“Exactly,” Mason said.

  “And may I ask exactly what you have in mind?”

  Mason said, “You may not realize, Miss Chaney, that the sale of firearms is strictly regulated by law in California. Before a man can buy a gun, he has to sign for it. Each gun has an individual number. That number is registered in the name of the purchaser. Duplicates of those registry forms are sent to the peace officers in the community, the sheriff, the chief of police.”

  “But I don’t see what all that has to do with me.”

  “Your gun may have been used in connection with an activity that might not be conducive to your best welfare.”

  “I’m afraid you’re talking in riddles, Mr. Mason.”

  “Well,” Mason said, “I’ll be frank with you, Miss Chaney. I think it’s your gun.”

  “My gun couldn’t have been used in connection with anything such as you mention, Mr. Mason.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have it safely in my possession.”

  “Would you mind verifying that?”

  She hesitated a moment.

  Mason said, “I think you’ll find that you don’t still have the gun in your possession.”

  She said, “Very well, if you’ll wait, please. It will only take a minute.”

  She walked from the room, conscious of their eyes, moving with the walk of a trained actress, a walk that had been entirely foreign to her a few years ago, yet which now had been so ingrained by hours of long practice that it was second nature.

  Mason looked at his watch, exchanged glances with Della Street.

  Abruptly Della Street raised her eyes, beckoned silently to Mason.

  Mason raised his eyebrows.

  Della Street beckoned more vehemently.

  Mason crossed over to her chair. She silently pointed.

  There was a mirror across the room from her which, in turn, reflected the image from another mirror showing a section of the lighted hallway and framing a reflection of Helene Chaney as she frantically dialed a number on a telephone.

  Mason nodded, smiled, placed his finger to his lips as a signal for silence, walked back to his chair and sat down.

  Della Street continued to look in the mirror.

  At the end of perhaps three minutes Helene Chaney came sweeping back into the room.

  “It’s quite all right. I have it, Mr. Mason.” Her manner radiated confident assurance. She said, “It’s just as I told you, Mr. Mason. My gun is in its proper place in my bedroom, so I’m certain that no matter what anyone may have told you, your concern about me is groundless.”

  She remained standing as though inviting them to leave.

  Mason took the gun from his pocket, said, “In that case, there’s nothing to worry about. This gun with two discharged shells can’t possibly be yours.”

  Her eyes were mocking as they looked directly into the eyes of the lawyer. “That’s right, Mr. Mason. It couldn’t possibly be mine. Now I’m sorry, but I have an appointment. I was just waiting for—”

  Mason got to his feet. “Oh, certainly,” he said. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I thought perhaps I could do you a good turn.”

  “I certainly appreciate your consideration, Mr. Mason.”

  The chimes sounded on the front door as they were halfway across the living room.

  Helene Chaney did not change the even tempo of her walk.

  The butler stood in the hallway, and, after a half second’s hesitation, Helene Chaney signaled to him. He opened the door.

  Mervyn Aldrich, attired in a raincoat, black fedora hat, with a silk mufHer around his neck, stood in the doorway.

  “Hello, William,” he said. “Is—?”

  He broke off abruptly as he saw Helene Chaney, Perry Mason and Della Street moving toward the doorway.

  Aldrich stepped in, removed his hat.

  “Hello, Helene,” he said, and then, with his eyes cold and hard, “Good evening, Mr. Mason and—I believe it’s Miss Street.”

  “That’s right,” Mason said easily.

  Aldrich said, “I trust that you haven’t been trying to approach Miss Chaney in connection with this settlement business, Mason. After all, an attorney is supposed to deal through an attorney and not approach another client directly. I believe that Miss Chaney has advised you she retains counsel—”

  “Oh, yes,” Mason said breezily. “I wouldn’t have thought of that, Mr. Aldrich. This was on quite another matter, a matter in which I thought perhaps I might save Miss Chaney from some publicity.”

  “Yes?” Aldrich asked, his voice cold, his manner belligerent.

