Mason stopped in the telephone booth at the hospital to call Paul Drake. “Listen, Paul,” he said, “things are happening fast up at this end. Give me the low-down on Virginia Trent.”
“They’re keeping her in the custody of a police nurse,” Drake said. “They took her to headquarters last night, and gave her the works until she had hysterics good and plenty. Then they had a doctor give her a big sedative and a police nurse took her home. The nurse is standing guard.”
“Any formal charge?” Mason asked.
“None at present. They’re probably holding her as a material witness if it comes to a showdown, but they’re not too certain about her. The uncle was killed with one bullet fired from a thirty-eight caliber revolver found in the upper right-hand drawer of the desk. You were there when Sergeant Holcomb found the gun.”
“So what?” Mason said. “She came in there just a few minutes before I did. The body had been there for some time.”
“I know, but they’re wondering whether she didn’t go in there to do something about disposing of the body or trying to get something out of the pockets or...”
“All that’s absurd,” Mason said.
“Well, I’m not arguing with you,” Drake told him philosophically, “I’m telling you what the authorities claim. They’ve claimed absurdities before and they’ll probably do so again. What’s happened up there, Perry? You seem to have your fighting clothes on.”
“Oh, they tried to get rough with Mrs. Breel,” Mason said.
“Did they get anywhere?”
“Nowhere at all,” Mason reported, and chuckled at the thought.
“How about Lone Bedford?”
“She’s still in the Milpas Apartments.”
“Has Pete Chennery come in yet?”
“Not according to latest reports.”
“All right, then,” Mason said, “we’ll take the gambling-house angle. I’m out at the Dearborn Memorial Hospital. You’d better come out and pick me up. I came out in a cab.”
Drake said, “I’ll be out there in ten minutes.”
Mason hung up the telephone, strolled down the linoleum-floored corridor to the big marble steps in front of the hospital, where he enjoyed the sunlight and concentrated over a cigarette until Paul Drake slid his car in close to the curb. Mason ran down the steps, jumped into the car and said, “Let’s tackle that banker on the gambling angle, Paul.”
“Okay,” Drake said, spinning the wheel. “Why is the gambling-house angle so important?”
Mason said, “Because the books don’t balance, Paul.”
“What do you mean?”
Mason said, “Notice that, according to the reports Cullens gave Lone Bedford over the telephone, George Trent had been up to The Golden Platter on Saturday night and had hocked the stones for six thousand dollars. Cullens was going to get them for three.”
“Well?” Drake asked.
“George Trent’s body,” Mason said, “was found in his office. According to all the reports I get, when he goes out on a drunk he doesn’t shave, bathe or change his clothes. He gets pretty disreputable. Now then, he was neatly dressed, and there wasn’t any stubble on his face when his body was found. He must have been killed in his own office. If he went to the gambling house and pawned those stones for six thousand dollars, he must have returned to his office some time that night and was killed there.”
“Well,” Drake said, “why couldn’t that have happened?”
“It just doesn’t fit into the picture. In the first place, he’d mailed in the keys to his car. He’d gone out to get drunk. It’s a moot question whether he’d have taken the Bedford diamonds with him. Now then, if he did, it’s hard to believe he’d have hocked diamonds which didn’t belong to him — at least that early in the game. After he’d been on a bat for two or three days and his sense of perspective had become pickled in alcohol, it might have been different.”
“What are you getting at?” Drake asked.
“Simply this: If Trent didn’t leave those stones at The Golden Platter in return for six thousand dollars, why did Cullens tell Lone Bedford that he did? If Trent didn’t leave the stones there, and Cullens thought he did, and went up and started to get rough with those gamblers, they might have been responsible for what happened to Cullens. Apparently, a copper penny had been inserted ‘in the socket of one of the lights out at Cullens’ house so that when anyone came in and turned on the light switch, it’d blow the fuse. That doesn’t sound like an amateur to me. Moreover, if those were the Bedford diamonds in Mrs. Breel’s bag, and if it was Mrs. Breel’s bag, there’s no definite proof that the diamonds actually came from that chamois-skin belt which Cullens was wearing. Now then, you add to that the fact that Lone Bedford swears they weren’t her diamonds, and we get into some complicating factors.”
“I’ll say we do,” Drake said. “It’s all tangled up like a cat in flypaper, and the more you move it around, the worse it gets.”
“Therefore,” Mason said, “it’s important to go back to first principles. I want to find out whether those stones actually were pawned with The Golden Platter.”
