“What,” Della Street asked, “are you going to do?”

  Mason said, “I’m going to try and find out why Diana’s black eye led to Mildred’s murder.”

  “You think it did?”

  “It seems to have some definite connection.”

  Mason turned through the pages then frowned with disappointment.

  On the twenty-fourth there was a short cryptic entry saying: “Possession is nine points of the law they say, and I will be the tenth.”

  There were no subsequent entries in the book.

  Della Street looked at Mason. There was a heavy manila envelope in Mason’s brief case. He took it out, addressed the envelope to Della Street at her apartment address, affixed stamps, walked over to the mailbox in front of the hotel, dropped in the envelope and said, “Well, that’s that.”

  “Now what?” Della Street asked.

  Mason grinned. “We go directly back to the office just in case Sergeant Holcomb wants to make something of it. It’s much better to have it over with now than to wait until the middle of the night then be routed out of bed because the damn fool has a warrant.”

  “Face the music?” she asked.

  Mason laughed. “We’re playing the music, the dancing can be done by Sergeant Holcomb.”

  They got in Mason’s car. The lawyer drove slowly toward his office. “Hang it, Della, there has to be some reason, some … Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

  “Look out!” Della screamed.

  Mason swung the wheel sharply, avoided the oncoming car, slid in to the curb, shut off the motor.

  Della Street looked at him with alarm. “Did you blackout or something?”

  Mason said, “Good Lord, Della! I know the answer!”

  “The answer to what?”

  “The answer to the whole darn business,” Mason said, “and I should have known it a lot earlier. It’s been staring us in the face all the time.”

  “What do you mean?” Della asked.

  Mason said, “Look, Della, the account Diana gave of her black eye. She was telling Mildred over the telephone, and she must have told her exactly the same … ”

  The low throbbing note of a police siren, not as yet building up enough speed to give a high pitched scream, but merely emitting an attention-compelling growl, caused Mason to look up.

  Two police cars were closing in on them, one behind, one swinging in toward the front.

  “Oh, oh!” Della said under her breath.

  The car behind seemed to be a regular radio prowl car, but the one in front was a special police car from which Sergeant Holcomb debouched aggressively. Following him from the car was Lieutenant Tragg.

  Mason took his cigarette case from his pocket. “Have one?” he asked Della.

  Mason was lighting Della Street’s cigarette when Sergeant Holcomb’s angry countenance was framed in the window.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded belligerently.

  “Lighting a cigarette,” Mason said.

  “Well, you’re coming to Headquarters.”

  “Got a warrant?”

  “I don’t need one.”

  “Why not?”

  “You committed a felony.”

  “Felony?” Mason asked raising his eyebrows.

  “You committed a burglary.”

  “Tut tut, Sergeant,” Mason said. “You must be more careful. Even your police book of instructions tells you better than that.”

  “A burglary,” Sergeant Holcomb went on. “And don’t think I can’t hang it on you. We collared that garbage man. He told all about how you bribed him for fifty bucks to go up there and trick the man into giving you the garbage. I suppose what you wanted was in that loaf of bread.”

  “And that’s burglary?” Mason asked.

  “Burglary by trickery.”

  “But didn’t your man give the garbage man that loaf of bread?”

  “Well then, it’s embezzlement.”

  “No,” Mason said, “on the contrary. There’s the rule of abandoned property which is entirely different from trusts. The loaf of bread was abandoned. It was given away. But you forget, Sergeant, that I represent Diana Regis, and that Diana Regis is about to offer Mildred Danville’s letter for probate as her last will. She’s also asking to be appointed executrix. Under the circumstances, and in view of the fact that Diana is the sole beneficiary under Mildred Danville’s will, I am not only entitled to take possession of any personal property, but it’s my duty.”

