Chapter 1

As the first big drops of rain splashed to the sidewalk, Perry Mason cupped his hand under Della Street’s elbow and said, “We can make it to the department store — if we run.” She nodded, held up her skirt with her left hand, and ran lightly, her weight forward on the balls of her feet, her stride long and easy, with lots of knee action. Perry Mason, long-legged as he was, did not have to hold back on her account.

The first forerunners of the shower had caught them on a side street where there were no protecting awnings. By the time they reached the corner, the eaves were sluicing rain. The portico of the department store was twenty yards from the corner. They sprinted for it, while raindrops, pelting like liquid bullets, hit the sidewalk so hard they seemed to rebound before exploding into mushrooms of water. Mason guided Della Street straight through the revolving door. “Come on,” he said, “this rain’s good for half an hour, and there’s a restaurant on the top floor where we can tea and talk.”

Her laughing eyes regarded him from under long lashes in sidelong appraisal. “I didn’t think I’d ever get you into a department store tea room, Chief.”

Mason regarded the drops of water on the brim of his straw hat. “It’s Fate, Della,” he laughed. “And remember, I’m not going to squire you around while you shop. We get in the elevator and go to the top floor. I pay no attention when the attendant says, ‘Second Floor... Women’s fur coats and lingerie, third floor, diamonds, pearl necklaces and gold earrings, fourth floor, wrist watches, pendants, and...’ ”

“How about the fifth floor?” she interrupted. “Flowers, candies and books. You might stop there. Can’t you give a working girl a break?”

“Not a chance,” he told her. “Straight up to the sixth floor — tea, biscuits, baked ham and pie.”

They crowded into the elevator. The cage moved slowly upward, stopping at each floor while the girl called out the various departments in a tired monotone. “We forgot children’s toys on the fifth,” Della Street pointed out.

Mason’s eyes were wistful. “Some day, Della,” he said, “when I’ve won a big case, I’m going to get a railroad track with stations, tunnels, block signals and side tracks. I’ll lay out an elaborate electric railway through my private office, out into the law library, and...” He broke off as she tittered. “Matter?”

“I was just thinking of Jackson in the law library,” she said, “looking up some legal point in beetle-browed concentration, and your electric railroad train rattling and swaying through the door, heading for the library table.”

He chuckled, guided her to a table in the tea room, looked out at the sheeted rain which lashed against the windows. “Jackson,” he said, “would hardly appreciate the humor of the situation. I doubt if he ever had any boyhood.”

“Perhaps,” she ventured, “he was a child in another incarnation.” She picked up the menu. “Well, Mr. Mason, since you’re buying the lunch, I’m going to make it my heavy meal.”

“I thought you were going on a diet,” he said, with mock concern.

“I am,” she admitted, “I’m a hundred and twelve. I want to get back to a hundred and nine.”

“Dry whole wheat toast,” he suggested, “and tea without sugar, would...”

“That’ll be fine for tonight,” she retorted, “but as a working girl, I know when I’m getting the breaks. I’ll have cream of tomato soup, avocado and grapefruit salad, a filet mignon, artichokes, shoestring potatoes, and plum pudding with brandy sauce.”

Mason threw up his hands. “There go my profits on the last murder case. I’ll have one slice of melba toast, cut very thin, and a small glass of water.” But, when he glanced up to see the waitress hovering at his elbow, he said firmly, “‘Two cream of tomato soups, two avocado and grapefruit salads, two filet mignons, medium rare, two hot artichokes, two shoestring potatoes, and two plum puddings with brandy sauce.’ ”

“Chief!” Della Street exclaimed. “I was only kidding!”

“You should never kid at mealtime,” he told her sternly.

“But I can’t eat all that.”

“This,” he said, “is poetic justice for lying to your employer.” Then, to the waitress, “Go ahead and start bringing it on. Don’t listen to any protests.”

The waitress smiled and departed. Della Street said, “Now I suppose I’ll have to live on bread and water for a week to keep from putting on weight... Don’t you like to watch people in a place like this, Chief?”

He nodded, his steady, tolerant eyes moving from table to table, appraising the occupants in swift scrutiny.

“Tell me, Chief,” she said, “you’ve seen human nature in the raw. You’ve seen people torn and twisted by emotions which have ripped aside all of the hypocrisy and pretense of everyday life... Doesn’t it make you frightfully cynical?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “People have their strong points and their weak points. The true philosopher sees them as they are, and is never disappointed, because he doesn’t expect too much. The cynic is one who starts out with a false pattern and becomes disappointed because people don’t conform to that pattern. Most of the little chiseling practices come from trying to cope with our economic conventions. When it comes right down to fundamentals, people are fairly dependable. The neighbor who would cheat you out of a pound of sugar, would risk her life to save you from drowning.”

Della Street thought that over, then said, “There’s a lot of difference in people. Look at that aggressive woman over there at the left, bullying the poor waitress... and contrast her with that white-haired woman who’s standing over there by the window — the one who has such a benign, motherly look. She’s so placid, so homey, so...”

Mason said, “As it happens, Della, the woman’s a shoplifter.”

“What!” she exclaimed.

“And,” Mason went on, “the man who’s standing over by the cashier’s desk, apparently trying to cash a check, is a store detective who’s followed her in here.”

“How do you know she’s a shoplifter, Chief?”

“Notice the way she keeps her left arm rigidly at her side. She’s holding something under that long tweed coat. I happen to know the store detective. I was in court once when he was testifying on a case... Notice the way the woman’s turned her head. I believe she knows she’s being followed.”

“Will she sit down and start eating?” Della asked, her eyes wide with interest.

“Probably not. She must have quite a bit of stuff concealed under her coat. It would be difficult to eat without... There she goes into the restroom.”

“Now what?” Della Street asked.

“If she’s wise she’s being followed,” Mason said, “she’ll probably ditch the stuff in the restroom... There’s the store detective going over to talk with the colored maid. They’ll try to handle the thing very quietly.”

