“I don’t like the idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too much risk.”

  “It’ll bring me into contact with the murderer.”

  “That’s just it. The murderer will choose the time and the place of making the contact. He may even shoot first, and look in your wallet afterwards.”

  “There’s always the chance,” Mason admitted, “but he’d be more apt to make a stick-up of it. And I’ll be careful.”

  She said, “Yes, I’ve got a picture of you being careful—and when the murderer finds your wallet without a fingerprint in it, what. . .”

  Mason walked across the office to a bookcase. On the top of this bookcase was a choice example of Japanese pigeon-blood cloisonne. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, polished the vase, ran his right hand through his hair several times, then pressed three of his fingertips against the surface. He said to Della, “Take that down to Paul Drake’s office. Have him develop the latent fingerprints on it, and photograph them. Don’t tell him why we want them. I’ll carry a copy of that photograph in my wallet. Then in case anything slips, the murderer won’t get suspicious.”

  “Chief, I wish you wouldn’t do it. There’s no need for you to take the risk personally. Why not say that you have them in your office safe?”

  “No. We can’t guard the office without letting someone else in on it. I want to handle this myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it won’t look like a trap then. But if I try to decoy the murderer into some office and have that office guarded, it’s going to look very much like a trap. The person with whom we’re dealing is far too intelligent to walk into so obvious a trap.”

  Della Street reached for the dictionary. “Well,” she said, “I’ll put it in code. Only I do wish you wouldn’t do it, Chief.”

  Mason said, “Here. Give me the dictionary. I’ll help you . . . ‘Lawyer.’ That’s in column a on page 569, the seventh word.”

  Della Street spelled out the code word. “GHKAI.”

  Mason turned through the pages again, said, “Isn’t it nice I have a name that’s listed in the dictionary?”

  “You might wish it on Paul Drake,” she said. “We could use ‘Detective Drake’ just as well as ‘Lawyer Mason.’ ”

  “No,” Mason said with a grin. “Paul isn’t feeling too friendly right now. He might object to being selected as the victim of a hold-up. At that, it’s a tempting thought. Detective Drake has an alliteration which is lacking in Lawyer Mason.”

  “Shall we use it?” Della Street asked eagerly.

  “No, absolutely not. Get thee behind me, Satan. Let’s get back to our knitting. Here’s Mason on the a part of page 615, the sixth word from the top.”

  Della Street said, “Six-fifteen-A-six. That’ll be HCGAH. What’s next?”

  Mason said, “I’ll look up ‘has.’ Let’s see. That’s the second word in column b on page 455.”

  “That’s FGGBD.”

  “Fine,” Mason said. “Now, ‘fingerprint.’ That’s page 377, the seventh word on the page.”

  Della Street said, “Three-seven-seven-A-seven. That’ll be EIIAI.” Abruptly, she looked down at what she had written and began to laugh.

  “What?” Mason asked.

  “I was just wondering what would happen if Lieutenant Tragg got hold of this message,” she said. “Has it occurred to you, Chief, that out of four words, two of them have ended in AI?”

  Mason frowned, scratched his head. “That isn’t so good,” he said. “It’ll give Tragg too much of a clue. He’ll know darn well then it isn’t just an ordinary cipher, but some sort of a code.”

  “You don’t think he’ll get hold of this, do you?”

  “He may.”

  “I don’t see just what you’re planning to do. Won’t the man who gets the message know it’s a trap?”

  “Not if my idea is correct. The persons who are using this means of communication both have access to that place in the cellar; but for some reason, they don’t dare to be seen talking together. Now if that’s the case, they won’t have any opportunity to clarify an ambiguity in the case. In other words, the person who gets the message can’t pick up a telephone and say, ‘Hello, Bill. I got your message. What do you mean, a fingerprint? Your fingerprint or my fingerprint. Or . . .’ ” Mason broke off suddenly to stare at Della Street. “Do you realize,” he demanded, “what I have just said?”

