Mason grinned, said, “Okay, Rita, I’m going places.”

  Rita Swaine watched the jail matron moving toward her, smiled gamely and said, “I’m not.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ROSALIND PRESCOTT sat in Perry Mason’s office, clenched her little gloved hands until the soft leather grew tight across the knuckles, and said fiercely, “No, I didn’t kill him! I tell you I didn’t. I didn’t! I didn’t! I didn’t!”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  “Suppose you did know, then what?”

  Her eyes were hard, as they met Mason’s. “I’d tell the police.”

  “Suppose Rita did it?”

  “What makes you think Rita did it?”

  “That isn’t what I said. I asked you what your attitude would be if Rita had killed him.”

  “If Rita killed him,” she said, “she isn’t entitled to any consideration from Jimmy or from me. She put us both in an awful spot.”

  “Suppose Jimmy killed him?”

  “If Jimmy killed him he isn’t entitled to any more consideration—well, hardly any more—well—”

  Mason nodded and said, “So it’s different if Jimmy killed him, is it?”

  “Well,” she said hotly, “if Jimmy killed him, he had some reason. He had plenty of reason.”

  “Did Rita have any reason?”

  “I don’t know. If she did it, it was probably in self-defense.”

  “Isn’t that a good reason?” Mason asked.

  “Yes. The reason’s all right, but it’s the way she handled it, sneaking out and leaving the body in such a way that Jimmy would be blamed for it.”

  “And if Driscoll did it, then what?”

  “Jimmy did it to protect me—but he didn’t do it—that is, I don’t think he did it.”

  “Did Mrs. Anderson have any grudge against Walter Prescott?”

  Her eyes opened wide with surprise. “Why, Mr. Mason! What makes you ask that?”

  “I’m just trying to cover every angle of the case,” he said. “Also, I’m trying to cover every possible defense which we might raise. Did she have anything against him?”

  “I don’t think so. Of course, Walter had objected to her snooping around. He’d told her a couple of times to mind her own business and quit peering into our windows, and she told him he could keep the shades drawn if he didn’t want her to see him. She said she wasn’t going around her house and pull down all the shades at night.”

  “Was it much of a battle?” Mason asked.

  “Not particularly. She’s snippy, and Walter was very sarcastic.”

  “And that’s all she had against him?”

  “All that I know of, yes.”

  “Now, your husband had threatened to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Many times?”

  “Twice. The first time was a couple of months ago over something which needn’t make any difference here. The last time was the morning when I ran away.”

  “Why did you go to Reno?”

  “I had an idea of establishing a residence there and getting a divorce. I thought if I were out of the state Walter wouldn’t do anything right away, and after he’d had a chance to cool off, I might be able to fix things up with him so there wouldn’t be a scandal.”

  “You went with Driscoll?”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew he was jealous of Driscoll?”

  “He wasn’t jealous of anyone. He was just a coldblooded, selfish, calculating—”

  “Wait a minute,” Mason interrupted. “That isn’t going to be the attitude you’ll take on the witness stand. Cut out that vicious hatred when you speak of Walter Prescott. Remember, he’s dead.”

  “I don’t care whether he’s dead or alive. He was—”

  “He was your husband,” Mason interrupted. “You had differences of opinion with him. It had occurred to you for some time that you no longer cared for him; that you’d been tricked into marrying him, but you felt sorry for him. Understand that. Your attitude was one of sympathy and compassion. You realized that, while at times he was intensely disagreeable, it was because of his peculiar nervous temperament.”

  “It was because he had a cold heart and a selfish, calculating disposition,” she said.

  “And,” Mason went on, heedless of her comment, “it was a great shock to you when you learned he was dead, just as it would be a shock to hear that anyone who had been close to you had passed away. You weren’t overcome by grief because you realized you didn’t love him, but you were shocked, and deeply grieved. Hundreds of thousands of marriages go on the rocks every year, but that doesn’t mean that either or both parties to the divorce action are not ordinary likeable human beings. It simply means that emotions don’t remain static; that love, like any other fire, will burn itself out unless fresh fuel is added, and many people don’t understand the art of adding fresh fuel to romance, once the romance has culminated in marriage.”

  She said, “You want me to say that?”

  “Words to that effect,” he told her.

  “On the witness stand?”

  “You probably won’t be asked on the witness stand. But long before you get into court you’ll be interviewed by newspaper men and—”

  “I’ve already been interviewed,” she said. “Plenty!”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. You told me to say nothing, and that’s exactly what I did.”

  “All right,” he told her. “We’re going to change that now. You’re going to talk, and you’re going to talk freely. You just can’t believe that Rita could possibly have done any such thing, although you didn’t have an opportunity to discuss with Rita exactly what had happened after you left the house. Remember, you’re to tell all the newspaper people that you and Rita didn’t discuss what occurred while she was there in the house.”

  Rosalind Prescott nodded.