“I can’t imagine her being a shoplifter,” Della Street protested. “That white hair, the high forehead, the calm, steady eyes, and the sensitive mouth... it just is impossible.”

Mason said thoughtfully, “My experience has taught me that when a person with an honest face has stolen goods in his possession, the face is usually a mask, carefully cultivated as a stock in trade.”

Their waitress brought them steaming, fragrant soup. The maid appeared in the door of the restroom and nodded briefly to the store detective. A moment later, the white-haired woman emerged and walked directly to an adjoining table, which had been set for two, with bread, butter, water glasses, knives and forks in place. She calmly seated herself.

Mason heard an exclamation at his elbow. “Oh, there you are, Aunt Sarah. I lost you.” The lawyer looked up, to see a tallish young woman who moved with quick decision. As he glimpsed her moist gray eyes, his courtroom experience told him there was fear in her voice. The white-haired woman’s voice, on the other hand, showed no fear, only calm poise. “I lost you somewhere in the crowd, Ginny, so I decided I’d come up and have a cup of tea. At my age, I’ve found it never pays to worry. I knew you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, calling a cab and going home.”

“But I didn’t know about you,” the girl said, seating herself with a nervous laugh, high-pitched with apprehension. “I wasn’t certain you were all right, Aunt Sarah.”

“I’m always all right, Ginny. Never worry about me. Always remember that no matter what happens, I’ll take care of myself, and...”

The store detective interposed his bulk between Mason’s eyes and the face of the white-haired woman. “I’m very sorry, Madam,” he said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to step into the office.”

Mason heard a quick gasp of consternation from the girl, but the woman’s voice remained calmly placid. “I have no intention of stepping into the office, young man. I’m about to eat lunch. If anyone in the office wishes to see me, he can come here.”

“I’m trying,” the detective said with dignity, “to avoid making a scene.”

Mason pushed back his soup, to watch with frank interest, as the detective stepped behind the woman’s chair. She calmly broke off a piece of bread, buttered it, unhurriedly glanced up over her shoulder and said, “Don’t try to avoid making a scene on my account, young man. Go right ahead.”

“You’re making it difficult for me,” he said.

“Indeed!” she muttered.

“Aunt Sarah,” the girl pleaded, “don’t you think...”

“I don’t think I’m going to budge until I’ve had my lunch,” Aunt Sarah interrupted. “They say the cream of tomato soup here is very nice. I believe I’ll try some and...”

“I’m sorry,” the detective interposed, “but unless you accompany me, Madam, it will be necessary for me to make a public arrest.”

“Arrest?” she inquired, pausing with the buttered fragment of bread half way to her lips. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m placing you under arrest for shoplifting,” the man said.

The woman conveyed the bread to her mouth, chewed it calmly, nodding to herself as though mentally digesting the possibilities of the situation. “How very amusing,” she said, picking up her water glass.

The irritation in the detective’s voice made it distinctly audible to persons sitting within a radius of three tables. “I’ve been following you,” he charged, “watching you put things under your coat.” And, as the woman made as though to open her coat, he added quickly, “Of course I know you haven’t them now. You left them in the restroom.” He turned and nodded to the maid, who vanished through the curtained doorway.

“I don’t think,” the woman said reminiscently, as though trying to recall an eventful past, “that I’ve ever been arrested for shoplifting... No, I’m quite certain I haven’t.”

“Aunty!” the girl exclaimed. “The man’s not joking, he’s serious... He’s...” The maid emerged from the restroom carrying an armful of clothing. There were silk stockings draped over her arm, bits of silk lingerie, a silk blouse, a scarf and a pair of lounging pajamas.

The girl opened her purse, pulled out a checkbook. “My aunt,” she explained rapidly, “is rather eccentric. She does her shopping at times in an unusual manner. I’m afraid perhaps she’s a little absent-minded. If you’ll kindly tell me the exact amount and will be so good as to have the purchases wrapped, I’ll...”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” the detective interrupted. “You can’t get away with that stuff, and you know it. That’s an old gag, pulled by every shoplifter in the country. When you get caught red-handed with the goods, you’re ‘ shopping.’ We have another name for it. We call it stealing! ”

Other diners, attracted by the scene, were staring. The girl’s face flushed with mortification. But the white-haired woman seemed concerned only with the menu. “I think,” she said, “I’ll have some of the chicken croquettes.”

“Madam” the detective exclaimed, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you’re under arrest!”

“Indeed!” she said, looking at him over the top of her glasses. “You’re an employee of this store, young man?”

“I am. I’m a detective. I’m a duly authorized deputy...”

“Then, if you’re an employee,” she said, “I’m going to ask you to kindly get me a waitress. After all, I want lunch, not dinner.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. “You’re under arrest!” he repeated. “Are you going to come down to the office quietly, or will I have to carry you?”

“Aunty! Please go,” the girl pleaded. “We can straighten this up somehow. We...”

“I haven’t the slightest intention of going.”

The detective braced himself. Mason’s chair scraped back, as the lawyer got to his feet, to tower above the chunky detective. His hand clapped down on the man’s shoulder with explosive force. “Just... a... minute,” he said. The detective whirled, his face dark with rage.

“You may be a detective,” Mason told him, “but you know very little about law. In the first place, that’s not the proper way to make an arrest. In the second place, you evidently haven’t a warrant, nor has any crime been committed in your presence. In the third place, if you knew any law, you’d realize that you can’t make a charge of shoplifting stick until a person attempts to remove the goods from the premises. Anyone can pick up goods in a department store and carry ‘em all over the place, and you can’t do a thing about it until that person walks out to the sidewalk.”

“Who the hell are you?” the detective asked. “An accomplice?”

“I’m a lawyer. The name’s Perry Mason,” the lawyer told him, “in case that means anything to you.”

