this automobile?”

“Yes.”

“Then by your own testimony you hadn’t got a good look at her by that time. Is that right?”

“I saw her all right.”

“But you said you were going to turn back as soon as you had a good look at her, and you hadn’t turned back at that time.”

“Well... I’d like to have had a closer look but I’m pretty certain in my own mind.”

“Pretty certain?”

“Yes.”

“And if it hadn’t been for her getting in the automobile, you’d have followed her farther?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“That’s all,” Mason said, smiling.

“That’s our case, Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said.

Judge Decker frowned.

“The defense moves that the Court instruct the jury to return a verdict of not guilty,” Mason said. “The evidence at this time shows merely an inference, a suspicion.”

Judge Decker said, “The Court does not wish to comment on the evidence other than to say that at this time the motion is denied. After the defense has put on its case, the question of proof will be in the hands of the jury. At the present time and for the purpose of this motion, the Court must accept all of the evidence in its strongest possible light as far as the prosecution is concerned. The Court makes no comment on that evidence other than to state that the motion is denied.

“The Court notices that it is approaching the hour of noon adjournment. The Court will take a recess until two o’clock, at which time the defense can put on its case.

“During that time, the jurors will remember the admonition of the Court not to converse about the case or permit anyone to converse about it in your presence, and not to form or express any opinion until the case is finally submitted to you.

“Court is adjourned.”

Mason turned to Stephanie Falkner. “Stephanie,” he said, “You’ve got to go on the stand. You’ve got to deny that you killed George Casselman.”

She shook her head. “I am not going on the witness stand.”

“You have to,” Mason said. “They’ll convict you of murder if you don’t. In view of the testimony we have managed to bring in about your father’s death, the jurors won’t bring in a death penalty, but they will find you guilty. The fact that your shoe had blood on it, the fact that there was an imprint made by a heel plate similar to yours—”

“I am sorry, Mr. Mason, I am not going on the witness stand.”

“Why?” Mason asked. “Is there something in your past you’re afraid they’ll bring out? Have you been convicted of felony?”

She shook her head. “Have you?” Mason asked.

“I am not going to make any statement to you, Mr. Mason, other than the fact that I am not going on the witness stand. They can do whatever they want, but they are not going to put me on that witness stand.”

Mason said, “Stephanie, you can’t do this. I’m going to call you to the stand as a witness.”

“If you do,” she said, “I will simply refuse to budge from my chair.”

“All right,” Mason told her, “that’s better than nothing. It will at least give me something to argue about.”

“Time for you to go now, Miss Falkner,” the bailiff said.

Chapter Nineteen

Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake were eating a gloomy luncheon in the private dining room of a little restaurant near the courthouse.

They were half through when knuckles beat on the door in a rapid staccato, and a moment later Gertie, Perry Mason’s receptionist, was in the room, all excited.

“Mr. Mason, Mr. Mason!” she said. “Marie Barlow came to the office. My heavens! Is that woman immense! I think she’s going to have triplets at least. She shouldn’t be out. I’ve told her... I warned her...”

“Now wait a minute, Gertie,” Mason said. “Calm down. What’s this all about?”

“Marie was at Mr. Garvin’s office. She has been trying to get the files cleaned out, you know, and she looked in back of one of the file drawers of an old transfer case. Things in there are ten years old and older.”

“All right,” Mason said. “What did she find?”

Gertie lowered her voice. “Bloody towels that Mr. Garvin had left there the night of the murder.”

“What?”

“That’s right. Towels with dried, crusted blood on them. And they’re stamped with the name of the Ambrose Apartments. They had been hidden there, and Marie was afraid — well, she didn’t want anybody to know. She wanted me to find you and tell you and ask you what to do. She’s loyal to Mr. Garvin but she simply can’t sit still with anything like this on her mind and let Stephanie Falkner go to prison.

“She felt that perhaps she could wait and see how the case came out and then she could apparently find them for the first time and then you could move for a new trial on the ground of newly discovered evidence. But that wouldn’t be right. She’s all at sea, poor kid. She...”