“I don’t see how the witness we’re going to interview now can help you on that,” Drake said.
“He can help us to this extent,” Mason told him. “Suppose Cullens was playing some kind of a game and simple stringing Lone Bedford along? Suppose he didn’t have any actual tip that the stones had been hocked at The Golden Platter...? Or, suppose he didn’t go to The Golden Platter, but was standing in cahoots in some way with Bill Golding?”
“I get you,” Drake said. “You want to check on everything. Is that right?”
“On everything,” Mason told him.
“Well, here we are,” Drake observed, driving the car into a parking station. “The bank’s across the street.”
They crossed the street, to enter the sumptuous marble interior of the bank, where a uniformed policeman paraded back and forth in slow dignity. Officers sat behind desks, dictating, making notations, holding conferences. Cashiers were busily engaged in accepting deposits and paying out checks. “Who’s our man?” Mason said.
“The white-haired bird over here on the left,” Drake told him.
Mason said, “He looks absolutely impregnable.”
Drake chuckled, “Remember the story about the banker’s glass eye, Perry. Come on, let’s go.”
They approached a breast-high marble railing on which appeared a brass plaque bearing the name, MR. MARQUAD. The white-haired man was listening with cold impassiveness to a man who sat on the opposite side of his desk. The visitor was leaning forward, sitting on the very edge of the chair, giving the impression of wanting to crawl up on the desk in order to get nearer to the banker. Finally, Mr. Marquad shook his head. The man engaged in a barrage of conversation. Again the banker shook his head and, with a gesture of finality, picked up some correspondence on his desk. Mason heard him say, “I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely impossible.”
As the man still lingered, Marquad said, “That, of course, is my judgment. I’ll take it up with our advisory board if you desire... Very well, I’ll make a note and submit it to them. You can drop in at ten-thirty tomorrow morning for your answer.”
He made a note on a pad, smiled a cold farewell at the departing visitor, and then got up to come to the partition and regard Mason and the detective with an expression of neutral greeting. Mason felt that the face could change instantly into patronizing courtesy or cold negation without seeming in the least inconsistent with that initial expression. Drake flashed a questioning glance at Mason. Mason nodded and said, “I’ll handle it, Paul.”
Mr. Marquad turned to Mason. Mason said, “I wonder if you read the morning paper, Mr. Marquad?”
“Just what did you have in mind?” Marquad asked. Mason slid his card over the counter. Marquad looked at it, and his face showed a flicker of expression. “Yes, Mr. Mason,” he said, “I’ve heard of you. What did you have reference to particularly?”
“The murder of Austin Cullens,” he said.
“Indeed!” Marquad remarked.
“I’m trying to check up on Cullens’ activities immediately preceding the murder,” Mason said. “There was a photograph and, in addition to the photograph, an excellent description. In case you haven’t read about it, Mr. Marquad, I’ll call your attention to the clipping.” Mason took a newspaper clipping from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to the banker. Marquad glanced at it and nodded. “Please read the description,” Mason insisted.
The banker read the description and then said, “I’m sure I don’t know just what you’re getting at, Mr. Mason.”
“Did you know him?” Mason asked.
“No,” the banker said. “I don’t remember ever having seen him.”
Mason said, “Think back, Mr. Marquad. I think you saw him last night.”
“Last night?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think that?”
“My records,” Mason said, “show that Mr. Cullens went to The Golden Platter shortly before he was murdered.”
The banker stiffened and said, “The Golden Platter? To what do you refer, Mr. Mason?”
Mason said, “A restaurant and gambling joint on East Third Street.”
“I don’t think we carry their account,” Marquad observed haughtily.
Mason slightly squared his shoulders, pushed forward his jaw and said, “I’m not asking you about an account. I’m asking you if you weren’t at The Golden Platter last night.”
“Me?” the banker said, in indignant surprise. “At a resort of that nature? Surely, Mr. Mason...”
Mason glanced a sidelong interrogation at Paul Drake. The detective nodded. Mason said, “All right, Mr. Marquad, if you want it straight from the shoulder, I’ll dish it out. You were there with a cute little blonde trick.”
Marquad said with dignity, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to ask you to excuse me. This is indeed most insulting. There’s an officer on duty over there.”
Drake took a notebook from his pocket and said, “You left at eleven forty-five, Mr. Marquad. You drove the jane to her apartment at ninety-three sixty-two Phyllis Avenue. You parked the car and went up with her. She has apartment number nine hundred six under the name of Ruby Benjamin. You turned the lights on and pulled the shades down. At two forty-five A.M. you came out and...”