It was instantly apparent from the expression on the man’s face that it meant a great deal to him. “What’s more,” Mason went on, “you’re laying your store wide open to a damage suit. Try using force on this woman and you’ll be a very much sadder and perhaps a wiser individual.”

The young woman again indicated her checkbook. “I’m quite willing to pay for anything Aunt Sarah has taken,” she said.

The detective was undecided. His eyes showed surly rage. “I’ve a notion to drag you both down to the office,” he said.

Mason’s voice was quiet. “Put a hand on that woman, and I’ll advise her to sue the store for twenty thousand dollars’ damages. Put a hand on me, my burly friend, and I’ll break your damn neck.”

An excited assistant manager, who had evidently been summoned by the telephone, bustled into the room. “What’s happening here, Hawkins?” he asked.

The detective indicated the woman. “I caught this woman red-handed,” he said, “shoplifting. I’ve been following her around for half an hour. Look at the pile of stuff she had under her clothes. She must have had a hunch I was on the job, because she ditched the take in the restroom.”

“Evidently,” Mason said, “your detective is somewhat green at the game.”

“And who the devil are you?” the manager demanded.

Mason presented his card. The manager glanced at the card, then his head jerked back and up, as though pulled with a string. “Come down to the office, Hawkins,” he said, “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.”

“I tell you there hasn’t been any mistake,” Hawkins said. “I’ve been following her...”

“I said come down to the office.”

Once more the girl indicated her open checkbook. “I’ve repeatedly tried to tell this man,” she said, “that my aunt has merely been shopping. If you’ll be so good as to give me the total amount of her purchases, I’ll gladly make out a check.”

The manager glanced from the placid face of the unperturbed woman to the girl, then to the urbane lawyer. He took a deep breath, accepted defeat, and bowed as he said, “I’ll have these purchases wrapped. Shall we deliver them, Madam, or would you prefer to take them with you?”

“Just wrap them and bring them here,” the white-haired woman said, “and if you’re the manager, will you kindly tell one of the waitresses to give this table some attention... Ah, there you are, my dear. I think we’ll have two cream of tomato soups, and I want chicken croquettes. What would you like, Ginny?”

The young woman, her cheeks crimson, shook her head and said, “I can’t eat a thing, Aunt Sarah.”

“Nonsense, Ginny! You mustn’t let yourself be disturbed by little things. The man was clearly in error. He’s admitted his fault.” She raised her eyes to Perry Mason. “And I believe, young man, I’m somewhat obligated to you. I’ll take one of your cards, if you don’t mind.”

Mason smiled, glanced at Della Street as he passed over one of his cards. “I wonder,” he said, “if you wouldn’t care to join us at our table. We could make a foursome. And,” he added, lowering his voice, and glancing at the young woman, “you might feel less conspicuous.”

“We’ll be glad to,” the white-haired woman said, pushing back her chair. “Permit me to introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Sarah Breel. This is Miss Virginia Trent, my niece. You’re Perry Mason, the lawyer. I’ve read of you, Mr. Mason. I’m very glad to meet you.”

“Miss Della Street, my secretary,” Mason introduced.

Della extended her hand. “So glad to meet you,” she said.

Mason seated the women, apparently entirely oblivious of the curious eyes at surrounding tables. “Go right ahead with your soup,” Mrs. Breel said. “Don’t let it get cold. We’ll catch up with you on the rest of the lunch.”

“I can’t eat a thing,” Virginia Trent said.

“Nonsense, Ginny. Go ahead and relax.”

“Really,” Mason urged, “you’ll find the cream of tomato soup very delicious. It’ll make you forget — the rain.”

She glanced at Mason’s steaming cup of soup, met Della Street’s friendly eyes, and said dubiously, “Food should never be eaten when one’s upset.”

“Don’t be upset, then,” the aunt said.

“Two more cream of tomato soups,” Mason told the waitress. “Rush them up right away, please. And I believe there’s one order of chicken croquettes and...”

“Make it two orders,” Mrs. Breel said. “Ginny likes chicken croquettes. And two pots of tea, my dear, with lemon. And make the tea rather strong.”

She settled back in the chair with a sigh of complete satisfaction. “I always like to eat here,” she said, “they have such wonderful cooking. And, so far, the service has been excellent. This is the only time I’ve had occasion to make any complaint.”

Mason’s eyes twinkled to those of Della Street, then back to Mrs. Breel. “It is,” he said, “a shame that you were annoyed.”

“Oh, I wasn’t annoyed in the least,” Mrs. Breel remarked casually. “My niece, unfortunately, is sensitive about what people think. Perhaps super-sensitive. Personally, I don’t give a hoot. I live my life the way I want, and... Ah, here comes the man with the things. Just put the packages on that chair, young man.”

“How much does it amount to?” Virginia asked.

“Thirty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents, with the tax,” the assistant manager said with dignity.

Virginia wrote out a check. As she entered the figures on the stub and performed the subtraction, Mason’s eyes, actuated by a curiosity which was stronger than the conventions, glanced swiftly at the figures. He saw that after the check had been paid there was a balance of but twenty-two dollars and fifteen cents in account.

Virginia Trent handed the manager the check.

“If you’ll kindly step down to the office,” he said, “and fill out a credit card.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Breel interposed. “We’ll be right here, eating lunch for the next half hour. The bank is in the next block. You can send over and have the check cashed... I hope you’ve wrapped the bundle securely, young man. It’s raining outside.”

The manager said suavely, “I believe you’ll find the wrapping is quite satisfactory.” He glanced at Perry Mason. “I notice,” he said with dignity, “that you have consolidated your party, Mr. Mason. May I inquire if there’s any intention on your part to file a suit against the store?”

Mrs. Breel answered the question. “No,” she said magnanimously, “I’m quite willing to let bygones be bygones. I think you were frightfully rude... Here comes the waitress with my soup. If you’ll kindly step back so she can serve me... Thank you.”