Mason said, “All right, Gertie. Calm yourself. Now sit down and have some coffee.”

“Heavens! I’m so terribly upset, Mr. Mason. You can see it all, now. Homer Garvin really did kill George Casselman, and Stephanie Falkner knows it. Because she loves him she won’t go on the witness stand and...”

“Hey! Wait a minute! Wait a minute!” Mason said. “That crazy, mixed up, romantic mind of yours has given me an idea.”

Della Street looked warningly at Perry Mason. “She has lots of crazy ideas. Give her a button and she’ll sew a romantic vest on it.”

Perry Mason started pacing the floor. “Hang it!” he said. “It’s corny. It’s a grandstand. But it will catch the District Attorney entirely by surprise, and it’s the only thing I can do.”

Gertie turned to Paul Drake. “And your office says for you to call right away. It’s terribly important.”

Paul Drake called for a phone to be plugged into an extension socket. Mason continued rapidly pacing the floor.

“What,” Della Street asked, “do you have in mind?”

Mason said, “I’ll call Stephanie Falkner to the stand as a defense witness. She will refuse to go. I’ll argue with her. There’ll be a scene in court. I’ll order her to take the stand. She’ll refuse to take the stand. Then I’ll rest my case. I’ll go to the jury with a whirlwind campaign that Stephanie Falkner knows the man she loved killed George Casselman, that— Wait a minute! Wait a minute, Della! I’ve got it. I’ve got it!” Mason said snapping his fingers rapidly.

“Got what?” Della Street asked.

Mason laughed. “They can’t find the bullet I fired into the desk out at Junior’s office. I’ve got it, Della! I’ve got it! We’ll use those bloodstained towels.”

“Go on,” she said, his excitement communicating itself to her. “What are you going to do?”

Paul Drake, listening on the extension telephone which had been plugged in by the waiter, shoved his right index finger in his ear, said, “Don’t make so much racket, you guys. My office is trying to reach me on something important.”

Mason said, “Della, I’ll claim that Junior Garvin actually did take the gun we’ve referred to as the Junior Gun up to Stephanie Falkner’s apartment, that in the meantime Stephanie Falkner had noticed that the gun we’ve referred to as the Holster Gun, which was the gun Homer Garvin, Sr. had left with her, had an exploded shell in the chamber. That convinced her Homer Garvin, Sr. had killed Casselman. So instead of leaving the Junior Gun on the table where Homer Garvin, Jr. had put it, she grabbed that gun and concealed it in her apartment. Then she took the Holster Gun, the one which Homer Garvin, Sr. had given her the night before, the one with the exploded shell, and put it on the table in exactly the same position. And, by heaven, that’s exactly what she did do!

“After all, Della, we’re a gun short. Homer Garvin, Sr. gave Stephanie the Holster Gun on the night of the murder. Homer Garvin, Jr. gave her the Junior Gun at my suggestion the following day. The police searched her apartment but they only found one gun! As soon as they found that one gun, they quit searching.

“By George! I’ll mix this case all up with the missing gun, bring in Gertie’s romantic theory, make a whirlwind argument to the jury, demand that the Court order my client to take the stand... Hang it! I’ll throw on some courtroom fireworks that will make history!

“I’ll recall Sergeant Holcomb to the stand. I’ll show that when he found that one gun in Stephanie’s apartment, he had to rush to the ballistic department to have it tested. Then when he found it was the murder gun, he became so excited he never went back to search Stephanie’s apartment until the ninth.

“We can see exactly what Stephanie did. As soon as Junior went out of the door, she put the Holster Gun on the table, and ditched the Junior Gun. By the time the police got back to search her apartment the second time she’d had ample opportunity to put the Junior Gun where they’d never be able to find it.

“That’s the only logical explanation. She felt Garvin Senior had killed Casselman so she switched guns.

“I know Garvin saw Casselman about a quarter past eight. He must have shot Casselman in self-defense. Then when Stephanie went in at eight-thirty she found Casselman dead. She stepped in the blood— She went out the back way— Hang it! Della, she saw Garvin when he was driving away from the apartment house. She knew he’d seen Casselman. It all hangs together. Police bungled the investigative work, and Stephanie was the one who switched guns!