  “Well, we aren’t going to argue about a lot of technicalities,” Holcomb said. “You’ve stuck your neck out and … ”

  “Of course,” Lieutenant Tragg interposed smoothly, “if Mason wants to take the position that he was taking this in custody as a part of the estate, we’ll take a look at the diary as evidence, Sergeant, and in the event it appears that evidence has been suppressed, then we’ll … ”

  “Evidence of what?” Mason asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “You’d better find out, Lieutenant.”

  Tragg said, “Don’t crowd things too far, Mason.”

  “I don’t intend to. If you’re referring to a diary, Lieutenant, I don’t know how you can consider that it’s evidence. I don’t know how you can even introduce it in evidence regardless of what’s in it. However, you seem to know what you’re doing. And, by the way, may I ask how you located me so quickly?”

  Tragg said grimly, “Put out a general alarm over the radio. As soon as a radio car picked up your car license, they radioed in and then shadowed you—two-way radio.”

  “Really a great thing,” Mason said, “a marvelous boon to the police department.”

  “Never mind the kidding,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted. “Where’s that book?”

  Mason said, “I wouldn’t lie to you, Sergeant, because that would be concealing the book, and I wouldn’t want to do that—just in case it should turn out to be evidence.”

  “Okay, wise guy, where is it?”

  “The book,” Mason said, “is with Uncle.”

  “Uncle?”

  “Uncle Samuel,” Mason said. “It’s dropped into a mailbox with postage thereon fully prepaid, and if you think it’s evidence, Sergeant, I refer you to the postal authorities. Perhaps you can find out some way of getting the United States postal authorities to turn the addressed stamped envelope over to the police department.”

  Holcomb’s face darkened.

  For several seconds there was complete silence.

  “You can’t pull that stuff on me,” Holcomb blustered at length. “That’s just a stall—”

  Tragg interposed, “He’s telling the truth, Sergeant.”

  “How do you know?” Holcomb demanded.

  “Because it’s such a simple thing to do, such a clever thing to do, and such a damned effective thing to do,” Lieutenant Tragg said bitterly.

  Mason recognized the defeat in the Lieutenant’s tone. He switched on the ignition of his car, started the motor. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “that’s all I know about it.”

  “You know what’s in that diary?” Holcomb demanded.

  “Certainly,” Mason said.

  “What is it?”

  Tragg said, “You can’t get anywhere that way, Sergeant. We’ll go to the D. A. and see if we can’t find some way of getting the book out of the mail.”

  Holcomb said angrily, “I’m for dragging him down to Headquarters and … ”

  “And,” Mason interrupted smilingly, “letting the newspapers get hold of the manner in which the police officer handed over the loaf of bread. That would be swell publicity. It would really help Diana’s case. On second thought, Sergeant, I won’t be technical about the warrant. If you want to arrest me, I won’t even raise the point.”

  Lieutenant Tragg put his hand on Sergeant Holcomb’s shoulder. “Come on, Sergeant. “We’ll go see the D. A.”

  Mason slid the car into gear, glided away from the curb.

  Della Street sighed. “Gosh, Chief, my hands are wringing wet.”

  Mason said, “Don’t talk to me just now, darling, I have an idea that it might be well to concentrate on driving. Do you know, Della, I have a hunch that if I should violate any of the traffic laws between here and the office, I might find myself accused of reckless driving while intoxicated. That police radio car is trailing right along behind.”

  Chapter 17

  DELLA STREET followed Perry Mason down the long corridor, watched Mason fit a latchkey into the door of his private office, and then as Mason opened the door and stood to one side for her to walk on in, she caught his arm and said impulsively, “Give.”

  Mason grinned, tossed his hat in the general direction of the hook in the cloak closet, kicked the door shut and said, “We’ve got work to do.”

  “I know all that, but come on and give.”

  Mason said, “One phone call first, Della’. Get Paul Drake’s office on the line.”

  She made a little face at him, said, “All right, put me off. If I die of suspense right here in the middle of the office, Lieutenant Tragg will certainly pin it on you as a murder.”

