“Bridal suite, eh?” said Perry Mason.

  Dr. Doray sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed, as though his knees had refused to carry his weight.

  “Well?” said Perry Mason.

  The man on the bed said nothing.

  Perry Mason’s tone was edged with impatience.

  “Come on,” he said, “start talking.”

  “About what?” asked Dr. Doray.

  “I want the whole story,” Perry Mason said.

  Dr. Doray took a deep breath, stared up at the lawyer.

  “I haven’t any story to tell,” he said.

  “What you doing here?” Mason asked.

  “Just running away. I thought things were getting pretty hot for me. You gave me that message, and so I came here.”

  “What message?”

  “The message that your secretary gave me, telling me to get out and keep under cover.”

  “And so,” said Perry Mason sarcastically, “you took the midnight plane out of the city, came here and registered in the bridal suite.”

  Doray said stubbornly, “That’s right. I registered in the bridal suite.”

  “Why didn’t Marjorie Clune join you?” Perry Mason asked.

  Dr. Doray jumped up from the edge of the bed.

  “You can’t talk that way,” he said. “That’s an insult to Marjorie. She’s not that kind of a girl. She wouldn’t think of any such thing.”

  “Oh,” said Perry Mason, “you weren’t going to be married then. I thought perhaps you were going to be married and spend your honeymoon here.”

  Dr. Doray blushed.

  “I’ll tell you I don’t know anything about Marjorie Clune. I came down here because I thought things were getting too hot for me. She wasn’t going to join me at all.”

  “I tapped on the door,” said Perry Mason slowly, “with the tips of my fingers, making the same kind of a noise a woman might make if she was very certain of who was on the other side of the door. You rushed to the door with an expression of eagerness on your face, saw me, and then acted as though some one had slapped you in the face with a wet towel.”

  “It was a shock to me,” Doray said. “I didn’t know any one knew I was here.”

  Perry Mason hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, thrust his head slightly forward and started pacing the floor.

  “I’m telling you,” began Dr. Doray, “that you’re all wet. You have the wrong idea about—”

  “Shut up,” said Perry Mason, calmly and without emotion. “I’m thinking. I don’t want to be interrupted.”

  He paced the floor in silence for more than three minutes, then suddenly whirled to face Dr. Doray. He kept his thumbs in the armholes of his vest; his head was thrust forward, the jaw protruding.

  “I was a fool to have come here.”

  “You were?” asked Dr. Doray, startled.

  Perry Mason nodded.

  “I’m in this thing deep enough already. I came here in the first place because I thought I’d find Marjorie Clune. I wanted to give her a break. God knows she’s going to need it. Why didn’t she join you on the midnight plane?”

  “I tell you I don’t know anything at all about her. I haven’t seen her and haven’t talked with her.”

  Perry Mason shook his head, almost sadly.

  “Let’s reason this thing out,” he said. “None of her friends heard anything about her. You became alarmed. So did Bradbury. Both of you love her. Bradbury has money; he’s an older man. You’re nearer Marjorie’s age. You’ve been practicing dentistry for a year or two and haven’t very much saved up. You had a lot of equipment to pay for, and you’ve been building up a practice. You borrowed what money you could and came to the city to find Marjorie. You also wanted to bring Patton to justice.

  “You drove your car in from Cloverdale. It’s a distinctive car. You got in touch with Marjorie Clune. I don’t know how. Through her you learned where Patton was living. You didn’t know that when you talked with me. Therefore you must have reached Marjorie Clune after that. You didn’t have any way of getting in touch with Patton except through Marjorie. You didn’t have any money to hire detectives with. Marjorie Clune had an appointment with Frank Patton. Your car was tagged in front of a fire plug. It’s better than an even money bet you drove Marjorie Clune to keep the appointment with Patton.

  “Patton was found murdered. The weapon used was a knife. The police have traced that knife. They’ve found out the hardware store where it was purchased. The man in the hardware store identified your photograph as that of the one who bought the knife.”