“Della, I’ve been asleep at the switch! Why hasn’t it occurred to me before? We’ve been running around in circles about that gun, and it has never occurred to anyone that the whole case lies in that missing gun that the police haven’t found.”

“Well,” Della Street said thoughtfully, “if you can put that across to the jury with all the fire of white hot enthusiasm you have now, Chief, you’ll get away with it.”

“Get away with it!” Mason exclaimed. “Why the worst I’ll get will be a hung jury. They won’t convict her with that... Gertie, bless your romantic, daydreaming, exaggerating hide! I’m going to buy you five pounds of candy as soon as I get out of court this afternoon.”

“Oh, Mr. Mason,” she said. “Not candy, please! Anything else. I... I’m dieting this week.”

“Five pounds of luscious chocolate creams!” Mason said. “A big, five-pound box of candy.”

“Well,” she sighed, “if you insist.”

Paul Drake hung up the phone, said, “Hey! Wait a minute, Perry! I’ve been covering print shops all over the city trying to find the print shop that printed those billheads for the Acme Electric and Plumbing Repair Company and the Eureka Associated Renovators. Last night I started my men checking Las Vegas. We found a printing establishment in Las Vegas that printed the billheads all right. They were done at the order of a man who paid for them in cash and unfortunately we can’t get any kind of a description of the man. It was done nearly a year ago. The people just can’t remember him.”

Mason snapped his fingers. “Never mind that, Paul, I’m going to put this crazy, romantic idea of Gertie’s across. After all, why couldn’t Stephanie have switched guns?”

Drake looked at his watch. “Well, I didn’t hear all of that stuff. I was too busy on the phone. But you’d better finish eating if you’re going to be in court at two o’clock.”

Mason turned to Gertie. “Where is Marie now, Gertie?”

“Waiting in your private office.”

“She has those towels with her?”

“Yes.”

“On your way!” Mason said. “Tell her to wrap those towels in a package and bring them to me in court. I’ll stall the case until she can get there.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t go into court with all that crowd, Mr. Mason. She’s immense. It’s going to happen any minute now.”

“Marie will do anything that we tell her,” Mason said. “Her appearance will make it all the better. The minute she walks in that courtroom, every eye will be on her. Tell her just to walk up to the table and hand me the package.”

“But how are you going to stall things along until she can get there?” Della Street asked.

“Get started,” Mason said to Gertie. “I’ll stall along somehow. I’ll recall the last witness for additional cross-examination. I’ll think of something. Get started!”

Gertie hurried out of the restaurant.

Mason sat down to his lunch but was too excited to eat. “What a grandstand!” he said. “What a perfectly cock-eyed theory! And the nice part of it is that the District Attorney can’t disprove it. After all, in a case of circumstantial evidence, the evidence has to be strong enough to exclude every reasonable hypothesis other than that of guilt.”

“Is that hypothesis reasonable?” Drake asked skeptically.

“By the time Perry Mason gets done putting gilt paint on it,” Della Street said, “it will look like fourteen carat gold!”

“Well,” Drake said looking at his watch, “don’t get so enthusiastic you forget to get to court at two o’clock. They say Judge Decker lowers the boom on guys who don’t show up.”

Mason nodded, left a bill which more than covered the luncheon check, started walking down the stairs to the street. “I’ll recall Eva Elliott, Della. If I recall anyone else, it will look as though I’m stalling for time. Eva Elliott is the only witness I really have anything on. I’ll come down on her like a thousand tons of bricks about those bills she paid.”

“But,” Della Street asked, “is that proper cross-examination?”

“It isn’t,” Mason said, “but by the time I’ve asked a dozen questions, the jury will get the idea. Judge Decker will be mad as a wet hen. Burger will be yelling. Then with all the argument and all the objections and all of the hullabaloo, I can stall things along until Marie can get there with those towels. Then I’ll spring this theory of the substituted guns on the jury and claim that it’s a reasonable hypothesis other than that of guilt. We’ll stampede that jury, Della. I’ll put Marie on the stand. It’ll be a circus!”

