“How do the police know?”

  “It was parked in front of a fire plug. The traffic officer tagged the car. He noticed that it came from Cloverdale. When the report of the murder went in to the homicide squad, they got in touch with the district attorney’s office, and some bright boy in the district attorney’s office remembered that Carl Manchester had been working on a case involving a man named Patton. They got hold of Manchester, found out it was the same chap, found out that you were interested in it, that Bradbury was interested in it, and that a Dr. Doray was interested in it.”

  “Why didn’t they go after Bradbury?” Mason asked.

  “Because they got such a live lead on Doray. They happened to check up with the officer who had tagged Doray’s car.”

  Perry Mason squinted his eyes thoughtfully.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Now,” said Paul Drake, “I’m coming to the thing that makes your story look a little funny.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Holliday Apartments,” the detective said, “tries to encourage its tenants to turn their keys in at the desk when they go out. For that reason, they have a great big tag that’s chained to the key. It has a lot of stuff printed on it about dropping the whole thing into the mail box, with a stamp on it, when it is inadvertently carried away.”

  “Yes, I know the type,” Mason said.

  “The police found the key to Frank Patton’s apartment in the side pocket of his coat,” Drake went on. “Patton had evidently opened the door, then dropped the key into the side pocket of his coat. Perhaps he’d locked the door from the inside; perhaps he hadn’t. The theory of the police is that he hadn’t. They reason that if he’d locked the door from the inside, he’d have left the key in the lock. They think that he had an appointment with some woman. Perhaps with two women. That he left the door open because he wanted the women to walk in.”

  “Then,” Mason said, “who do the police figure locked the door?”

  Paul Drake’s glassy eyes regarded Mason without expression; his face remained twisted into that frozen expression of droll humor which was so characteristic of the man.

  “The police figure,” he said, “that the murderer locked the door when he went out.”

  “The murderer,” said Perry Mason, “might have climbed in by the fire escape and gone out the same way.”

  “Then who locked the door?” asked Drake.

  “Frank Patton,” Mason said.

  “Then, why didn’t he leave the key hanging in the door from the inside?”

  “Because he mechanically put it in his pocket.”

  Paul Drake shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sure, that’s reasonable,” Perry Mason said. “A man frequently locks the door from the inside and drops the key in his pocket.”

  “You don’t need to argue with me,” the detective told him. “You can save the argument for a jury. I’m just telling you, that’s all.”

  “How long after the sound of the body falling on the floor before the officer arrived?” Mason asked.

  “Perhaps ten minutes,” the detective told him. “The woman got up, put on some clothes, went down in the elevator, found the officer, told him her story, convinced him it was something he should look into, and brought him back to the apartment. Then there was the little while that they were talking with you, and then the officer got a key. Make it perhaps fifteen minutes in all; say ten minutes up to the time you first saw the officer in the corridor.”

  “A person can do a lot in ten minutes,” Mason said.

  “Not much in the line of cleaning up blood stains. It would mean a pretty hurried job,” Paul Drake commented.

  “Do the police,” asked Perry Mason, “know Bradbury’s address?”

  “I don’t think the police are going to figure Bradbury very heavy one way or another,” Drake said. “They don’t know where he’s staying, but of course they can find out easily enough by making a check of the hotels. Carl Manchester simply knows that he can be reached through you.”

  “And,” Perry Mason said, “I managed to hold him in the background until Doray’s name had come in first. I want the newspapers to get the young love angle rather than the sugar daddy viewpoint.”

  The detective nodded.

  The telephone on Perry Mason’s desk rang steadily. Mason frowned at it.

  “Any one know you’re here?” he asked, looking at Paul Drake.

  The detective shook his head.

  Perry Mason reached for the receiver, paused for a moment with his hand held an inch or two from it; then suddenly scooped his hand down, pulled the receiver up to his ear, and said, “Yes, hello. Perry Mason speaking.”

  A woman’s voice said, “I have a telegram for Mr. Perry Mason. Do you wish me to read it over the telephone?”

  “Yes,” said Perry Mason.

  “The telegram,” she said, “is filed from this city. It says: ‘CHECK HER ALIBI BEFORE YOU LET HER DO ANYTHING.’ The message,” went on the purring voice of the operator, “is signed with a single initial ‘M’, as in mush.”

  “Thanks,” said Perry Mason.

  “Do you want me to send a copy over to your office?”

  “In the morning,” he told the operator, and continued to hold the receiver in his hand. He severed the connection by pressing the hook with his forefinger.

  “That,” he said slowly, “is one hell of a funny thing. Why should she send me a telegram, and why should it be that kind of a telegram?”

  He moved his hand which held the receiver and dialed rapidly the number of the Bostwick Hotel, Exeter 93821.

  The detective watched him with a speculation which seemed almost indolent in its careless scrutiny.

  Perry Mason heard a voice saying, “Bostwick Hotel.”

  “Will you please,” he said, “ring room 408.”

  The voice of the operator said instantly, “The occupant of room 408 checked out just a few minutes ago.”

  “You’re certain?” asked Perry Mason.

