Mason turned to the prosecuting attorney.

  “Cross-examine,” he said.

  Hamilton Burger arose with ponderous dignity. His voice seemed sympathetic, his manner restrained.

  He said, “As I understand it, Miss Crest, you suffered a terrific emotional shock on the afternoon of the twenty-second.”

  “I did.”

  “You had no suspicion that your fiancé was embezzling money?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Certainly you must have realized that he was living beyond the salary he was earning?”

  “I did. Everyone in our set did. We all accepted his statement that he came from a wealthy family and was working only to learn the business.”

  “So when you found he was an embezzler, you didn’t want to have any part of him. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet,” Hamilton Burger said, raising his voice slightly and introducing an element of sarcasm, “within a few short hours after you had repudiated your boy friend because of his dishonesty, you yourself became a thief.”

  “I did not,” she stormed.

  “No?” Hamilton Burger asked in exaggerated surprise. “I perhaps misunderstood your testimony. I thought you said you took the purse of Fern Driscoll.”

  “I did. But I took it for a purpose.”

  “What purpose?”

  “Simply so I could take over her identity until I had found myself.”

  “That was the only reason you had for taking her purse?”

  “Yes.”

  “But there was four thousand dollars in her purse. Did you need that four thousand dollars in order to establish your identity as that of Fern Driscoll?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you took that money?”

  “It was in the purse.”

  “Oh! It was in the purse,” Hamilton Burger said, mimicking her voice. “Is it in the purse now?”

  “No.”

  “Who took it out?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you do with it after you removed it?”

  “I put it in an envelope, and marked on the envelope, ‘Property of Fern Driscoll.’”

  “Indeed!” Hamilton Burger said. “And when did you do that?”

  “That was before the police came to my apartment.”

  “Yes, yes,” Hamilton Burger said smiling. “How long before?”

  “Not long before.”

  “That was after Mr. Mason and Della Street had been there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And didn’t you write on the envelope ‘Property of Fern Driscoll’ at the suggestion of Mr. Mason?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was when you knew that Carl Harrod had been stabbed in the chest with the ice pick?”

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, all that was when you were expecting the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “And at that time you put the words on the envelope, ‘Property of Fern Driscoll’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Simply as window dressing so you could assume a position of virtuous integrity when you got on the witness stand?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of getting on the witness stand.”

  “No, no, you weren’t,” Hamilton Burger said smiling, “but your attorney was, Miss Crest. You did this at the advice of your attorney.”

  “I don’t know what my attorney was thinking of.”

  “No, no, of course not. But you couldn’t say that he wasn’t thinking of a little window dressing?”

  “I tell you I don’t know what he was thinking.”

  “You followed his advice?”

  “Yes.”

  “And up to that time you had done nothing to mark this money as being the property of Fern Driscoll?”

  “I had put it to one side as her property.”

  “You mean you hadn’t as yet spent it?”

  “I had no intention of spending it.”

  “Did you make any effort to find out who Fern Driscoll’s heirs might be?”

  “No.”

  “Did you communicate with the Public Administrator of San Diego County where the accident took place and tell him that you had some property belonging to Fern Driscoll?”

  “No.”

  “You say you were holding the money as the property of Fern Driscoll?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you yourself were taking over Fern Driscoll’s identification as well as her property?”

  “I went under the name of Fern Driscoll.”

  “Yes, yes. You found Fern Driscoll’s signature on her driving license, and you practiced signing the name of Fern Driscoll so that it would look like the signature on that driving license, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wrote that name on the back of a check, didn’t you?”

  “A check?” she asked.

  “A check made out to you for your first week’s wages?”

  “Yes,” she said, “but that was money I had earned.”

  “Then why did you think it was necessary for you to try to copy the signature of Fern Driscoll as it appeared on the driving license?”

  “Because sometime I thought I might have to produce that driving license as a means of identification.”

  “You didn’t know anything about Fern Driscoll’s background?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know that she didn’t perhaps have loved ones who were anxiously awaiting some word from her?”

  “I knew nothing about her.”

  “You didn’t try to communicate with her loved ones? You didn’t let them know that she was dead?”

  “No.”

  “And you deliberately set fire to the automobile so as to aid you in your deception?”

  “I did not.”

  “The fire started as the result of a match which you had struck?”

  “Yes, but it was accidental.”

  “You had already struck one match?”

  “Yes.”

  “And no fire resulted?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you tried again. You struck another match and that time a fire did result.”