  Doray’s face was suddenly white.

  “I’m not making any statements,” he said.

  “You don’t have to,” Mason told him in a calm, deliberate tone of voice. “I’m the one who’s making the statements. I found Marjorie Clune. I got her to go to a hotel and register. She was to wait for me to call her. She wasn’t to leave her room. She looked like the type of woman who would keep her promise.

  “Something happened so that she didn’t keep that promise. She walked out on me. In tracing her movements, I find that she intended to take the midnight plane. I trail the midnight plane and find you were on it. Therefore it’s a fair inference that it was through you she violated the promise she had given to me. Now, what argument did you use?”

  “I didn’t use any,” Doray said. “I tell you I don’t know anything at all about Marjorie Clune.”

  “Then she wasn’t to join you here?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t talk with her on the telephone?”

  “No.”

  Mason stared down at Dr. Doray with glittering, savage eyes.

  “What a fool you are,” he said, “a small-town dentist who’s practiced dentistry for three or four years, and you think that fits you to give me a run-around in a murder case, which is my specialty. Young as you are, and dumb as you are, I wouldn’t think of arguing with you about how you were going to fill one of my teeth. And yet you have the audacity to sit there and jeopardize the safety of the woman you love by trying to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying to you, I tell you,” Doray said.

  There were beads of perspiration glistening on his forehead and on his nose.

  Perry Mason took a deep breath.

  “I sized Marjorie Clune up as a sweet kid, a straight shooting kid, a kid who had had the cards stacked against her. I decided to give her all the breaks I could. I didn’t sit in my office and wait for the cops to arrest her, and then go into court to help her. I went out on the firing line and risked my own safety in order to give her a break. I wanted to put her in a position where she could cope with the police. I wanted to be where I could go over her story and find out what was wrong with it—what she had to forget, what she should emphasize. I wanted to coach her a little bit on what the police were going to do when they picked her up. I had her where I could do that. You came along and talked her out of it because you wanted her to come down here to Summerville on a week-end petting party.”

  Dr. Doray started to get up from the bed.

  Perry Mason reached out with a rough hand and pushed him back.

  “Sit down,” he said, “and shut up. I’m not done talking to you yet. She was to have joined you on the midnight plane. She didn’t. You can figure what that means. That means that the police picked her up somewhere and have held her without booking her. They’ve probably ‘buried’ her in some outlying town. That means that we won’t have any trace of her until after they’ve given her all the third degree they can think of. They’ll try every trick that’s known to the police.

  “When she talks, she’s going to tell plenty, including the fact that you’re here in Summerville, registered at the hotel under the name of Charles B. Duncan. That means you can expect the police here at any time. Now laugh that off.”

  Dr. Doray pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped the perspiration from his forehead.

  “My God!” he said.

  Perry Mason said nothing.

  Dr. Doray put his elbows on his knees. His hands hung limply between the knees, his head dragged forward as he stared at the carpet.

  “I can tell you one thing,” he said, “on my word of honor, and that was that I didn’t talk her into coming down here. It was …”

  “It was what?” asked Perry Mason quickly.

  Dr. Doray caught himself.

  “It was a complete mistake on your part,” he said. “Marjorie Clune wasn’t to join me here. She doesn’t know where I am. She hasn’t any idea where she can find me. I haven’t communicated with her since I left Cloverdale.”

  “Just to show you,” said Perry Mason, “what a poor liar you are …”

  There was the sound of quick steps in the corridor, a tapping on the door.

  Dr. Doray stared at Perry Mason with eyes that were wide with consternation.

  Perry Mason jerked open the door before Doray could so much as move.

  Marjorie Clune stood on the threshold, her blue eyes deep with emotion.

  An expression of incredulous dismay came over her face as she stared at Perry Mason.

  “You!” she said.

  Perry Mason nodded, stood slightly to one side. She saw Dr. Doray.

  “Bob,” she cried, “tell me what’s happened!”