  Helene Chaney laughed nervously. “Mr. Mason thinks that my gun has been used for some dark deeds of crime.”

  “Your gun?” Aldrich said, and then turning to Mason, demanded, “What do you mean, her gun?”

  “The gun that you gave her,” Mason said evenly.

  “I didn’t give her any—”

  “The little revolver that you gave me, Merv,” Helene Chaney interposed quickly. “The one that you wanted me to keep in my bedroom for protection.”

  Aldrich said to Mason, “Who told you about that?”

  “I was simply running down the number on this gun,” Mason said, taking the gun from his pocket, “and found out that it was one of two that you had purchased at a sporting goods store in Newport Beach. One of them you kept and the other you gave to Miss Chaney.”

  Mervyn Aldrich said abruptly, “Let’s talk this over for a minute.”

  He turned and firmly, methodically closed the door, looked at his watch, carefully checking the time.

  Helene Chaney said contritely, “I’m sorry, Merv. I was ready. I was waiting. These people rang the bell. I thought it was you and so I answered the door myself, and—”

  “That’s all right, Helene,” Mervyn said. He turned to Mason. “Now then, what made you think that I had purchased a gun for Miss Chaney?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mason said. “You signed the register. You purchased both guns at the Golf, Gun and Gaff Sporting Goods Store in Newport Beach. I can give you the date, the data and the numbers.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I gave Miss Chaney one. I never—”

  “Merv,” Helene Chaney interposed desperately. “Please let’s remember that Mr. Mason is an attorney. He wouldn’t be here unless it was on a matter of the greatest importance. He asked me about the gun that you gave me, and I told him that gun was in my bedroom. I even went to verify it.”

  “And it was there?” Aldrich asked.

  She met his eyes. “Of course it was there, Merv.”

  Aldrich said, “Mason is representing a woman who I think is a shrewd, dangerous—well, I won’t give you an opportunity to feather her nest still further by filing suit for defamation of character, Mr. Mason. I’ll finish the sentence by stating that she is a shrewd, dangerous antagonist.”

  “Quite all right,” Mason said, smiling.

  Aldrich took a step forward. “And I don’t think I like the idea of you coming here and trying to get an admission from Miss Chaney.”

  Mason also moved forward. “I don’t give a damn whether you like it or not, Aldrich. I’ve had just about enough of your arrogance. You run your business and I’ll run mine. Now you try starting anything and I’ll finish it. I came here because I thought there was an opportunity to save Miss Chaney some definite embarrassment. Here, take a look at this gun! Look at it!”

  Mason swung the cylinder open. “Two empty shells in there. Two empty cartridge cases. For your information those were fired about three hours and a half ago. And that’s a gun you bought and paid for. Now would you like to know where the bullets are?”

  Aldrich recoiled from the vehemence of Mason’s attack. His eyes regarded the gun as though fascinated by the two empty cartridge cases.

  “You traced this gun?” he asked, plainly stalling for time.

  “Of course I traced it. That’s why I’m here. Look at the number on the gun. I had a detective agency check that number and run down the registration. This is one of the two guns that you bought in Newport Beach.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Aldrich said, lamely.

  “Perhaps,” Mason said. “Since this gun isn’t Miss Chaney’s gun, then it must be your gun.”

  “Oh no, that’s impossible. I—Let me look at that gun,” Aldrich said, abruptly changing his tactics.

  “Certainly,” Mason said, and handed the weapon to Aldrich.

  “Your gun is upstairs, Helene?”

  “But definitely, Merv.”

  Aldrich looked at the gun for a moment, then raised his head. His eyes were half-closed in thought. Abruptly he said, “I think perhaps I owe you an apology for having been so abrupt, Mr. Mason. I’m very much afraid that this gun really is mine. In which case, it must have been stolen from the glove compartment of my automobile.”

  Aldrich looked at the number on the gun, took out a notebook, moved over to Helene Chaney’s side, said, “I’ll just jot down the number of this gun, Helene, so there won’t be any mistake.”

