“Right away,” he said, “as soon as you get dressed.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Places,” he told her.

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “I think so.”

  “You mean that you’re going to pick out a place I’m going to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to be able to put my finger on you.”

  “Have you talked with Margy?” she asked, her eyes, wide and innocent, fastened upon him with warm candor.

  “Have you?” asked Perry Mason.

  “Why, no,” she said in a tone of rising surprise. “Certainly not.”

  Perry Mason abruptly stopped in his pacing. His feet were planted far apart, his jaw thrust belligerently forward. He shook off the fatigue which had sagged his shoulder muscles and stared at her with a somber light in his steady eyes.

  “Don’t lie to me,” he said savagely. “You talked with Marjorie Clune since she left here.”

  Thelma Bell let her eyes grow wide and hurt.

  “Why, Mr. Mason!” she exclaimed reproachfully.

  “Forget that stuff,” he said. “You talked with Marjorie Clune since I talked with her.”

  She shook her head in mute negation.

  “You talked with her,” Perry Mason said savagely, “and told her that you’d been talking with me; that I said for her to get out of town, or you told her something to that effect. You told her that she was to get out of town. You told her something that made her go.”

  “I did not!” she blazed. “I didn’t tell her anything of the sort. She was the one that told me—”

  “Ah,” said Perry Mason, “she’s the one that told you what?”

  Thelma Bell lowered her eyes. After a moment she said in a low voice, “That she was going out of town.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say when she was going?”

  “she was leaving at midnight,” Thelma said.

  Perry Mason looked at his watch.

  “About three quarters of an hour ago,” he said.

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “What time did you have the conversation?”

  “Around eleven o’clock, I guess.”

  “Did she tell you where she was staying?”

  “No, she said that she had to leave.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “She just thanked me.”

  “Thanked you for what?”

  “For wearing her clothes and giving her a break.”

  “Did she say anything about a message for me?” asked Perry Mason.

  “No. She said that you had told her to stay here in the city, to be in her room at the hotel, but that circumstances had arisen which made it absolutely impossible for her to do as you wished.”

  “Did she say what the circumstances were?”

  “No.”

  “Give any hints?”

  “No.”

  “You,” said Perry Mason, “are lying.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said, but her eyes did not meet his.

  Perry Mason stood staring moodily down at the young woman.

  “How did you know my secretary’s name was Della Street?” he inquired.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, yes, you did,” he said. “You rang up Dr. Doray and impersonated Della Street. You told him you were Della Street, the secretary to Perry Mason, and that he should get out of town.”

  “I didn’t tell him any such thing!”

  “You called him.”

  “I did not!”

  “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  “I’ve heard Margy mention his name. It seems to me there’s a hotel—the Midwick Hotel, I think it is.”

  “Yes,” Mason told her, “you seem to have a pretty good memory.”

  “You can’t accuse me of things like that!” she flared suddenly, staring at him with indignation in her eyes. “I didn’t call Dr. Doray.”

  “Did he call you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear from him?”

  “No.”

  “Did Marjorie say anything about him?”

  Her eyes lowered.

  “No,” she said.

  “Dr. Doray was in love with Marjorie?” Perry Mason asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Is she in love with him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she in love with Bradbury?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does she talk over her affairs with you?”

  “What sort of affairs?”

  “Affairs of the heart—tell you who she loved?”

  “No, we were never very intimate. She talked mostly about Cloverdale and about the predicament she was in on account of Frank Patton. She said that she was afraid to go back to Cloverdale; that she was ashamed; that she couldn’t face them there.”

  Perry Mason nodded toward the dressing-room.

  “Get dressed,” he said.

  “Can’t I wait until morning?”

  “No,” he told her, “there’s a chance the police may come tonight.”

  “But I thought you wanted me to talk with the police. I thought you wanted me to let them think I was the girl in the white coat that the officer had seen coming from the apartment.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Mason said. “Get dressed.”

  She got to her feet, took two steps toward the dressing-room, then suddenly turned to face him.

  “You understand one thing, Perry Mason,” she said in a tone that was vibrant, “I know that I can trust you. I know that you stand back of your clients. There’s only one reason that I’m doing this, and that’s for Marjorie. I want that kid to get a square deal.”

  Mason nodded grimly.

  “Never mind that,” he said, “get dressed.”

  Perry Mason resumed his pacing of the floor while Thelma Bell was dressing. When she emerged, fully clothed, including a small suitcase which she carried in her hand, Perry Mason looked at his watch.

  “Do you suppose,” he said, “you could go a bite of breakfast?”

  “I’ll tell the world I could go some coffee,” she said.

  Mason took her arm and transferred the light suitcase to his hand.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They left the apartment. The negro in the lobby was awake as they went out. He stared at them with round-eyed curiosity, but there was a dazed, sleep-sodden look about his face which made his stare seem uncomprehending.

  Mason signaled his taxicab.

  “Drive down the street,” he said, “and stop at the first restaurant that’s open, then wait.”

