“No, ” said Mason, “I don’t care a damn about the person who had it out. I’d just as soon the police figured it was Miss Celane who had the car out. What I want to do is to prove that the speedometer was set back, and I want to find out who set it back. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think I do now. Yes, sir.”

  “When is your wife coming back?”

  “I don’t know. Some men from the District Attorney’s office came and talked with her. Then they told her they wanted her to go to the office and make a statement.”

  “All right,” said Mason. “Do you think you can give her my message?”

  “Yes, sir, I know I can.”

  “All right. See that you do,” Mason told him. “Now there’s one other thing that I want to find out about, and that’s where you were at the time the murder was committed.”

  “Me?” said the man. “I was asleep.”

  “You’re certain about that?”

  “Of course I’m certain. I woke up with all of the commotion going on.”

  “Your wife wasn’t asleep,” said Mason.

  “Who says she wasn’t?” demanded Mayfield, his sullen eyes showing some trace of emotion.

  “I do,” said Mason. “Your wife was around the house. She hadn’t gone to bed when the murder was committed. You know that.”

  “Well, what of it?’ said Mayfield.

  “Just this,” Mason remarked, lowering his voice impressively, “there was a woman in the room with the man who struck that blow. Now your wife had intimated that woman was Miss Celane, or may have been Miss Celane. I want you to tell your wife that I now have evidence which leads me to believe that she was the woman who was in the room at the time.”

  “You mean,” said the man, bristling, “that you’re accusing my wife of murder?”

  “I mean,” said Mason, standing his ground and staring at the belligerent gardener, “that I’m telling you I have evidence that indicates your wife was the woman who was in the room at the time the blow was struck. That doesn’t mean that she struck the blow. It doesn’t mean she knows anything at all about the fact that a blow was going to be struck. But it does mean that she was in the room at the time.”

  “You want me to tell her that?” asked Mayfield.

  “I want you to tell her that,” said Mason.

  “All right,” said Mayfield. “I’ll tell her that, but she won’t like it.”

  “I don’t care whether she likes it or not,” said Mason. “I told you to tell her that.”

  “All right,” said Mayfield. “Is there anything else?”

  “No,” Mason told him, “except that you want to be sure and tell her about this interview when no one is listening. In other words, I don’t want the representatives of the District Attorney’s office to know about it.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Mayfield, “I know enough for that.”

  “All right,” said Mason, and got in his car and drove down the boulevard.

  He drove in to a cafe, where he dined leisurely and thoughtfully.

  By the time he had finished dinner, the newsboys were crying papers on the street, and Perry Mason bought one, took it to his automobile, lounged back against the cushions, turned on the domelight and read the headlines which spread across the top of the page.

  “NEW MYSTERY IN MILLIONAIRE MURDER. . . . WOMAN IN ROOM AT TIME OF CRIME IS CLAIMED. . . . POLICE TRACING MARKED MONEY TAKEN FROM BODY OF MILLIONAIRE. . . . HEIRESS SECRETLY MARRIED AND HUSBAND SOUGHT AS MATERIAL WITNESS. . . . BEAUTIFUL NIECE MYSTERIOUSLY DISAPPEARS FOLLOWING VISIT TO PROMINENT LAWYER.”

  Perry Mason read through each word of the sensational story which followed; a story in which the reporters told as much as they dared in between the lines; a story which stopped short of actual accusation, yet which left the public to infer that the police were far from satisfied with the case against Pete Devoe, the chauffeur, and were considering a sudden change of front which would involve persons of wealth and prominence.

  Perry Mason carefully folded the paper, thrust it into the door pocket of the car, and drove, not to his bachelor apartment, but to a downtown hotel where he registered under an assumed name and spent the night.

  Chapter 14

  Perry Mason walked into his office, said good morning to Della Street, then went into his private office where the morning newspapers were spread on his desk.

  Della Street opened the door and followed him into the private office.

  “Somebody broke in and searched . . .”

  He whirled on her, placing his finger to his lips. Then, while she ceased talking, started making a round of the office. He moved pictures, peering behind them, swung out the revolving bookcase and inspected the wall space, then crawled under the desk. He straightened, smiled, and said: “Looking for a dictograph. There’s just a chance that they’d have one planted.”

  She nodded.

  “Somebody broke into the office last night,” she said, “and went through everything. The safe was opened.”

  “Did they smash it?”

  “No, he must have been some clever crook who knew how to work the combination. The safe was opened, all right. I could tell, because the papers were disturbed.”

  “That’s all right,” he told her. “What else is new?”

  “Nothing,” she said, “except three police detectives watching the office, and I have an idea they’re waiting for someone to come in.”

  He smiled wisely and said: “Let them wait. It will teach them patience.”

  “Did you read the papers?” she asked.

  “Not the morning papers,” he told her.

  “The late editions say that they’ve identified the club that killed Norton.” she told him.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. It was a heavy walking stick, and they’ve found out that it belonged to Rob Gleason, the husband of our client.”