  He made an entry in his notebook. “You’d better check that number, dear, so you can verify it.”

  She looked at the notebook, at the number on the gun. Her face reflected no faintest flicker of expression. “Yes, Merv, I’ve checked the number.”

  “That gun,” Aldrich said to Mason, “very definitely has been stolen from the glove compartment of my automobile.”

  “When was it stolen?”

  “I don’t know. I left it in the glove compartment—in fact, I didn’t know until just now that it was gone. But if it’s one of the two guns I purchased it must have been stolen from me. Your gun is upstairs, Helene?”

  “Yes, Merv.”

  Aldrich said, “Let me verify this.” Without asking permission and before anyone could divine his intention or interfere, he whirled, whipped the door open, jerked it shut behind him, and stepped out into the rain.

  “I’m sorry if Merv seemed rude when he first came in,” Helene Chaney apologized. “He’s rather intense and he’s very nervous. He works under quite a strain.”

  “Yes, I can imagine,” Mason said.

  “He’s a stickler for punctuality. So many girls keep their escorts waiting while they finish dressing. That’s why I answered the door personally. I wanted him to see I was all ready to go. When you rang I thought it was he and—”

  “I understand.”

  “And, of course, I appreciate the fact that you came out here, Mr. Mason. I can see now that you were really trying to spare me trouble and notoriety. May I ask what happened? Why you made reference to the fact that two shells were fired from that gun about three and a half hours ago?”

  “I think one of those bullets may have killed someone.

  “Indeed? Who?”

  “I don’t know—yet.”

  She frowned. “You’re rather mysterious, aren’t you, Mr. Mason?”

  “Perhaps. I deal in mysteries.”

  “Yes, I dare say you do.”

  The front door abruptly opened.

  Aldrich said indignantly, “Just as I thought. Some crook stole this gun from the glove compartment of my automobile. I’ve been warned not to leave it there. May I ask how this weapon came to be in your possession, Mr. Mason?”

  Aldrich extended the gun, butt first to Mason.

  Mason took it and slipped it in his pocket.

  “Someone planted the gun in the possession of one of my clients.”

  “Indeed?”

  “And,” Mason said, “since the gun had been discharged and may have been used in a crime, I thought that it might be advisable to let Miss Chaney know exactly what had happened so that she could have her lawyers and her publicity men get together and—”

  “Most commendable of you,” Aldrich said, beaming. “I really owe you an apology, Mr. Mason. I’m afraid perhaps I’ve been a little abrupt with you, and—well, I’m now beginning to think I may have misjudged that client of yours, that Bagby woman. Of course, the rest of the jewelry hasn’t been discovered, but there are circumstances in that case which make me feel very differently about it. I am going to get in touch with Irene Keith tomorrow. I feel quite certain that something can be worked out in that matter, Mr. Mason, a very good settlement.”

  “Thank you,” Mason said.

  “I’m afraid that I’ve been the stumbling block there.” Aldrich turned to Helene. “Darling, let me make a call. I want to report the theft of that gun right now. Do you have the number of the gun written down, Mr. Mason?”

  Mason said, “I’ll give you the numbers directly from the gun if you wish to telephone. However, I believe you wrote them—”

  “Of course,” Aldrich said. “Stupid of me. I have them right here.”

  He dialed the Police Department, said into the telephone, “I wish to report the theft of a gun. I’ve just discovered it was taken from my glove compartment. It’s a Colt Cobra. One of the new nineteen-ounce models that they’ve put out. And the number is—” He fumbled for his notebook, dropped it, said, “Damn! Would you mind letting me see that gun, Mason?”

  Mason handed him the gun.

