“Where else?”

  She shook her head and said, “She’s secretive.”

  “You think there’s someone else?”

  “Of course.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “You haven’t any idea who it might be?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea, and I don’t think Arthman did either.”

  Mason said, “Let’s quit stalling. I have reason to believe that you were in the upstairs bedroom at Fargo’s house this morning. I have reason to believe that you took Fargo’s Cadillac and did some pretty rapid driving around the city trying to shake off someone who was following you. I think you abandoned the car some place where you feel that it won’t be connected with you. I have reason to believe the body of Myrtle Fargo may be found in the trunk of that car. That’s just a long, wild guess. You could have had something to do with the murder of Myrtle Fargo, or you perhaps didn’t know anything about it Would you like to talk about that?”

  “I wouldn’t like to talk about anything more. You’re playing your cards pretty fast, big boy. I’ve tried to follow suit. So far, I’ve done pretty well. The trouble is that you know what’s trumps and I don’t.”

  “When the police find the car,” Mason said, “they’ll find your fingerprints on the steering wheel.”

  “How do you know they will?”

  “Because the police have started to look for the woman in the case.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Meaning you, and they’ll go all over that car looking for fingerprints.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “And,” Mason went on, “if you did kill Arthman Fargo it might be a lot better to come right out and say that you killed him and say that you had to kill him in self-defense after you had found out about the murder of his wife, rather than to try to stall around and in the end wind up facing a murder rap. Now I don’t want to be your lawyer. I’m not in a position to advise you and I’m not advising you as a lawyer, but that’s something for you to think over. It’s just sound common sense.”

  She slid over to the edge of the bed, the housecoat rolling up as she slid along so that a flash of bare legs against the dark sheen of the housecoat showed she had nothing on under it. Then she stood up, smoothed the housecoat about her and said, “Look at me, Mr. Mason.”

  “I’m looking.”

  She said, “You think I’m hard-boiled. You think I’ve been through the mill. You think I’m working in a night club. You think I’m a gold digger. Go ahead and think all you want.

  “I’m twenty-seven. I’ve seen a lot of the world. Every man I’ve known has been on the make. Lots of times I think to myself, ‘Well, why not, Celinda? Why not go ahead and be on the make yourself?’ And then somehow or other I’ve always held back. I’ve always tried to keep on the up-and-up. I like Arthman Fargo. If he’s dead it’s going to be a terrific jolt to me. I can take it. I’ve taken lots of things in my life. I’ve had the rug jerked out from under me just when I thought I was sitting pretty. After you go I’ll sit down here and bawl my eyes out and look like hell when I go on duty tonight. Right now I’m keeping my chin up and dealing them to you right off the top of the deck.

  “I know that you’re not interested in my feelings or in my grief. I suppose you had some reason for coming here. I suppose whatever your reason is you’re trying to thimble-rig something that’s for the benefit of your client and not for my benefit. I suppose I should regard you as an enemy. You look like a decent sort and you have a reputation of being a square shooter. Now then, that’s my story and I …”

  She broke off as a buzzer made insistent sounds.

  “What’s that?” Mason asked.

  “The doorbell,” she said.

  “The outer door?”

  “No, the apartment door right here. Some peddler probably. Don’t pay any attention to it They get in and ring for a while, then go away and …”

  The buzzer sounded again. Knuckles pounded on the door. “Open up in there,” a voice said.

  Mason got to his feet, said, “Well, thanks for the interview. I think you’d better open up. That sounds like someone I know.”

  She walked over to the door and opened it.

  Lieutenant Tragg and a plain-clothes detective stood in the hallway.

  Mason said, “Celinda Gilson, Lieutenant Tragg. Celinda, this is Lieutenant Tragg of homicide. He wants to ask you some questions about Fargo.”

  Tragg was not entirely able to hold back his surprise. “Damned if you don’t get around, Mason,” he said. “Is this your client?”

  Mason shook his head.

