After he had given the elevator time to drop back to the lobby. Mason examined the numbers on the doors, and saw he was going in the wrong direction. He retraced his steps past the dark elevator shaft, found room five-twenty-eight and knocked.

  A woman's voice called softly, "Who is it?"

  "Mason."

  The door opened. Hortense Zitkousky said, "Come in."

  She looked garish below her make-up. The splotches of rouge on her cheeks, the dark red on her full lips seemed in startling contrast to the pallor of her skin where the make-up failed to cover it.

  "What is it?" Mason asked.

  She crossed the bedroom, placed her hand on the knob of a door, then drew back. "You do it."

  Mason impatiently jerked the door open, then recoiled at what he saw.

  A pillow lay crumpled on the floor of the bathroom. From the interior of this pillow, white, fluffy feathers had drifted out over the floor, over the bathroom, over the body which hung balanced over the bathtub, the head down, the arms outstretched. From the back of the head, near the base of the brain, sinister streams of red welled upward to trickle down the neck and jaw, and drop into the bathtub. There was a faint acrid odor of burnt, smokeless powder in the room, and the ejected cartridge from a small-caliber automatic glistened in the light, the newness of the yellow brass glinting as though it had been freshly minted gold.

  "I am sorry," Horty said. "You see how it is. I couldn't tell you over the phone. Cripes, Mr. Mason, this has got me. I am going to get sick if I stay in here."

  Mason said with crisp authority, "Snap out of it." He stepped forward, bent down, and looked at the bullet hole. There were little powder marks tattooed in the skin. The rip in the pillow on the floor had a burnt discolouration around the edges.

  Mason bent forward and reached for the man's wrist.

  "He is dead as a herring," Hortense said.

  He turned the man's head. It was Ernest Tanner, the chauffeur.

  Mason stepped back. "How did it happen?" he asked.

  "Let us get out of here... Okay... We got to feeling pretty good. He was a good egg. He knew something. He was sore at Homan. I strung him along. You know the play. After a while, he started making passes."

  "What did you do?" Mason asked.

  "What did you think I was going to do? Think I was going to take him out, kid him along, and then slap his face when he got fresh? Not me. I took it in my stride, and strung him along."

  "Well, come on," Mason said, looking at his wrist watch. "Get down to brass tacks. Just how did this happen?"

  "I wish I knew."

  "We will have to call the police, so let us get the facts. Get them out. Don't make statements and then wait to see how I take them."

  "Well, I got this man feeling pretty good. I was trying to get him loosened up and convivial, and I guess I overdid it. I kept talking to him about how he could get even with Homan by giving Stephane a break. He was tight-lipped at first, but later on he loosened up. I saw he was getting in the mood to tell what he knew and made up my mind that I was going to have him where I could get action fast."

  "You mean getting him in touch with Stephane?"

  "No, with her uncle. I thought a man could ..."

  "I understand. What happened?"

  "Well, I kept working him down in this direction until we finally wound up at the Adirondack Bar. And then – well, then was when I found I had miscalculated. He had taken aboard a little too much. But he was getting ready to come through with some real information. Gosh, Mr. Mason, I didn't know what to do. Under circumstances like that, a girl has to think fast. Well, I asked him to excuse me a minute, and telephoned up to Stephane's room. She wasn't in. I telephoned her uncle. No answer. I wasn't going to let him get out of my hands, so I decided to take him up to the uncle's room, and wait for him to get feeling better and Mr. Olger to come in."

  "How did you work it?"

  "It was a cinch," she said. "I simply walked up to the desk, bold as brass, and asked for the key to five-twenty-eight. I knew that was the suite. The room clerk was busy talking with someone, and he just reached in the pigeonhole and slid the key out on the counter. I went back and got Tanner and took him up to the room. Of course, he got sick right away, and headed for the bathroom. I didn't know just where I could get in touch with Stephane, so I thought I should better call you, tell you the whole business, and see if you knew where Mr. Olger was, or if you wanted to come and talk to this lad. I hated to bother you with it, but..."