  “That’ll mean,” said Perry Mason, “that they’ll charge him with first degree murder, and let the charge against Devoe go.”

  “They’re also going to charge the woman,“she said, “unless they have already.”

  “So?” he asked.

  “Yes. This secretary, Don Graves, has given some additional information which has changed the entire complexion of the case, according to the STAR. Graves was shielding some one. The police broke him down and he gave additional evidence.”

  “Well,” he said, “that makes it interesting. If anybody comes in, give them a stall.”

  She nodded her head, staring at him apprehensively.

  “You’re not going to get mixed into this thing, are you?” she asked.

  “Why should I get mixed into it?” he inquired.

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “You do too much for your clients.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know what I mean. You had Miss Celane have a nervous breakdown, and leave here in an ambulance.”

  He smiled at her. “Well?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it a crime,” she said, “to conceal someone who is wanted by the police?”

  “Was she wanted by the police then?” he inquired.

  “No,” she said, dubiously, “not then, I guess.”

  “Furthermore,” said Mason, “I am not a physician. I might make an incorrect diagnosis. I thought she was having a nervous breakdown, but I called a physician to verify my impression.”

  She frowned at him and shook her head.

  “I don’t like it,” she said.

  “Don’t like what?”

  “Don’t like the way you mix into these cases. Why can’t you sit back and just do your stuff in a court room?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure,” he told her, smiling. “Maybe it’s a disease.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she told him. “Other lawyers walk into court and examine the witnesses and then put the case up before a jury. You go out and mix yourself into the cases.”

  “Other lawyers,” he told her, “have clients who get hung.”

  “Sometimes they deserve it,” she pointed out.

  “Perhaps. I haven’t had one hung so far, and I haven’t had one who deserved it.”

  She stood staring at him for a moment, then smiled, and there was something almost maternal in her smile.

  “Are all your clients innocent?” she asked.

  “That’s what the juries say,” he told her. “And after all, they’re the ones to judge.”

  She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

  “You win,” she said, and went back into the outer office.

  As the catch clicked, Perry Mason sat down at his desk and spread out the newspapers. He read for fifteen minutes without interruption, and then the door opened.

  “There’s a Mrs. Mayfield out here,” Della Street told him, “and I have an idea you’d better see her while the seeing is good.”

  Perry Mason nodded.

  “Send her in,” he said, “and make it snappy. There’ll probably be a police detective following on her trail. Stall him off just as long as you can.”

  The girl nodded, opened the door, and beckoned to the woman who sat in the outer office.

  As the broad form of Mrs. Mayfield hulked in the doorway, Perry Mason saw his secretary blocking as much of the passage as possible. Then, as the door was closing behind the housekeeper, he heard Della Street’s voice saying: “I’m very sorry, but Mr. Mason is in an important conference right now and can’t be disturbed.”

  Perry Mason nodded to Mrs. Mayfield, got up, crossed the office and turned the lock on the door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Mayfield,” he said.

  She stared at him in black-eyed belligerency.

  “Good morning!” she snapped.

  Perry Mason indicated the black leather chair, and Mrs. Mayfield sat down in it, her back very stiff and her chin thrust forward.

  “What’s this about the speedometer being set back on the Buick automobile?” she asked.

  There was the sound of scuffling motion from the outer office, then the noise of bodies pushing against the door, and the knob of the door twisted. The lock held it shut, and Perry Mason kept his eyes fastened on Mrs. Mayfield, holding her attention away from the noise at the door.

  “Mr. Norton,” said the lawyer, “reported the Buick automobile as having been stolen. At the time, we thought that Miss Celane was driving it. Now it appears that she was not. Therefore, the Buick must have been gone at the time Norton reported its theft to the police. However, we have the mileage record of the car, and it shows that he returned it to his house at 15,304.7 miles.

  “That means the person who was using it the night of the murder must have either set the speedometer back or disconnected the speedometer when he took it out.”

  Mrs. Mayfield shook her head.

  “The car wasn’t out,” she said.

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Purkett, the butler,” she said, “sleeps right over the garage. He was lying awake in bed, reading, and he’d have heard anyone take a car out. He says that the garage doors were closed, and that no car went out.”

  “Could he have been mistaken?” pressed Mason.

  “No,” she snapped. “The doors make a noise when they’re opened. It sounds very loud up in the room over the garage. Purkett would have heard it, and I want an explanation of this crack that you made to my husband about me being in the room when the murder . . .”

  “Forget that for a minute,” Mason interrupted. “We’re talking about the car, and our time’s short. I can’t do any business with you unless I can prove that speedometer was set back.”

  She shook her head emphatically.

  “You can’t do any business with me anyway,” she said. “You’ve got things in a fine mess.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’ve handled things in such a way that the police have dragged Frances Celane into it.”

  The black eyes snapped at him in beady indignation, and then suddenly filmed with moisture.

  “You mean you’re the one that got Frances Celane into it,” said Mason, getting to his feet and facing her accusingly. “You started it by blackmailing her about her marriage, and then you wanted more blackmail to keep her out of this murder business.”