“You know,” Della Street said, “you really do have something with that theory. Stephanie Falkner could have felt Homer Garvin killed him. She could have switched guns, concealed the gun they are calling the Junior Gun and substituted the one they are calling the Holster Gun, which was the murder weapon, putting it in exactly the same place on the table. She must have.”

“Atta girl!” Mason said. “I’m getting you convinced, and you’re skeptical, Della. If I can convince you, it’s a certainty I can get at least one or two of the jurors looking at it my way.”

“Remember,” she warned, “Hamilton Burger has the closing argument.”

“If he argues that point,” Mason said, “he’s simply floundering around in a legal quicksand. There were two guns. His own evidence shows there were two guns. He’s never found that second gun. And since he hasn’t found it, he can’t refute the claim that Stephanie Falkner, desperately in love with Homer Garvin and trying to protect him, switched the guns and is willing to take the chance of being convicted in order to protect the man she loves.”

“Well,” Della Street said, “it’s going to be quite some show and— Hang it, Chief! She must have done it!”

“Of course, she did,” Mason said. “And that’s why she won’t go on the stand.”

Chapter Twenty

Judge Decker said, “It will be stipulated, I take it, gentlemen, that the jurors are all present, and the defendant in court.”

“So stipulated,” Mason said.

“The defense will proceed with its case.”

“If the Court please,” Mason said, “a certain matter has come to my attention which makes me wish to ask a few additional questions of one of the prosecution’s witnesses.”

“We object,” Hamilton Burger said. “The prosecution has rested its case, the evidence is closed as far as the prosecution is concerned.”

“Which witness?” Judge Decker asked Mason.

“Eva Elliott,” Mason said.

“The defense motion will be granted. The case is reopened. Eva Elliott will return to the stand for further cross-examination,” Judge Decker ruled.

Eva Elliott was called back to the stand. Mason, looking at his wristwatch, made a rapid calculation in regard to time.

Eva Elliott settled herself on the witness stand in the best tradition of the motion picture witnesses.

Mason said, “Just one or two more questions on cross-examination, Miss Elliott. Did you have any secretarial experience before you started working for Mr. Garvin?”

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Sustained,” Judge Decker said.

“It was part of your secretarial duties to make out vouchers in payment of bills which were incurred by the Garvin enterprises?”

“Yes.”

“You habitually typed out checks covering those bills and Mr. Garvin would sign those checks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What audit did you make of those bills?” Mason asked.

“Objected to as incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial, and not proper cross-examination,” Hamilton Burger said.

“Sustained,” Judge Decker snapped.

“Isn’t it a fact,” Mason asked, “that during the time you were with Mr. Garvin, you made out and got his signature on several checks amounting to several thousand dollars payable to the Acme Electric and Plumbing Repair Company of 1397 Chatham Street, and the Eureka Associated Renovators of 1397 Chatham Street, when, as a matter of fact, there were no such firms, and no orders had ever been given to those firms?”

“Just a moment! Just a moment!” Hamilton Burger shouted. “Your Honor, this is completely outside the issues of this case. It is not proper cross-examination. It is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

Judge Decker stroked his chin. “It would seem at first blush to be completely outside of the issues,” he said, “unless counsel can assure the Court that he intends to connect it up in that it might show bias.”

“My next question,” Mason said, “will be to question the witness whether the person who was sending in these bills was not engaged in a conspiracy with her, and that this witness is therefore prejudiced and biased against Mr. Garvin, her former employer, because of fear that her defaultation will be discovered.”

Judge Decker frowned. “I think I am going to permit the questions,” he said. “It’s rather a technical, legal point by which evidence which otherwise might well be extraneous is introduced into a case, but it needs only a glance at the face of this witness to tell that there is something here which is—”

Eva Elliott interrupted. “Your Honor, I swear to you that I didn’t get a penny of it. Mr. Casselman promised to—” She stopped.

“Go on,” Judge Decker said.