  “Well,” Tragg said, with elaborate politeness, “we don’t want to interfere with your crowded schedule, Mason. This is one time when we won’t detain you.”

  “Thanks,” Mason said ironically, and walked out.

  Chapter 13

  It was well after two o’clock when Mason opened the door of his private office and walked in to find Paul Drake and Della Street huddled in low-voiced conversation.

  “Hello,” Mason said cheerfully. “You look like a couple of conspirators.”

  “We are,” Della said.

  Mason said, “I think we’ve got the lead, Paul. That Celinda Gilson is it. She tried to pretend she was sound asleep when I rang the bell, but she gave herself away. She’s quite a cigarette smoker, yet while she was knuckling her eyes and going through all the motions of being freshly awakened, she didn’t care particularly for a cigarette. Now any person who is really addicted to cigarettes has to have one the first thing in the morning on awakening. The ash tray shows she’s a heavy smoker. I offered her one and she wasn’t too keen about it, but hesitated a moment before she accepted it. I think she was about to say she’d smoked too much or something, and … What’s the matter?”

  Drake said, “Your theory’s cockeyed, Perry.”

  “What theory?”

  “That Fargo killed his wife.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Shoot.”

  Drake said, “We finally got the dope on the Fargos by digging up their marriage application. We got the name and address of her mother. She lives in Sacramento. We called her up just on general principles.”

  “The deuce,” Mason said. “What did she say?”

  “Said that her daughter was on the road to Sacramento on a Greyhound bus, that she’d arrive this evening.”

  Mason said, “Personally I don’t think it’s true. If it is, however, it puts us in an awful mess.”

  “How come, if she’s your client and she’s safe and …”

  “And her husband has been neatly murdered with a knife stuck in his throat. When did that Greyhound bus leave here?”

  “Probably the one that leaves here at eight-forty-five A.M.”

  Mason started pacing the floor. “We’ve got to get word to that woman somehow.”

  “How come?” Drake asked.

  Mason said, “She’s going to need an alibi, Paul.”

  “Well, if she’s on the bus that should be a good alibi.”

  “She’s going to need a damn good alibi,” Mason said. “This is a murder case. You can’t tell, Tragg may decide to try to pin it on her. She’s going to need the names of fellow passengers who can vouch for her…. Della, charter a private plane. I want a fast one. Paul, get a schedule of that bus. Get a description. Della, you come with me. Grab all the data you have. Get Drake’s reports. Get the mother’s address. Get all the factual information we have. We’re going to have to start getting proof on an alibi and getting it fast.”

  Della Street picked up the telephone which went through the switchboard, said, “Gertie, get us our plane rental service on the line. Tell them we want the fastest charter plane we can get to take us to Sacramento….”

  “Stockton,” Mason amended. “We’re going to Stockton.”

  “Stockton,” Della Street said in the telephone. “As soon as you get the right person on the line put through a call to me.”

  “Why Stockton?” Drake asked.

  “Because,” Mason said, “you’re going to get on the phone, telephone your correspondents in Sacramento, have them send operatives down to Myrtle Fargo’s mother, and have her meet us at Stockton. We’ll wait for the bus there. She’ll point out her daughter. We’ll have operatives start circulating among the passengers, getting names and addresses. We’re going to want witnesses, lots of witnesses.”

  “You think it’s that serious?” Drake asked.

  “How the hell do I know?” Mason said. “But if it should prove that serious I don’t want to have our evidence scattered to the four winds of heaven. Let’s get witnesses and let’s get going.”

  Chapter 14

  The dispatcher was just announcing the arrival of Schedule No. 320 from Modesto en route to Sacramento when Mason was accosted by a thin, professional-looking man some fifty-five years of age, dressed so conservatively as to seem almost old-fashioned. This man, after quietly sizing up the lawyer, said, “Mr. Mason?”

  Mason nodded.

