“No,” Mason interrupted, “you’re wrong again. The captain wouldn’t be standing in that close to an island after dark. He’d be out where there was plenty of sea room and—”

  Della Street shook her head sadly. “Pardon me! My mistake! What we should talk about is murder—corpses with battered heads—clues, circumstantial evidence, bloodstained bullets, perjured testimony, and the beautiful things in life. Murderers who are corpses, corpses who are murderers. Now you, Paul Drake, get a load of this: Tomorrow the Chief and I are going to sail on the President Monroe on a round-the-world cruise. We have our staterooms all engaged, our tickets bought and paid for. There’s only one thing standing between us and the gangplank and that’s this Rita Swaine, who drifted in here with a lame canary and a hard luck story and got the Chief all tangled up in a mess. Now, you two get busy and straighten it out. But just remember that tomorrow—”

  Drake, who had slid into his favorite position in the big leather chair, shook his head mournfully and said, “That’s what I came to tell you about, Perry. It’s all over except the shouting. You can sail any time you get ready.”

  “What’s happened?” Mason asked.

  “Your client’s confessed.”

  “You mean Rita?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she confess to?”

  “Oh, a lot of things—going upstairs to change her clothes, stepping into the bedroom, finding Walter’s body, going through his pockets, taking a letter out of his wallet, and all that sort of stuff. After the contradictory stories she’s told, plus the fact that she forthwith skipped out of the state and fought extradition, a jury will bring in a first-degree murder verdict without leaving the box. You can probably get her life imprisonment if you change her plea from not guilty to guilty, and right now that’s the best thing you can do for your client. Then you can catch your ship and go bye-bye.”

  Mason stood staring down at the detective. “How did you hear about this, Paul?”

  “One of the newspaper boys tipped me off. The district attorney released a statement. The thing will be on the street in half an hour. Hell, Perry, they had the goods on her, anyway. They had her fingerprints on the wallet, and they’ve found bloodstains on her shoes and had reconstructed enough of the charred fragments in the fireplace to know what letter had been taken from Prescott’s pocket and burned. The D.A. was holding all that stuff back, getting ready to slap you in the face with it when you walked into court.”

  “Did she,” Mason asked, “admit that she killed him?”

  “I don’t know. I think she’s still holding out on that.”

  “Anything else?” Mason asked. “What have you found out about that Rosa Hendrix?”

  Drake said, “Hell, Perry, you know the answer to that without me having to tell you. If you want to be mean about it, you’ll have a chance to do it tonight.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s leaving for Reno tonight.”

  “You mean Rosa Hendrix?”

  “No, not Rosa Hendrix, but Diana Morgan, the rich young divorcee who has the swell apartment in the Bellefontaine.”

  “Certain about that?” Mason asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Something’s happened to whatever it was Trader delivered to the garage. He says he can’t remember exactly, a couple of boxes, and he thinks a barrel. At any rate, the stuff disappeared. Trader says he set it just inside the door, as Prescott had instructed him to.”

  “Perhaps the D.A. took it for evidence,” Mason said.

  “No. One of the newspaper boys did a little snooping for me and finds out that the district attorney overlooked that angle of the case entirely.”

  “I wonder,” Mason said thoughtfully, “if the whole thing may not have been a stall. I’m wondering if Trader actually did return to Prescott’s house and deliver stuff to the garage.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Weyman saw him back the van up to the garage.”

  “How about Weyman? Was he home at the time?”

  “He was home, but indisposed,” Drake grinned.

  Mason looked at his wrist watch. “What else do you have on Rosa Hendrix, anything?”

  “Not a thing,” Drake said cheerfully. “Rosa Hendrix is a nice girl, but I have my suspicions about Diana Morgan. That girl seems to know her way around and she has an independent income from some place.”

  “How about Wray?” Mason asked. “Does he play around with the redhead after office hours?”