The manager bowed affably. There was the hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “If you find any of these things not entirely satisfactory, Mrs. Breel,” he said, “remember we’ll be glad to exchange them. Perhaps your shopping was somewhat hurried, and you didn’t get just the exact sizes required...”

“Oh, but I did,” Mrs. Breel interrupted. “I was very careful to get just the sizes I wanted. I’m not exactly a young woman, but I’m not absent-minded. I’m quite certain the merchandise will be satisfactory. I picked the very best that was on display.”

The manager bowed and withdrew. Craning necks followed his progress across the lunch room, then heads came together as the hiss of sibilant whispers filled the room.

Mrs. Breel, apparently utterly oblivious of the interest she had aroused, smacked her lips over the soup and said to her niece, “There, dear, just taste that and see how nice it is. I told you they had wonderful cooking here.”

Virginia Trent showed no enthusiasm over her food, but Mrs. Breel ate her way through the menu with placid enjoyment. No one made any further mention of the shoplifting episode. There were no explanations offered on the one hand, nor, on the other, did Mason ask for any. He threw himself into the part of acting the perfect host, and Della Street, trained by years of experience to read his moods, followed his lead. Gradually, the air of restraint which had settled about the table disappeared. Mrs. Breel’s perfect poise, Mason’s urbane hospitality and Della Street’s sympathetic understanding conspired to make Virginia Trent lose her consciousness of the gaping interest displayed by the curious diners at adjoining tables.

Mason lingered over his demi-tasse, evidently reluctant to terminate the meeting. Finally, however, he summoned the waitress, announcing that a one-thirty appointment necessitated his departure. In the leave-taking, Virginia Trent showed once more a consciousness of the peculiar circumstances which had drawn them together, but none of this was apparent in her aunt’s demeanor.

Back on the street, where patches of blue sky showed between drifting clouds, Mason turned to Della Street. “That,” he announced, “was a break!”

“How did you size them up, Chief?”

“I couldn’t,” Mason admitted. “And, consequently, enjoyed myself immensely.”

“Do you suppose she’s a professional shoplifter?”

“I doubt it. The girl’s embarrassment was too natural.”

“Then why did she do it, Chief — I mean the aunt?”

Mason said, “Now you’ve got me, Della. She’s hardly the criminal type. Back of her somewhere is an interesting background of philosophy... We’ll chalk it up as one of life’s adventures, an isolated chapter which we can’t understand without knowing what has gone before, yet interesting, nevertheless. It’s like picking up a magazine, getting interested in a serial installment, and reading about characters doing things which don’t make sense because we don’t know what’s gone before, yet getting interested in the people we’re reading about. That’s the way it is in this case. We don’t know what’s gone before and we don’t know what’s to follow.”

“A while ago you asked me if learning to know people didn’t make me cynical and I told you it didn’t. The real handicap about knowing people too well is that it takes all the thrill out of life. People become hopelessly drab and monotonous as they become more obvious. Nothing is new. The people one meets become a procession of mediocrities hurrying down life’s pathway on petty errands. But every so often life makes amends by tossing out an experience which can’t be classified. So let’s chalk this up as one of life’s interesting interludes and let it go at that.”

Chapter 2

But Perry Mason was wrong in supposing that he was not to know of that which followed. He had disposed of his appointment and was studying a recent case dealing with the admissibility of evidence obtained through wire tapping, when Della Street opened the door from her secretarial office and said, “Miss Trent is in the outer office, asking if she can see you without an appointment.”

“Virginia?” Mason asked. She nodded. “Didn’t say what she wanted, Della?”

“No.”

“And she’s alone?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Mason said, “bring her in and let’s get it over with.”

He cleared a space on his desk by the simple expedient of pushing back the law books. He was lighting a cigarette when Della Street escorted Virginia Trent into the office. At his first meeting, he had devoted his attention to the aunt. Now he studied the niece thoughtfully as she walked across to seat herself in the big, black leather chair near the left-hand corner of his desk. She was, he saw, a tall, thin girl, with a mouth which showed too much determination and too little lipstick, large, moist gray eyes, clothes which were cut along severe lines, and the slender, slightly nervous hands of one who is very sensitive. “Was there,” Mason asked, “something I could do for you?” and his voice indicated that he had quite definitely ceased to be the genial host and had become the busy lawyer.

She nodded and said, “It’s about my Aunt Sarah.”

“Yes?” Mason asked.

“You saw what happened at lunch. Aunt Sarah didn’t fool me, and I’m quite certain she didn’t fool you. She was shoplifting.”

“Why shoplifting?” Mason asked.

“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Did she need the things?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t she have enough money to buy what she wants?”

“Of course she does.”

Mason settled back in his chair. His eyes showed interest. “Go ahead,” he said, “I’m listening — but strip it down to essentials.”

Virginia Trent’s gloved hands smoothed the pleats of her gray skirt. She raised her eyes and said, “I’ll have to begin at the beginning and tell you the whole thing. My aunt,” she went on, “is a widow. Her husband died years ago. My uncle, George Trent, never married. He’s a gem expert, buying and selling stones on commission, cutting and polishing, and redesigning. He has an office and a shop in a loft building at nine thirteen South Marsh Street. He keeps from two to four gem cutters and polishers constantly employed... Tell me, Mr. Mason, are you a student of psychology?”

“Practical psychology,” the lawyer said. “I don’t go much on theory.”

“You have to interpret facts in terms of theory in order to understand them,” she said didactically.

Mason grinned. “It’s been my experience that you have to interpret theories in terms of facts in order to understand theories. However, go ahead. What were you going to say?”

“It’s about Uncle George,” she said. “His father died when he was just a boy. George had to take on the support of the family. He did it wonderfully well, but he never had any boyhood. He never had a chance to play and never...”

“What does that have to do with your aunt?” Mason asked.

