“A night like this, lots of food goes to waste. Profits go out the window. People don’t drive up this road when it rains.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mason sympathized.

  Evelyn Bagby and Della Street came in from the side door.

  Joe Padena looked at his watch.

  “She’s late but it’s my fault,” Mason said. “How’s she doing?”

  “Doing all right. This noon she does good. Nice-looking girl. Knows how to use a smile, gets good tips. That’s a job. Use too big a smile, they make passes. Use too small a smile, they get sore. Kid them along just right. That’s what I tell the girls. When they get too fresh, get in a hurry. Be busy. You can’t make passes at a busy woman. When they’re nice, take more time. Keep everybody happy. That makes business for the house, tips for the waitress. She’s a good girl.”

  Mason started toward them.

  “You want dinner?” Padena asked hopefully.

  Mason said, “I’m sorry, Joe, we’ve already had dinner.”

  Padena made a face indicating a remonstrance, accompanied by a shrug of the shoulders.

  “However,” Mason told him, “I’m going to have a couple of hot buttered rums at the bar.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And I want to talk with Evelyn Bagby and—”

  “You don’t have any drinks when you’re talking with the girl,” Padena said. “That makes her a B-girl. You want to talk with her, you go down to her room. Then you come back up, have the hot buttered rum.”

  “Okay,” Mason said.

  He crossed over to where Della Street and Evelyn Bagby were standing.

  “I want to talk with you for a minute, Evelyn,” he said, “joe says I’ll have to talk with you in your room. It’s all right. I told him it was my fault you were late.”

  She nodded, led the way across the all but deserted dining room out to the porch where water striking the roof and pouring down in rivulets bore witness to the intensity of the rain.

  Leading the way, Evelyn opened a door, walked down a flight of stairs, turned to the left in a passageway, then opened a door at the end of the passageway.

  “Will you walk into my humble abode?” she asked.

  Mason stood aside for Della Street to precede him into the room, then entered and abruptly caught Della Street’s wrist, drawing her back against the wall.

  “What’s the matter, Chief?” she asked.

  Mason indicated the big picture window at the south corner on the east side of the room.

  “What is it?” Evelyn Bagby asked.

  “That window,” Mason said. “Draw the drapes.”

  She crossed over, took hold of a cord, and pulled drapes across the big window.

  “That’s the first time it’s been draped?”

  “You mean since I came here?”

  Mason nodded.

  “Yes. After all, Mr. Mason, no one can see in unless he stood directly outside the window on a box or something. The ground falls away so fast that—”

  “But why put drapes on the window if no one can see in?”

  “Oh,” she said, “if you want to be technical about it, there’s a spot of ground about a hundred yards over there where they’re building some new houses. Anyone with binoculars could look in here, but after a girl’s lived in the places I have, you don’t have a great deal of personal modesty left. I’d hate to be annoyed by having a Peeping Tom flatten his nose right against the window, but if someone wants to look at me with binoculars from a hundred yards off while I’m dressing, I guess he’s entitled to some return on his investment.”

  She laughed.

  Mason didn’t laugh. He said, “Show me where you found the gun.”

  She opened a bureau drawer. “There are more things here now than when I found the gun. I’ve put some things in the drawer since then. You see, I went shopping with the hundred dollars that you gave me, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason said, “You’re going to have to go back to work upstairs. You may be called on to answer some questions.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “For one thing,” Mason said, “you may be interrogated over and over about exactly what happened from the time this car drove up behind you.”

  She said, “All right, let’s have it.”

  Mason said, “There was a body in the car down in the ravine. The body was that of a man who had been killed by one shot in the right side of his head. He was wearing a pillow slip mask and—”

  “Good Lord,” she exclaimed. “You mean that I—that I—”

  Mason said, “The police believe that one shot, probably your second shot, went through the open window on the right-hand side of this man’s car and killed him. Right at the moment, they feel you’re something of a heroine and you’re persona very much grata.”

  She stood looking at him, her eyes wide with consternation. “Mr. Mason, to think that I—that I’ve killed someone, even if I—if I didn’t intend to—”

  “Just how does it make you feel?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t become accustomed to the idea yet. I can’t believe—why are you looking at me like that, Mr. Mason?”

  Mason said, “Right at the present time, as I told you, you’re persona very much grata with the police. They think you’ve disposed of a particularly obnoxious, ruthless bandit who was preying on parked cars, robbing the men and raping the women. A little later on they may not be so certain.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Mason?”

  “One thing hasn’t occurred to the officers yet.”

  “What’s that?”

  Mason said, “The lights weren’t on on that car that was lying down at the bottom of the barranca.”

  ‘Well, then it couldn’t have been the same one …”

  “But this man answers the description of your bandit perfectly. He had the pillow slip over his head, the slip had two holes cut for eyes, and it was held in place with a rubber band.”

  “Then it must have been the same one. I just don’t see how I could have possibly hit him, Mr. Mason. I was shooting blind. The first shot, I know, was ahead of the car. I just poked the gun out of the window and shot. The next time I moved the gun back a little bit. That second shot hit something with a clink.”

