Mason’s eyes narrowed. “We can produce evidence to that effect,” he said, his lips still smiling reassuringly, “but that’s no sign a jury is going to believe it. One thing is certain. The judge is going to bind you over on a charge of first degree murder.”

  “I had anticipated that,” Leeds admitted quietly.

  “We hadn’t,” Mason observed. “We would have if you’d told us about these fingerprints.”

  “I didn’t know about them.”

  “You knew you’d searched that apartment.”

  Leeds said nothing.

  Mason, smiling broadly, patted him on the shoulder as a deputy sheriff approached.

  “Okay, Leeds,” he said, loudly. “Things are looking fine. They don’t have a ghost of a chance of pinning this on you. Get a good night’s sleep now, and leave the worry to us.”

  Out in the corridor, Della Street fell into step with Perry Mason. “Those fingerprints,” she said, “don’t look so good, do they, Chief?”

  “I’d more or less discounted them in advance,” he said. “I figured that Leeds must have been the one to search that apartment, although he said he hadn’t. What I was mainly counting on was that he’d been too smart to leave fingerprints. Apparently, he was in too much of a hurry to be careful.”

  “What,” she asked, “would happen if tomorrow they show that his fingerprints are on the handle of the knife?”

  Mason shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s not worry about that in advance. He’s in bad enough right now. Let’s go to the office and see if Drake has uncovered anything.”

  Chapter 12

  At the office Mason found a letter addressed to him in feminine handwriting on the stationery of the Border City Hotel at Yuma. The letter read simply:—DEAR MR. MASON:

  I am a seamstress soliciting work by mail. If you have any sewing which I could do, or if there are any tears or holes which seem hopeless, you will find I am quite skillful, and I will deeply appreciate having an opportunity to show you what I can do. Simply address Mrs. J. B. Beems at the Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.

  Mason took out his notebook, made a note of the address, thought for a moment, and then touched a match to the letter.

  Della Street, who had gone down to Drake’s office to notify him that Mason was back, came in with the detective in tow. “Hi, Paul,” Mason said. “What’s new?”

  Drake jackknifed himself into a characteristic pose in the big chair, and said, “I’ve located Inez Colton.”

  “Where?” Mason asked.

  “At the Ellery Arms Apartments,” Drake said. “She’s used henna on her hair and is going under an assumed name, but I don’t know what name, or the number of her apartment. I was afraid to make any inquiries without consulting you, for fear she’d get wise and take another powder. You see, Perry, I can’t put a tail on her because we have no one who knows her personally, and no one to put the finger on her. We simply have a description to go on.”

  “How did you ever locate her?” Mason asked.

  “Simple,” Drake said. “Like all other good gags, it’s been used before, but it’s one of the things people seldom think of. I figured she’d try to change her appearance. Walking out on her job that way indicated it. I managed to find out who her favorite hairdresser was, and an operative, posing as a friend and doing a lot of talking, got the information out of the hairdresser—at least that much information.Women hate to have strange hairdressers do a dye job.”

  Mason pushed his hands down deep into his pockets. “I wish we had a little more on her before we make the contact,” he said.

  Drake said, “I can help on that too, Perry. You can prove that Jason Carrel is her boy friend all right.”

  Mason’s eyes lit up. “That smug liar,” he said. “He had the crust to get on the witness stand and swear absolutely that there had never been any conversation among the relatives about what it would mean to them financially if they could keep Alden Leeds from marrying or making a will. He adopted the position that he was radiating sweetness and light. He just wanted to help his poor, dear uncle, and that was all he thought about.”

  “What did he say about Inez Colton?” Drake asked.

  “Swore he didn’t know her.”