“I’m coming to it,” she said. “What I was trying to explain is that Uncle George has an innate repression, a subconscious rebellion against environment which...”

“Which does what?” Mason asked, as she hesitated.

“Makes him get drunk,” she said.

“All right, go ahead,” the lawyer told her. “Never mind the verbal embellishments. He gets drunk. So what?”

“He gets drunk,” she said, “periodically. That’s why I know it’s a subconscious rebellion against a routine environment which...” She checked herself as she saw the lawyer’s upraised hand, and hurried on to say, “Anyway, what I’m getting at is that he’ll be perfectly steady for several months at a time. Then something will happen and he’ll go on one of his benders. Poor Uncle George, he’s so methodical in everything that he’s even methodical about that. When he feels one of these spells coming on, he carefully locks up everything in the office vault, to which my aunt has the combination. Then he takes the ignition keys out of his car, puts them in a stamped envelope, addresses them to himself, puts the keys in the mail and then goes ahead and gets drunk. While he’s drinking, he gambles. Three days to a week later, he’ll show up, completely broke, his eyes bloodshot, usually he’s unshaven, and his clothes are a sight.”

“Then what does your aunt do?” Mason asked, with interest.

“Aunt Sarah takes it right in her stride,” she said. “There’s never a word of remonstrance. She bundles him off to a Turkish bath, takes his clothes, has them cleaned and pressed, sends another suit to the Turkish bath, and, when he’s thoroughly sobered and quite respectable, lets him go back to his office. In the meantime, Aunt Sarah has the combination to the vault. She gets out the stones the men are to work on, and sees that they keep busy.”

“Rather a nice arrangement all around, I’d say,” Mason observed. “They make a nice team.”

“Yes,” she said, “but you don’t realize what all of this is doing to Aunt Sarah. The strain on her nervous system must be terrific. All the more so, because she never gives any external evidences of it.’

“Bosh!” Mason said. “Your Aunt Sarah is a woman who’s looked the world in the face and isn’t afraid of it. She knows her way around, and doesn’t quarrel with life. I venture to say she doesn’t have a nerve in her body.”

“She gives one that impression,” Virginia Trent said austerely, “but I feel quite certain, Mr. Mason, that if we are to account for this peculiar shoplifting complex, we will find that it’s due to a reflex subconscious disturbance.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said. “How long’s this shoplifting been going on?”

“Today was the first intimation I’ve had.”

“And what explanation did your aunt make?” Mason asked, his voice showing his interest.

“That’s just it. She didn’t make any. She managed to avoid me almost as soon as we left the department store. I don’t know where she’s gone. I’m afraid she’s still emotionally upset. I’m afraid her psychic balance has been affected by...”

“In other words, you mean you’re afraid she’s shoplifting again, is that it?”

“Yes.”

“And you think she’s been arrested, and want me to find out. Is that what you’re leading up to?”

“No,” she said, “not exactly.”

“Well,” Mason told her, “let’s make it exact. Just what do you want?”

She shifted her eyes uneasily, then took a deep breath and said, “Very well, Mr. Mason, specifically, I’m afraid that Aunt Sarah has stolen the Bedford diamonds.”

The lawyer leaned forward. “Tell me about the Bedford diamonds.”

“They’re some diamonds belonging to a Mrs. Bedford. They were left with Uncle George to be completely redesigned, placed in more modern settings and brought up to date. There was some recutting to be done. I don’t know all of the details of the order.”

“Am I to gather that your Uncle George is on one of his sprees?” Mason asked.

“Yes. He didn’t come home Saturday night. We knew what that meant. Of course, there was no mail delivery on Sunday, but Aunt Sarah went up to the office and got things all ready for Monday morning.”

“Opened the vault?” Mason asked.

“I believe so, yes. Then, this morning, she went up to the office early, got in touch with the foreman, and they planned out the day’s work. Sure enough, the keys to Uncle George’s car were in the first mail delivery. But there was nothing to indicate where the car was. It wasn’t until shortly before noon, the traffic department rang up to tell us it was parked in a thirty-minute zone... You see, it had been left there Saturday night after the parking restrictions had been removed, and then, of course, Sunday didn’t count. But this morning, the traffic tickets started piling up on the car.”

“So you went and moved the car?” Mason asked.

“Yes. Aunty and I went together. We picked up the parking tickets, and moved the car into a garage. Aunt Sarah had some shopping she wanted to do, and I wanted to get a pair of shoes. We went into the department store, and I was getting my shoes and thought Aunt Sarah was standing right behind me. Then suddenly I missed her... You know what happened after that.”

“And you found her up in the tea room?” Mason asked.

“Yes, I’d been looking all over the store for her. I found her up there just before... well, you know.”

“All right,” Mason said, “tell me some more about the Bedford diamonds.”

“The Bedford diamonds,” she said, “came to us through Austin Cullens.”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s an old-time friend of the family. He’s known George and Sarah for years. He does a great deal of traveling, is quite a gem collector, and knows lots of interesting people. Uncle George does work quite well and very cheaply, and Mr. Cullens is frequently able to get him some very lucrative business. You see, Mr. Cullens spends a lot of time on shipboard, gets to talk with people about gems, knows a good many gem collectors, and, all in all, is a very valuable business connection for Uncle George.”

“When did the Bedford diamonds come in?” Mason asked.

“Saturday. Mr. Cullens brought them in. Mrs. Bedford was to come in later on in the week.”

“When did you first realize they were gone?”

“About half an hour ago. I decided to come to you at once.”

“Go ahead,” Mason told her.

“After I missed Aunt Sarah, I became completely exasperated. I went back to Uncle George’s office, thinking she might be there. The foreman showed me a note Uncle George had left, giving directions about working out sketches and designs for the Bedford diamonds. But... well, the Bedford diamonds weren’t there.”

“The vault was open?”

“Yes. Aunt Sarah had opened it this morning.”