  “Were you looking in the direction in which the gun was pointing?”

  “No. I told you I was pointing the gun with my left hand. I had my right hand on the steering wheel.”

  “And the bandit’s car was just about abreast of yours at that time?”

  “Not quite abreast I would say, but pretty close, yes.”

  “And you could have sent a bullet crashing into that man’s head?”

  “Well, if … if the police say I did, I suppose I did, but—why are you adopting that attitude, Mr. Mason? Couldn’t the lights have gone off because of the plunge down that mountainside? Couldn’t the battery have been torn out of the battery box or cables ripped loose or—”

  “Something like that might have happened,” Mason said, “but I don’t think it did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I took occasion to look at something that hadn’t at the moment occurred to the officers. I looked at the light control on the dashboard of the car and the lights hadn’t been turned on.”

  “They … they didn’t notice that?”

  “They didn’t at the moment,” Mason said, “but they’ve probably thought of it by this time.”

  “But they had to be on, Mr. Mason. I know they were on. Unless this man turned them off after I shot because he—”

  “That man didn’t do anything after the bullet struck him,” Mason said.

  “Then—there’s something wrong. There has to be.”

  Mason walked over to the head of the bed, jerked back the bed-cover which had been rolled over the pillows. One pillow had the pillow slip on it. The other one showed only the blue and white striped heavy cloth which covered the feathers.

  “Good heavens!” Evelyn Bagby exclaimed.

  “Where’s the other pillow slip?” Mason asked.

  She simply shook her head.

  ‘Was it on when you came in here?”

  “Heavens, Mr. Mason, I don’t know. I didn’t even look at the bed. I came in here and unpacked my things and read the paper and then I went out and started telephoning and—Mr. Mason, do you suppose they’re going to adopt a position that I … that I’ve been lying?”

  “Do you know of any reason why they shouldn’t?” Mason said.

  Abruptly she reached a decision. “There’s only one thing to do,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Get another pillow slip from the linen closet and put it on that pillow. I think I know where she keeps the linen and—”

  She started for the door. Mason grabbed her arm, pushed her back.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Mason said, “You’re trying to buy yourself a one-way ticket to the gas chamber.”

  “But, Mr. Mason, we can’t let them know. We don’t dare let them know. We—why, don’t you see the position I’m in? It looks as though I had killed someone and then put a pillow slip over his head, sent the car crashing down into the canyon, then told you that I’d found the gun planted in the drawer and then fabricated this whole story about having been pursued in order to account for the two times the gun had been fired.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  “And if—good heavens, if that should turn out to be anyone—”

  She broke off abruptly.

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  “Suppose,” she said, “it should be someone I know!”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Mason said.

  “Oh my Lord!”

  “So,” Mason told her, “the minute you start fabricating evidence, the minute you start trying to put yourself in a better position, you may be walking right into the gas chamber.”

  “But the way things are right now, I haven’t any way to substantiate my story. I haven’t—”

  “That,” Mason told her, “is the thing that bothers me.”

  ‘You don’t think I’m guilty of fabricating all of that evidence, of building up that impossible story, of having committed a cold-blooded murder?”

  Mason said, “I’m keeping an open mind for the moment. Now then, do you suppose you could take the part of a highly nervous, hysterical young woman who is completely swept off-base by the knowledge that she may have killed someone? Do you suppose you could work up to such a nervous fit of hysterics that a doctor would give you a big hypodermic and tell you to keep quiet until noon tomorrow?”

  “I can try. I think I’m a pretty good actress.”

  “All right,” Mason told her. “I’ve told you that you’ve probably killed a man. You begin to get hysterical. Go all to pieces. Call Mrs. Padena. Bring her down here. Ask her if both pillows had slips on them.”

  “You think the pillow slip on that man’s … body … is from this bed?”

  “Why not?” Mason asked. “They framed everything else on you so far. They’ve got the murder gun in your possession and have you admitting that you fired it twice. If they’ve gone to all that trouble to put you in an impossible position, then why wouldn’t they have taken the pillow slip from this bed? Somebody sure did.”

  She said, “I’m not going to have to do any acting to become hysterical. This thing has really thrown me.”

  Mason said, “All right, get busy and do your stuff. Get Mrs. Padena down here. Show her the pillows. Then Della Street is going to bundle you in your car and drive you to see a doctor who is a friend of mine. He’ll know what to do. He’ll give you a shot to quiet you. You’ll be out of circulation for a good twelve hours. But the point is, before you leave, you’d better call the sheriff’s office and tell them about the theft of the pillow slip. You’re going to have to be half-hysterical over the phone. You’re going to have to tell the sheriff’s office that I’ve just given you the information that you may have killed a man. Can you do that?”

  “I can try.”

  Mason said, “Your acting ability is going to be given an audition beginning as of now. If you’re going to put this across you’ll have to be good.”

  “I … I’ll try.”