  “Darned if he wouldn’t,” Mason admitted, “and if he didn’t Sergeant Holcomb would beat me up with a rubber hose until I confessed. Rush that call through to Paul, and then we’ll talk.”

  A moment later, Della Street had Paul Drake on the line.

  Mason said, “Paul, how much of a pull do you have with the newspapers?”

  “No pull, but we have contacts here and there. A detective agency that stays in business has to have friends scattered around in various places.”

  Mason said, “I don’t know which one of the newspapers it was, and I don’t know just how long ago, but I would say within about a week. I want you to find out the address of the person who put a want ad in the paper and gave the box for a reply of three nine six two YZ.”

  “How soon do you want it?” Drake asked.

  “I want it so fast that it’s going to surprise you.”

  “Not me.”

  “Five minutes.”

  Drake said, “Make it an hour.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “Make it forty-five.”

  “Five minutes,” Mason said and hung up.

  Della Street looked at him with a frown. “What’s that number?” she asked.

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “It seems familiar to me. I … Oh, yes! That’s the number that was scribbled in pencil on the back of one of the sheets of paper on which Mildred Danville’s note was written.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said, “only it wasn’t the back of the piece of paper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The note,” Mason explained, “was written on the back of the sheet.”

  “I don’t get you.”

  “Those sheets were torn from a pad, a pad about four by six inches. The paper had a somewhat elusive scent to it—the scent of face powder.”

  “You mean Mildred had been carrying those sheets in her purse?”

  “Let’s put it this way. For some reason, Mildred wanted to make some notes, so she went into a dime store, picked up a pad of scratch paper, and put it in her purse. Sometime later, she wrote the number three nine six two YZ on the pad, then, later on, when she wanted to write a note to Diana she simply tore off that sheet, turned it over and started her note on the back of it.”

  “But how do you know that’s the number of a box for a want ad?”

  “I don’t,” Mason admitted, “but it’s a ten to one guess that it is. A number of four digits with two letters of the alphabet after it isn’t a telephone number, it isn’t a house number. It’s mighty apt to be the box number that would be put on the end of a want ad.”

  “And what,” Della Street asked, “has all of that got to do with Diana’s black eye?”

  “It wasn’t the black eye,” Mason said.

  “What was it? The finding of young Carl Fretch in her room?”

  “Not that.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “A matronly woman with a limp.”

  “You’re going too fast for me,” Della Street said, frowning.

  “A matronly heavy-set woman with a limp,” Mason repeated. “That’s the way Diana described the woman when she told us the story, and it’s undoubtedly the way she described the woman when she told Mildred … ”

  “Oh, you mean the woman who came and wanted to sell Jason Bartsler the mine?”

  “Or did she?” Mason asked.

  “Did she what?”

  “Want to sell him a mine.”

  “You mean she … Gosh, Chief!” Della Street exclaimed, “You mean that somewhere in the paper there was a want ad reading something like: ‘Woman with highest references who has a way with children, and house with large back yard looking for children to keep in daytime nursery, or... ’”

  “Exactly,” Mason interrupted.

  “Then,” Della Street said, her voice showing her excitement, “Mildred Danville went to Ella Brockton and got hold of the boy, and took him to this woman.”

  “Go on,” Mason told her, “you’re doing fine.”

  “But then how did Bartsler get in touch with the woman?”

  “He didn’t. She got in touch with Bartsler.”

  “How?”

  Mason said, “Suppose you were a matronly woman, inclined to respectability, and a rather stunning blonde came to you with a very small boy. Her name was Danville, and the child’s name was Robert Bartsler, and she seemed very much upset, and wanted a place to leave the child—probably for a few days while she was looking around for a suitable apartment and a maid, and … ”

  “Why sure,” Della Street said. “As soon as the blonde left, the woman would start looking through the telephone directory for the name of Bartsler.”

  “Exactly,” Mason said.

