Mason sighed. “Let’s look at it another way. When I left you with Sergeant Dorset, he said he was going to take you out to call on James Staunton.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did he do so?”

  “Yes?”

  “How long were you there?”

  “I don’t know. Some little time.”

  “And Staunton still stuck to his story that Faulkner had brought the fish to him?”

  “Yes. He produced a written authorization from Mr. Faulkner to keep the fish.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then Sergeant Dorset went back to Faulkner’s house and took me with him.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then after an hour or so, he told me I could leave.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Well, one of the men—I think he was a photographer—said that he was going downtown to police headquarters to get some films developed and I could ride along with him if I wanted. You know, said he’d give me a lift.”

  “So you went with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I telephoned Della Street.”

  “Where did you find a telephone?”

  “In an all-night restaurant.”

  “Near where this photographer let you out?”

  “Yes, within a block.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then Miss Street told me to call her back inside of fifteen minutes.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Had a cup of coffee and some scrambled eggs and toast.”

  “Can you remember where this restaurant was?”

  “Yes, of course I can, and I think the night man in the restaurant will remember me. He was a man with very dark hair and I remember he had a limp when he walked. I think one leg had been broken and was quite a bit shorter than the other.”

  “All right,” Mason said, “that has the ring of truth. You went back to Faulkner’s house with Dorset. He kept you there for awhile and then decided he didn’t need you any more and this photographer gave you a lift downtown. Did you talk any with him in the automobile?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Tell him what you knew about the murder?”

  “No. We weren’t talking about the murder.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Me.”

  “Was he making passes at you?”

  “He wanted my telephone number. He didn’t seem to be interested in the murder. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry he said he’d have gone to the restaurant with me. He asked me if I wouldn’t wait there for an hour or so until after he’d developed his films.”

  “That sounds natural,” Mason said. “You’re giving out stuff that has the ring of truth now. How long were you in the restaurant?”

  “Just about fifteen minutes. I called Miss Street as soon as I went in and then she told me to call back in fifteen minutes, and in fifteen minutes I called back and she told me to go to the Kellinger Hotel.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I got a taxi and went to the Kellinger Hotel.”

  “You told the police this?”

  “Yes, all of this.”

  “It’s in your written statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any other customers in that all-night restaurant when you were there?”

  “No. It’s just a little place—just a little lunch counter. Sort of a hole in the wall with a night man who does the cooking and then serves the food at the counter.”

  “And you got a good look at this man behind the counter?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And he got a good look at you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you called Della Street twice from that restaurant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now then,” Mason asked, “did you make any other calls?”

  She hesitated.

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “That doesn’t have the ring of truth,” Mason said.

  Sally Madison was quiet.

  Mason said, “You got a taxicab there?”

  “Yes, right near there.”

  “And went directly to the Kellinger Hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason shook his head. “From your description of where you were, the taxi ride to the Kellinger Hotel shouldn’t have taken over two or three minutes at that hour of the night, and the meter should have been considerably less than a dollar.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Della Street got there first,” Mason said. “She had a lot farther to go than you did.”

  “Well, I . . . It took me a little while to find a taxicab.”

  “You didn’t have one come to the restaurant?”

  “No. I went out to look for a taxi stand. The restaurant man told me there’d be one right around there somewhere.”

  Mason said, “When Della Street got to the Kellinger Hotel, she sat in the lobby waiting for you. She saw you when you drove up in the taxicab. She saw you pay off the driver. You didn’t open your purse. You had a bill all ready in your hand.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because, Mr. Mason, I had that gun in my purse and that big roll of bills, and I was afraid the taxi driver might see—well, you know, might see the gun or the roll of bills, or both, and think perhaps I was a stick-up artist and . . . well, you know how it was?”

  “No, I don’t know. How was it?”

  “Well, I didn’t want anyone to see what was in the purse, so I took this bill out of the purse when we were three or four blocks from the hotel, and I knew how much the meter was going to be.”

  “What was it,” Mason asked, “a one-dollar bill?”

  She started to say something, then instead of speaking, simply nodded.

  Mason said, “Della Street said the man looked at the bill in rather a strange way, then said something to you and laughed and put it in his pocket. I don’t think he’d have done that if it had been a one-dollar bill.”

  “What do you think it was?”

  “A two-dollar bill,” Mason said.

  She said, “It was a one-dollar bill.”

  “Did you make any statement to the police about that?”

  “No.”

  “Did they ask you?”

  “No.”

  Mason said, “I think it was a two-dollar bill. I think the meter didn’t show the fifty or sixty cents that it should have shown if you’d gone from the restaurant near police headquarters to the Kellinger Hotel. I think the meter showed around a dollar and eighty cents. I think that means you took a side excursion, and I’m making one guess as to where that excursion would have been.”

  She looked up at him defiantly.

  “To Tom Gridley’s boardinghouse or apartment—or wherever he lives,” Mason said.

  She lowered her eyes.