  Drake grinned and produced a photostatic copy of a traffic ticket. “All right,” he said. “Let him try this on his piano. Here’s a traffic ticket showing a violation of the parking law—car parked between the hours of two A.M. and four A.M. The license number is that of Jason Carrel’s automobile, and after the citation was issued, a cute little trick showed up at the traffic department and paid the fine. Her name was Inez Colton. She wanted a receipt showing that the fine had been paid in cash. That’s rather unusual. The bail clerk made a notation on the traffic ticket. When I had him look it up, he found the receipt stub showing payment by this Colton baby.”

  “This was the night of the murder?” Mason asked, excitedly.

  “No, no,” Drake said. “This was two weeks before the murder. I had a tip the car sometimes stood out in front of the apartment house until the small hours of the morning. So I went up and checked through the traffic violations on the off-chance I might find something. I did.”

  Mason said gleefully, “Hot dog! Wait until I slap him in the face with that and ask him how it happens that Inez Colton is paying the fines on his traffic citations. He claimed he didn’t know anything about her, had never seen her in his life.”

  Mason pocketed the photostatic copy, and said, “Let’s eat, and then go call on Miss Colton, and see what she has to say. Della, you can take a shorthand notebook. Work as inconspicuously as possible, take down every word of the conversation.”

  Della Street said, “Gosh, I’m too excited to eat.”

  “Let’s go to the Home Kitchen Cafe,” Mason said. “We can get a good square meal there.”

  “Expense account?” Drake asked.

  “Expense account,” Mason said.

  At the Home Kitchen Cafe, they were waited on by the same waitress who had waited on Mason at lunch the day he had interviewed Serle. “Heard anything from Hazel?” the lawyer asked.

  “Not a word,” she said. “No one’s heard anything.”

  “Come on,” Drake said. “Let’s order.”

  Della picked up her menu. The waitress said, “If you like the daily special, I’d recommend it—unless you want a short order.”

  “Let’s see,” Della said, studying the menu. “What’s today?”

  “Friday,” Drake snorted. “What a gal!”

  “Friday,” Della said. “Well, I’ll take the fish special.”

  Mason looked at the menu. “The roast lamb, for me,” he said to the waitress.

  “Same here,” Drake told her.

  “Do you,” Mason asked of Paul Drake, “have a correspondent in Yuma?”

  Drake nodded. “There’s an agency there that will take over.”

  Mason took a pencil from his pocket, turned the menu over, and wrote on the back of it, “Mrs. J. B. Beems, Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.” He slid it across to the detective, and said, “Don’t repeat this out loud, Paul. Just remember the name and address. I want a damn clever operative put on that party.”

  Drake read the name on the menu. “I can,” he said, “get someone on the job down there by telephone, and then can send down a clever woman operative to take over in the morning. She’s sixty-five, white haired, motherly, and could talk blood out of a turnip.—Well, what I mean is, listen blood out of a turnip. You know the type, Perry.”

  Mason said, “That would be swell.”

  The waitress appeared with large bowls of steaming soup, and Mason, folding the menu so she couldn’t see the name on the back, shoved it down into his pocket.

  They ate hurriedly and for the most part in silence. When they had finished, Drake said, “Gosh, Perry, I don’t know why any man would want to get married when restaurants serve meals like this.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Della Street said.

  “Ouch!” Drake observed, laughing.

  Mason called the waitress, handed her a bill, and said, “Bring the gentleman over there half a dozen packages of gum.”

  “What flavor?” she asked.

  “Spearmint,” Drake said.

  “What brand?”

  “I don’t care, just so it’s gum.”

  When she had gone, Mason said, “You have to admit, Paul, Leeds makes a good host.”

  Drake said, “Well, a two-bit cigar would have been equally acceptable.”

  The lawyer shook his head. “You’re going calling on a lady,” he said. “A cigar on top of this dinner would make you feel at peace with the world, generous, kindhearted, and impulsive. I want you to be your own sweet self, nervous, gum-chewy, and deceptive.”

  Drake said, “Well, come on then. Let’s go and get it over with.”

  “How,” Della Street asked, as they drew up in front of the apartment house, “will you find out what apartment she’s in, Chief?”