  Dr. Doray covered the distance between them in four swift strides, took her in his arms, held her to him.

  Perry Mason walked across the room to the window, stood with his hands thrust in his coat pockets, staring moodily down at the street below.

  “Why didn’t you get the plane, dearest?” Doray whispered. “We thought you’d been arrested.”

  “There was a taxicab accident. I missed the plane. I came by the first train.”

  Perry Mason, still standing with his back to them, his face toward the window, called over his shoulder, “Why didn’t you follow my instructions, Marjorie, and stay in your room?”

  “I couldn’t,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I can’t explain very well.”

  “I think,” he told her, with his back still turned to her, “that it’s very important that you tell me.”

  There was a period of silence. Dr. Doray started to whisper in her ear.

  Perry Mason caught the sound of the hissing sibilants, and spun around on his heel.

  “Cut it out,” he said to Dr. Doray. Then, as his eyes held the blue eyes of Marjorie Clune, he said, “Come clean, Marjorie, it’s important.”

  She shook her head, her face white to the lips.

  Perry Mason watched her shrewdly.

  “All right,” he said, “suppose I tell you. You telephoned to Dr. Doray. He talked you into coming down here with him. You were either going to be married and face the music together, or else you were going to try and hide here. Which was it?”

  “No,” she said in a firm, steady voice, “that isn’t right, Mr. Mason. Neither of them is. I was the one who rang Dr. Doray. I suggested this trip. I rang his hotel. He had checked out. I left a message for him to call me at the Bostwick Hotel. He had checked out of his hotel, but he called in later and got the message. He called me. I asked him if he would come down here with me for a week. We were to get the bridal suite and be together. At the end of that time, I was going to surrender to the police.”

  “Here?” asked Perry Mason.

  “No, of course not. We weren’t going to let any one know where we had been. We were going to return to the city.”

  “And both were going to surrender to the police?” Perry Mason asked.

  She nodded.

  “What was the reason,” asked Perry Mason, “that you broke your promise to me and came down here on this trip?”

  She stared at him with frank, steady eyes.

  “Because,” she said, “I wanted a week with Bob.”

  Perry Mason regarded her unflinching eyes with speculative appraisal.

  “You’re not the type of girl who would do that,” he said.

  “You have seen Bob Doray off and on for months, and yet you haven’t shown any desire to week-end with him—at least I don’t think you have. Now, all of a sudden, you want to give him a week, and then you don’t care what happens. You—”

  She came to Perry Mason, put her hands on his shoulders; her lips were white and quivering.

  “Please,” she said, “don’t tell him. You’re going to figure it out in a minute. Please stop. You’ll know if you’ll only take time to think.”

  Perry Mason frowned at her, and then his eyes narrowed.

  “By God,” he said, “I believe I do know.”

  “Please don’t tell him,” Marjorie Clune pleaded.

  Perry Mason turned away from her, walked to the window, and stood with his hands jammed into his pockets. He heard Dr. Doray rush to Marjorie Clune, clasp her in his arms.

  “What is it, sweetheart? Please tell me.”

  “Don’t, Bob, you’re going to make me cry. Remember the bargain. I was to give you one week. You weren’t to ask any questions. You promised that—”

  Abruptly, Perry Mason’s voice cut through the low tones of their conversation. His voice was like that of a radio announcer reporting some news event.

  “There’s an automobile,” he said, “that’s just parked across the street. A big man, wearing a black, broad-brimmed hat, is just getting out of the car. He’s a typical country sheriff. There’s another man getting out of the other side. He’s a man in a uniform with a police cap with gold braid on it. He looks like a chief of police. The men are talking together. They’re looking across here at the hotel.”

  The room behind Mason became suddenly silent. Mason continued, in the same impersonal tone of voice:

  “They’re starting to walk across the street toward the hotel. I don’t think there’s any question but what they have been tipped off to come here and look for at least one of you. Perhaps they trailed Marjorie. Perhaps they found out about Dr. Doray coming down on the midnight plane.”