  “Don’t you see,” Mason went on patiently, “the officers are going to trace every step you made. They’re going to locate the taxicab that took you to the Kellinger Hotel; they’re going to find out everything you did. They’ll comb the city with a fine tooth comb. They’ll find the man that took you to the Kellinger Hotel. He’ll remember the trip—particularly if you gave him a two-dollar bill, and he made some comment to you about a two-dollar bill being unlucky.”

  She bit her lip.

  “So,” Mason said, “you’d better at least come clean with me.”

  “All right,” she said defiantly, “I went up to Tom’s place.”

  “And got the gun,” Mason said.

  “No, Mr. Mason. Honestly I didn’t. I had the gun in my purse all the time. I found it just where I told you I did.”

  “And Sergeant Dorset was taking you around all that time with a gun in your purse?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why did you go to Tom’s place?”

  “Because I knew it was his gun. You see, Mr. Mason, when I went to the pet store last night, I got there very shortly after Mr. Faulkner had left. I found Mr. Rawlins terribly upset. He told me he’d lost his temper and told Mr. Faulkner just what he thought of him. He told me Mr. Faulkner had taken some things that belonged to Tom, but he said he wouldn’t tell me about what they were until today, because he said he didn’t want me to do anything rash, and he didn’t think Tom should know about it while he was having one of his bad spells.

  “Well, at the time I didn’t know what those things were. It was afterward that I learned from the police it had been this gun of Tom’s and the can of remedy that Tom had mixed up and put in the safe. If I’d known Mr. Faulkner had taken the gun I wouldn’t have been so frightened when I saw it there on the dresser in Mr. Faulkner’s house. But the minute I saw it, I recognized it as Tom’s gun. You see, he’d etched his initials on the barrel with some acid. I used to shoot the gun a lot. I’m a pretty darn good shot with a revolver, even if I do say it myself. Well, when I saw that gun there on the dresser, and saw it was Tom’s gun, I was panic-stricken. I just scooped it into my purse while you were there in the bathroom looking at the body on the floor.

  “Then, just as soon as I could get away from the police, which was when I went into that restaurant, I called Tom up. I did that right after I’d called Miss Street. I told Tom that I had to see him right away, and to be sure that the door of his apartment was unlocked so I could get in.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I had the taxi take me down there. I went in to see Tom. I told him what had happened. He was absolutely flabbergasted. Then I showed him the gun and asked him if he’d had any trouble with Faulkner and he—he told me the truth.”

  “What was the truth?”

  “He told me that he’d been keeping the gun at the pet store for the last six months; that Rawlins had told him there’d been some stickups in the neighborhood and that he wished he had a gun but he couldn’t get one, and Tom said he had one, and Rawlins got Tom to bring it to the store. Then late yesterday afternoon, when Faulkner went down and took an inventory of stock that was in the store, and took that batch of fish remedy Tom had mixed up, Faulkner must have seen the gun there and decided that he wanted it and took it home with him. That, of course, was just what happened. Rawlins has said so, and the police were fair with me. They told me about it before I made my statement to them.”

  Mason studied her thoughtfully, said, “When Tom found out that Faulkner had been down there and taken the jar of stuff containing his formula and sent it out to be analyzed, he became angry. He went up to Faulkner’s house to try and effect a settlement. Faulkner gave him a check for a thousand dollars. . . .”

  “No he didn’t, Mr. Mason. Tom didn’t go out to Faulkner’s house at all, and he didn’t know a thing about Faulkner taking the remedy. I didn’t know it myself until the police told me. You can prove that by asking Rawlins.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Mason shook his head and said, “That doesn’t check. Faulkner had made out a check for a thousand dollars to Tom Gridley. He was filling in the check stub when he was shot.”

  “I know that’s what the officers say, but Tom didn’t go out there.”

  Mason thought for a moment, then said, “If Faulkner found the gun in the pet shop and took it out to the house with him, how does it happen that Faulkner’s fingerprints aren’t on it?”

  She said, “I can’t tell you that. Mr. Faulkner picked it up at the pet shop. I don’t think there’s any question about that. Even the police say that.”

  Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Look here,” he charged, “when you found that gun there on the dresser, you became panic-stricken. You thought Tom had gone out there to have a showdown with Faulkner and had lost his temper and killed Faulkner, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly that, Mr. Mason. I just didn’t think it was a good place for Tom’s gun to be. I was all upset, and when I saw the gun there—well, I didn’t think.”

  “You did too,” Mason said. “You picked that gun up and wiped all the fingerprints off it, didn’t you?”

  “Honestly I didn’t, Mr. Mason. I just picked up the gun and dropped it into my purse. I didn’t think about fingerprints. I just wanted to get that gun out of the way. That’s all I was thinking of.”

  Mason said, “All right. Now let’s get back to the two thousand dollars. Faulkner had that two thousand dollars in the pocket of his trousers, didn’t he?”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes.”

