“Probably a dollar bill,” Mason said. “That would mean she had about an eighty-cent ride on the meter, and gave a twenty-cent tip.”

  Della Street, searching her memory, said, “I remember the cab driver looked at the bill—looked at it in a peculiar sort of way, then grinned, and said something, put it in his pocket and drove off. Then Sally Madison entered the lobby and we went directly to the room.”

  “You’d already registered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Sally didn’t have any occasion to open her purse from the time you first saw her until she got into bed and tucked it under her pillow?”

  “That’s right. I remember thinking at the time that she should take more care of her skin, but she just got out of her clothes and climbed into bed.”

  Mason said, “Of course she didn’t want you to have any opportunity to see what was in the purse. All right, Della, there’s only one thing to do. We’ve got to get that gun out of the purse.”

  “Why?”

  Mason said, “Because it’s got your fingerprints on it.”

  “Oh, oh!” Della Street exclaimed in dismay. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “After we get your fingerprints off of it,” Mason said, “we’re going to wake Sally Madison up and ask her some questions. What we do after that depends on the answers, but probably we’re going to tell her to go back to her apartment, act just as though nothing had happened, and under no circumstances say anything to anyone about having spent the night here.”

  “Think she’ll do it?”

  “You can’t tell. She may. The probabilities are they’ll pick her up before noon. Then if they ask a lot of questions, she’ll probably drag us into the mess. But if your fingerprints aren’t on that gun, we don’t have to tell anyone that we knew what was in her purse. We were simply keeping her out of the way of the newspaper reporters. She was going to be our client in a civil action we were about to bring against the Faulkner Estate in order to collect five thousand dollars for her boy friend.”

  Della Street nodded.

  “But,” Mason went on, “if your fingerprints are found on that gun, then we’re in an awful mess.”

  “But when you take my fingerprints off the gun, won’t you automatically remove all fingerprints that are on it?”

  Mason nodded. “That’s one of the things we’ve got to do, Della.”

  “Doesn’t that constitute tampering with evidence or something of the sort?”

  Mason said, “We don’t even know that it’s evidence, Della. It may or may not be the gun with which Harrington Faulkner was killed. Okay, here we go.”

  Mason opened the bathroom door, paused for a whispered word of caution to Della Street, and had taken one step toward the bed where Sally Madison was sleeping, when knuckles pounded loudly on the door of the room.

  Mason stopped in dismay.

  “Open up!” a voice called. “Open up in there,” and knuckles once more banged on the panels of the door.

  The noise aroused Sally Madison. With a half-articulate exclamation, she sat up in bed, threw one leg out from under the covers, then in the dim light of the room saw Perry Mason standing motionless by the doorway.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were here,” and promptly grabbed the covers up to her chin and pulled her leg back into the bed.

  “I just came,” Mason said.

  She smiled.

  “I didn’t hear you come.”

  “I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

  “What’s happening? Who’s at the door?”

  Mason said to Della Street, “Open it, Della.”

  Della Street opened the door.

  The night clerk said, “You can’t pull that stuff here.”

  “What stuff?” Della Street asked.

  The man said, “Don’t pull that line on me. Your boy friend went up to the fifth floor with the elevator, then, sneaked up the stairs to the sixth floor. He thought he was being smart. I happened to remember that you’d put through a call from this room and thought I’d give it the once-over. I was listening outside the door. I heard the bathroom door open and heard you two whispering. This isn’t the sort of a place you girls think it is. Get your things together and get out.”

  Mason said, “ You’re making a mistake, Buddy.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not. You’re the one that’s making the mistake.”

  Mason’s hand slid enticingly down into his right-hand trouser pocket. “All right,” he said, laughing, “perhaps I’m the one that’s made the mistake, but it’s getting daylight and it isn’t going to hurt the hotel any if the girls check out after breakfast.” Mason pulled out a roll of bills, peeled a ten-dollar bill from the roll, held it between his first and second fingers so the night clerk could get a good look at the denomination.

  The man didn’t even lower his eyes. “No you don’t,” he said. “That sort of stuff doesn’t go here.”

  Mason glanced over to where Sally Madison was holding the sheet up under her chin. He noticed that she had taken advantage of the diversion to retrieve her purse from its position on the floor. It was now safely tucked out of sight.

  Mason pushed the bills back into his pocket, took out his card case, produced one of his cards. “I’m Perry Mason, the lawyer,” he said. “This is Della Street. She’s my secretary.”

  The clerk said doggedly, “She’d have to be your wife to let you get by with this, and that’s final. We’re trying to run a decent place here. We’ve had trouble with the police before, and I’m not going to take any chances on having any more.”

  Mason said angrily, “All right. We’ll get out.”

  “You can wait down in the lobby,” the clerk told him.

  Mason shook his head. “If we’re going to be put out, I’ll stay here and help the girls pack.”

  “Oh no you won’t.”

  “Oh yes I will.”

  The clerk said, “Then I’ll stay.” He jerked his head at the girls. “Get your clothes on.”

  Sally Madison said, “You’ll have to get out while I get something on. I’m sleeping in the raw.”