“I don’t think she should be permitted to volunteer a statement,” Hamilton Burger said. “This is a very technical point. It is a matter which is being dragged in by the ears for the purpose of discrediting a witness whose actual testimony is not open to doubt and who has testified to a fact which is uncontradicted.”

“It is uncontradicted as yet,” Judge Decker said, “but the defense has not put on its case. The witness will kindly compose herself. You mentioned the name of Mr. Casselman, Miss Elliott.”

Eva Elliott started to cry. “He promised to have me as his entertainer when the new motel went up. He lied. He couldn’t make good. He promised me a floor show...”

The door of the courtroom opened. Marie Barlow, quite evidently in the last stages of pregnancy, carrying a paper package in her hand, moved with slow, measured steps down the aisle of the courtroom.

Judge Decker looked at her. The jurors looked, and spectators turned to look.

Marie Barlow approached the mahogany rail which divided the counsel tables from the courtroom, extended the paper parcel toward Perry Mason.

Mason took the parcel in his hand, turned to the witness.

Slowly, dramatically, he tore the paper from the package and brought out the bloodstained towels.

“Eva,” he said, “after you shot George Casselman you wiped off some of the blood with towels and put those towels in your purse. You concealed them in the back of a filing cabinet in Mr. Garvin’s office. Then you substituted the Safe Gun, which you had used in the killing, for the Holster Gun which you took from Mr. Garvin’s holster while Mr. Garvin was in the shower. You put the Holster Gun back in the safe, didn’t you?”

Eva Elliott got to her feet, then sank back into the witness chair. “I did it in self-defense,” she sobbed. “When I found out about what he had done, I... I...”

“Now just a minute! Just a minute!” Hamilton Burger shouted. “This whole matter now has the appearance of being a well-rehearsed, carefully-staged attempt to stampede the jurors.”

Mason resumed his seat at the counsel table and grinned at Hamilton Burger.

“That’s all, Mr. Burger,” he said. “Rest your case, if you dare do so. The defense will put on no evidence.”

“You have no further questions of this witness?” Judge Decker asked incredulously.

“None, Your Honor,” Mason said.

Hamilton Burger sat indecisively for a minute. “I would like to ask the Court for a thirty-minute recess,” he said. “It may be that the prosecution will...”

“Do you have any questions of this witness?” Judge Decker asked.

“No, Your Honor.”

Judge Decker glanced at Perry Mason. “Does the defense oppose the motion for a thirty-minute recess made by the District Attorney?”

“The defense opposes the motion,” Mason said. “The defense does not intend to put on any evidence, and we would like to start the argument so that we can go to the jury this afternoon.”

“Very well,” Judge Decker said. “Proceed with your case, Mr. Prosecutor.”

“That is all of our case. We had already rested.”

“The defense does not intend to put on any evidence,” Perry Mason said.

Judge Decker looked down at Eva Elliott. “Despite the fact that it is highly irregular, the Court is not satisfied to have the matter disposed of in this manner. Miss Elliott, did you kill George Casselman?”

“I shot him,” she said. “I took the gun out of Mr. Garvin’s safe to use as a bluff, to frighten him. Then he tried to choke me. He was trying to break my neck. Everything was going black, and I heard something go boom... and then I could breathe again.”

“And with what gun did you try to bluff him?”

“The gun I had taken from Mr. Garvin’s safe earlier that afternoon.”

“And what did you do with that gun?”

“I put it in Mr. Garvin’s shoulder holster while he was taking his shower. Then I put the other gun which had been in his shoulder holster in his safe.”

Judge Decker gave the matter frowning consideration. “The Court is going to take a sixty-minute recess of its own motion,” he said. “In view of the fact that this witness is one called by the prosecution, it would seem that the prosecution is bound by her testimony.”

“Your Honor,” Hamilton Burger said, “we don’t want to be bound by the testimony of this witness until we can find out what happened during the noon hour, what inducements were made to this witness, what theatrical flimflam was arranged with those so-called bloodstained towels.”

