Mason frowned thoughtfully. “Well, Paul, we’re getting somewhere now. We can start tracing the registrations and that other car should give us a lead. Keep working on it. I’ll give you a ring after a while.”

  He hung up the telephone and said to Wray, “Well, getting back to this partnership business, I’m wondering if—”

  “I beg your pardon,” Wray interrupted, “but you mentioned the name of Jason Braun over the telephone. He’s not in any trouble, is he?”

  Mason kept expression from his face, picked up his cigarette from where he had laid it on the desk when he answered the telephone, and asked casually, “Know him?”

  “Why, yes,” Wray said. “I know him rather well.”

  “How long since you’ve seen him?” Mason inquired.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Morning or afternoon?”

  “Morning. Tell me, is anything wrong?”

  “He was missing from his apartment,” Mason said, “and his landlady notified the police.”

  Wray boomed into heavy laughter. “That,” he proclaimed, “is a good one! Jason Braun missing! Good Lord, he’s been right around town all the time. I’ve seen him two or three times during the past two weeks, and he was here in the office yesterday morning.”

  “What’s his line?” Mason inquired, sitting back in the chair and crossing his long legs in front of him. Insurance?”

  “Not exactly,” Wray said.

  Mason showed that he was waiting for Wray to answer the question in greater detail. The insurance adjuster fidgeted uneasily and said, “Well, after all, Mr. Mason, since you’re representing Mrs. Prescott, I feel you’re one of the family and I know I can trust your discretion. Braun represents the insurance underwriters.”

  “A salesman of some sort?” Mason asked.

  “No, not a salesman. He investigates fires to determine whether they’re of incendiary origin. If they are, he knows what to do. He’s highly specialized.”

  “Something in the nature of a detective?” Mason inquired.

  “Yes.”

  “What was his business with you yesterday?” Mason wanted to know.

  “Oh, he didn’t have any particular business,” Wray said. “He dropped in for a social chat. As a matter of fact, he’s my wife’s cousin.”

  “Any idea where I could get in touch with him now?” Mason asked.

  “Through the Board of Underwriters,” Wray said. “But, look here, Mason, I’d a lot rather you didn’t let them know I’d tipped you off to what he’s doing. It’s highly confidential, you know.”

  “The other insurance adjusters don’t know about it?”

  “Good Lord, no!”

  “How about your partner, did he know about it?”

  “No, he’d never met Braun. You see, Jason kept his identity pretty well masked because so many times he had to pose as a fire-bug in order to trap the people he was after. And, incidentally, that’s why this business about his disappearance is a joke. I happen to know that right now he’s working on a big case. There have been no less than twelve fires in the last six months which can be traced back to one gang of fire-bugs—no proof, you understand, but the underwriters are morally certain.”

  Mason said, “Look here, Wray, I’m going to ask you to do me a favor, something which will be of the greatest benefit to Mrs. Prescott. I want you to get in touch with Jason Braun for me. I want you to arrange for a confidential meeting at the earliest possible moment. I want to see him before he sees anyone else. Do you think you can do it?”

  “Why, sure,” Wray said. “Why, I can get Claire—that’s the wife—to locate him within an hour.”

  “Remember,” Mason said, “he left this apartment two weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since. He had an engagement with a girl friend and stood her up on that engagement. Confidentially, there’s some evidence to indicate he may be suffering from an impaired memory. Circumstances which I won’t discuss now indicate that—”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’s nothing like that,” Wray said. “He’s working on a case, that’s all. Claire will know about it. Why, I was talking with him myself yesterday morning and he was perfectly normal.”

  “He recognized you then?”

  Wray said, “Of course he recognized me. My God, Mason, I don’t know what you’re after, but whatever it is, you’re barking up the wrong tree. Jason’s all right. Naturally, he’s secretive in his methods, that’s all.”

  “Well,” Mason told him, “please don’t misunderstand me. It’s of absolutely vital importance that I talk with Jason Braun. I want to talk with him before the police do.”

  “The police?”