  The night clerk said to Mason, “Come on. Let’s go down to the lobby.”

  Mason shook his head.

  Della Street flashed an inquiring glance at Mason.

  The lawyer’s right eye slowly closed in a wink.

  Almost imperceptibly, Della Street motioned her head toward the door.

  Mason shook his head.

  Della Street said suddenly, “Well, I’m not going to be put out of here at this hour of the morning. I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s bad enough to be disturbed in a night’s sleep without getting put out of a second-rate hotel because your boss wants to give you some orders. I’m going back to bed. If you don’t like it, call the police and see what they have to say about it.”

  Della Street pulled back the covers, kicked off her slippers and jumped into bed. Surreptitiously, she glanced at Mason.

  Mason gave her an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement.

  The clerk said gloomily, “I’m sorry but it won’t work. I suppose if we hadn’t had any trouble before this you could bluff us out, but the way it is right now, you either get out or I call the police. Make up your mind which you want.”

  “Call the police,” Mason said.

  The clerk said, “Okay, if you want it that way, that’s the way you’ll have it.” He walked over to the telephone, picked it up, held the receiver to his ear, said, “Police headquarters,” and then after a moment, “this is the night clerk at the Kellinger Hotel on Sixth Street. We’ve got some disorderly tenants in Room 613. I’ve tried to put them out and they won’t go. Send a car around right away, will you? I’ll be up here in the room. . . . That’s right. The Kellinger Hotel, and the room number is six-thirteen.”

  The clerk slammed the receiver back into place, said, “I’m keeping my nose clean. Let me give you folks a friendly tip. You’ll just about have time to take a powder before the police get here. Take my advice and beat it.”

  Perry Mason settled himself comfortably on the foot of Della Street’s bed. He took a notebook from his pocket and scribbled a note to Della Street. “Remember that the telephones are only connected through the downstairs switchboard. My best guess is it’s a bluff. Stick it out.”

  Mason tore the page from his notebook, handed it to Della.

  She read it, smiled, and settled back against the pillow.

  Sally Madison said, “Well, I’m going to get out. You two can do whatever you want to,” and without more ado she jumped out of bed, snatched her clothes from the chair and ran into the little dressing room.

  Mason casually leaned over and raised the pillow on her bed.

  She had taken her purse with her.

  Mason took a cigarette case from his pocket, handed Della Street a cigarette, took one himself. They lit up, and Mason once more settled back comfortably. From the little dressing room, came the sounds of Sally Madison hurriedly dressing.

  Mason waited for nearly two minutes, then said to the clerk, “Okay, you win. Better get dressed, Della.”

  Della Street slid out of the bed, adjusting the housecoat around her. She picked up her overnight bag, entered the dressing room and said to Sally Madison, “Okay, Sally, I’m going with you.”

  “You’re not going with me,” Sally Madison said, the sound of her shod foot hitting the floor. “Personally, I don’t like cops. As far as I’m concerned, you stuck around just a little bit too long. I’m on my way.”

  She had dressed herself with the facility of a lightning-change artist and now she stepped out from the dressing room ready for the street. Her hair was the only thing about her that bore witness to her hasty toilet.

  “Wait a minute,” Mason said. “We’re all going.”

  Sally Madison, clutching the purse under her arm with the tenacity of a football player holding an intercepted pass, said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I’m not waiting for anyone.”

  Mason played his trump card. “Don’t let him bluffyou,” he said. “There isn’t any dial on that telephone. It would have to be connected through the downstairs switchboard before he could call anyone. He was just pretending to call the police.”

  The clerk, in a dispirited voice, said, “Don’t think I haven’t had to go through with this before. The minute I decided you were in six-thirteen, I plugged the line from this room through the switchboard to an outside line. I did that before I came up. Don’t ever kid yourself that telephone wasn’t connected.”

  Something in the man’s manner carried conviction.

  Mason said, “Okay, Della, do the best you can. I’m leaving you to take the rap. I’m going with Sally. Come on, Sally.”

  Sally eyed him with disfavor. “Wouldn’t it be better if I went alone?”

  “No,” Mason said, and piloted her to the door.

  The clerk hesitated a moment, deciding what to do.

  Mason said to Della Street, “When the officers come, tell them that the clerk was trying to annoy you with his attentions.”

  The clerk promptly got up from his chair and followed Mason and Sally Madison out into the corridor. “I’ll take you down in the elevator,” he said.

  “No need,” Mason told him. “We’d rather use the stairs.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Sally Madison told Mason in something of a panic. “I’m going down in the elevator. It’s quicker.”

  They entered the elevator. The clerk removed the catch which had been holding the door open, and pressed the button for the lobby. “The bill’s six dollars,” he said.

  Mason gravely took a five-dollar bill, a one-dollar bill, and a twenty-five-cent piece from his pocket, handed them to the clerk.

  “What’s the two-bits for?”

  “A tip for checking out,” Mason said.

  The clerk calmly pocketed the twenty-five-cent piece, held the six dollars in his left hand. “No hard feelings,” he said as he opened the door of the elevator on the lobby floor. “We have to keep the joint clean or we’ll be closed up.”