  “And,” Della Street went on, “it being an unusual name, she’d find only one Bartsler in the telephone directory, and she’d call up that number and Jason Bartsler would answer the telephone, and she would tell him that a blonde who acted rather mysteriously had given into her care a child nearly three years old named Robert Bartsler, and … ”

  “Go on,” Mason said, as Della Street stopped.

  “My Gosh, Chief, I can’t go on. The possibilities of what would come after that are staggering.”

  Mason said, “Of course, we’re piling a lot of conclusions on a rather slender foundation of fact, Della, but it’s an explanation that accounts for everything, and so far it’s the only explanation that does account for everything. A matronly heavy-set woman with a limp. Mildred Danville had given the child to this woman to keep and the child promptly disappears, and then a couple of days later Mildred is gabbing away over the telephone with Diana, and Diana is telling her about having a beautiful black eye, and Mildred is really enjoying it, and then goes on to say that at the exact moment she arrived at the house without money to pay the taxicab, a matronly, heavy-set woman with a limp was walking up the stairs, asking the man who answered the door for Mr. Bartsler.”

  Della frowned, “About a mine, Chief?”

  Mason shook his head and smiled. “That was what she said to Bartsler’s assistant—and that was after this woman had talked with Bartsler over the phone. Naturally, Bartsler couldn’t suddenly start answering the doorbell himself when he hadn’t been in the habit of doing it, and he’d hardly want a woman to come to the door and say to whoever answered the bell, ‘I’m calling about the little grandson.’”

  Della Street said, “My Gosh, Chief, I’m so excited I’m all tingly. I feel as though I’d been sitting on a foot until it had gone asleep and the pins and needles had spread all over my body. And think what a deep dark game Jason Bartsler has been playing. Gee whiz! If … ”

  Mason’s unlisted telephone rang a peremptory summons.

  Mason scooped up the receiver and Paul Drake said, “Now, listen, Perry. I don’t want you to take this as any precedent. Ordinarily, it would have taken an hour, but I just happened to be lucky and stumble onto … ”

  “Never mind all that stuff,” Mason interrupted, “who is it?”

  “Mrs. J. C. Kennard, three six nine one Lobland Avenue. And I’ve found out something else, Perry. In that block where Mildred left Diana’s car parked, there’s a little children’s store. A blonde had been in there the day before with a young boy and bought some garments. They were to be altered the next day, but there was some delay and the woman had to wait. She didn’t have the boy with her when she went in for them. I didn’t show Mildred’s picture because I was afraid if I did they’d spot her as the murdered girl and contact the police—but the time element fits okay. It sure was Mildred.”.

  “Nice work,” Mason said. “How about the ad Mrs. Kennard put in the paper, Paul. What was in that?”

  “Gosh, I don’t know, Perry. I was working fast on that ad business. I happened to find a lead that could give me what I wanted from the cashier’s office, and I didn’t bother to check back. Give me another twenty or thirty minutes and I can … ”

  “It doesn’t make any difference,” Mason said. “I think I know what it is, anyway. Grab your hat and coat, Paul.”

  “I’m just going out to dinner,” Drake said. “Been working hard all day, didn’t get any lunch … ”

  “And if you grab a pocketful of those chocolate bars out of your desk you won’t need any dinner,” Mason said, “not for a While, anyway. Got an operative around the office you can trust?”

  “Got a girl here just making a report on another matter,” Drake said. “She’s the only one … ”

  “Blonde or brunette?”

  “Blonde. You’ve met her, Anita Dorset.”

  “Okay,” Mason said, “pick her up and bring her along. We may need her and we may not. Meet you at the elevator, Paul.”

  “Aw, Perry, have a heart. I’m starved. I … ”

  “In exactly ten seconds,” Mason said, and hung up.

  “Get that address?” Mason asked Della Street.

  “Yes, I took it down, three six nine one Lobland Avenue.”

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  Mason grabbed his light topcoat from the coat closet, held Della’s coat for her, and crossed the office with long strides to jerk open the door. He held it open for Della, then let it click shut behind them as they strode down the hall for the elevator.