  "Go on."

  "Well, you know how it is in these hotel bedrooms. You can hear what a person says over the telephone if you are in the bath. Those doors are thin, and the telephone is by the head of the bed, right near the bathroom door. I felt Ernest would be pretty well occupied for a while. I guess I wasn't thinking quite so clearly myself. We have been having quite a few. I remembered there were telephones in the lobby in booths. So I dashed to the elevator, went down to the lobby, and called your office. I kept getting a busy signal. So then I came back up here to make certain Ernest didn't walk out on me. As soon as I came down the corridor, I saw the door was slightly ajar ..."

  "You had locked it when you left?"

  "No, I hadn't. I had just closed it and ..."

  Mason pressed the down button, and almost instantly an elevator cage slid to a stop. The operator was the same one who had taken Mason up to the fifth floor. He gave them both casual glances, then slid the door shut, and dropped the cage to the lobby.

  Mason said, "Take my arm. Don't look at the clerk. He may think you are going to ask for information. Move up along by the desk, slide the key over on the desk very gently so it doesn't make any noise. All ready? Here we go."

  "Now what?" she asked.

  Mason said, "I have a taxi outside. The driver's waiting. He will be watching for me. I don't want him to see you with me. A few minutes after I leave, go out and walk down to the corner. Take a streetcar for a few blocks, then get out, pick up a cab, and go home."

  "Why not go home in a streetcar?"

  "I want you to get there faster than you can in a streetcar. I want you to go home in a cab with your mad money. Do you get it? The man got insulting, and started making passes at you. You called the party off, and went home in a taxi."

  "Why not on a streetcar?"

  "He would have followed you on a streetcar. You ran out and grabbed a taxi. Pick one that's in front of a bar. Come running out as though you were in a hurry, jump in, and give your address. Got it?"

  "Get you."

  "Got any money?"

  "A little."

  Mason slipped a bill into her hand. "Take this," he said, "and you will have more. And keep your head. As soon as you get home, brew yourself a pot of strong coffee. Lay off the booze from now on."

  He felt her hand squeeze his arm. "Gosh, you are a grand guy," she whispered with feeling.

  Mason said, "It is our only chance to get a murderer and it is the only way to keep Stephane out of it. The Greeley business was one thing – but this – right in her hotel room – no, they would have us all on the grid until the clues all were lost – the ones I am working on at any rate. Keep your head now, and don't cross me up."

  "I won't."

  He walked calmly out of the lobby. His taxi drew up to the loading zone. The doorman held an umbrella and opened the door with something of a flourish.

  Mason stepped into the taxi and said, "All right, back to where we came from."

  He settled back in the cushions, lit a cigarette, and inhaled a deep drag.

  Chapter 17

  PAUL DRAKE had his feet on Perry's desk and was reading the sporting section of the evening paper when the lawyer latchkeyed the door of his private office.

  "Well, you made a quick trip," Drake said, looking up.

  "Where is Tragg?"

  "Hasn't shown up yet."

  Mason looked at his watch. "It has been half an hour."

  "Yeah, he should be due about any time. What was the excitement?"

  Mason went over to the closet, hung up his hat and coat. "I didn't think that Zitkousky woman would get as excitable."

  "What is the matter?"

  "Oh, the chauffeur got crocked and got to making passes at her, and she used her mad money to grab a taxi and leave him. Now, she is afraid she has made an enemy out of him, and he may not give us his testimony."

  "What did you do?"

  "Saw that she got some coffee to sober up on, and told her not to worry, that we would make the chauffeur talk. And I told her never, under any circumstances, to call me again at night.

  "I thought she had good judgment, too. You haven't heard anything more from Mrs. Greeley?"

  "No."

  Mason looked at his watch. "Well, she should be here. She ..."

  Drake said abruptly, "That sounds fishy as hell to me, Perry."

  "What is that?"

  "That story about the Zitkousky girl."