“How about the men in the shop? Can you trust them?”

“I think so, yes.”

“And what makes you think your Aunt Sarah has the diamonds?”

“Well... well, you saw what happened this noon. And when a person once gets a complex... well, I don’t know whether you’ve studied much about kleptomania, Mr. Mason, but it’s most devastating. Kleptomaniacs simply cannot resist the impulse to take things which don’t belong to them... Well, anyway, Aunt Sarah was up at the office on Sunday, getting things lined up for this morning. She came back to the house yesterday afternoon, and said she’d been seized with a very peculiar dizzy spell while she was at the office; that her mind had gone completely blank for a period of what must have been half an hour; that she didn’t have the faintest recollection of what she was doing. She thought it must have been her heart. I wanted her to call a doctor. She wouldn’t do it. She said that when she regained consciousness she had the most peculiar feeling of having done something she shouldn’t. She felt as though she’d killed someone, or something of that sort.”

“Did you get a doctor?” Mason asked.

“No, she went to her room and slept for a couple of hours, and then said she felt better. At dinner, she seemed to be very much her normal self.”

“Well,” Mason said, “I don’t know just what you want me to do. As I see it, you’d better find your aunt and take some steps to locate your Uncle George. His haunts should be fairly well defined. A man who goes on these periodical drinking sprees usually...”

“But,” she said, “Mrs. Bedford wants her stones back.”

“Since when?” Mason asked.

“She rang up at noon, while I was out, and said that she’d changed her mind that she didn’t want anything done to her stones that she had a prospective buyer who was interested in antique jewelry, and she was going to offer the stones and settings to this buyer.”

“Did you talk with Mrs. Bedford?” Mason asked.

“No. The shop foreman did.”

“What did he tell her?”

“Told her Uncle George was out at the time, but he’d have him call as soon as he came in.”

“Well,” Mason said, “you might get in touch with police headquarters and find out if your aunt has suffered any relapses. That spell may well have been her heart. She may have had another and been taken to the emergency hospital. Or...” He broke off as the door from the outer office opened, and the girl from the information desk tiptoed quietly into the room, to stand just within the doorway. “What is it?” Mason asked.

“A Mr. Cullens is in the outer office,” she said. “He seems to be very much excited and says he must see Miss Trent immediately.”

Virginia Trent gave an exclamation of dismay. “You’ll have to hide me somewhere,” she said to Mason, and then to the girl, “Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I’ve left. Tell him...”

“Tell him nothing of the sort,” Mason interrupted. “Let’s get this thing straight. How did he know you were here, Miss Trent?”

“I left word at the office that if Aunty came in she was to call me here. I guess Mr. Cullens went to the office and the foreman told him.”

“And Cullens was the one who brought your uncle the Bedford business?” She nodded. “You’ve got to see him sooner or later,” Mason told her. “You’d better make it sooner. After all, he’s entitled to some sort of a break. I presume he vouched for your uncle to Mrs. Bedford.”

“Yes,” she said dubiously, “I guess he must have.”

Mason nodded to the girl who stood in the doorway. “Tell Mr. Cullens he can come in,” he instructed.

Virginia Trent’s hands became nervous on her lap. She said uneasily, “Oh, I can’t face him! I don’t know what to say. I just can’t think of the proper thing to tell him.”

“What’s wrong with telling him the truth?” Mason asked.

“But I don’t know the truth,” she said.

“Well, why not tell him that?”

“Because... oh, I don’t know. I just can’t bear to...”

The door from the outer office was pushed open by a beefy individual in the late forties, who ignored Mason entirely, to stride across to where Virginia Trent was seated in the big leather chair. “What the devil’s all the run-around, Virgie?” he asked.

She avoided his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where’s your aunt?”

“I don’t know. She’s uptown somewhere. I think she’s shopping.”

Cullens turned briefly to Mason, surveying the lawyer with swift appraisal. Then his incisive eyes swung back to Virginia Trent. A huge diamond on his left hand glittered in a coruscating arc as his hand grasped her shoulder. “Come on, Virgie,” he said, “out with it. What the devil’s the idea of running up to see a lawyer?”

She said in a thin, small voice, “I wanted to talk with him about Aunt Sarah.”

“And what about Sarah?”

“She’s been shoplifting.”

Cullens drew back and laughed. It was a deep-chested, jovial, booming laugh which seemed somehow to clarify the atmosphere. He turned, then, to Perry Mason, extended his hand and said, “You’re Mason. I’m Cullens. I’m glad to know you. Sorry to butt in this way, but it’s important.” He turned back to Virginia Trent. “Now, Virgie, come down to earth and give me the low-down. What’s happened to Mrs. Bedford’s diamonds?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, who does?”

“Aunty, I guess.”

“All right, where is she?”

“I tell you, she’s been shoplifting.”

“More power to her,” Cullens said. “She’d make a grand shoplifter. I suppose George is on one of his bats?”

She nodded. Cullens said, “Mrs. Bedford telephoned me. She said she wanted her diamonds back. She’d tried to reach George on the telephone, and didn’t like the way she’d been talked to. She thought someone was giving her a run-around, so she called me. I knew right away what had happened. But i also knew that George would mail in the keys to his car and that your aunt would get into the vault and carry on the business. Now then, Lone Bedford has a customer who’s in the market for her stones. Naturally, she doesn’t want to lose the sale. She wants the stones and needs them now.”

Virginia Trent’s mouth became a firm, straight line. She raised her eyes defiantly and said, “I tell you, Aunt Sarah has been shoplifting. You laugh if you want to, but that happens to be the truth. If you want to know, you can ask Mr. Mason. While she’s had one of her spells, she’s taken Mrs. Bedford’s diamonds and hidden them.”