  “Yes. He may be a witness either for or against Mrs. Prescott.”

  “Well, he won’t be a witness against her,” Wray said. “You can depend on that, because Jason Braun will tell the truth, and the truth won’t hurt Posalind Prescott. I don’t know who killed Walter, but you can gamble she didn’t. If Jason Braun knows anything, he’ll tell the truth. No one can influence him one way or the other.”

  “And you think you can arrange for me to interview him before anyone else does?”

  “I’m absolutely certain of it,” Wray said.

  Mason got to his feet, took out a card and said, “My telephone number’s on the card. When you ring up, ask for Miss Street. That’s my secretary. Tell her who you are and she’ll put you on my line if I’m there, or if I’m out she’ll see that your message gets to me and I’ll call you back within a very few minutes.”

  Wray came around the desk to shake Mason’s hand. “Tickled to death to do anything I can, Mr. Mason,” he said. “And, incidentally, if Mrs. Prescott is in need of any cash to cover—well frankly, to cover her retainer to you, I can arrange to advance that cash. You see, the money will come in on that insurance policy within a few days and she’ll be entitled to that. So I’d be only too glad to make an advance against it.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mason told him, “but it is particularly important that I locate Braun. If you can arrange for a confidential interview with him, both Mrs. Prescott and myself will keenly appreciate it.”

  Frederick Carpenter, first vice-president of the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan, turned watery blue eyes on Perry Mason, listened to the lawyer’s statement of his errand with an expressionless countenance, cautiously rubbed the palm of his hand over his bald head and said, “I see no reason, Mr. Mason, why the bank should anticipate the legal procedure incident to probate. When Mrs. Prescott is appointed executrix or administratrix, she can file a certified copy of the letters of administration with us and we will then be very glad to turn over any money in Mr. Prescott’s account.”

  “Will you tell me the amount of that money?”

  “I see no reason for doing so.”

  “The court will have to take into consideration the amount of the estate in fixing bonds in the probate proceedings,” Mason pointed out.

  Carpenter nodded, stroked his bald spot with a cautious palm for two or three seconds and then said, “Of course, Mr. Mason, the circumstances in the present case are somewhat unusual.”

  “In what way?”

  “Mrs. Prescott will probably be charged with the murder of her husband.”

  “That doesn’t need to affect you in the least.”

  “I’d want an opinion from our attorney on that.”

  “How long would it take to get such an opinion?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Look here,” Mason said savagely, “I don’t know how much money is here, but it may be rather a large amount. Sooner or later, Mrs. Prescott is going to have complete charge of that money. Your attitude isn’t one to inspire her with any desire to co-operate with you after she gets in the saddle.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carpenter said.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Mason told him.

  “I regret the circumstances,” Carpenter amplified.

  “And that doesn’t mean a damn thing,” Mason remarked.

  “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Well,” Mason said angrily, “as attorney for Mrs. Prescott, I can tell you right now that your attitude isn’t appreciated in the least. When Mrs. Prescott is appointed executrix or administratrix, as the case may be, you’ll lose the account just as fast as she can check it out.”

  Carpenter observed blandly, “It’s unfortunate.”

  Mason strode from the bank, his angry heels pounding the flagged floor. Behind him, Frederick Carpenter continued to stroke his bald spot with an even tempo of conservative caution. Then, as Mason passed through the swinging doors, Carpenter reached for the telephone on his desk.

  Mason paused on his way to his office to telephone Paul Drake. “Listen,” he told the detective, “I think you’ve uncovered something on that Jason Braun angle. I’m working on it from one angle, but that’s no reason you shouldn’t work on it from another. Confidentially, the man’s an investigator for the Board of Fire Underwriters. He’s working on a case right at present and his disappearance may have been deliberate, in which event that amnesia business may have been a stall. Now, the Board of Underwriters probably won’t be anxious to give out any information, if they know why you want it. But if you can rig up a plant who will claim to have certain information about some incendiary fires which have been set within the last two or three months, the chances are the Board of Underwriters will send Jason Braun to call on him. Now, I want to get this angle covered before the police get wise to it, so get busy on it.”