  “About the telephone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?”

  “Why the devil should anyone resort to the complicated means of putting a code in the top of a can if he could get to a telephone? After all, you know, Della, my idea has been that the code idea was necessary because we had two persons who needed to communicate with each other, couldn’t see each other, and so had to leave messages in a can at a certain place.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “But why the devil couldn’t they telephone to each other? There wouldn’t be any danger in that. A person can go into a telephone booth anywhere, drop a nickel, dial a number, and talk with any person he wants. In that way, a man could give another complete instructions without the possibility of having them garbled, or, as happened in this case, having the woman of the house find the can and toss it into the discard.”

  She frowned. “Well, why not?”

  “That’s just it. There’s only one explanation. The person can’t use a telephone.”

  “Why?”

  Mason said, “Either because they can’t get to a telephone, or because they couldn’t use it if they did.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, a deaf person couldn’t use a telephone.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “And,” Mason said slowly, “a crippled person might not be able to get to a telephone.”

  Della Street said, “Wouldn’t a crippled person have a telephone by the side of his bed? After all, a person who could put a can on a shelf, could certainly get to a telephone.”

  Mason said, “There’s one person who doesn’t have a phone by his bed, yet is crippled. Remember Karr said he got so nervous at the sound of a bell he wouldn’t have a phone by his bed?”

  Della said, “You’ve put your finger on something there.”

  Mason stroked the angle of his jaw. “This begins to look like something,” he admitted. “But why should Karr communicate in code with anyone in the Gentrie house?”

  “He’s the only one in the case who really couldn’t get to a telephone when he wanted one,” Della said.

  Mason pursed his lips. “He is, for a fact. We’ll have to keep our eye on Mr. Elston A. Karr. It’s beginning to look very much as though he engineered the burglary of Hocksley’s flat. Of course, that doesn’t mean he suggested the murder of Hocksley.”

  “Wouldn’t it make him legally responsible for it though—if he engineered the burglary?” Della Street asked.

  “It would,” Mason agreed, a slight twinkle in his eyes, “on one condition.”

  “What’s the condition?”

  “That they can prove it on him.”

  Della said, “You’ve just about done that by cold, remorseless logic.”

  “I have, but that doesn’t mean Tragg’s going to. He may overlook that angle entirely.”

  “Bosh! He pretends to be just dawdling along, and then—Wham!”

  Mason abruptly walked over to the hat closet. “Be sure to get that can and the sealing machine, Della. Take that vase down to Paul Drake’s office. I’m going out to get a shave, a face massage, a manicure, and a quart of coffee.”

  “I will,” Della Street said, then added, “and don’t you let that Sunley girl mix any more sex, simpers, and sweetness to kid you along.”

  “You could have added pseudo-sincerity,” Mason grinned. “That also is alliterative.”

  Della said, “Damn! I knew we shouldn’t have bought that dictionary.”

  Chapter 11

  Lieutenant Tragg rang the front doorbell, then raised his hat as Mrs. Gentrie opened the door.

  “I’m sorry to keep on disturbing you,” he said, “but there are one or two minor matters on which I have to get more information.”

  She seemed apprehensive for a moment, then smiled and said, “Come right on in, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m not inconveniencing you?”

  “Not at all, but now those other officers just came bursting in here without so much as a by-your-leave or without taking their hats off. You’re always a perfect gentleman.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and then added after a moment, “but let me put in a good word for the hard-boiled officers. They’re overworked and have so many things to do, they simply don’t have time to think of people as human beings. They regard them as witnesses, suspects, possible victims, and accomplices—if you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I see,” Mrs. Gentrie said, ushering Tragg into the living room.

  Rebecca looked up with a quick smile, a smile that was almost a simper. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

  Tragg came across to stand before her. “And how are you today?” he asked.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Well, you’re certainly looking well.”

  “Isn’t she,” Mrs. Gentrie said. “I believe murder cases agree with her. She’s perked up no end.”