  Mason said, “Oh, that’s routine to Paul. Just let him worry about it.”

  Drake said, “Let’s go,” and led the way up to the entrance of the apartment house.

  Mason pressed the button marked “Manager” and, a moment later, an electric buzz announced that the latch was released. The three pushed their way into an ornate little lobby, across from which a mahogany door bore the legend, “Manager.” Drake crossed and rang the bell. A few moments later, a tall, thin woman who had once had fire and charm in her wide brown eyes inquired, “Did you wish an apartment?”

  “No,” Drake said. “We’re collecting a bill.”

  The cordiality left her face.

  “One of your most recent tenants,” Drake went on, “is a girl who’s been here before and ran up a bunch of bills. She’s about twenty-five, good figure, recently used henna on her hair, big, limpid eyes. . .”

  “She hasn’t been here before,” the manager said. “She’s new.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two years.”

  Drake frowned and said, “We’re from the Credit Bureau. My memo is that she was here about eighteen months ago under the name of Doraline Sprague.”

  “Well, that’s not the one.”

  “What name’s she going under now?”

  “Her own.”

  Drake said impatiently, “Well, let’s have it, if we’re on the wrong track, we want to know it.”

  “Helen Reid.”

  “What’s her number?”

  “Twelve B.”

  “What floor?”

  “Second floor.”

  Mason said, after the manner of one pouring oil on troubled waters, “Why don’t you go and have a frank talk with her, Paul? After all, the bill isn’t large. You don’t want to make a mistake. A lawyer will cost you money, and cause her a lot of trouble. You might make her lose her job.”

  Drake hesitated.

  “Go ahead. Talk with her, Paul,” Della Street pleaded. “I’m satisfied that’s the only way.”

  “What’s the use of talking with her?” Drake said. “She’d lie out of it. We’ve got all the stuff we need. Let her prove she isn’t the one. I think she is.”

  “I’m not so certain, Paul. Come on, let’s talk with her.” Drake heaved a sigh. “Okay,” he surrendered reluctantly. Mason flashed a reassuring smile at the manager. “Personally,” he said, “I think it’s a mistake.”

  They took the stairs, starting to climb leisurely, running up them two at a time as they got out of sight of the manager. Mason said, “Hurry, Paul. She may telephone, and let her know we’re on the trail.”

  They trooped down the corridor.

  Drake said to Della Street: “Tap on the door, Della. If she comes, all right. If she doesn’t, and wants to know who’s there, remember you’re the girl from across the hall, and you’re out of matches.”

  They paused in front of the door. Della Street tapped gently on the panel. After a moment of silence, a woman’s voice said, “Who is it please?”

  Della said gushingly, “Oh, I’m from across the hall, and I’ve run out of matches. My boy friend’s been working late, and I’m making a pot of coffee and some scrambled eggs. I’ll only need just a couple.”

  The door opened.

  The young woman who stood on the threshold was striking in appearance. The henna hair did not particularly become her, but the limpid, dark eyes, the very red, full lips, the smooth lines of her neck stretching down into perfectly formed curves visible beneath the sheer silk of the lounging pajamas, gave her a somewhat voluptuous appearance; while the dead white of her skin, drawn tight across the forehead and wide cheekbones, made her seem peculiarly exotic.

  Drake and Mason took charge without giving her an opportunity to collect her thoughts or take any independent action.

  “Okay, Inez,” Drake said, pushing his way into the room and taking care not to remove his hat. “The jig’s up.”

  Perry Mason tilted his own hat a little farther back on his head and nodded.

  Della Street glanced about her in swift appraisal, taking in little details which only a feminine eye would observe.

  Drake dropped into a chair, crossed his long legs, lit a cigarette, and said, “So you thought you could get away with it, eh?”

  Mason said, “Now wait a minute, Paul. Let’s give her a break. Let’s hear her side of the story before we do anything rash.”

  “Hear her side of the story!” Drake exclaimed scornfully.