  “Now here’s one more thing to bear in mind,” Mason said. “Shortly after you wake up, the police will catch up with you. Under ordinary circumstances I tell my clients not to talk to the police or to the newspaper reporters.

  “In your case, it’s different. When you are questioned be loquacious. Talk. Tell them all you know.”

  Mason turned to Della Street. “You know what to do, Della.”

  She nodded.

  “Tell the doctor I need a twelve-hour head start,” Mason told her. “Then after you have put Evelyn Bagby to bed, take a taxi to Paul Drake’s office. I’ll be waiting for you there. Don’t let anyone know where I am.”

  Again she nodded.

  “Then afterward where will you be?” Evelyn Bagby asked.

  “I’ll be out digging up the answers to some of the questions you’re going to be asked,” Mason told her. “But don’t worry about where I’ll be. You’ll be dead to the world.”

  Chapter 9

  Mason swung his car into the office parking space, slammed on his brakes, shut off headlights and ignition, jumped out of the car, and hurried into the office building.

  The janitor who operated the elevator said, “Good evening, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason handed the man five dollars.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You made a mistake.”

  “Made a mistake in what?”

  “In identity. I’m not Mr. Mason,” Perry Mason told him. “I may look like him but I’m not Mr. Mason. My name is Harry Marlow, and I’m going up to see Mr. Drake of the Drake Detective Agency.”

  The janitor winked. “I understand, Mr. Marlow. I’m sorry. I thought you looked like Perry Mason, the lawyer, when I first looked at you, but now I can see that it’s just a superficial resemblance.”

  Mason said, “Quite a few people tell me I look like Mr. Mason. I’d like to see him some day. What sort of a chap is he?”

  “Oh, wonderful,” the janitor said, pocketing the five-dollar bill. “Very generous. Would you mind signing the register, Mr. Marlow?”

  Mason signed the register. The elevator came to a stop. Mason left the elevator and made a beeline for Drake’s office.

  “Paul in?” he asked the night operator.

  She nodded, busy for the moment with the switchboard.

  “Tell him I’m on my way,” Mason said. “If anybody else asks if you’ve seen me, you haven’t—except Della. When she comes in send her down to Drake’s office, or, if she should call, connect me. If anyone else asks for me, you haven’t seen me.”

  The operator nodded.

  “And that means anyone else,” Mason told her.

  She hesitated. “The police?”

  “The police.”

  ‘Would you mind going out again, Mr. Mason?”

  ‘Why?”

  She said, “Then I could tell them that you came in, were only here for a minute and then went right out again, and that’s the last time I saw you. When you come back in I’ll make it a point to be in the rest room. I don’t like to lie to the police. Mr. Drake doesn’t like me to.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. “I’m going out.”

  He left the office, waited in the corridor for some thirty seconds, then turned and entered the Drake Detective Agency’s office for the second time. This time there was no one at the switchboard.

  Mason walked over to the gate which opened into a corridor containing a series of cubbyhole offices, walked down the corridor to the last corner office, and opened the door.

  Drake, seated at his desk, was munching a hamburger sandwich and drinking coffee.

  “Hello, Perry. What’s the excitement?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “You first,” Mason said. “What did you find out about the gun? Anything?”

  Drake said, “If it’s any of my business, Perry, you’d better quit monkeying around with Mervyn Aldrich. He’s bad medicine.”

  ‘Who’s monkeying with Mervyn Aldrich?” Mason asked.

  “You are.”

  Mason slid into the one chair in Drake’s cubbyhole office, elevated his long legs to the corner of the desk, grinned at the detective, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘You have me mixed up with two other people, Paul.”

  Drake shook his head. “Those guns.”

  ‘What guns?”

  “The guns you were asking about.”

  Mason’s feet suddenly came down off the desk. He sat upright in the chair. His eyes were hard. “Go on, Paul.”

  “You telephoned in the number on a gun,” Drake said. “I was able to trace it because it was a recent sale, a sale made at a sporting goods store in Newport Beach, the Golf, Gun and Gaff Sporting Goods.”

  Go on.

  “Mervyn Aldrich bought two guns just alike on the twenty-fifth of last month.”

  “Two guns?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And one of them was the gun I telephoned about?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what about the other one?”

  “You telephoned in about gun number 17474-LW. He bought that, and also gun number 17475-LW.”

  Mason remained thoughtfully silent, his eyes studying the smoke which eddied upward from the cigarette in his fingers.

  “Well?” Drake asked.

  “What the devil did he want with two guns?” Mason asked.

  “You can search me,” Drake said, “but he bought two guns and paid for them in cash.”

  “You don’t know whether he said anything to the clerk who waited on him about—?”

  “Have a heart, Perry. The store is closed. It might take a long while to locate the clerk who made the sale. However, my operative did get to see the files in the sheriff’s office. He checked back on the numbers and located the sale of this gun. Then just as he was preparing to take the information and start back, he noticed there was another sheet also bearing the signature of Mervyn Aldrich, so he checked the number on that and it was the sale of another gun of the same make and model.”