  “Now, Florence,” Rebecca said, “you’re talking as though I had been an invalid.”

  “Don’t be silly. But you must know you’re looking a lot better, and I think you’re feeling a lot better. Now that you have something to interest you.” She turned to Lieutenant Tragg, and said, “Rebecca spends too much time in her darkroom, and she stays in the house too much of the time. I keep trying to persuade her to get out, and take more exercise, but I don’t have much luck.”

  “Well, sakes alive, what’s a body going to do?” Rebecca demanded. “I never stand a chance at getting the family car—even if I knew how to drive, which I don’t. And as far as walking is concerned, it isn’t any pleasure to get up and pound your feet to pieces on the cement sidewalk while automobiles go whizzing by and spewing a lot of poison gas into the atmosphere. I don’t see why they allow automobiles on residential streets, Lieutenant. I think it’s an outrage and a menace to health.”

  “It may be at that,” Tragg agreed. “Are there any new developments?”

  Mrs. Gentrie shook her head.

  Rebecca, having started to talk, rambled on. She said, “Mr. Mason was out here just about an hour ago. He was making what he called a final check-up.”

  Tragg’s finely chiseled features lost some of their boyish look. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Mr. Mason. He’s been out here several times, hasn’t he?”

  “Well, off and on,” Rebecca said.

  Lieutenant Tragg was looking at Mrs. Gentrie. “I wonder just what Mason’s interest is in the case,” he said.

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  Tragg said, “Mason is a lawyer. He doesn’t go around solving mysteries. He isn’t particularly interested in apprehending murderers. He’s interested in making fees, and he makes fees because he represents some one client. I haven’t been able to find out whom he’s representing in this case. He hasn’t said anything, has he?”

  Mrs. Gentrie said, “Well . . . no. I can’t say that he has.”

  He frowned. “Rather strange. Mrs. Gentrie, I am going to have to talk frankly with you about rather a disagreeable matter.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “It’s about your oldest son.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m wondering if you’ve found him always truthful?”

  Mrs. Gentrie said somewhat defiantly, “Junior is a good boy.”

  “Of course he is,” Tragg said. “But I am asking you if you have found him entirely truthful.”

  Rebecca, who had been squirming uneasily on her chair, anxious for an excuse to enter the conversation, said, “Of course, Florence, you must admit that since he’s started going . . .”

  Florence turned to her. “Please, Rebecca,” she said.

  Tragg was apologetic, but insistent. “This is rather embarrassing to me,” he said, “but I think your sister-in-law was commenting on the exact phase that I wanted to bring up, Mrs. Gentrie.” He turned to Rebecca. “You were going to say that since he became interested in that stenographer next door, he’s been a little secretive, weren’t you?”

  Rebecca sniffed. “Secretive’s no name for it. There’s no good going to come of it, if you ask me. A young boy like him running around with a woman that’s so much older. They certainly didn’t do anything like that when I was a girl.”

  Mrs. Gentrie said doggedly, “Rebecca, I think it would be better if you left Junior out of it.”

  Rebecca said, “It isn’t anything against Junior as much as it is against that little minx. She has that butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth manner of looking at you. And she says”—and here Rebecca’s voice changed entirely to assume a startling likeness to that of Opal Sunley—“ ‘Good moahning, Miss Gentrie—ahnd how’s all the fahmily today?’ I feel like up and giving her a piece of my mind, just coming right out and saying, ‘They’d be very well, thank you, if you’d just leave your painted finger hooks out of Junior and let him grow up as a normal boy should.’ ”

  Mrs. Gentrie said sternly, “Rebecca! Stop it!”

  Tragg flashed Mrs. Gentrie his best smile. “I’m sorry. I’m quite certain it was my fault. I led her into it, and, as you probably realize, I did it with a purpose. Mrs. Gentrie, are you absolutely certain that your son was in bed when that shot was heard next door?”