  “I’m with the Drake Detective Agency’s Sacramento affiliate. We have Mrs. Ingram here. You want to meet her now? The bus is just scheduled to come in. It’s pretty crowded. This is a through bus, you know, and they won’t sell local tickets except as they have seat vacancies. We have two tickets, that’s all we can get.”

  “How long does the bus stop here?”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Anyone with you?”

  “Yes, I have one operative.”

  Mason said, “Okay. You take the two tickets. Get aboard the bus. Get the names and addresses of all the passengers. You’ll have to use a little tact and …”

  “Certainly,” the detective said, “that’s my business. We understand all that, Mr. Mason.”

  “All right, get those names and addresses,” Mason said. “I want the through passengers in particular. Ones who have been talking with the young woman we’ll point out to you.”

  “Here come the passengers,” the detective said.

  “Let me meet Mrs. Ingram,” Mason ordered.

  Mason moved over to meet a thin-lipped woman in the middle fifties, who seemed completely flustered.

  “So you’re Mr. Mason,” she said. “Well, heaven knows I don’t know what this is all about. They say you’re a lawyer and a good one, and I certainly hope you know what you’re doing. My girl is a good girl, Mr. Mason, a good girl. Now don’t make any mistake about that. She can’t possibly be mixed up in any trouble. I don’t know what all this hullabaloo is about, but I’m certainly going to hold you responsible. The idea of gadding about this way …”

  Mason interrupted to say, “We’re not at all certain your daughter is on this bus.”

  “Of course she is. She said she’d be on it.”

  “There have been some unusual and totally unexpected developments, Mrs. Ingram. There’s a chance that your daughter …”

  “Mother, what are you doing here?”

  Mrs. Ingram turned. Her eyes softened slightly but her thin-lipped mouth remained firm and hard.

  “Why, Myrtle! Well, good heavens, the way you give people a start! You …”

  “The way I give people a start. You’re the one that’s giving me a start. What in the world are you doing here?”

  Mrs. Ingram said, “Well, you can’t prove it by me. This is Mr. Perry Mason and Miss Street, his secretary.”

  Myrtle Fargo’s eyes rested on Mason’s face. For a moment her face drained of color, her eyes grew large and round.

  “Mr. Mason!” she said in a voice that was hardly more than a startled whisper.

  Mason said, “You know me by sight, Mrs. Fargo?”

  “Yes. I … You were pointed out to me…. What in the world are you doing here?”

  Mason said, “We haven’t time for explanations now. Things are serious. Do you have your ticket stub?”

  Myrtle Fargo searched in her handbag and drew out a small card. “Here it is, Mr. Mason, but why all the …”

  Mason turned the card over quickly to note the Los Angeles teller’s stamp. “Can you tell me why this stub is marked with yesterday’s date, Mrs. Fargo?”

  “Why, of course,” Myrtle Fargo answered quickly. “I bought the ticket yesterday. I always buy my tickets ahead of time to make sure there’s no delay and …”

  “Well never mind that now,” Mason said. “In which seat were you sitting on the bus?”

  “The—why, let me see, the second seat from the front on the left-hand side.”

  “By the window, or on the aisle?”

  “By the window.”

  “Do you know who was sitting next to you?”

  “Yes, a very delightful woman. She …”

  “Where did she get on?”

  “Why, I don’t know. At, oh, somewhere down the valley. She’s been there for a while.”

  “She wasn’t on when you left Los Angeles?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know. I didn’t notice her until a while ago.”

  Mason said, “Do you see her here?”

  “Why, yes, she’s standing right over there by the newsstand.”

  The voice of the announcer droned, “Schedule No. 320 leaving for Sacramento. All aboard, please.”

  “What in the world is this all about?” Mrs. Fargo asked. “Mother, can you come with me? Can you …”

  “You’re going with me,” Mason said. “We’re going to drive to Sacramento in a rented car. We’ll get there ahead of the bus so we can interview some of the passengers.”