  Mason grinned. "All right then, I will change it. What sounds fishy about it?"

  "About her getting so hysterical and offended at a guy making a pass at her. She is too damned attractive and too good-natured not to have had ..."

  "All right," Mason said, "I shall change it. Thanks for the tip."

  Drake looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Now what?" he asked.

  Mason said, "I have got to make this sound good for Tragg."

  "What's the idea? Hold it, Perry. Here's someone coming. Sounds like a woman."

  Mason walked over to the door which led to the corridor. He said, "As far as you know, I haven't left the office, Paul. That may be better than telling Tragg about how Horty got sore at her boyfriend." He flung open the door. Mrs. Greeley, garbed in black and carrying a light suitcase, stood in the corridor.

  "Come in," Mason invited, reaching out and taking the suitcase and when she had entered the office and he had closed the door, he went on, "Sit down, Mrs. Greeley. I am sorry we had to intrude on your dinner."

  "Oh, it is all right. To be perfectly frank, Mr. Mason, I don't suppose I should go out so soon, but I feel a lot better doing that than I would sitting home and doing nothing. It is a frightfully all-gone feeling."

  "I understand."

  "I guess people never realize how much they take for granted in life," she said with a little laugh. "Here it was only last week I was fussing because my husband had to work so much at nights, and now... and now... Oh, well, I will get to feeling sorry for myself if I keep on. Wish I could get something to work on – something to sink my teeth into.

  "Death is so horribly final, Mr. Mason. I – I have never been touched closely by death before. Somehow, it shakes my faith in... things. And no one has been able to say anything that helps. Death is... it's cruel, it's terrible."

  "It's no more terrible than birth," Mason said. "We can't understand it any more than we can understand life – or the sky at night. If we only had the vision to see the whole pattern of life, we would see death as something benign."

  She stared up at him. "Please go on. If you can only say something practical and sensible. I have heard so much hypocritical 'all-for-the-best?' business that I am sick and tired of it. How can it be for the best? Bosh!"

  Mason said, "Suppose you couldn't remember anything from one day to the next. You would get up in the morning without any recollection of yesterday. You would feel full of energy. Dew would be on the grass. The sun would be shining bright and warm. Birds would be singing, and you would feel that nature was a wonderful thing. Then the sun would rise higher in the heavens. You would begin to get a little fatigued.

  "Along about noon you would be tired, then clouds would blot out the sun. There would be a thunder squall, and the heavens which had once been so friendly would be menacing. You would see water falling out of the sky, and would wonder if you were going to be totally submerged. You would see spurts of lightning tearing the sky apart. You would hear roaring thunder. You would be in terror.

  "Then the clouds would drift away. The sun would come out again. The air would be pure and sparkling. You would regain your confidence. Then you would notice that the shadows were lengthening. The sun would disappear. There would be darkness. You would huddle around a light waiting to see what would happen next. You would feel weary, more than a little frightened. You would think that nature, which had started out to be so beautiful, had betrayed you. You would fight hard to keep your faith, and it would be a losing battle.

  "The loved ones who were sitting around the fire with you would show signs of fatigue. Their heads would nod forward. They would lie down. Their eyes would close, and suddenly their personalities would be gone. Then you yourself would want to be

  down, and yet you would feel that as soon as you did, this awful unconsciousness would come over you ..."

  Mason broke off, smiled and said, "My words don't carry conviction because you do know all of these symptoms as a part of life. You know that this unconsciousness is only asleep. You know that in the course of a few short hours, you will wake up completely refreshed, that the dawn will be breaking, that the sun will be coming up, the birds singing. You know that the awful visitation of noise and flashes was only a thunder shower, part of nature's scheme to bring water from the ocean up into the mountains, to feed the streams and the rivers, to make the crops green. You would realize that sleep is nature's means of strengthening you for a new day, that it is profitless to try to prolong the waking activities too far into the night, that nature is cooperating with you. But suppose you didn't understand these things? Suppose you could see only from day-to-day?"