A perplexed frown appeared on Cullens’ forehead. “You’re not kidding me?” he asked, and then turned to Mason. At what he saw in the lawyer’s eyes, he said slowly, “Well, I’ll be damned!” He drew up a chair, selected a cigar from his waistcoat pocket, clipped off the end with a thin, gold knife and said to Virginia, “Tell me about it.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “Aunt Sarah has been laboring under a terrific emotional strain. Also, I think she’s suffering from a fixation. However, we don’t need to go into that now. There are periods during which she has a complete lapse of memory. During those times she becomes a kleptomaniac, taking anything she can get her hands on. She was caught in a department store this noon, and I had to check out nearly every penny in my bank to keep her from going to jail.”

Cullens lit his cigar, studied the flaming match for a moment in thoughtful contemplation, then shook it out, and said, “When was the first time, Virgie?”

“This noon.”

“Were those the first symptoms?”

“Well, she went up to the office yesterday and had a dizzy spell and couldn’t remember anything which had happened for about half an hour. When she came to, she had a peculiar feeling of guilt, as though she’d murdered someone. I think that was when she took the Bedford gems and concealed them somewhere. She...”

Cullens’ diamond glittered as he raised his hand to take the cigar from his mouth. “Oh, bosh!” he said, “forget it. She’s no shoplifter. She’s trying to cover up for your uncle.”

“How do you mean?”

“When she went to the office yesterday,” Cullens said, “she found the Bedford diamonds were gone. Just between you and me, that’s the thing which has always worried her — that some day when your uncle starts on one of these benders he’ll forget that he has some stones in his pocket. Your aunt pulled this shoplifting stunt to fool you, and to fool me if it became necessary. She’s out looking for George right now.”

“I don’t think Aunty would do that,” Virginia Trent said.

Cullens said shortly, “You don’t really think she’d turn shoplifter, do you?”

“Well... well, I have the evidence of my own eyes.”

Cullens said, “All right. Let’s not argue about it. Let’s tell Lone Bedford what she’s up against.”

“Oh, we mustn’t tell her! No matter what happens, we must keep her from finding out...”

Cullens ignored her, to turn to the lawyer. “I’m sorry,” he said, “to have to handle things this way, Mr. Mason, but I think I’d better stay right here for the moment. This thing is important. It means quite a good deal to me. Those stones were worth twenty-five to thirty thousand dollars. My car’s down in front, a green convertible with the top down. Mrs. Bedford is waiting in the car. I wonder if it would be possible for you to have one of your girls...”

Mason turned to Della Street. “Go on down, Della,” he said. “Find Mrs. Bedford and bring her up.”

Virginia Trent said very firmly, “I don’t approve of this in the least. I don’t think Aunt Sarah would want it handled this way.”

“Well, I want it handled this way,” Cullens said, “and after all, I’m the one chiefly concerned. Remember, I’m the one who brought the stones in to your Uncle George in the first place.” He turned to Perry Mason. “If it’s a fair question, Mr. Mason, where do you stand in this?”

“I don’t stand,” Mason told him, grinning. “I’m sitting on the sidelines. It happens that I was present when Mrs. Breel staged what was apparently her first public demonstration of shoplifting. It also happens that it was a most edifying experience.”

Cullens grinned. “It would be. What happened?”

“Well,” Mason said reminiscently, “she carried it off remarkably well. And after that, she and her niece were good enough to join me at lunch. I hardly expected to hear any more of the matter, until Miss Trent came in to consult me. I haven’t, as yet, found out exactly what it is she wants me to do, but I felt you were entitled to an explanation. As nearly as I can tell, you’re getting it.”

Cullens turned to Virginia Trent. There was a flash of dislike in his eyes. “I suppose you wanted to duck out and leave me holding the sack, didn’t you?”

“Most certainly not! ”

He laughed unpleasantly. “And it was Mason who insisted you should see me, wasn’t it?” She said nothing. “What did you want Mason to do?” he asked.

“I wanted him to locate Aunt Sarah for me, and to... well, to figure some way of stalling things along until we could find out where we stand.”

“We can find out where we stand without stalling things along,” Cullens said.

“That’s what you think,” she told him. “You’re saving your own bacon at the expense of Uncle George’s reputation. Mrs. Bedford will claim he’s stolen the stones and... and it’ll be an awful mess.”

Cullens said, “You don’t know Lone Bedford. She’s a good scout. She can take it. What we’re interested in is finding those stones.”

“Well, I don’t know just how you think you’re going to go about it,” Virginia Trent said.

“Neither do I,” Cullens said affably — “yet.”

Della Street’s rapid heels sounded in the corridor. She unlatched the door of Mason’s private office, and escorted a woman in the thirties through the doorway. “This,” she announced, “is Mrs. Bedford.”

“Come on in, Lone,” Cullens said, without getting up. “Have a chair and make yourself at home. This is Perry Mason, the lawyer. Your diamonds have gone bye-bye.”

For a moment, Mrs. Bedford stood in the doorway, surveying the occupants of the room with dark, languid eyes. Slightly heavier than Della Street, she possessed an attractive figure, which showed to advantage through a rust-colored frilled blouse and gray tailored suit. Her hat matched her blouse, as did her slippers, whose high heels served to emphasize her short foot with its high instep. She crossed over toward a chair, paused for a moment as she saw Mason’s open cigarette case, raised her eyebrows in a gesture of silent interrogation, and, at his nod, helped herself to a cigarette. She leaned forward for his light, then went over to the chair and said, “Well, now that’s something. Tell me about it, Aussie.”

“I can’t tell you much until I get the details,” Cullens said. “I’m getting them now — or trying to. George Trent is just what I told you, one of the best gem men in the country. His work is dependable and reasonable. He’s thoroughly honest. He has one vice, and only one vice. He’s a periodical drunkard. When he gets drunk, he gambles, but he does even that methodically. He puts all of the gems in the vault, leaves himself a limited amount of money in his pocket, mails in his car keys, and then goes out and gets drunk and gambles. When he loses his money, so he can’t buy any more liquor, he sobers up, comes home and goes back to work. This time, he seems to have inadvertently taken your stones with him. I gave them to him Saturday afternoon. He started his drink Saturday night. That, my dear, is the bad news in a nutshell.”