  The passengers filed through the gates and aboard the bus. Looking through the windows, Mason could see the detective and his assistant already in circulation, smiling affably as they tactfully approached the passengers, getting names and addresses.

  “Now,” Myrtle Fargo said, “will you kindly tell me what this is all about?”

  “Well, I should say so!” Mrs. Ingram said. “Such goings on. I’m all of a flutter. I can’t seem to get organized. I never had such a rushing around in my life. People pulling and hauling and rushing me around. Myrt, what in the world have you been up to?”

  “Not a thing on earth, Mom.”

  Mason said, “Perhaps we can postpone most of the questioning until afterwards.”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Mason! I haven’t anything on earth to keep from Mom.”

  Mason said, “You say I was pointed out to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In a night club. Let me see, it was … Why, it was only last night! Miss Street was with you. Isn’t that right, Miss Street?”

  Mason said, “You originally intended to take the plane this morning, Mrs. Fargo?”

  “Take the plane!”

  “Yes.”

  “Good heavens, no! My time isn’t that valuable. I like bus travel. You meet a lot of interesting …”

  “Didn’t you tell your husband you were taking a plane?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t he drive you to the airport this morning?”

  “My husband drive me to the airport? Don’t be silly. At that hour in the morning? Why, he wouldn’t get up and lose his sleep for anything on earth. I sneaked down, got myself a little breakfast, caught a streetcar, and took the eight-forty-five bus.”

  “He told me he drove you to the airport.”

  “Arthman Fargo told you that he drove me to the airport?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “About nine o’clock this morning.”

  She shook her head and said, “He must have been spoofing you. He knew very well I was going to take the bus. I always travel that way, don’t I, Moms?”

  “Well, yes. I guess so. Most of the time. Of course, you did come up here on the plane the time before …”

  “And was sick half the way. I made up my mind that was the end. I’ve traveled on Greyhound busses ever since and I enjoy them immensely.”

  “Yes, I guess so, but will someone please tell me what this is all about? I’m not a young woman any more, and I’ve been pushed and hauled and shoved around here until I just can’t …”

  “Mrs. Fargo,” Mason said, “let’s have one definite understanding. You don’t need to tell me any more than you want to, but you went to a drugstore at the corner of Vance Avenue and Kramer Boulevard last night and made a telephone call, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head slowly, and then after a moment said, “What would that have to do with it?”

  Mason said impatiently, “Don’t lie to me. The thing is too important for that.”

  “Mr. Mason,” Mrs. Ingram snapped, “that’s my daughter you’re talking to! She’s a good girl. Don’t you dare accuse her of lying. She wouldn’t lie to anyone. She isn’t that sort of a girl. She doesn’t have to lie. She’s a decent, respectable, married woman and she …”

  Mason said, “All right. There isn’t time to be tactful about it. Your husband is dead.”

  “What!” Mrs. Ingram exclaimed.

  Myrtle Fargo swayed slightly. Her eyes became big and round. “Arthman—dead!”

  “That’s right,” Mason said, “and as far as we’re concerned we can cut out all the dramatics and all the posing. I have an idea the police are going to be moving in on the job within the next hour or two. We’re going to have to cover a lot of ground and cover it fast Now let’s quit playing button, button, who’s got the button.”

  “Arthman … Why, he couldn’t be. He was in perfect health. He …”

  “He was killed,” Mason interrupted.

  “How?”

  “By someone who inserted a knife in the side of his neck. Apparently this little thrust of affection, if we may call it that, took place on the upper floor of your home sometime around ten or ten-thirty this morning. He tried to run out of the house. He made it to the head of the stairs and apparently lost consciousness, tumbled down the stairs, and sprawled out in the reception hallway within a couple of feet of the front door. Know anything about it?”

  “Know anything about it! Why, Mr. Mason, what do you mean? You’re the first one that’s told me. I … Had you heard anything, Mother?”

  She shook her head.