  Perry Mason whirled to face the pair.

  Dr. Doray was standing very erect, his face white. Marjorie Clune was at his side; her lips were unquivering, her eyes were fastened upon Perry Mason.

  “All right,” she said, “if we have to, we can take it right on the chin. You’re going to represent Dr. Doray as well as myself, Mr. Mason. That’s understood, is it not?”

  “That,” said Perry Mason, “is understood. And I’m going to do it in my own way.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  Perry Mason’s eyes shifted to Dr. Doray.

  “You’ve got to play the part of a man,” he said. “I’m going to throw you to the wolves. You’re going to take it and like it. You’re going to promise me one thing. It’s going to be the most difficult thing you ever did in your life, but you’re going to do it.”

  “Will it help Marjorie?” Doray asked quietly.

  “Yes,” said Perry Mason.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re going to keep absolutely quiet.”

  “What else?” asked Dr. Doray.

  Perry Mason laughed grimly.

  “That’s going to be plenty,” he said. “They’re going to work every trick on you that’s known to police psychology. They’re going to tell you that Marjorie Clune has confessed to the murder; that she’s done it because she loves you, and that she wants to save you. They’ll make you believe it. They may even show you a signed statement that they claim she’s given to them. They’ll ask you if you’re going to be a man, or if you’re going to hide behind her skirts and let her take the death penalty for a crime that you committed. They’ll try everything they can think of to make you talk. Perhaps it will be a bluff. Perhaps it won’t. I want you to promise me that you won’t try to do any thinking about whether it’s a bluff or whether it isn’t. I want you to promise me that you’ll leave the question of Marjorie’s defense absolutely and entirely up to me; that no matter what they tell you, you’ll keep quiet. That you’ll tell them I am your attorney and that you want to communicate with me. Will you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  Perry Mason turned to Marjorie Clune.

  “Where’s your suitcase?”

  “I left it at the depot. I wanted to make sure Bob was here.”

  “Good girl,” he said. “Come with me.”

  Doray circled her with his arms, drew her hungrily to him. His lips sought hers.

  Perry Mason jerked the door open.

  “You haven’t got any time for that stuff,” he said. “Come on, Marjorie.”

  She continued to cling to Dr. Doray for a moment; then she turned and ran to Perry Mason.

  “Close and lock the door, Doray,” Mason said. “Don’t be in a hurry about opening it.”

  He grabbed Marjorie Clune’s arm and ran down the corridor. Near a corner of the corridor, he knocked on a door. There was the sound of motion behind the door.

  “Quick,” said Perry Mason, and whisked Marjorie around the corner of the corridor. He knocked on another door. There was no answer. He pulled a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket, inserted one, unlocked the door and held it open.

  “Go on in,” he told Marjorie Clune.

  Marjorie Clune walked across the threshold, and had just entered the room when the door of the elevator clanged open and two men, one wearing the uniform of a police officer with a gold-braided cap, the other wearing a black, broad-brimmed Stetson, stepped into the corridor, and pounded toward Perry Mason.

  Perry Mason moved with calm, even-spaced tranquillity. He entered the room, standing so that his broad shoulders blocked the officers from seeing Marjorie Clune. Slowly, he groped for the door with the back of his heel, and kicked the door shut.

  “There’s a sign in the closet, Marjorie,” he said, “a sign printed on pasteboard, ‘PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB.’ Get that and bring it to me.”

  She opened the closet door, found the sign and handed it to him wordlessly.

  Perry Mason was standing by the door, his head cocked slightly on one side, after the manner of one who is listening.

  The sounds of rumbling conversation carried to them through the open transom. Then the sounds became more indistinct, and faded out entirely.

  Perry Mason turned the knob, opened the door, slipped the string of the pasteboard placard over the knob, closed the door and twisted the bolt which locked it from the inside. He gave the hotel room a sweeping glance of inspection.