  The cab driver found a restaurant within two blocks. Perry Mason escorted Thelma Bell into the restaurant and ordered ham and eggs for himself, and, at her nod, doubled the order. A waiter slid a thick glass filled with water across the counter, pushed knives and forks into position.

  Perry Mason suddenly gave a guilty start.

  “My wallet!” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s gone,” he told her. “I must have left it in your apartment.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “You didn’t take it out, did you?”

  “Yes,” Mason said, “I was looking for an address. It’s got my cards in it. I don’t want the officers to know I was there.

  “Give me your keys. I’ll take a run up and get it.”

  “I can go,” she said.

  “No,” he told her, “you wait here. I don’t want you to get around that apartment any more. The officers may be there any minute.”

  “What will happen if they find you there?”

  “I’ll tell them that I am looking for you.”

  “But what about the key?”

  “I won’t go in unless the coast is clear.”

  She gave him the key to the apartment. Perry Mason caught the eye of the waiter.

  “Put on one of those orders of ham and eggs,” he said, “and lots of coffee. Save the other one until I get back.”

  He strode rapidly out of the restaurant to the taxicab, and told the driver, “Get back to the St. James Apartments as quick as you can. Step on it.”

  The cab driver spun the cab about in a complete turn and pushed the motor into speed. Within a short time he had traversed the empty street and pulled up in front of the apartment house. Perry Mason ran through the lobby. This time the colored boy was staring at him with eyes that were filled with interest. Mason took the elevator to the third floor, opened the door of the apartment, switched on the light, closed the door behind him, turned the bolt into position so that the door could not be opened from the outside, and then started a swift search of the apartment. He did not look in the drawers of the built-in dresser, nor in the likely places, but prowled around in the dark corners of the closet. It took him but a matter of seconds to find a leather hat box thrust back into a corner of a closet shelf, with clothes piled in front of it so that the hat box was concealed.

  Mason pulled out the hat box, snapped back the catch and pulled open the lid.

  There was a woman’s skirt, a pair of stockings and some white shoes in the hat box. They had been washed and were still damp. The moisture had soaked into the hat box, and it gave forth a steamy smell as the lid was pulled up.

  The stockings showed no trace of stain, but there were one or two spots on the skirt which had not been removed, and the shoes showed unmistakable spots of brownish stain.

  Perry Mason snapped the lid back on the hat box and left the apartment.

  “Does you all live here?” the colored boy at the desk asked.

  Perry Mason flipped a round silver dollar across the desk.

  “No,” he said, “I’m just taking a friend’s apartment for the day.”

  “What the number of it?” asked the colored boy.

  “509,” Perry Mason said, and pushed through the outer door of the lobby before there could be any further questions. He gave the hat box to the taxi driver.

  “Take me back to the restaurant,” he said. “Then go down to the Union Depot, buy a ticket to College City, check this hat box on the ticket, bring me back the ticket and the check, hand them to me where the young lady doesn’t see them. Do you get that straight?”

  The cab driver nodded.

  Perry Mason passed him a twenty dollar bill.

  “Step on it,” he said.

  Mason reëntered the restaurant. Thelma Bell looked up from her plate of ham and eggs.

  “Did you find it?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Fell out of my pocket,” he said, “when I was sitting in the chair. It’s a good thing I found it; it was lying right in plain sight. The officers would have picked it up and might have made some trouble because I’d have told them that I hadn’t been to your apartment.”

  The waiter thrust his head through an arched hole in the partition which led to the kitchen and bellowed, “Put on those eggs and finish the ham.”

  Perry Mason sat down at the counter and stirred the coffee which the waiter placed in front of him.

  “Was any one there?” she asked.

  “No,” he told her, “but they may be at any time.”

  “You seem to be pretty positive about that.”

  “I am.”

  “You know,” she said, pausing with a piece of ham halfway to her mouth, “no matter what happens, we have to protect Margy.”

  Perry Mason said bluntly, “That’s what I’m being paid for.”

  There was an interval of silence. The waiter brought Mason his ham and eggs. He wolfed them down and was finished by the time Thelma Bell was finished.

  “All right, sister,” he said, “we’re going places.”

  “Can you tell me where?”

  “Some place not too far away.”

  “I’ve got a couple of appointments tomorrow and the next day to do some modeling work.”

  “Ditch them.”

  “I haven’t any money.”

  “You will have,” he told her.

  He finished the last of his coffee, wiped his lips with a napkin, looked across at her.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready,” she said.

  He took her arm and piloted her to the door of the restaurant. The cab drove up just as they emerged to the sidewalk.

  “Here you are, boss,” said the driver, holding out his hand palm down.

  Perry Mason took the ticket and the check.

  “What’s that?” asked Thelma Bell suspiciously.

  “An errand I had the cab driver do,” he told her.

  “Have you got enough change to cover the amount of the meter?” Mason asked the cab driver.