The banker looked around him in alarm, lowered his voice and said, “Hush! Please, gentlemen, hush!”
“All right,” Mason said, “what’s the answer?”
The banker moistened his lips with the tip of a nervous tongue. “What is this,” he asked, “blackmail?”
“No,” Mason said, “this isn’t blackmail. I’m trying to find out whether this man was at The Golden Platter some time around seven or eight o’clock in the evening. I think you would have seen him there. Now, think back and see what you can remember.”
“Do you mean to say that you want to call me as a witness to what occurred in that place?” Marquad asked.
Mason said, “If you give me the information I want, that’ll probably be all that’s necessary. If you don’t give me the information I want, I’m going to subpoena you, put you on the witness stand, prove that you were there, and ask you what you saw.”
“You can’t do that,” Marquad said.
Mason pulled a folded paper from his pocket and said, “The hell I can’t. I’ll subpoena you right now.”
Marquad made as though to push the paper back. “No, no, Mr. Mason,” he said. “Please, please. Can’t you understand? This place is open to the public.”
“All right,” Mason said, “did you see him there?”
Marquad shifted his eyes and said, “There was a little commotion at the club. I don’t remember exactly what time it was. I was having a mild stimulant at the bar. A gentleman who answers this description had been in the inner office. There was the sound of rather loud conversation. After a moment, the bartender picked up something from behind the bar and stepped through the door into the office, but there was no trouble when the gentleman came out.”
“Could you hear what was said?”
“No. I could hear the tone in the voices, however.”
“Was the meeting friendly or hostile?”
“Decidedly hostile.”
“What else did you see?”
“That’s all.”
“Were you there when we came in?” Mason asked. Marquad nodded. “How long were you there after that?”
“Nearly an hour, I guess. My — er — the young woman who was with me, was alternating between the bar and the gambling table. ·. Now, gentlemen, I certainly trust there won’t be any publicity about this.”
“Were you drinking?” Mason asked.
“Very sparingly. The bartender can vouch for that, Mr. Mason. I don’t think I had over three drinks during the entire evening.”
“All right,” Mason said. “What’s your contact with the place? How did you get in there?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t ordinarily go around to gambling joints, do you?”
“No.”
“Were you paying cash for your drinks?”
“Well — er — I — er, that is, I was, in a sense, the guest of the Management. They’d asked me to drop in several times.”
“Bill Golding?” Mason asked.
“Yes.”
“He banks here?”
“Yes, I...”
“How well do you know him?” Mason interrupted.
“I have talked with him frequently.”
“You know the woman who lives with him?”
“You mean his wife?”
“We’ll let it go at that,” Mason said.
“I’ve met her, yes.”
“Now, then, did you have any talk with either of them after Cullens left?”
“No.”
“Did you see them?”
“Only when they went out.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed slightly. “When did they go out?” he asked.
“I don’t know just when it was, some time after Cullens left, and before you came in.”
“Did you see them come in?”
“Yes.”
“How long would you say they were gone?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Mason, I’m sure.”
“Could it have been as much as half an hour?”
“It could have been, yes. I didn’t pay very much attention... I... well, I was just as glad they didn’t come over and speak to me. That is, the young lady who was with me...”
“I understand,” Mason said. “Now, you noticed Mr. Drake and me when we came in?”
“Yes.”
“Bill Golding and his wife had returned prior to that time. Do you know how long before?”
“It was some little time,” Marquad said, “but I can’t tell you how long.”
“And how long was it after Cullens went out that Golding went out?”
“Well... Oh, say from fifteen minutes to half an hour. We were at the bar when Cullens came in, and we were eating dinner when Golding and his wife went out. As I remember it, we had finished dinner when they returned.”
“All right,” Mason said, “that’s all. I just wanted to check up.”
“You won’t make my statement public in any way, Mr. Mason?”
“Not unless I have to,” Mason told him, “and I don’t think I’ll have to. I’m just checking up, that’s all. Come on, Paul.”
They walked out of the bank, leaving Marquad standing at the counter, his eyes watching them with ill-concealed anxiety. Mason turned to Drake and said, “Check up on Bill Golding’s car, Paul. There was a blue sedan parked at the curb just before Mrs. Breel stepped out into the street. You know, there’s just a chance Bill Golding might be driving a blue sedan. I believe Diggers said the left rear fender was damaged.”