  “Apparently not. Wray is quite a mixer, fond of clubs, lodges, smokers and all that sort of stuff. His gregarious instinct seems to have for its ultimate goal the making of contracts and the landing of business for the firm of Prescott & Wray.”

  “Any idea who’s putting up the money?” Mason asked.

  “Not for Diana Morgan,” Drake said, “but I have a line on Rosa Hendrix.”

  “What sort of a line?”

  “In case you’re interested,” Drake said, “she has a luncheon engagement tomorrow with Jimmy Driscoll.”

  Mason stared at him with thought-slitted eyes.

  “Listen, Paul,” he said, “what sort of baggage does that woman have?”

  “Rosa Hendrix,” Drake said, “has a cheap, split-leather suitcase with a pasteboard backing, a steamer trunk, and—”

  “No, I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about her other identity—Diana Morgan.”

  “The sort of baggage that would go well with a three-hundred-and-ninety-five dollar apartment,” Drake said. “Hat boxes, suitcases, trunks, finest of leather—”

  “How are they marked?”

  “Simply with the initials ‘D.M.’ You’ll have a chance to see the stuff tonight, Perry. She’ll be moving out on that trip to Reno.”

  “Do you think she actually intends to go to Reno?”

  “Diana Morgan does,” Drake said, grinning, “but Rosa Hendrix will be on the job tomorrow—don’t forget Rosa’s luncheon engagement with Jimmy Driscoll.”

  “I won’t,” Mason promised him. “Do you happen to know what time tonight she intends to move the baggage, Paul?”

  “ ‘Happen’ is not the word to describe the manner in which I attain my knowledge,” Drake said, twisting his fish-mouth into a droll grin. “It takes elbow-grease, concentration, perspicacity, and perspiration, a rare combination of intuitive—”

  “Yes, I know,” Mason interrupted, matching Ms grin. “I’ll find all that in the expense account when I get it. But, please tell me, Mr. Worldly-Wise Man, what time she intends to move the baggage.”

  “She told the porter to be up at her apartment at ten-thirty; that a transfer man would be waiting outside the apartment house at that time.”

  Mason said, “And do you happen to know, Mr. Human Wonder, whether the transfer man who will move the baggage of Miss Diana Morgan is Mr. Harry Trader of the Trader’s Transfer Company?”

  The grin left Paul Drake’s face. His round, slightly protruding eyes showed a flash of surprise back of the glassy film which covered them. He slid around in the chair, got to Ms feet and said, “By God, Perry, I don’t. And I’m going to find out. You hit the nail on the finger with that crack.”

  “Let me know as soon as you get the dope,” Mason called out as Drake jerked open the exit door and pounded down the corridor toward the office.

  Mason turned to Della Street. “Della, how about your baggage?”

  “I have my things nearly all packed.”

  “I’m not talking about your things,” he told her. “How about your baggage?”

  “You mean my suitcases, trunks and things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I’ll get by. I’ve borrowed a couple of trunks and—”

  “I have an idea which beats that all to pieces,” Mason interrupted. “Why not let Rita Swaine pay for your baggage? I have a scheme by which—”

  “Now listen, Chief,” she interrupted. “I'm going to catch that boat. If you’re thinking up any stunt which’ll land me in jail you can forget it right now.”

  “No,” he told her, “this’ll be perfectly legal.”

  “Never mind if it’s legal,” she said. “Will it look legal?”

  “Well,” Mason admitted, hesitating, “I’ll confess that it may look just the slightest bit—”

  She interrupted and said, “That’s enough. The answer, in words of one syllable is ‘No.’ ”

  “Now don’t be like that, Della,” he pleaded. “This is a cinch. You go down to the best luggage store in the city, buy yourself a whole flock of suitcases, hat boxes, trunks and what have you, and have them lettered with the initials ‘D.M.’ You put in some bricks, newspapers, boards and old shoes, to give the luggage a reasonable amount of weight. Then you have a transfer man take the luggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment at 1388 Chestnut Street. Tell him the number of the apartment is 408, and if you’re not there he’s to get a passkey from the attendant and put the baggage right in the apartment.”