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “She was,” said Perry Mason, “expecting a call from me. Would you mind ringing the room?”

  “I’ll ring it,” said the operator, “but there’s no one there. I tell you she checked out.”

  Perry Mason waited for a few moments; then heard the voice over the wire confirming the previous statement that no one answered.

  He once more pushed down the catch which cut off the contact and stood staring at the telephone. He was still staring at it when the bell exploded into life.

  “Looks like your busy night on the telephone,” Paul Drake commented.

  Perry Mason released the pressure of his fingers, and said, “Hello.” He spoke with quick, nervous harshness.

  The voice of Della Street came to his ears.

  “Thank God I caught you, chief. Are you there alone?”

  “Except for Paul Drake, yes. What’s on your mind?”

  “Get this,” she said, “because you’re going to figure in it. Two detectives just left me. They tried to give me a shakedown. They got pretty rough.”

  “What for, Della?”

  “They claim that I rang up Dr. Doray and tipped him off that the police were looking for him, and told him to get out.”

  “What gives them that idea?” inquired Perry Mason.

  “Listen,” she said, “and get this straight, because I think they’re on their way to give you a going over. They say that somebody rang up Dr. Doray at the Midwick Hotel sometime between nine fifteen and nine thirty this evening, and told him that Patton had been murdered; that Doray was going to be picked up as a suspect, and that there were some things in the evidence that looked bad for him and Marjorie Clune; that Marjorie was getting under cover and was going to keep under cover. In other words, that she was skipping out, and that it would be the worst thing on earth for her if Bob Doray should be picked up by the police. He was instructed to get out of town and keep from being questioned by the police.”

  Perry Mason frowned into the telephone.

  “What made them connect that with us?” he said.

  “Because,” Della Street told him, “the voice was that of a woman. The operator at the Midwick Hotel happened to listen in, and the one who was doing the talking said that she was Della Street, the secretary to Perry Mason.”

  Perry Mason’s eyes became hard as bits of frosted glass.

  “The hell she did!” he said.

  “You said it,” Della Street told him. “And there are two dicks on the way to your office. Get ready to receive them.”

  “Thanks, Della,” said Perry Mason, “did they get rough with you?”

  “They tried to.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she told him, “I made a flat and indignant denial, and that was all they got out of me, but I’m afraid of what they may do to you, chief.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, “… you know what I mean.”

  “All right,” Perry Mason told her, “you go to sleep, Della, and let me handle it.”

  “Do you think it’s all right?” she asked.

  He laughed in a low, reassuring tone.

  “Of course, it’s all right,” he said. “Night night.”

  He slipped the receiver back on the hook and turned to face Paul Drake.

  “Well,” he said, “here’s something for you to figure on. Some woman telephoned Dr. Doray at his hotel and told him that she was Della Street, secretary to Perry Mason; that Frank Patton had been murdered in his room at the hotel; that Marjorie Clune was implicated and that the police were looking for Marjorie; that Doray had better get out of town while the getting was good; that if the detectives located him and questioned him, it might look bad for Marjorie; that Perry Mason was going to represent Marjorie and that he wanted Dr. Doray out of town.”

  Paul Drake whistled.

  “And,” Perry Mason said, “with two detectives on their way up here to shake me down, you can figure the sweet angles this case is going to have.”

  “What time did the telephone call come in?” Drake inquired.

  “Somewhere around nine o’clock—between that and nine fifteen. Doray had just reached the hotel when the call came through.”

  Paul Drake stared steadily at Perry Mason.

  “How the devil could your office have known that Patton was murdered at that time? The police were just finding it out.”

  Perry Mason met his eyes steadily.

  “That, Paul,” he said, “is one of the questions the detectives are going to ask me.”

  Paul Drake looked nervously at his watch.

  “Don’t worry,” Perry Mason said. “I’m not going to let the detectives find you here.”

  “Are you,” asked Drake, “going to let them find you here?”

  The lawyer’s rugged face remained expressionless, seeming somehow to be firm and weather-beaten. His patient eyes stared steadily at Paul Drake.

  “Paul,” he said, “I’m going to be frank with you. That’s one of the things I can’t afford to be questioned about right now.”

  He clicked back his swivel chair and pulled his hat down on his head.

  Wordlessly, the men walked through the door which led to the outer corridor. Perry Mason pushed out the lights and the door clicked shut behind them.

  “Where can we go?” asked Perry Mason. “In your office?”

  Paul Drake fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “What’s the matter,” asked Perry Mason, “are you getting gun-shy? You and I have pulled some fast ones together. Now, you act as though I had the smallpox. Just because a couple of detectives want to ask me a question I haven’t any intention of answering is no sign I can’t go to your office for an informal chat. If they found you in my office, it might not be so hot, but it certainly wouldn’t bother you if they found me in your office.”

  “It isn’t that,” Paul Drake said. “I’ve got a confession to make. I was going to tell you when that telephone rang.”

  “A confession?” asked Perry Mason.

  Paul Drake nodded and averted his eyes.

  Perry Mason heaved a sigh.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s go get a taxicab and ride around.”