  “I sure have, and then some,” said the cab driver, and added audaciously, “enough to make a mighty nice little tip for me.”

  Mason stared intently at Thelma Bell.

  “Can I trust you?” he asked.

  “As long as it’s for Margy, yes.”

  Mason pulled the railroad ticket the cab driver had given him from his vest pocket and handed it to her.

  “Here’s a one-way ticket to College City,” he said. “Go there and register at a hotel. Register under your own name. You’re going there to do some modeling work; if any one should start checking up on you tell them that and no more. If it gets serious, get in touch with me and don’t say anything until I have given you instructions.”

  “You mean if the law should come?”

  “Yes,” he said, “if the law should come.”

  “Will there be trains running at this time of night?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “There’s one leaves in twenty minutes,” he said. “You can make it.”

  He handed the cab driver the suitcase and assisted Thelma Bell into the cab.

  “Good night,” he said, “and good luck. Ring up my office or send me a telegram. Leave word the name of the hotel where you’re staying, and don’t take a powder.”

  “A powder?” she said.

  “A run-out powder,” he told her. “I want you where I can put my hand on you.”

  She extended her hand and smiled at him.

  “I’d do anything,” she said, “for Margy.”

  Perry Mason took her hand. The fingertips were cold as ice. The cab driver climbed to the front seat.

  “And you don’t want me to tell any one about where I was? That is, about George Sanborne?”

  Perry Mason shook his head with a fatherly smile.

  “No,” he said, “we’ll save that as a surprise—a big surprise.”

  The cab motor roared into life. Perry Mason slammed the door, stood on the curb and watched the cab until the pale light rounded the corner. Then he went back to the restaurant.

  “Telephone,” he said.

  The waiter indicated a pay telephone in a corner at the far end of the restaurant.

  Perry Mason strode to it, dropped a coin and dialed the number of the Coöperative Investigating Bureau, and when he heard the voice of the operator, said, “Mason talking. Put on Mr. Samuels, if he’s still there.”

  A moment later he heard the voice of Samuels booming with cordiality.

  “Mason? We’ve done just what you wanted. We picked up that party, and she hasn’t been out of our sight for a minute.”

  “Where is she now?” asked Mason.

  “Ten minutes ago my men reported by telephone. She left Paul Drake’s office about half an hour after you telephoned. She went to the Monmarte Hotel, where she has a room as Vera Cutter, of Detroit, Michigan, but she didn’t give any street address when she registered. She took a room in the hotel early last evening. That is, around nine-thirty some time, and here’s something funny: her baggage is fairly new and has the initials E. L. on it. She’s got a rather ornate handbag, with hammered silver in a monogram, and the monogram is E. L. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not yet it doesn’t,” Perry Mason said, “but keep her shadowed.”

  “And you’ll ring up for reports?”

  “Yes. Be sure that you know who it is before you give out any information. Talk with me for a minute whenever I call, so that you know it isn’t some one else using my name, and keep her shadowed every minute. I want to know everything about her. Better put on a couple of extra men, and if any one comes to the hotel to call on her, try and shadow them and find out all about them. Now, how about telephone calls? Can you arrange with the telephone operator at the Monmarte Hotel to let you listen in?”

  “One of our men is working on that right now,” Samuels said. “It is, of course, going to be rather difficult, but—”

  “Hang the difficulties,” Perry Mason said. “The world is full of difficulties. I’ve got plenty of my own. Listen in on her telephone conversations; I want to know what they are.”

  “Very well, Mr. Mason,” said Samuels, “we’ll do the best we can.”

  Perry Mason pulled down the receiver with the middle finger of his left hand, fumbled in his pocket for another coin, dropped it and called the Drake Detective Bureau.

  Drake himself answered the telephone.

  “Sitting there waiting for calls, Paul?” asked the lawyer.

  Drake laughed.

  “You pretty near called the turn at that,” he said.

  “Anything to report?” asked Perry Mason.

  “I’ve got lots to report,” Paul Drake told him. “I think you can go home now and go to bed, Perry.”

  “Why?”

  “The murder mystery is all solved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police have traced the knife.”

  “You mean the knife that did the stabbing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where have they traced it to?”

  “To the man that bought it.”

  “Have they identified the man that bought it?”

  “Virtually, yes. They have a description that tallies on every essential point.”

  “Who bought it?” asked Perry Mason.

  “Your friend, Dr. Robert Doray of Cloverdale,” Paul Drake retorted with something of a verbal flourish.

  “Go on,” said Perry Mason, “tell me the rest of it.”

  “That’s about all of it,” Paul Drake said. “The police tried to check the knife. They’ve been working on that ever since they discovered the body, and the price mark that was on the blade of the knife. You see, there was a cost price, as well as a sales price, on the knife. There’s been an advance in prices on that stuff, and from the cost price they knew that the knife was part of a new stock that had been purchased at the increased price, since there was no other and older cost mark on it, and no sign of one having been on it arid having been erased.”