  The glittering black eyes now showed globules of moisture.

  “I wanted money,” said Mrs. Mayfield, losing her air of belligerency. “I knew it was an easy way to get it. I knew that Frances Celane was going to have plenty. I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t have some of it. When she hired you, I knew you were going to get plenty of money, and I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t have some.

  “All my life I’ve been a working woman. I’ve married a husband who is a clod, and hasn’t ambition or sense enough to come in out of the rain. All my life I’ve had to take responsibilities. When I was a girl I had to support my family. After I was married, I had to furnish all the ambition to keep the family going. For years I’ve waited on Frances Celane. I’ve seen her live the life of a spoiled lady of leisure. I’ve had to slave my fingers to the bone doing housework and seeing that she had her breakfast in bed, and I’m tired of it. I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t have some money too. I wanted lots of money. I wanted people to wait on me. I was willing to do anything to get the money, except to get Frances into real trouble.

  “Now I can’t do anything about it. The police cornered me and made me talk, and they’re going to arrest Frances Celane for murder. For murder! Do you understand?”

  Her voice rose almost to a shriek.

  There was an imperative pounding on the door of the office.

  “Open up in there!” gruffed a voice from the outside.

  Perry Mason paid no attention to the commotion at the door, but kept his eyes fixed upon Mrs. Mayfield.

  “If it would help clear up this mystery,” he said, “do you think you could find someone who would testify that the car was taken out and that the speedometer was either disconnected or set back?”

  “No,” she said, “that car didn’t go out.”

  Mason started pacing the floor.

  The knocking at the outer door was redoubled in intensity. Someone shouted: “This is a police detective. Open up that door!”

  Suddenly Mason laughed aloud.

  “What a fool I’ve been!” he said.

  The housekeeper blinked back the tears and stared at him with wide eyes.

  “Of course,” said Mason, “that car didn’t leave the garage. No car left the garage. ” And he smacked his fist down upon his palm.

  He whirled to the housekeeper.

  “If you want to do something for Frances Celane,” he said, “talk with Purkett again, and in detail. Go over the case with him and strengthen his recollection so that, no matter what happens, he can’t be shaken in his testimony.”

  “You want him to say that the car didn’t leave the garage?” asked the housekeeper.

  “I want him to tell the truth,” said Perry Mason. “But I want him to tell it with sufficient firmness so that he won’t be rattled on the witness stand by a lot of lawyers. That’s all I want him to testify to—just the fact that the car did not leave the garage at any time on that night; that the garage doors were closed, and that they remained closed, and that no person could have taken a car from the garage without his hearing it.”

  “Well,” she said, “that’s the truth. That’s what he says.”

  “All right,” he told her, “if you want to do Frances Celane a favor, you get to him and see that no pressure on earth can change that testimony of his.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said.

  He asked hastily. “What did you tell the police about getting money from Frances Celane?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I told them that she gave you money but I didn’t know how much, or whether it was in large bills or small bills.”

  The door creaked under the weight of a body which had been thrown against it.

  Perry Mason walked to it, snapped back the lock, and opened the door.

  “What the hell do you mean,” he demanded, “by trying to bust into my private office?”

  A burly man with square shoulders, thick neck and scowling forehead, pushed his way into the room.

  “I told you who I was,” he said. “I’m a police detcctive.”

  “I don’t care if you’re Mussolini,” said Perry Mason. “You can’t break into my office.”

  “The hell I can’t,” said the detective. “I’m taking this woman into custody.”

  Mrs. Mayfield gave a little scream.

  “On what charge?” asked Perry Mason.

  “As a material witness in a murder case,” said the detective.

  Mason remarked: “Well, you didn’t get the urge to take her into custody as a material witness until after she came to this office.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the detective.

  “Exactly what I say,” said Mason. “You sat outside and watched this office until you saw Mrs. Mayfield come in. Then you telephoned your superior for instructions, and he told you to pick her up as a material witness before she had a chance to talk with me.”

  “Pretty smooth, ain’t you?” sneered the detective.

  Mrs. Mayfield stared from one to the other and said: “But I haven’t done anything.”

  “That ain’t the question, ma’am,” said the detective. “It’s a question of keeping you as a material witness where you won’t be annoyed or inconvenienced.”

  “And,” sneered Perry Mason, “where you won’t have a chance to talk with anybody except representatives of the District Attorney’s office.”

  The detective glowered at Perry Mason.

  “And we understand,” he said, “that you received ten one thousand dollar bills that were stolen from the body of Edward Norton.”

  “Is that so?” said Mason.

  “That’s so,” snapped the detective.

  “Just where do you think those bills are?” asked the lawyer.

  “We don’t know, but we intend to find out,” the detective told him.

  “Well,” said Mason, “it is a free country, or it used to be once. Go ahead and find out.”

  “When we do,” said the detective, “you’re likely to find yourself facing a charge of receiving stolen property.”