Drake said, “That should be easy, Perry. I’ll get at it right away. Want me to telephone the office?”
“Not now,” Mason said. “It’ll keep until you get back.”
“What’s next on the program?”
“Lone Bedford,” Mason said.
“You don’t want to wait until Pete Chennery shows up?”
“No,” Mason said, “we haven’t time to wait for anything. I want to get to her before the police do.”
“Hold everything,” Drake said. “Here we go.”
It was Drake’s theory that a detective car should be so completely average in appearance that an observer would find nothing sufficiently distinctive about it to attract attention on the one hand, or encourage memory on the other. Mason, sitting back against the cushions of the medium-priced, lightweight car two years old, watched Paul Drake cut through traffic and cheerfully take chances with fenders which had nothing to lose by an occasional lapse of judgment on the part of the driver.
“If,” Mason said musingly, “Austin Cullens got the diamonds from Bill Golding, why didn’t he notify Lone Bedford? If those were the Bedford diamonds, why did Mrs. Bedford deny they were hers? If they weren’t the Bedford diamonds, where did they come from? If Bill Golding had the stones in the first place, why did he deny having them when we talked with him?
“If, on the other hand, Cullens got the stones from some other source and not from The Golden Platter, how did he discover that other source. Approximately two hours before his death, he was evidently firmly imbued with the idea that Bill Golding had the stones, was holding them for six thousand, but could be forced to part with them on the payment of three thousand.”
“In other words,” Drake said, “it’s like making out an income tax statement. Every time you add up the figures, you get the wrong answer.”
“I didn’t know the income tax department bothered with detective agencies,” Mason said, grinning.
“They don’t. Detective agencies bother with the income tax department.”
Mason lapsed once more into thoughtful silence. Drake swung his car into a parking place at the curb and said, “Well, Perry, get your ambush planted, because we’re here.”
Mason said, “I’m not going to plant any ambush. I’m going to play it straight from the shoulder.”
“Do you think that will get you anywhere?” Drake asked.
“I don’t know,” Mason told him, “but somehow I figure her as a pretty straight-from-the-shoulder young woman.”
“Remember,” Drake warned, “that no matter what good points she may have, she’s definitely living a double life.”
“I know,” Mason told him, and slid out from the seat, to stand on the sidewalk. “Is that your man in the roadster across the street, Paul?”
Drake nodded. The man in the roadster touched the brim of his hat, lit a cigarette, shook out the match and settled back in the seat as though waiting for someone to join him. Drake interpreted the signals to Perry Mason. “The girl’s in there. The man hasn’t showed up yet.”
Mason said, “All right, let’s go,” and led the way into the foyer of the apartment house. They took the elevator to the third floor. Mason tapped on the apartment door and said in a low voice to Paul Drake, “She doesn’t know your voice. If she opens the door, we walk in. If she asks questions, tell her you have a package and a telegram.”
Drake nodded, Lone Bedford’s voice from behind the door called out, “Who is it, please?”
“Telegram and a package for Mrs. Chennery,” Drake said.
She opened the door at once. Mason, stepping slightly to one side, placed the palm of his hand between Drake’s shoulder blades and pushed him forward, so that her eyes focused on Drake first. “Well,” she said impatiently, “where’s the telegram and package? You can’t come in...”
Mason pushed Drake slightly to the left while he moved to the right, pushing the door farther open. She swung to face the detective, apparently oblivious of the fact that another man was with him, until Mason had pushed the door completely open and was circling past her left arm. She turned to face him then, with an expression of annoyance, and her face froze into a mask of consternation. Mason, moving back, retrieved the edge of the door and swung it shut, calmly walked over to a chair and seated himself.
“What is this?” Lone Bedford demanded.
Mason said, “Drake’s a detective, Mrs. Bedford.”
“Chennery,” she corrected.
“All right,” he said, grinning, “he’s still a detective, Mrs. Chennery.”
Drake, watching Perry Mason for a signal, moved cautiously over to the arm of a davenport and sat down, taking care to keep himself between Mrs. Bedford and the door. She stood for a moment, nonplused, then abruptly laughed and said, “You’re bluffing. He isn’t a detective.”
“What makes you think he isn’t?” Mason asked, selecting a cigarette from his case.
“He’s taken off his hat,” she said. “Detectives don’t take off their hats.”
Mason grinned, and offered her a cigarette. She took it, and leaned forward for Mason’s match. Her trembling manifested itself through the tips of her fingers as they guided the lawyer’s hand against the match. “You,” Mason charged, “have been to too many picture shows.”