  Aldrich read the number into the telephone. “Yes, that’s right, I have a permit to carry it. This is Mervyn Aldrich of the Aldrich Cruisers Corporation … Yes, I carry it for personal protection. I have to be on the road a lot at night. I left it in the glove compartment of my automobile … I know that I shouldn’t have done it. It was probably carelessness, but I dropped it in there and then forgot to take it out … Well now, I can’t tell you exactly but probably sometime within the last day or two … Oh, I know where it is now. Mr. Perry Mason, the lawyer, has it. It was given him by a client … Well, I thought I’d better report it.”

  Aldrich abruptly dropped the phone back into the cradle, got up, extended the gun once more to Mason, then shook hands cordially.

  “I really owe you an apology. I really do, indeed, Mr. Mason.”

  “Not at all,” Mason said. “I trust you and Miss Chaney have a pleasant evening. Good night.”

  Mason took Della’s arm. Helene Chaney came to the porch to see them down the stairs.

  “My, it’s certainly raining,” she said.

  “It is indeed,” Mason told her.

  They sprinted for Mason’s automobile. Mason handed Della in through the door, then ran around to the other side and jumped in.

  “Well,” Della Street said as they drove away, “he certainly put on a great act.”

  “He certainly did,” Mason told her.

  “Chief, did he switch guns?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you had the number—and he copied down the number. Good Lord, she watched him write down the number. It’s your word against two of theirs!”

  Mason nodded. After a few minutes, he pulled the car to the side of the road, swung open the cylinder of the gun, inspected it in the light of the dash lamp. It was loaded in four chambers. There were two exploded cartridge cases in the other two chambers of the cylinder. Mason raised the gun to his nose and sniffed the barrel, then passed it over to Della.

  “Like to smell?” he asked.

  “It only smells of oil. It doesn’t smell as though it had been fired.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  “Chief, you can check the numbers on it. You can tell if he—”

  “I don’t have the numbers,” Mason said. “You telephoned them in to Paul Drake.”

  “Well,” she said, “I have one number written in my notebook and I could compare it with the number on this gun and we—”

  “Why should you do that?” Mason asked.

  “Well, we could get Paul Drake on the line and see if—”

  “Why should we?”

  “So we can prove that he changed the guns.”

  “Would that be good?” Mason asked.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Knowing if he had changed the guns.”

  “Why, of course! It would show that—” Della Street abruptly broke off, looked at Mason with wide, puzzled eyes.

  “Exactly,” said Mason, slipping the gun into his pocket. “We are babes in the woods, Della. We certainly don’t know that any gun was substituted, and, of course, we wouldn’t think for a minute of charging Mervyn Aldrich with having made a quick switch. Not a man of his reputation. No one would believe me, anyway. They’d think I was lying, trying to protect a client.”

  Chapter 11

  Perry Mason seemed in rare good humor as he drove the car toward Hollywood.

  “Chief, where are we going?” Della Street demanded.

  Mason said, “Oh, I thought I’d drive up and see what’s happened at the scene of the crime. However, I first want to telephone Paul Drake—I’m giving him as much time as possible to assemble the facts.”

  “Well, if you’re going to telephone him before you go up there, this is about your last chance.”

  “I believe you’re right,” Mason said, stopping the car in front of a service-station phone booth.

  “You want to phone,” Della Street asked, “or do you want me to phone?”

  “You telephone,” Mason said. “Just get the news and tell Paul I’ll be in touch with him later.”

  Della Street glanced at Mason sharply. “You certainly do seem elaborately casual about it.”

  “Well, after all, Della, as far as we know, our client took a shot at a man who was trying to assault her—probably by this time they’ve found he’s a criminal with a long record and—”

  Della Street angrily snatched the dime from Mason’s hand, flounced out of the car and into the telephone booth.

  Mason settled back in the car, not even bothering to watch her facial expressions as she telephoned. He selected a cigarette from his cigarette case, tapped it on his thumb, put it between his lips, lit the cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke, and then closed his eyes.

  In the telephone booth Della Street’s eyes grew wide with apprehension. She grabbed a notebook, took down a few notes in shorthand, then, leaving the phone dangling, ran out to the car.