  Della Street yawned and said, “Sorry, Chief, I’m not interested. When the ship pulls out tomorrow, I want to be standing on deck, waving bye-bye to a few of my envious friends who’ll have come down to see me off. I wouldn’t care to be behind bars in the county jail, thank you.”

  “You don’t have to be,” Mason told her. “This is perfectly legal.”

  “Will I get arrested?”

  “They can’t hold you in jail—”

  “Never mind whether they can hold me. Will they arrest me?”

  “Well,” Mason conceded, “before we get done Sergeant Holcomb may be a little bit put out about it.”

  Enough so he’d take me to the hoosegow, Chief?”

  Mason said, “Sergeant Holcomb’s impulsive, but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll steal a march on him, Della. Get your book and I’ll give you some dictation.”

  She said, “Oh, well, you’ve never yet gone so far I wouldn’t back your play. Let’s go.”

  She moved over to her secretarial desk, opened her shorthand notebook and held her pen poised above the paper, “Okay, Chief,” she said, “what is it?”

  “In the Matter of the Application of Della Street,” Mason dictated, “for a Writ of Habeas Corpus.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LOW-FLUNG CLOUDS, borne along in solemn procession by a brisk south wind, slid smoothly over the city streets, sending down an occasional patter of raindrops. The morning was depressing, gloomy, a fore-runner of disaster.

  The transfer man who stood awkwardly ill at ease in front of the apartment house desk, said, “Well, all I know about it is she said she was moving in. She had a sublease or something. She said all the baggage initialed ‘D.M.’ was to go in. Here, she said to give you this letter if I had any trouble.”

  The clerk said, “Well, you’re having trouble,” and slit open the envelope. He read the document, scratched his head and said, “Well, it seems to be in order. Rita Swaine has her rent paid and she’s in jail. She says to let a Miss Della Street move her things into the apartment, and these are Della Street’s things. I guess she has the right to do it if she wants. I’ll send the boy up to unlock the door.”

  The transfer man nodded, walked back to the light transfer wagon at the curb, and started unpiling bags, suitcases and steamer trunks.

  “How you going to get all that stuff into the one apartment?” the clerk asked.

  “I d’know,” the transfer man admitted. “I’ll do it some way. Pile ’em in the center of the floor if I can’t do nothing else. She said to get ’em in, and I’ll get ’em in.”

  The colored elevator boy approached the desk. “Boss, yo’-all remembah that the police officer man said you was to telephone him if anybody tried to get in that apartment.”

  “No one’s trying to get in,” the clerk said. “The man’s simply delivering some baggage. However, I’ll notify Sergeant Holcomb.”

  He plugged in a line, called police headquarters and asked for Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. While he waited, the transfer man and the elevator boy moved baggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment.

  After a few moments Sergeant Holcomb’s voice said, “Hello. What is it?”

  “This is the desk clerk at 1388 Chestnut Street. You’ll remember Miss Rita Swaine has an apartment here under lease, and you asked me to let you know if anyone tried to move anything out. Well, no one’s trying to take anything out, but some baggage is being delivered—that is, Miss Swaine has given orders to place Miss Street’s baggage in her apartment. The transfer man’s brought quite a few suitcases, trunks and—Just a minute, I’ll look—Yes, that’s right, it’s Della Street—What?—Well, I’ll be damned!”

  The clerk pulled out the plug and set his face in stem lines of officious determination.

  Della Street, tailored to the minute, as serenely confident as a poker player pushing a stack of blue chips into the center of the pile, came breezing in from the street door walked up to the desk and said, “I’m Miss Street. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “You’re the one who sent the baggage for Miss Swaine’s apartment?” the clerk asked.

  “That’s right. But this baggage shouldn’t have gone up there at all. This is the ‘D.M.’ baggage. It should have been delivered to the Trader’s Transfer Company for storage. Where’s the transfer man, please?”