  “You’ll admit frankly that you love Jimmy Driscoll. In fact, you’ll spread that on rather thick. Remember, all the world loves a lover. But be sure that it’s romance and not the marital transgression of a restless woman. You had loved Jimmy; then you had quarreled. You had resolutely put Jimmy out of your life and endeavored by every means to make your marriage a success. Gradually the veneer had worn off. You came to see that you and Walter weren’t suited for each other. No matter how much he might have meant to others, he couldn’t fill your life. And he didn’t try. Your married life became sort of a cat-and-dog existence. You were desperately unhappy. During all of this time the thought of Jimmy Driscoll hadn’t come to your mind except as a friend. Then he wrote to you, not as a lover, but as a friend, a friend who had handled all your financial matters. He told you that it would be better to make the break and get it over with and not try to prolong a hopeless situation. Then, when Jimmy came to the house and you looked in his eyes, you suddenly realized that you loved him and always had loved him. But that was after you had realized that you could never continue living with Walter Prescott: after you had both agreed to split up and obtain a divorce. Do you understand that?”

  “What do I say about the twelve thousand dollars?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Mason said, “other than that you gave Walter some money to invest. His untimely death prevented you two from having a financial accounting.”

  “That’s what I say, but what about the twelve thousand dollars?” she demanded.

  “It doesn’t make any difference now,” Mason told her. “You inherit whatever property there is. Now that the authorities have decided not to prosecute you on a murder charge, I’m filing application for letters of administration. Are there any relatives?”

  “No. Otherwise he’d have willed everything to them. In any event, he—”

  “Forget it,” Mason interrupted. “Remember that Walter was nervous. Walter was working too hard. Walter was a man who cared nothing for society or companionship, but only because he was too self-sufficient. The fact that you didn’t get along with him doesn’t mean there was anything wrong with his character.”

  She said venomously, “I hate to lie. He embezzled my money. He was a—”

  “Never mind what he was,” Mason said. “He’s dead. You remember what I told you about him. Keep that attitude whenever you speak of him. He left no relatives, and you as his wife inherit all of his property, whether it’s separate or community. You’ll get your twelve thousand back that way.”

  The private telephone on his desk jangled into noise. Only three people had the number of that telephone. It was used only in the event of major emergencies.

  Mason scooped the receiver to his ear and heard Drake’s voice saying, “Sorry to call you on this line, Perry, but this is important as hell. I think we’ve found Jason Braun, or Carl Packard, whichever you want to call him.”

  “Where?” Mason asked.

  “Out in the country. I’m having a man bring up a car.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just leaving the office. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  Mason said, “Okay,” banged up the receiver, pushed back his chair, called over his shoulder to Rosalind Prescott, “Be back in an hour. In the meantime, remember what I told you. Change your attitude to the newspaper boys. Talk plenty, but don’t tell them anything.”

  Della Street scooped her notebook and pencils into a handbag, said, “Do you want me, Chief?”

  He shook his head and said, “Go over Mrs. Prescott’s story with her a little. Pretend you’re a newspaper woman. Ask her questions and get her answers. I’ll either be back in an hour or telephone you.”

  He grabbed his hat, jerked open the corridor door, and strode down the flagged floor. Drake was waiting for him at the elevator.

  “What is it?” Mason asked.

  “It’s reported as an automobile accident,” Drake said. “It went in through the traffic department. I don’t think the police have taken a tumble yet.”

  “What sort of an accident?”

  “Car rolled over a grade out in the mountains between Santa Monica and Triumfo. It’s been down at the bottom of the canyon for a couple of days.”

  “The man that drove it?” Mason asked.

  “Under the car. Smashed flatter than a pancake.”

  The elevator slid to a stop. Drake started to say something as they stepped into the cage, but Mason said, “Save it, Paul,” and glanced significantly at the elevator operator.

  Not until they were speeding out Wilshire Boulevard in a car driven by one of Drake’s men did the detective give any details to the attorney. “This report came in to the Highway Department. I won’t bother you with details, Perry, but one of the possibilities I’d figured on was that this chap, Packard, had disappeared because something had happened to him. So I’d assigned men to look into every murder and accident case, as well as every automobile accident. As soon as a report came in, my man chased out to the scene of the accident. He found out this fellow’s hat had the imprint of a haberdashery store in Altaville in the band, and that the initials ‘C.P.’ had been stamped in the band. There seemed to have been no papers of identification in the pockets. From all I can understand, the corpse is pretty much of a mess. However, we can make an identification from finger-prints. The Board of Fire Underwriters had all of their men fingerprinted, and I managed to secure a copy of Jason Braun’s prints.”

  Mason said, “Of course, Paul, if the man’s dead, it isn’t going to do us any good to discover him in advance of the police, unless there are some circumstances in connection with his death which would give us a clue. After all, the thing I want is to find out what this man saw in the window of the Prescott house which distracted his attention and sent him crashing into that van.”

  “Well,” Drake said, “I figured we’d get on the job, find out all we could, and perhaps take some photographs. I brought a camera along.”

  “Where’s the place?”