“No,” she said, “I’ve seen too many detectives.”
“Criminal record?” Mason asked.
“No,” she said shortly.
“Sit down,” Mason told her, “and tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I think there is.”
“Tell you about what?” she asked defiantly. “If you want to know, I’m really and truly Pete Chennery’s wife. We’re legally married.”
“That,” Mason said, “makes it more conventional, even if less romantic.”
“Are you,” she asked, “going to keep on with that casual Wisecracking until you’ve drawn me out?”
“I think so,” Mason said. “I don’t know of any better way, do you?”
She settled back in a chair, crossed her knees, and said, “Where do you want me to begin?”
“At the beginning.”
“Pete and I,” she said, “had a fight.”
“Much of a fight?” Mason asked.
“Quite a little squabble,” she admitted.
“Over what?”
“Two blondes and a red-head.”
“That,” Mason told her, “should be grounds for a pretty good-sized battle.”
“It was.”
“So what happened?”
“I left him.”
“And then?”
“Met Aussie,” she said.
“With ideas in your head that you’d like to make your husband realize cheating was a game two could play at?”
She shook her head, started to say something, then caught herself, and was silent. “Don’t kid me,” Mason told her, “because you don’t need to.”
“How about your friend?” she asked, with a jerk of her head toward Drake.
“Like a dime bank,” Mason told her. “Things go in easy, but you have to break him to get them out.”
She studied the tips of her fingernails for a moment, then said, “All right, you win.”
“What,” Mason asked, after a moment, “have I won?”
She said, “Aussie was on a boat I took. I fell for him.”
“Hard?” Mason asked.
“So-so,” she admitted.
“And then what?”
“What do you want?”
“Everything.”
“Well,” she said after a moment, “Aussie had a way about him. He’d been places and done things. He had a genial way of taking life as a big adventure. It was all a game to him. I’d taken the cruise with a feeling of tragic frustration in my heart, a sense of tension, a feeling that I’d been wronged, that love was a mess, and marriage a mockery. I...”
“I don’t want all that,” Mason told her. “I’ve seen you and I’ve seen Cullens. I’ve seen the bitter side of married life as a lawyer sees it. You don’t need to give me all that.”
“What do I need to give you?”
“The gems.”
“Oh, those,” she said.
Mason smoked in silence. Then, after a moment, as she continued to study the tinted tips of her fingers with downcast eyes, Mason said, again, “Those.”
She raised her eyes to his. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know much about those myself.”
“Just what?” Mason asked.
“Of course,” she said, by way of explanation, “I wasn’t overly burdened with money. I had a little savings account. I ripped it wide open when I left Pete, to go out in the world and seek my fortune. I could have gone out and tried to get a job. Pete would have followed me then and begged me to forgive him. In the end, I’d have either had to give up my job and go back, in which event he’d have been the winner, or I’d have had to stay with the job and give up Pete, in which event I’d have been the loser.”
“You didn’t really intend to give him up, then?” Mason asked.
She said scornfully, “I thought you knew all about domestic tiffs.”
Mason grinned and said, “Go ahead.”
“So,” she said, “I decided to buy myself some sport clothes, take along my best formals and cocktail gowns, go on a cruise, and leave Pete to do the guessing.”
“And, of course,” Mason said, “you wanted him to know that you were enjoying yourself on the cruise.”
She smiled and said, “I sent him a picture postcard from Cartagena.”
“Anything else?” Mason asked.
“The steamship company,” she said, “put out a folder dealing with the romantic possibilities of the cruise — moonlight on the Placid waters of the Caribbean, gay bathing parties under the slanting cocoanut palms, pleasant evenings, beginning with dances in the dance pavilion, and winding up as couples sauntered out into the moonlight to look at the churned wake of the boat, while tropical breezes bathed them in a gentle caress. I simply gave my husband’s name as a possible customer, and suggested that they mail him folders.
“So, after having the folders on the one hand, and your postal on the other, he could draw his own conclusions, is that right?” Mason asked.
She nodded. “Go ahead,” Mason said.
“Well, naturally, I thought he’d be waiting at the gangplank when I returned. But, a day or two out of port, I realized that I’d been foolish. Pete would never do anything like that. He’s proud and haughty, and Southern.”
“With quite a temper?” Mason asked.
“Lots of it.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes.”
“So what?” Mason inquired.