  “Okay,” Drake said.

  “And one more thing,” Mason told him, “get busy on a Rosa Hendrix who works at the office of Prescott & Wray. She’s a readhead with a cat-swallowed-the-cream expression. See what makes her tick.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS PERRY MASON entered his office, Della Street motioned toward the door which led to the outer offices and said, “Abner Dimmick, of Dimmick, Gray & Peabody, and a young assistant by the name of Rodney Cuff are waiting for you.”

  Mason whistled.

  “Why the whistle?” she inquired.

  “Dimmick, Gray & Peabody are about the last word in legal aristocracy,” he told her. “They’re attorneys for some of the big banks. Their practice is mostly corporate and probate work. Now, what the devil do you suppose they want with me?”

  “Perhaps it’s nothing important,” she said.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” he told her. “Anytime Abner Dimmick makes a trip to my office, you can bet it’s important.”

  “Do we show them in?”

  “Right away,” Mason said, “and with all the little flourishes and fanfare of trumpets royalty is supposed to command.”

  Halfway to the door, Della Street said, “You don’t suppose they represent the bank do you, Chief?”

  “You mean the Second Fidelity Savings & Loan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now that,” he told her, “is a thought. Stay around and listen to what they have to say, Della. If I cough loudly, start taking notes of the conversation.”

  Della nodded, vanished through the door, to return in a matter of seconds, ushering in a white-haired man with an acrimonious countenance, a heavy cane in his right hand punctuating his steps as he walked. Slightly behind him was a young man in the late twenties, in whose china-blue eyes glittered a devil-may-care twinkle which belied the self-effacing manner with which he kept a step or two behind the older man.

  The white-haired man in the lead pounded his way across the office. “How d’ye do,” he said explosively. “You’re Mason. I’m Dimmick—Dimmick, Gray & Peabody. Perhaps you’ve heard of us. I’ve heard of you.”

  He shifted his cane to his left hand, pushed forward his right, said, “Careful now. Remember, I’m an old man. I’ve got rheumatism in that hand. Don’t try to crush my bones. This is Cuff, Rodney Cuff, my assistant. In the office with me. Don’t know yet whether or not he’s any good. Isn’t fitted for our type of work, anyway. We’re in a mess, a devil of a mess. Perhaps you’ve heard about it.”

  Mason shook hands with Cuff, motioned his visitors to chairs, and assured Dimmick he hadn’t heard of it.

  Dimmick clasped his interlocked fingers about the head of the heavy cane, lowered himself gingerly into the overstuffed leather chair. Cuff dropped into one of the plain wooden chairs, crossed his legs, hooked an elbow over the back of the chair, and gazed approvingly at Della Street.

  Abner Dimmick had a high forehead, fringed with gray hair, bushy eyebrows which raised and lowered, punctuating his remarks. There were heavy pouches under his eyes. His mouth was as decisive as the jaws of a steel trap. A stubby mustache, matching the bushy eyebrows, gave his face an appearance of frosty austerity.

  “What’s the matter?” Mason asked.

  “Dimmick, Gray & Peabody mixed up in a criminal case! Can you imagine it? Damnedest thing I ever heard of!”

  “You thought perhaps I could be of some help?” Mason asked.

  Dimmick nodded.

  Rodney Cuff coughed disapprovingly. Dimmick flashed him a glance and said, “Go ahead, young man, cough your head off. I know what I’m doing.”

  Cuff lapsed into silence and lit a cigarette. Della Street let her amused eyes drift toward Perry Mason.

  “We’re counsel for Second Fidelity Savings & Loan,” Dimmick said. “They’re trustees under a probate trust. The sole beneficiary is a chap by the name of James Driscoll. Now then, do you get the picture?”

  Mason settled back in his swivel chair, lit a cigarette and regarded his visitors with wary eyes. “I’m beginning,” he said, “to get the sketch.”