  Mrs. Gentrie said slowly, “No. I’m not certain he was in bed.”

  “Are you perhaps certain that he wasn’t?” Tragg asked, his voice quietly insistent.

  “I don’t know. What makes you say that?” she asked.

  “I’m not certain that I know myself,” Tragg observed, still smiling, “only it impresses me that you’re a very efficient mother, that you keep an eye on your children, that in the event you heard something you thought might be a shot, your first idea would be to look for the safety of your children. And, as I understand it, Junior’s bedroom is between your room and the head of the stairs.”

  Mrs. Gentrie met his eyes steadily, and asked, “Is there some particular reason why you’re trying to drag Junior into this?”

  “I’m not trying to drag him into it, Mrs. Gentrie, but I think it’s only fair to tell you that the two fingerprints on the telephone in Mr. Hocksley’s house are those of your son.”

  Mrs. Gentrie started to say something, then changed her mind and was silent.

  “The paint-smear fingerprints on the telephone were made by someone who had touched the paint your husband had placed on the garage door. He didn’t finish that painting until around nine-thirty at night as I understand it. Obviously then, your son, who was out at the time, returned home sometime after that, entered this house, probably in the dark, went down to the cellar for some purpose. Without realizing that the garage door had been painted, he came groping his way toward it. I think you follow me, Mrs. Gentrie. If he’d been using a light, or if a light had been on in the cellar, he’d have seen the fresh paint on the door, and, moreover, wouldn’t have been groping along with his hands outstretched.”

  Rebecca said, “I think you’re quite right, Lieutenant. Personally, I thought I heard someone moving around here in the corridor just about the time the noise of the shot wakened me.”

  “Someone moving around in the house?” Tragg asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “And you said you thought you heard someone moving, Mrs. Gentrie?”

  “No. I heard Mephisto, the cat.”

  “Yet you got up and got your husband to go downstairs?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was worried.”

  “About what?”

  “I thought that noise might have been a shot.”

  “You didn’t think it came from this house?”

  “Well, no—that is, I didn’t think very much about it.”

  “You got your husband to get up and investigate things here in this house?”

  “Yes.”

  Tragg remained silent for several seconds, letting the significance of those questions and replies soak into Mrs. Gentrie’s mind; then he went on smoothly, “Your son went downstairs in the dark. He groped for the garage door, opened it, and went into the garage. Then he opened the other door and went across to Hocksley’s flat. In groping for the garage door in the dark, he got paint on the fingers of his left hand. After he got over to Hocksley’s flat, he struck matches to light his way. Your husband is left-handed. Your son, however, is right-handed. He was taking matches from his pocket with his right hand and striking them with his right hand. So he didn’t touch anything with the fingers of his left hand until he picked up the telephone over in Hocksley’s flat. The paint on his fingers was still wet. It’s obvious that must have been within a very few minutes of the time he got his fingers in the paint on the garage door. When he came back, he . . .”

  Rebecca suddenly sucked in her breath as though she had been about to make some exclamatory statement.

  Tragg turned to her. “Well?” he asked after a moment as she failed to speak.

  Rebecca said, “I was just wondering if . . .”

  “I don’t think Lieutenant Tragg is interested in any of your wild theories, Rebecca,” Mrs. Gentrie cautioned.

  Tragg kept smiling affably. “What were you thinking, Miss Gentrie?”

  “Well,” Rebecca said, “I suppose it’s nothing, but my darkroom door opens into the basement, and there’s a curtain hanging just inside that door, so that when you open the door to come into the darkroom, you don’t let light in.”

  “You mean the curtain is far enough behind the door so you can open and close the door before you go through the curtain?” Tragg asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Tragg said, “It’s a very nice darkroom you have.”

  Rebecca beamed with pride. “It has the finest equipment! And we’ve made it ourselves. I have a daylight enlarger, so I can use diffused daylight in enlarging my pictures and . . .”