“Well,” she said, “I’d gone so far I couldn’t surrender. I was going to be pretty short of cash when I landed. Having started out to play the game the way I did, I couldn’t possibly go to work, even if I could get a job. That would be a terrific come-down.”
“So what did you do?” Mason asked.
“I think Aussie sized up the situation pretty well,” she said. “Aussie was a shrewd judge of character. He’d done quite a bit of traveling and... well, he knew women.”
“Meaning that he knew you?”
“He knew women, yes.”
“Go ahead.”
“Aussie,” she said, “approached me with a proposition. He had some gems which he wanted to sell through a commission man. Aussie was a gem collector. Aussie explained it was like selling second-hand automobiles through classified ads. People sometimes hesitate to buy through a dealer, but if they think they can buy through a private party, they’ll show more interest, so auto dealers would arrange with people to stay home Sundays and exhibit second-hand automobiles as private cars and...”
“I know,” Mason interrupted, “and Aussie’s proposition was that you were to pose as the owner of certain gems?”
“Yes.”
“What were you to get out of it?”
“A salary and bonus,” she said, “and I was to be put up in style in an apartment. I was to be a sophisticated, dashing divorcee, a woman of the world who was young, attractive, and had outgrown the conventions.”
“Why the outgrown conventions?” Mason asked.
“So it would give me a reasonable excuse for flashing gems and wanting to dispose of them. Aussie said that people liked to think they were getting stones which had been lavishly bestowed on a careless sweetie who didn’t fully realize their value, who found herself temporarily cast off and in need of keeping up appearances.”
“Then Cullens really wanted you to be a front through which he could dispose of stones. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“But these old-fashioned stones hardly seemed to fit into that picture,” Mason told her, interestedly.
“I think,” she said, “that was part of the build-up.”
“And what did they look like?”
She faced him then and said, “I don’t know. I never saw them. He told me he was taking them up to George Trent to be recut and put in modern settings.”
“And you were to sell them after that?”
“Mr. Trent, I believe, was to sell those. But I was to be in the background. If anyone made inquiries, I was to be the owner.”
“So Trent could get a better price for them?” Mason asked. She nodded. “But,” Mason said, “you rang up Trent on Monday morning, told him that you had a purchaser, that you’d decided not to...”
She said, “Aussie told me to do that.”
“When?”
“About half an hour before I telephoned. He came over and coached me carefully in what I was to say. Then he stood by my side while I did the actual telephoning.”
“You asked for Mr. Trent?”
“Yes.”
“What did they tell you?”
“That he was out.”
“Then what?”
“I asked with whom I was talking. The man said that he was the foreman in charge of the shop.”
“And you told him what you wanted?”
“Yes.”
“Cullens knew at the time that Trent wasn’t there?”
“Yes,” she said, “because he told me that I was to ask for Mr. Trent, that Trent was out on a drunk, that the shop would make excuses to stall me off, that I wasn’t to be stalled. I was to insist on a return of the stones.”
Mason regarded the smoke which spiraled upward from the tip of his cigarette. “Now, wait a minute,” he said, “let’s get this straight. You’d never seen these stones you were supposed to own?”
“No.”
“Therefore,” Mason said, “when you saw those stones in the handbag at police headquarters, you couldn’t tell whether they were the ones you were supposed to have owned or not.”
“That’s right.”
“But you said positively that they were not yours.”
“I had to say something,” she said. “I certainly couldn’t say I didn’t know my own stones and I figured... well, I figured it was a trap.”
“You didn’t know Cullens was dead at the time?” Mason asked.
Her eyes drifted away from his, then flashed back, as though the wince had been involuntary, and she had willed herself to face him as soon as she realized she had avoided his gaze. “No,” she said, and then added after a moment, “of course not. How could I have known?”
Mason said, “You could have stalled along on the gems some way.”
“Perhaps I could,” she said, “but you put it up to me, cold turkey. I had to think fast and take the course which seemed best.”
Mason got to his feet and walked over to the window. He stared moodily down into the street. A convertible with wire wheels drove up slowly. A tall young man got out. Mason shook his head, turned back to face the woman and said, “It doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t care,” she said defiantly, “whether it makes sense or not.”
“And then,” Mason told her, “when I told you that Cullens was dead — that he’d been murdered — you streaked out of police headquarters and burned up the roads getting out here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I knew then that there’d be an inquiry, and I didn’t want to get caught in it.”
“Why?”