  “All right,” Dimmick went on. “Under the provisions of the probate trust we’re to give Driscoll such legal advice as he needs. He isn’t at liberty to employ any other counsel except with the permission of the trustee. Now then, he goes and gets himself mixed up in a murder case and there’s hell to pay.”

  “Just why did you come to me?” Mason asked.

  “We want you to help.”

  Again Rodney Cuff coughed.

  “You mean you want me to act as attorney for James Driscoll?”

  “Not exactly that,” Dimmick said. “We want you to co-operate with us. We’ll represent him. You’re representing Rosalind Prescott. Their interests are identical and—”

  “Pardon me for interrupting,” Mason said, “but I’m not satisfied their interests are identical.”

  “Just as I was telling Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said eagerly. “It’s very evident that—”

  “Shut up, Rodney!” Dimmick said, without taking his eyes from Mason’s face. “What makes you say their interests aren’t identical, Mr. Mason?”

  “Because I don’t think they are.”

  “You mean you think Rosalind Prescott might have been guilty of some crime that James Driscoll isn’t guilty of? That’s impossible.”

  “No,” Mason said, “I meant it the other way.”

  Dimmick said, “This is embarrassing to me personally, Mr. Mason. Very embarrassing. I never thought my name would be connected with a criminal case. But the bank insists I must supervise the defense personally. I can get some attorney who specializes in that sort of thing to sit in with me if I want, but under the terms of the trust I suppose I’m obligated to take personal charge. You can see where that leaves me.”

  Mason nodded.

  “Now, then, we’re willing to co-operate with you,” Dimmick said insinuatingly.

  Mason coughed loudly and Della Street, picking up a pen, casually slid around in her chair so that her right elbow was propped on the desk. Rodney Cuff said. “He signaled his secretary to take down what you’re saying, Mr. Dimmick.”

  Dimmick shot his eyebrows down into a level line, shifted his eyes to glare ferociously at Della Street’s poised pen, then turned back to Mason and said, “I don’t give a damn if she does. Shut up, Rodney.”

  There was a moment of tense silence. Then Abner Dimmick wrapped his hands more tightly about the head of the cane and said, “The bank telephoned me you were down there asking questions.”

  Mason nodded.

  “It might be a good plan to pool our information,” Dimmick said, “to work out a joint plan of campaign.” “Thank you, I don’t think I’d care to do that,” Mason told him. “I want to be free to represent my client in whatever way seems best as the situation develops.” “Can’t you see, Mr. Dimmick,” Rodney Cuff said impatiently, “he’s going to pin the whole thing on Driscoll if he has a chance.”

  Dimmick continued to stare steadily at Perry Mason. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, Mr. Mason,” he said. “I usually let the other man come to me. This time I’m coming to you. I know something of your skill in a courtroom. I know you’d be a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy. Now, if you could see your way clear to—”

  “I’m sorry,” Mason told him, “but I can’t commit myself. I’m going to walk into that courtroom perfectly free to do anything which seems expedient. I’m not going to jeopardize the interests of my client by making any agreement with anyone.”

  Cuff said, “Do you mean by that, Mr. Mason, that you’re going to try to pin the murder on Driscoll?”

  “If I think Driscoll’s guilty, yes.”

  “Do you think he’s guilty?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If he’s guilty, your client is guilty.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mason said.

  Abner Dimmick brought the head of the cane close to the chair, pulled himself slowly to his feet. Rodney Cuff said ominously, “Don’t think we’re going to sit back and let you pin this thing on Driscoll, Mr. Mason.”

  “I don’t,” Mason told him.

  Dimmick said irritably, “Well, I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t like this sort of thing. I don’t like courtrooms. I don’t like juries. I don’t like criminal cases, and I’m too old a dog to learn new tricks. But Rodney likes it. Rodney’s father’s an old friend of mine. I promised him I’d take the boy in. He doesn’t like our practice. He’s a great admirer of yours, Mason. All he talks about is trying cases, how things will look to a jury. All right, Rodney, this is your chance to do your stuff”