  “Up in the mountains. We go out to Santa Monica, start up the coast boulevard toward Oxnard, and then turn off on one of the side roads. My man will be waiting at the intersection to flag us down.”

  Mason lit a cigarette, smoked thoughtfully for a moment while the driver, swinging to the outside lane of traffic, sent the speedometer needle quivering upward.

  “Incidentally,” Drake said, “I’ve found out why the police took such prompt steps when the report came in about Stella Anderson having seen the man hiding the gun.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Prescott had telephoned the police that he had reason to believe someone was going to try to kill him, but couldn’t, or wouldn’t, say who that someone was. The police asked him a few questions, and, among other things, wanted to know if he wanted a permit to carry a gun. He said he didn’t, but said there’d been a prowler around the house for a couple of nights, and if he should telephone the police, he wanted quick action. He said he kept a double-barreled shot-gun in the house and said he wasn’t going to take any chances; that if anyone tried to break in he was going to cut loose with his shot-gun.”

  “That sounds phony,” Mason said. “It doesn’t ring true.”

  “I know it doesn’t,” Drake told him, “but that’s why the police paid attention to the report that came in about Driscoll giving a gun to the girl to hide.”

  Mason said thoughtfully, “I wonder if he thought Jimmy Driscoll was going to be hanging around the house, and he could lay a foundation with a complaint to the police, and then spray Driscoll full of lead.”

  “If we’re guessing,” Drake said, “it sounds like a good guess.”

  Mason smoked in silence for half a dozen blocks, then said meditatively, “Well, we’re guessing. . . . Paul, there’s something phony about Walter Prescott. I can’t put my finger on just what it is, but somehow he doesn’t ring true. This business of taking money from his wife to invest in the business, and salting it away—the large deposits which he apparently made in the bank, notwithstanding the relatively small amounts he took out of his business—By the way, Trader mentioned he was delivering some stuff to Prescott’s garage. I wonder just what that stuff was. Suppose you check into that angle?”

  “But he had the accident and went right on to the hospital,” Drake said “—No, you’re right, at that, Perry, he did make the delivery later. I remember now. He said he left the hospital to come back to the garage.”

  “Prescott, you’ll remember,” Mason told him, “had given Trader his keys.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So Trader had a key to the garage door.”

  “I wonder what happened to those keys,” Drake remarked. “Trader’s never accounted for them, as far as I can find.”

  “Might be a good plan to give him a little more shakedown.”

  “Getting information out of Trader,” Drake said, “is like getting blood out of a turnip.”

  Mason nodded. “He left the hospital before Packard was discharged. Packard was there about thirty-five minutes. He arrived there about ten minutes past twelve. That means Trader must have delivered the merchandise some time around quarter to one or one o’clock.”

  “That would have been before Rita Swaine arrived?” Drake asked.

  Mason nodded and said, “The more I think of it, Paul, the more I think I’m interested in knowing just what that merchandise consisted of. Trader didn’t want to give us any information when we talked with him, but now there’s been a murder, the situation will be different.”

  Drake pulled out his notebook, braced himself against the swaying of the automobile, tried in vain to write legibly. He looked at the scrawled letters, grinned and said, “When I see something I can’t read, I’ll know that means ‘look up merchandise in the garage.’ ”

  Mason settled back against the cushions. “What did you find out about Prescott?” he asked the detective.

  “Plenty,” Drake said. “I can tell you all about him from the time he left kindergarten until he was found dead. I could even give you some of his grades in school.”

  “How was he, bright?”

  “Not particularly during grammar school. He took a spurt in high school, and made a pretty good record in college. He was a chemical engineer. Then he drifted into insurance adjusting.”

  “How about his personality?”

  “Rotten,” Drake said. “He made very few friends, either in college or outside. George Wray was the business producer in the firm. Prescott was a walking encyclopedia of miscellaneous information. He had a great mind for detail. He was valuable when it came to taking care of the business Wray brought in.”

  “What about Driscoll?” the lawyer asked.

  “Just a nice rich play-boy. His mother died when he was fifteen. She left an estate of around a couple of million, mostly in the form of cash. It’s all tied up in a complicated trust, administered by the bank. Driscoll can’t touch the principal until he’s thirty-five. The income goes to him in accordance with the terms of the trust, one of which is that he can’t have more than three hundred dollars a month unless he earns more than three hundred dollars a month in some gainful and legitimate occupation. Then he can get more—but that’s at the discretion of the trustees again.”

  “Sounds as though the boy had some defect of character,” Mason said. “From the time he’s fifteen until the time he’s thirty-five is a long time.”

  “I know,” Drake said, “but apparently it was his mother’s idea that he was going to have to work and learn something of the value of money before he started playing around with the estate. You see, she put it right up to him. He couldn’t be much of a man-about-town on three hundred a month. But if he earned three hundred dollars a month, then the trustees could turn over as much or as little of the income as they thought advisable. I think it was drink she was afraid of, I don’t know. Anyway, she sure put a fence around the kid.”