“Because of Pete,” she said. “Can’t you see? I didn’t want Pete actually to catch me in an affair. That would have been fatal. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to think he could start chasing around and get away with it. If I’d gone out and been a drab little personality, virtuously plodding my way through some routine job which would have barely paid my keep, Pete would have come out and got me. He’d have been contrite on the surface, but he’d have had the smug feeling that I was his woman, that no one else wanted me, that I knew it, that if I left him again, it would be to go to work. He’d let me work a while, until I got good and lonely, and then come and pick me up. But, by going away and sailing on a cruise, I kept him guessing. I wanted to keep him guessing, but I certainly didn’t want any of that guessing to become a cold certainty.”
“You thought an inquiry would make that a cold certainty?”
She said, “I was living as Lone Bedford in an apartment which was paid for with Aussie’s money. Frankly, it was a straight business deal. But any explanation I could have made to Pete wouldn’t have held water.”
“And so,” Mason said, “with your desire to avoid getting trapped in the inquiry, you decided to come dashing back here. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
Mason hooked his thumbs through the armholes of his vest and started pacing the floor. She watched him with wide, alert eyes, paying no attention whatever to Paul Drake, who’d slumped down on the davenport, his elbow propped against the upholstery, his palm holding the side of his head. For several seconds, Mason paced back and forth in thoughtful silence. Then he said, “No, it doesn’t make sense.”
“What doesn’t?”
“You coming here.”
She laughed nervously and said, “But I came here. It has to make sense.”
“No,” Mason said, “it doesn’t. With the motivation you’ve outlined, your natural move would have been to go to some hotel, register under an assumed name and then let Pete know where he could find you. The sole object you had in leaving Pete was to make him come to you. You’re too clever a woman, and too resourceful a woman, to have surrendered once you had victory practically Within your grasp.”
“Well,” she said shortly, “I’m here.”
Mason turned and faced her. “The reason you’re here, Lone,” he said slowly and steadily, “is because, when I told you Austin Cullens had been murdered, the thought which first flashed through your mind was that Pete had found Austin Cullens was keeping you in an apartment, that with his hot-blooded Southern temper, his jealous disposition, and his ideas of protecting his home, he’d sought out Austin Cullens and...”
“It’s a lie!” she screamed. “I tell you, it’s a lie!”
The door from the corridor banged open. A tall young man, with black hair and cold, blue eyes, stood on the threshold and said, “What’s a lie?”
“Pete!” she screamed.
Drake got to his feet. She ran forward toward the man who was standing on the threshold. Drake’s arm reached out to circle her waist. She struggled with him like a wild cat. The man stepped forward two paces. Drake took one look at his eyes, and tried to free his arm from the girl’s waist to block the punch. He was too late. The blow hit him on the side of the chin and staggered him backwards. The arm of the davenport, catching on the back of his legs, sprawled him back at full length, his feet kicking in the air. The girl flung her arms around the man. He brushed her to one side and kicked the door shut. He marched past the davenport, ignoring the struggling form of the detective, and stood facing Mason. “All right,” he said with deadly calm, “now we’ll hear from you.”
Mason, his thumbs still hooked in the armhole of his vest said calmly, “I think we’ll hear from you instead, Chennery.”
The woman said, “That’s Perry Mason, the lawyer, Pete.”
Chennery didn’t take his eyes from Mason’s. “What the hell’s he doing here?” he asked her over his shoulder.
Drake, rolling from the davenport, got his feet under him and said to Chennery, “All right, let’s try that again.”
Chennery didn’t even turn his head. He said to Mason, “Go ahead, start talking.”
Mason looked past him to Drake and said, “You might frisk him, Paul, and see if, by any chance, he has a thirty-eight caliber revolver in his hip pocket.”
“Pete! Don’t let them!” the woman said. “You don’t understand. They’re two jumps ahead of you. They’ve... they know things you don’t... they... they’re going to frame you to save...”
Chennery said coolly, “Why the thirty-eight caliber revolver?”
Mason said, “Austin Cullens was shot with a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”
“Who the hell’s Austin Cullens?” Chennery asked.
His wife turned to look at Perry Mason with pleading anguish in her eyes. Mason said, “He happens to have been a man who was killed with a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”
“So you thought you could frame something on me?” Chennery asked.
Mason chose his words carefully. “Detectives working on the case reported a car had been parked near Cullens’ residence at about the time of his death. The car was described as a red convertible with yellow wire wheels. The license number, as given by the witnesses, may be wrong, in one figure. If it is, it coincides with your license number, and the description of the man who was seen hanging around Cullens’ place coincides with your description.”