“The Court is not interested in your feelings in the matter,” Judge Decker said. “The Court is interested in administering justice. This is a most peculiar situation. The Court will take an adjournment for one hour. At the end of that time, the Court will again entertain a motion to instruct the jury to return a verdict of acquittal in the case pending against this defendant.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Perry Mason, Della Street, Homer Garvin, Paul Drake, and Stephanie Falkner sat grouped about the table in Mason’s law library. A bottle of whisky, a siphon of soda, a big jar of ice cubes and glasses were on the table.

Mason said to Stephanie Falkner, “You should have told me.”

“I wasn’t going to tell anyone, Mr. Mason. I saw Homer as he drove away from George Casselman’s apartment house. He didn’t see me. Later on, when he gave me that gun and I found there was an exploded cartridge in it, I felt I knew what had happened. Then when you arranged to have Junior give me a gun so that in case the police asked me to produce the gun they are calling the Holster Gun, the one that had been given me by Homer Garvin, I could give them the Junior Gun which his son had given me. I thought I would be smart in substituting guns, so that the police would find the murder weapon just where Junior would be forced to testify he had left the Junior Gun which he had given me. The Junior Gun I snatched from the table as soon as you folks left my apartment, and dropped it into a sack of flour in the kitchen. Later on I took it out of the flour sack, walked over to an adjacent lot where they were building a house and pushed the gun down into some wet cement that had just been poured into forms.”

Homer Garvin said, “I didn’t know you had seen me there at that apartment house, Stephanie. I went up to tell Casselman that I wanted a showdown. He told me he had an important appointment in ten minutes and that he simply couldn’t see me. Eva Elliott must have been in there at the time. I told him I’d be back at eleven o’clock, and that I was going to call for a showdown.”

Mason said, “Eva Elliott must have been the one who telephoned while I was in conference with Casselman, and said she was coming right up. It was that which disturbed him. He asked for a two-minute delay. That shows she was phoning from a nearby phone. I went out the front door and watched the front of the apartment house, but didn’t see anyone come in. The fact that I knew someone was coming in, but didn’t see anyone arrive, should have warned me that the person who entered the apartment must have gone up by the back stairs.”

“Well, we know the whole story now,” Garvin said. “She went in the back door. Casselman had persuaded her to put through checks on phony bills. He had promised her top billing in a floor show in the new motel. He’d promised her television contracts. She was willing to do anything to get in that floor show as the top actress. She wasn’t the victim of her lack of secretarial experience. She was deliberately getting money for Casselman. Then she found out, somehow, he was double-crossing her.”

Stephanie said, “A woman held the outer door open for me. I went up to Casselman’s apartment and rang the bell. No one answered. I tried the knob of the door. The door was unlocked. I opened it and went in. George Casselman was lying there dead. I... I didn’t know what to do. I suddenly realized I’d stepped in the pool of blood and then I became panic-stricken. I went into the bathroom and tried to wash the blood off my shoe. I had knelt over him to see if he was dead, and there was blood on my hands. I washed and washed and washed, and then I went down the back stairs.

“Because I felt certain Homer had killed him, I said nothing. I felt that it wasn’t my duty to turn State’s evidence.”

Homer Garvin looked at her thoughtfully. “And you’d have taken a chance on being convicted of first-degree murder rather than implicate me?”

She said, “You should talk! After you thought I had committed the murder, you deliberately tried to put your neck in the noose so as to save mine.”

Suddenly both of them started laughing.

“All right,” Garvin said. “We’ll discuss that later. In the meantime, Mason, I have something to say about your fee.”

Garvin took out his checkbook, signed his name to a blank check, slid it across the table to Perry Mason, and said, “You fill it out and fill it out for plenty.”

The phone rang. Della Street answered it, said, “Just a moment.”

She turned to Mason. “Junior’s on the line,” she said. “He says he’s sorry he lost his temper. He says he’ll take six hundred dollars off that sports job you were driving when you took him to see Stephanie.”

Mason grinned, picked up the blank check Garvin had signed.

“Tell him to call later, Della. I think we may make a deal.”

Content

Erle Stanley Gardner
The Case of the Long-Legged Models

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One