  “Just the two thousand dollars?”

  “Yes.”

  “In the pocket of his trousers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what time did you get there?”

  “Around—somewhere between eight and half past eight. I don’t know exactly when.”

  “And you found the door open and walked in?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “You’re trying to cover up for Tom, and it won’t work.”

  “No, I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason said, “Look here, Sally, your story just doesn’t sound probable. Now you’ve got to face the facts. I’m talking to you not only for your own good, but for Tom’s. If you don’t do exactly as I tell you, you’re going to get Tom into a mess. He’ll be held in jail for months. He may be tried for murder. He might be convicted. But even if he’s just held in jail, you know what that will do to Tom’s health.”

  She nodded.

  “Now then,” Mason said in a low voice, “you’ve got to do one thing. You’ve got to tell me the truth.”

  She met his eyes steadily. “I’ve told you the truth, Mr. Mason.”

  Mason sat for some thirty seconds, his face a mask of concentration, his fingertips drumming on the table. Behind the heavy wire screen, the girl regarded him thoughtfully.

  Abruptly, Mason pushed back his chair. “You sit right there,” he said, and, catching the eye of the matron, he explained, “I want to make a telephone call, then I’m coming back.”

  Mason crossed over to the telephone booth in a corner of the visitor’s room and dialed Paul Drake’s office. A few seconds later, he had the detective on the line.

  “Perry Mason, Paul,” the lawyer said. “Anything new on Staunton?”

  “Where are you now, Perry?”

  “I’m up at the visitor’s room in the jail.”

  “Gosh, yes. I called Della a few minutes ago. She didn’t know where to get in touch with you. The police have got a statement out of Staunton and have put him back into circulation. He won’t talk about anything that’s in the statement, but one of my operatives got hold of him and asked him the question you wanted to know, and he answered that.”

  “What was the answer?”

  “On Wednesday night, after Faulkner had taken those fish out to Staunton’s place, and Staunton had telephoned the pet shop, he said it was quite late before the pet shop came out with the treatment.”

  “Not early?”

  “No. He said it was quite late. He doesn’t remember the exact time, but it was quite late.”

  Mason heaved a sigh, said, “That’s a break. Sit right where you are, Paul,” and hung up the telephone.

  The lawyer’s eyes were glinting as he returned to face Sally Madison across the visitor’s table. “All right, Sally,” he said in a low voice, “now we’ll talk turkey.”

  Her eyes regarded him with studied innocence. “But, Mr. Mason, I have been telling you the exact truth.”

  Mason said, “We’ll think back to Wednesday night, Sally, when I first met you, when I came over and sat down at the table with you in the restaurant. Remember?”

  She nodded.

  Mason said, “Now, at that time, you reached an agreement with Harrington Faulkner. You’d been holding him up, but you’d been exerting sufficient pressure on him to make him pay the piper. His fish were dying and he knew it, and he would have paid a good deal to have saved their lives. He also knew that this treatment for gill disease Tom had worked out was valuable, and he was willing to pay something for that.”

  Again she nodded.

  Mason said, “Faulkner gave you a check and a key to the office and told you to go out and treat the fish, didn’t he?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Now then, where did you go?”

  She said, “I went directly to the store to get Tom, but Tom was fixing up some treatment for some other fish that Mr. Rawlins had consented to treat. Rawlins was fixing up a treatment tank and he wanted Tom to finish getting some panels ready.”

  “That was the tank he took to Staunton’s place?”

  “Yes.”

  Mason said, “You’ve overlooked one thing, Sally. You didn’t think anyone would ever bother to check up on that time element with Staunton. You’re lying. Tom didn’t fix up that tank for Rawlins to take to Staunton’s until after he’d gone to Faulkner’s place. You intended to rush right back to the pet store to fix up that other tank. But the fact that Faulkner’s fish were gone and that he called the police delayed you materially. You didn’t get back until quite late. And Rawlins, therefore, didn’t deliver Staunton’s tank until quite late. Staunton is positive about that.”

  “He’s mistaken.”

  “Oh no he isn’t,” Mason said. “When Faulkner gave you the key to that office, it was the opportunity you’d been waiting for. You went out there with a homemade extension dipper consisting of a silver soup ladle to which had been tied a section of broomstick. You dredged something out of the bottom of that fish tank. Then you had to leave in a hurry because Tom tipped you off someone was coming. So you ran out, jumped in Tom’s car, drove around the block, and then came driving up to the office again as though you’d just arrived from the pet store.”

  She shook her head in sullen, defiant negation.

  Mason said, “All right, I’m telling you what’s happened. You lied to me and you’re sending Tom to his death. Do you still stick with your story?”

  She nodded.

  Mason pushed back his chair. “That settles it,” he said. “When Tom dies, remember that you’re responsible.”

  She let him take two steps before she called him back. Then she leaned forward so that her face was all but pressed against the heavy mesh. “It’s true, Mr. Mason— everything you said.”