  “She walks out of her apartment, tries to disguise her appearance, takes an assumed name. I suppose all that was just because her delicate nerves couldn’t stand the idea of living in an apartment house where a man had been murdered.”

  “You don’t think she did it, do you, Paul?” Mason asked.

  “Her boy friend did,” Drake said, with the complete detachment of one who is discussing a problem which holds no personal interest for him.

  Inez Colton said indignantly, “This is an outrage! What do you mean by tricking me in this way? You said you wanted matches.”

  “Forget it, sister,” Mason said. “I’m trying to do you a favor. This guy,” indicating Drake with a sideways gesture of his head, “is hard. If you don’t think he’s hard, just cross him. I claim you didn’t know what you were getting into, that you were in love, and that it’s up to us to give you a chance to come clean before we do anything drastic.”

  “What do you mean—drastic?” she asked, and there was a slight quaver in her voice.

  Drake laughed scornfully.

  Mason said, “Now listen, Paul, let’s be fair about this thing. She may not have been mixed up in that murder.”

  “Then what did she run away for?”

  “To protect her boy friend, of course.”

  “Well, you know the law. If she gives aid to a murderer to shield him, she becomes an accessory after the fact. And how about this talk Milicant had over the telephone. . .”

  Mason said, “Now wait a minute, Paul. I’m going to be firm about this. You’re not going to condemn this young woman until we hear her side of the story.”

  Mason turned expectantly to Inez Colton.

  For a second or two, it seemed that she was on the point of rushing into swift speech. Then her eyes became hard and suspicious. She seemed to lower a veil over her thoughts. “What do you want?” she asked.

  Mason said, “The truth.”

  “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Come on, come on,” Drake said. “Let’s have it.”

  Mason said, “Shut up, Paul. I’m going to insist that you have a chance to tell your story, Inez.”

  There was doubt in her eyes. She glanced appealingly at Della Street, then said, “Well. . .”

  As she hesitated, Drake said, “We have a witness who saw Jason Carrel when he left your apartment, so there’s no good trying to cover up.”

  She whirled to face Drake. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her muscles became poised, tense. “Jason Carrel leaving my apartment?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Drake said.

  “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “I’m a detective,” Drake said.

  “Well, you’re barking on the wrong track, Mr. Detective. Jason Carrel was never in my apartment. I see it all now. You two are trying to run a bluff, figuring you’ll get me to talk. Thank you. I have nothing to say.”

  Mason said, “Suit yourself,” and handed the subpoena to Paul Drake.

  Drake, crossing over to her, said, “Under those circumstances, you get a subpoena to appear in court tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and testify on behalf of the defendant in the case of the People versus Alden Leeds.”

  “But I can’t come to court. I mustn’t.”

  Drake shrugged his shoulders, “That’s your funeral, sister.” “But I don’t know anything that would help anyone. I know nothing whatever about that murder.”

  “Save it for the witness stand,” Drake said.

  “All right, I will,” she said defiantly, “and don’t think my testimony is going to help Alden Leeds any, because it won’t.”

  “What do you know about Alden Leeds?” Drake asked.

  “That’s none of your business. Put me on the witness stand, and I’ll tell.”

  Drake said conversationally, “Too bad about Jason Carrel. He said he didn’t know you. Unfortunately, he was testifying under oath in a murder trial, and a court reporter took down what he said.”

  There was a triumphant glitter in her eyes. “Put me on the witness stand,” she challenged. “I dare you!”

  Abruptly, Mason, who had been watching her carefully, said, “I’m afraid, Miss Colton, that you’re getting a wrong impression. Mr. Drake isn’t very familiar with the various Leeds relatives, and apparently he’s made the mistake of confusing Jason Carrel with Harold Leeds. . ..What you mean, Paul, is that Harold committed the murder.”

  Inez Colton winced as though Mason’s words had been a physical blow. Consternation showed in her eyes. She said, in a stammering half whisper, “He. . . told me . . . you didn’t know.”