She inhaled a deep drag from the cigarette, exhaled the smoke in twin streams through appreciative, distended nostrils. “Why the lawyer?” she asked, jerking her head toward Perry Mason.

Cullens laughed. “Virginia Trent, over here — George’s niece — thinks that her Aunt Sarah has become suddenly seized with kleptomania. She thinks the aunt took the stones while her mind was a blank and did something with them.”

“What’s the matter?” Lone Bedford asked the niece in a rich, throaty voice. “Been reading Grimm’s fairy tales, dearie?” Virginia Trent drew herself up indignantly. Her mouth tightened into a formless gash.

“Not fairy tales,” Cullens answered easily, “psychology — fixations, complexes and all that stuff. The girl studies, if you know what I mean — Freud, sex, crime...”

“It happens,” Virginia Trent said acidly, “that my aunt has surrendered in public and in the presence of witnesses to these impulses of kleptomania. She was caught shoplifting less than four hours ago.”

Lone Bedford raised inquiring eyebrows in the direction of Austin Cullens. Mason noted that it was evidently an habitual gesture with her, noticed also that they were good-looking eyebrows, and that the mannerism served to direct attention to eyes which were undoubtedly beautiful. Nor did Lone Bedford give any indication that she failed to realize the beauty of her eyes, or the graceful lines of the trim leg which her short skirt disclosed to advantage.

Cullens said, “That’s just a stall, Lone. If you saw Sarah Breel for just ten seconds, you’d realize that it’s a stall. When the foreman started checking over the work orders this morning, he found your gems were missing. Sarah knew at once George had them. So she started the old cover up — bless her soul! It’s meant well, but it isn’t going to get us any place.”

A huge emerald on Mrs. Bedford’s hand showed to advantage as she flicked ashes from the end of her cigarette with a graceful little finger. “Just what,” she asked, “ is going to get us any place?”

Cullens said, “I’m going to get out and start looking for George Trent. He’s in a gambling house somewhere, beautifully plastered. Your stones are wrapped up in tissue paper and carried in a chamois-skin belt next to his skin, and he’s completely forgotten that he has them. But, if he gets drunk enough and desperate enough, he may hock them with some gambler.” Cullens turned to Mason and said, “How about it, Mr. Mason, can we claim embezzlement and get them back if he does?”

“Probably not without a lawsuit,” Mason said. “It will depend somewhat on circumstances, somewhat on the manner in which the stones were given to him, and by whom.”

“I gave him the stones,” Cullen said, “but we don’t want any lawsuits, do we, Lone?”

She shook her head and flashed Mason a smile. “No one makes any money out of lawsuits,” she said, “except lawyers.”

Mason matched her grin, “And they don’t make half enough,” he told her.

Cullens ignored the byplay. “Okay, Lone, what do we do?”

She studied the tip of her cigarette meditatively. “Suppose he’s hocked them,” she said musingly. “How much do you s’pose he’d have been able to raise on them, Aussie?”

“Not over three or four thousand at the most,” Cullens said. “Being drunk, wanting the money for gambling, and with the strong possibility of a kick-back, it’s a cinch no gambler would take a chance for more than a fifth of their clear market value.”

She turned to Perry Mason. “How much would a lawsuit cost?” she asked.

Mason grinned. “Is three or four thousand, at the most, the answer you’re waiting for?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and once more the emerald flashed as her hand made a gesture of dismissal. “That settles it, Aussie. Find Trent. If he has the stones, get them back. If he hasn’t, find out where he’s hocked them, and pay off the loan. That’s cheaper than a lawsuit — and faster.”

She turned to Virginia Trent and said, “I understand exactly how you feel. Poor child! I suppose you were afraid of me. You needn’t have been. After all, it’s not your fault.”

Virginia Trent said, “I’m not a child. I’m an adult. What’s more, I still feel there’s something back of my aunt’s conduct, that there’s some emotional upset which...”

Cullens got to his feet. “Well, come on, everybody,” he interrupted, “we have work to do, and there’s no use taking up more of Mr. Mason’s time.”

He shepherded them toward the exit door. Virginia Trent, once more, started to talk about psychology as she stepped out into the corridor. Lone Bedford flashed Cullens a roguish glance, then said to Virginia Trent, “And what do you know about suppressed emotions, dearie?”

Virginia Trent drew herself up in rigid dignity. “I wasn’t discussing suppressed emotions,” she said with calm finality.

Mason, watching Della Street hold the door, ready to close it behind the departing visitors, could have sworn that the rapid flicker of Lone Bedford’s right eyelid as she smiled a farewell at him was not accidental.

When the door had clicked shut, Mason grinned at Della and said, “And only this noon I was talking about people being mediocrities, marching inanely through life.”

“A combination of characters like that,” Della Street said, “should be able to scare up something.”

“Not a mystery, I’m afraid,” Mason rejoined. “They’re all so beautifully normal. Aside from Virginia Trent, there isn’t anyone who has so much as a nerve.”

“Where do you suppose the aunt is?” Della Street asked.

Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Having seen her in action,” he said, “I’m inclined to agree with Cullens’ explanation. I think she’s trying an elaborate cover-up for her brother. But, just as a concession to the vagaries of a whimsical fate which has catapulted us into the situation, Della, we’re going to find out. Call up police headquarters. See if she’s been arrested or is in an emergency hospital anywhere. Check on automobile accidents and ambulance calls.”

Chapter 3

At approximately seven-thirty Mason was called to the telephone from the cocktail lounge of his apartment hotel. He recognized the rich, throaty voice of Mrs. Bedford, even before she gave him her name. “Have you,” she asked, “heard anything from the aunt in the case — Breel, I believe her name was?”