  Chapter 10

  Perry Mason let the detective precede him into the taxicab.

  “Drive straight down the street a couple of blocks, and then circle around the block,” Perry Mason said.

  The cab driver looked at them curiously for a moment, then snapped the car into gear. Perry Mason turned to Paul Drake.

  “Well?” he said.

  “It’s a peculiar situation,” said the detective. “I want you to understand one thing, Perry. I wouldn’t double-cross you. I wouldn’t double-cross any client, you least of all. I tried to get in touch with you and couldn’t. I got in touch with Bradbury, who is my real client, and he said it was okay. There was a couple of hundred bucks in it for me, and I needed the money. Things have been rather quiet, and—”

  “Never mind the hard luck story,” Mason said. “Go ahead and tell me what happened, and make it snappy because I’ve got places to go.”

  “It’s this way,” Paul Drake said, speaking rapidly. “I came back to my office to wait for you right after I’d found out the facts on the murder case. While I was waiting a young woman walked in. She’s a well-dressed, attractive young woman, with a peculiar look about her eyes. I can’t tell you just what it is. It’s an expression that I don’t like particularly. She said that she knew Patton had been murdered, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Perry Mason. “How the devil could she have known Patton had been murdered at that time?”

  “I don’t know,” Drake said. “I’m telling you what she told me.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She laughed in my face and told me I was to get information, not to ask for it.”

  “What’s her name?” asked Perry Mason.

  “The name she gives is that of Vera Cutter. She won’t tell me where she lives. She says she’ll get in touch with me when she wants to hear from me; that I’m not to try and get in touch with her. She says that she knows Marjorie Clune is mixed up in a murder and that she is friendly with Marjorie, and—”

  “Wait a minute,” said Perry Mason, “let’s get this straight. Is she about twenty-four or twenty-five, with warm brown eyes, mahogany hair, a sun-tan complexion, and—”

  “No,” said Paul Drake, “it isn’t Thelma Bell, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know Thelma Bell’s description. Remember, I had a man waiting for her at her apartment in order to get Patton’s address. No, this woman is around twenty-four, but she’s a decided brunette. She’s got snapping black eyes, long thin hands that seem very restless, a dead white skin, and—”

  “How about her legs?” asked Perry Mason suddenly.

  Paul Drake stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has she got pretty legs, and does she like to show them?” Perry Mason asked.

  Drake’s eyes seemed to regard the lawyer with a contemplative scrutiny. There was a smoldering fire back of the glassy film.

  “Wait a minute,” Perry Mason said, “I’m serious.”

  “Why?” asked the detective.

  “All of our contact with Patton runs to women who have been selected because of beautiful legs. They’ve been used for publicity purposes,” Mason said. “Now, I’m wondering if this woman might not be connected with Patton instead of with Marjorie Clune.”

  “I see,” Drake said. “Well, she’s got pretty legs. She crosses them and lets you see lots of stocking.”

  “Go on,” Mason said.

  “This woman,” said Paul Drake, “wanted me to accept employment to protect Marjorie Clune’s interests. She seemed to know a lot of inside stuff. She won’t tell me how she knows it. She says that Dr. Doray has got a devil of a temper; that Dr. Doray was jealous of Patton all the time Patton was in Cloverdale, and that Doray came to this city, not to rescue Marjorie, but to kill Patton.”

  Perry Mason stared steadily at Paul Drake.

  “And you telephoned Bradbury?” he asked.

  “Yes, I got Bradbury at his hotel. I explained the situation to him and asked him if I could take the employment. At first he said no, he wanted me to work for him exclusively, and he certainly didn’t want me working with some woman and making reports to her. She heard the conversation and said that I could make all my reports to Bradbury; that she only wanted to see justice done; that she would be willing to forego any reports.”

  “You relayed that on to Bradbury?” asked Mason.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That changed the situation so far as he was concerned. He said if I wanted to it was all right to go ahead.”

  “You outlined her theory of the case to him?”

  “Yes.”

  Perry Mason made drumming motions with the tips of the fingers of his right hand against the glass windows of the taxicab. Abruptly, he turned to Paul Drake.

  “That explains it,” he said.

  “Explains what?”

  “The tip-off on that Doray car.”

  The detective gave a sudden start of surprise, then caught himself and sat rigidly motionless.

  “How did you know it was a tip-off?” he asked.

  “This business about the homicide squad getting in touch with the deputy district attorney, and all that sort of stuff, sounds a little bit too fast and a little bit too efficient for the police,” Perry Mason said. “You know as well as I do that most of the police efficiency, outside of regular routine stuff, is founded on tips and squeals. Now, who tipped you off that Doray’s car was parked somewhere in the vicinity?”

  “To tell you the truth,” Paul Drake said “—and, incidentally, Perry, this is the only thing I’ve held out on you—it was this woman who told me that Dr. Doray’s car was near the scene of the murder at the time of the murder, that it had been parked in front of a fire plug, and that it had been tagged.”

  Perry Mason’s eyes were glinting with excitement.

  “Tell me,” he said, “was this car a distinctive car?”