  “He’s upstairs now.”

  “Yes. I saw the truck out in front,” Della Street said, as she dazzled the clerk with a smile, walked over to the elevator and jabbed the elevator button.

  The elevator took her to the fourth floor. The desk clerk, hesitating for a moment, once more plugged in the line and said, “Police Headquarters.” Again he asked to talk with Sergeant Holcomb, and, after a two minute delay, was advised that Holcomb had just left.

  The clerk was pulling out the plug when the elevator door once more opened, an a perspiring transfer man started pitching out suitcases, hat boxes, trunks, and hand bags. The elevator made two trips of it. Della Street came down with the second load, trim, alert, and smiling. She said to the desk clerk, “Thank you very much indeed,” and walked to the door of the apartment house. The eyes of the desk clerk followed her with ardent masculine appreciation.

  Less than five minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb came striding into the lobby. “Where is she?” he asked.

  The clerk waved a deprecating hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to get you again. It was all a mistake, but it’s all right now.”

  “What the hell do you mean, it’s all right now?”

  “She’s left.”

  “Who’s left?”

  “Della Street.”

  “She was here?”

  “Yes.”

  “How about the baggage? Did you put that in the room?”

  “No. She changed her mind, said that there’d been a mistake. So there’s nothing to bother about. She took it with her.”

  “She what!”

  “Took it with her.”

  “You opened up the room with a passkey?”

  “I didn’t personally. The elevator operator did.”

  “And put that baggage in?”

  “No,” the clerk said, “that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Sergeant. The baggage didn’t go in. It was a mistake. As soon as I saw Miss Street, I realized it must have been—”

  “Never mind that,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, pushing his face across the counter. “Did that baggage go in that room—even for a second?”

  “Oh, well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t know. I suppose some of it may have actually entered the room for a second or two. I wasn’t there.

  “Was Della Street alone in the room with any of that baggage?”

  “Why, I wouldn’t know—wait a minute, let me see—Yes, she must have been, because the first load of baggage came down with the operator and the transfer man in the cage. They unloaded that bunch of baggage and went back for another bunch. Miss Street must have been in the room with—”

  “You fool!” Holcomb yelled. “She’s Perry Mason’s secretary. Perry Mason’s defending Rita Swaine. They wanted something out of that room and didn’t know how else to get it, so she took that baggage in, manipulated things so she was left alone in the room, opened one of the empty suitcases, pitched whatever it was she wanted in there, and took it out.”

  The clerk stared at Sergeant Holcomb with shocked, incredulous eyes. At length he said, “Why, Sergeant, she’s a perfect little lady, trim, well-tailored, refined—”

  “Bah!” Sergeant Holcomb said. “You make me sick. Why the hell didn’t you hold her?”

  “Hold her? How could I?”

  “Tell her she was under arrest. Hold her until I got there.”

  “But you told me particularly, Sergeant, not to tell anyone you were coming.”

  Sergeant Holcomb’s face darkened, as he groped for words. Suddenly the clerk had a bright idea.

  “But wait a minute, Sergeant. I can tell you where she’s taking the baggage. If you hurry, you can catch it there.”

  “Where?”

  “The Traders’s Transfer Company. They’re going to store it.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Well, it’s a very good grade of baggage, looks rather new. Very fine leather and—”

  “What does it consist of?”

  “Oh, everything. Hat boxes, hand bags, Gladstones, suitcases, steamer trunks—”

  “Any identifying marks?”

  “Yes. They’re all lettered ‘D.M.’ ”

  “ ‘D.M.’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her name’s Della Street. Why should she have D.M. on her baggage?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure. I’m just describing the baggage to you. She said something about the D.M. baggage being the wrong baggage. If you want to examine it, you can probably intercept it if—”

  Sergeant Holcomb whirled and crossed the lobby at a run. A moment later the clerk heard the scream of a siren.

  Emil Scanlon looked across the coroner’s jury and said, “You gentlemen have seen the remains.”

  They nodded.