  Mason took Sally Madison’s arm. “You and I are due for a little talk,” he said.

  She didn’t even look at him, but quickened her step until she was almost running across the lobby. They were halfway to the door when it was pushed open and a uniformed officer from a radio car said, “What’s the trouble?”

  Mason tried to edge past him. The man blocked the door, looked over Mason’s shoulder to the clerk.

  “Couple of girls in six-thirteen,” the clerk said wearily. “They violated the rules of the hotel, receiving company in their room. I asked them to get out.”

  “This one of the girls?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “Getting dressed.”

  “Who was the company?”

  The clerk jerked his thumb toward Mason. The officer grinned at Mason, said, “We don’t want you, but since I’m here, I think I’ll ask a few questions of the girls.”

  Mason gravely produced a card. “The fault,” he said, “lies with the hotel. My secretary was spending the night with Miss Madison, who is my client. I’m representing her in rather an important piece of litigation. I called to get some information.”

  The officer seemed duly impressed by Mason’s card. “Then why didn’t you tell that to the clerk and save us a trip?”

  “I tried to,” Mason said self-righteously.

  “It’s an old gag,” the clerk said wearily. “You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that stuff. They’re all secretaries.”

  “But this man is Perry Mason, the lawyer. Haven’t you ever heard of him?”

  “Nope.”

  The officer said, “I’ll just check up on this thing, Mr. Mason. I guess it’s all right, but seeing the call’s been made, I’ve got to make a report on it, and I’d better make a check, and—let’s take a look at the register.”

  Sally Madison started to push past him to the door.

  “No you don’t, Sister,” the officer said, “not yet. Don’t be in such a hurry. Wait five minutes and it’ll all be cleared up and you can go get yourself some breakfast, or go back to your room, whichever you want. Let’s just take a look at the register.”

  The clerk showed the officer where Della Street had signed.

  “This Sally Madison your secretary?” the officer asked.

  “No. Della Street is.”

  The elevator made noise in the shaft.

  “She’s up in the room?” the officer asked.

  “That’s right,” Mason said.

  The clerk said somewhat querulously, “I’m doing just what the Vice Squad told me to. They said that we could either get a house dick who would be acceptable to the Vice Squad, or we’d have to report every violation of rules in regard to visitors. I had a hunch not to let these two girls in in the first place. I’m going to be sore if I follow instructions and then you show up and pour a bucket of whitewash over ’em.”

  “What time did they check in?”

  “About half past two this morning.”

  “Half past two!” the officer said, and gave Mason the benefit of a frowning scrutiny.

  Mason said suavely, “That’s why I wanted my secretary to keep Miss Madison with her tonight. It was late when we finished working on the case, and . . .”

  The elevator rattled to a stop. Della Street, carrying her overnight bag, stepped out, then stopped as she saw the trio at the desk.

  “This is the other one,” the clerk said.

  The officer said to Della Street, “You’re Mr. Mason’s secretary?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I suppose you have something in your purse—social security card, or something of that sort.”

  Della Street said brightly, “And a driving license, a key to Mr. Mason’s office, and a few other things.”

  “I’d better take a look,” the officer said apologetically.

  Della Street took out a small inner purse, showed him her driving license and her social security number.

  The officer nodded to the night clerk. “Okay,” he said. “You did all right under the circumstances. I’ll report it. But you don’t need to put these girls out. Let them go back to the room.”

  “I’m on my way,” Sally Madison announced definitely. “I’ve had all the sleep I want, and right now I’m hungry·”

  Della Street looked to Mason for a signal.

  Mason said, “I’m sorry your rest was disturbed, Sally. Drop into my office some time before noon.”

  “Thank you, I will,” she said.

  The officer, plainly impressed by her face and figure, said, “Sorry you were put to all this trouble, Miss. There isn’t any restaurant near here. Perhaps we could give you a lift down to where there’s a restaurant that’s open.”

  “Oh no, thank you,” Sally Madison told him, turning on her charm. “I always like to walk in the morning. It’s the way I keep my figure.”

  “Well,” the officer said approvingly, “you sure make a good job of it.”

  Mason and Della Street stood watching Sally Madison walk briskly across the lobby and out through the door. The officer, watching the lines of the golddigger’s figure with evident approval, turned back to Mason only after the door was closed on Sally Madison. “Well, Mr. Mason, I’m sorry this happened, but it’s just one of those things.”

  “Yes,” Mason said, “it is. I don’t suppose I could buy you a cup of coffee?”

  “No thanks, we’re on patrol. We’ll be going. My partner’s out in the car.”

  Mason moved his hand significantly toward his pocket. The officer grinned and shook his head, said, “Thanks all the same,” and walked out.

  The clerk said to Mason, “The room’s all paid for. Go on back up if you want to.”

  Mason grinned. “Just the two of us?”

  “Just the two of you,” the clerk said dispiritedly. “My nose is clean. Stay as long as you want to—up until three o’clock this afternoon. That’s checking-out time. Stay longer than that and you’ll get charged for the room—double.”

  Mason relieved Della Street of her overnight bag. “We’ll go now,” he said. “My car is outside.”