  She nodded slowly. After a moment, she heaved a deep sigh.

  Mason said, "Life is like that. We can only see from birth to death. The rest of it is cut from our vision."

  Drake stared up at Mason. "I shall be doggoned," he said.

  "What's the matter, Paul?"

  "I never knew you were a mystic!"

  "I am not a mystic," Mason said, smiling. "It is simply the application of what you might call legal logic to the scheme of existence, and I don't ordinarily talk that way. I am doing it now because I think Mrs. Greeley needs it."

  Mrs. Greeley said with feeling, "Mr. Mason, I can't begin to tell you how much better you have made me feel. Your words carry conviction. I... I guess I am getting my faith back."

  Mason said, "I don't think you had ever lost it, Mrs. Greeley. Now this is going to be disagreeable. Do you want to get it over with as quickly as possible?"

  "I don't care," she said. "I... Oh, Mr. Mason, I can't tell you how much you have comforted me. After all, death is only a sleep. It has to be. I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Mason. I was doubting the whole scheme of things. I was ... Is this someone coming?"

  "Should be Lieutenant Tragg," Mason said. "You know him."

  "Oh, yes."

  There were quick steps in the corridor, then the tapping of knuckles on the door. Mason nodded to Drake, who opened the door, and Tragg came in. "Sorry I was detained," he said. "Good evening, Mrs. Greeley. I hope you don't think we are entirely unfeeling."

  "No, I understand. I want to show you these things."

  She took the suitcase which Mason handed her, placed it on the floor at her feet, opened the lid, and took out a crumpled shirt. A vivid crimson streak was slashed

  across the front of the stiffly starched bosom, a streak perhaps five inches long. Above it was the smudged imprint of red lips, partially opened.

  The men bent over the smear.

  Tragg said, "Notice here. You can even see where the finger was first pressed against the shirt. Then follow the mark to the place where it vanishes. She was trying to push him away."

  Mason nodded.

  Tragg looked down at the suitcase. "You have some other things, Mrs. Greeley?"

  She said, "After Mr. Mason asked me about his tuxedo, I looked it over. There aren't any spots on it."

  Tragg took the suit to hold it under the light. After a few moments, he looked up at Mason. "Nothing I can see," he said.

  "Wouldn't there have been some spots on the suit," Mrs. Greeley asked, "if – if that girl is telling the truth?"

  "Perhaps," Tragg said.

  "She was cut in several places, wasn't she?"

  "There were some gashes, yes."

  "And if my husband had been driving the car, he would have been on the left-hand side. That would have been on the lower side. She would have been above him. In order to have squirmed out from under the steering wheel, got past that unconscious woman, and crawled out through the window – well, it seems to me there would have been some spots on his suit."

  "Yes," Tragg said, "you would think so. What are you getting at?"

  She said simply, "I brought the shirt to you because I found it, because it was evidence. I suppose it was my duty, but – well, you will understand. My husband and I were very close. I don't want to be sentimental. I don't want to get to feeling sorry for myself, and I don't want to impose my own private, individual grief on you people, but I would like a fair deal."

  "You will get it," Mason said.

  She smiled her thanks.

  Tragg said, "I don't understand, Mrs. Greeley. In the face of this evidence, do you still think that your husband wasn't driving the car?"

  "Yes."

  Tragg said, "I am afraid I don't understand, Mrs. Greeley."

  She said, "Adler wouldn't have done the things this man who was driving the car did."

  Tragg indicated the shirt. "You mean he didn't try to kiss..."

  "Oh, that," she interrupted. That is nothing. He had been drinking. He was feeling good. This girl has a butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth manner, now that she is telling

  about it but in the car, she was probably kidding him along. They all do. I don't care about that. Adler was no saint. But what I mean is he wouldn't have climbed out of the car and left the girl behind the steering wheel. Adler didn't do that. That isn't his way of doing things."

  "But he must have," Mason said.

  She shook her head stubbornly.