“So you were here, trying to bully something out of my wife?” Chennery asked.
“We asked her questions.”
“And intimated I might have killed him?”
“She seemed to think that was what we had in mind,” Mason said.
Chennery grinned, a cold, mirthless grin. “All right,” he said, “go ahead, frisk me.” He elevated his arms so that they were horizontal, his hands outstretched, the thumbs held wide from the palms. Drake searched through the man’s pockets, patted him under the arms and said, “He’s clean, Perry.”
Mason said, “Yes, he’d hardly have been so foolish as to carry the gun around with him. He probably left it at the scene of the murder.”
Chennery said, “You boys can’t frame anything like that on me.”
“You weren’t home last night,” Mason said, “all night.”
Chennery turned to glower at his wife. Mason said, “Don’t blame it on her. She hasn’t spilled anything. We’ve had a detective watching the place ever since eleven o’clock last night.”
“All right,” Chennery said, “I wasn’t home last night. So what does that add up to?”
“I don’t know,” Mason told him. “I want to know where you Were.”
“You’re a lawyer?” Chennery asked. Mason nodded.
“And this other man’s a detective,” his wife said.
“Out of headquarters?” Chennery said, turning to Drake.
Mason said, “No. A private detective in my employ.”
Chennery walked over to the door, held it open and said, “Go ahead, roll your hoops, both of you.”
His wife put a pleading hand on his arm. “Listen, Pete,” she said, “you can’t do that to these men. They’re...”
He shook her off and said to Mason, “I said, go ahead and roll your hoops.”
Mason, for a moment, might not have heard him. He turned, thumbs still hooked in the armholes of his vest, his eyes, narrowed in thought, staring moodily out of the window. Drake said belligerently, “You talk big.”
“I’m talking big,” Chennery told him, “because I happen to have paid rent on this apartment. This is my home. You haven’t any search warrants. Get out!”
“We might have a warrant of arrest,” Drake said.
Chennery laughed. “A private detective,” he mocked, “with a warrant of arrest. Phooey!”
Abruptly, Mason turned from the window. There was a twinkle about the corners of his eyes. “Come on, Paul,” he said, “Chennery has all the aces.”
“You mean we’re leaving?” Drake asked. Mason nodded.
Chennery stood holding open the door. Wordlessly, Mason and the detective filed past him into the corridor. The door slammed shut behind them. Drake said protestingly, “Hell, Perry, that guy can’t push us around. When it comes to a showdown, we’re closer to solving the murder of Austin Cullens right now than we’ll ever be again...”
Mason linked his arm through the detective’s and pulled him toward the elevator. “You forget, Paul,” he said, “that we don’t want to solve the murder.”
“What the devil do you mean?” Drake asked.
“If we solve the murder,” Mason went on smoothly, “Detective Sergeant Holcomb, of the homicide squad, wouldn’t get the credit of solving the murder. Therefore, Sergeant Holcomb would be inclined to reject our solution as being a frame-up to get Sarah Breel acquitted. If, on the other hand, Sergeant Holcomb should decide that Pete Chennery should be investigated, he’d naturally...”
“My mistake,” Drake interrupted. “I’m sorry, Perry. The punch on my jaw probably kept me from thinking as fast as I otherwise would have.”
“Does it hurt?” Mason asked.
Drake half turned back toward the apartment. Mason could feel the detective’s muscle tense under his suit sleeve. “You’re damned right it hurts,” he growled.
Mason continued to pull him toward the elevator. “You can get an aspirin at the drug store,” he told him. “And here’s something to bear in mind. We’ve let Chennery know he’s being shadowed. He won’t have much difficulty in spotting your detective out in front. His next move will be to take it on the lam and try ditching that detective. We tip that man off so the ditching won’t be too difficult. But, in the meantime, we have three under-cover detectives rushed out to begin where this chap leaves off. Do you get me?”
“I get you,” Drake said. “It’ll be a pleasure to slip one over on that baby.”
“Okay,” Mason told him. “You can telephone from the drug store and then get an aspirin.”
“Then what?” Drake asked.
“And then,” Mason said with a grin, “you get busy checking all important gem robberies during the last five years. If Lone Bedford can’t identify those diamonds, there’s a good chance someone else can. Of course, Paul, I wouldn’t want to tell you how to run your business, but you might find some reward money if you checked up on the activities of one Austin Cullens, deceased.”
Drake slowly stroked his sore jaw. “For a detective,” he said at length, “I am dumb.”