  “I tell you the fire was accidental.”

  “You knew there was gasoline in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could smell it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Notwithstanding that, you struck a match and held it over the gasoline fumes?”

  “I was trying to see down into the car.”

  “And when the fumes didn’t ignite, then you managed to drop the match so that the gasoline did ignite.”

  The match burned my fingers.”

  “You have struck matches before?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You know that if you hold them too long the flame will burn your fingers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Therefore, you ordinarily blow out the match before the flame gets to your fingers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you do that this time?”

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  “I certainly agree with you on that,” Hamilton Burger said sarcastically.

  “Now then,” Hamilton Burger went on, “after Katherine Baylor had left you ice picks so that you could defend yourself in case you were assaulted, you asked her where she had bought them, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you immediately went down and bought more ice picks so that, in case you stabbed Carl Harrod with an ice pick, you could establish your innocence in the eyes of the police by showing that you still had the ice picks in your apartment that had been there when Miss Baylor had left?”

  “I did not!”

  “You thought that you could call on your friend Katherine Baylor and say, ‘Katherine Baylor left two ice picks here, didn’t you, Katherine?’ and Katherine would say, ‘Why, of course. Those are the ice picks that I purchased.’”

  “I did not purchase any ice picks!”

  “You not only took the four thousand dollars which didn’t belong to you, yet don’t consider yourself a thief, but you also bought three ice picks from the witness Irma Karnes, and now lie about it and presumably don’t consider that you’re committing perjury!”

  “I didn’t buy the ice picks. Della Street bought those ice picks.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard Mr. Mason instruct her to buy them.”

  “You have heard Irma Karnes state positively that you purchased those ice picks?”

  “She is mistaken.”

  “You heard her make that statement?”

  “Yes.”

  “You heard her state that she was positive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And still in the face of that testimony, in the face of the fact that you stabbed Carl Harrod in the chest with an ice pick which you yourself had bought from Irma Karnes, you wish to adhere to this story of your innocence, this fairy tale of having entered your apartment, of having picked up an ice pick and having some man rush at you so that he impaled his chest upon the ice pick?”

  “That is the truth.”

  Hamilton Burger looked at the clock. “If the Court please, I think I am about finished with the witness. However, it is approaching the hour of the evening adjournment and may I ask the Court for a recess at this time with the understanding that my questioning tomorrow morning will not exceed a very few minutes?”

  “Very well,” Judge Bolton said. “We will continue the case until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. The defendant is remanded to custody.”

  Chapter 16

  Perry Mason, Della Street, and Paul Drake stepped out of the elevator.

  Drake said, “I’ll go on to my office and see what’s doing. I’ll be down to your place after a while, Perry.”

  “Okay,” Mason said. “Let me know if your men have uncovered anything important.”

  Mason and Della Street continued walking on down the corridor, rounded the turn and paused in front of the door marked PERRY MASON. PRIVATE.

  Perry Mason fitted his latchkey, clicked back the lock, entered his private office, scaled his hat over to a chair, said, “Well, it’s anybody’s guess. What did you think of her, Della?”

  “I think she’s doing all right,” Della Street said.

  “Judge Bolton is watching her like a hawk.”

  “I know he is. He watches every move she makes, and he’s leaning forward.”

  “And that,” Mason said, “is a good sign. If he had made up his mind to bind her over, he’d simply sit there in judicial impassivity, waiting for her to get done with her testimony and then he’d announce that since there seemed to be sufficient evidence to indicate a murder had been committed, and that there was reasonable ground to believe the defendant was the guilty person, he was going to bind her over.

  “You see, that mix-up on the ice picks has introduced a new note into the entire case. It means that he must consider that Mildred Crest is a deliberate, cold-blooded killer, if she did the things the prosecution claims she did.”

  “You mean purchasing those ice picks?” Della Street asked.

  Mason nodded.

  Della Street said, “I have a feeling that Judge Bolton believes me.”

  “I think he does, too,” Mason said. “Well, I’ll let Gertie know that we’re back from court.”

  Mason picked up his telephone and, when he heard the click on the line at the switchboard, said, “We’re back from court, Gertie. When you go home, fix the switchboard so outside calls come in on Della Street’s telephone, will you? We’re expecting—”

  Gertie’s voice interrupted him. She was so excited that she could hardly talk. “Just a minute! Please…. Hold on…. Just wait!” She hung up the telephone.

  Mason turned to Della Street, said, “Something’s got into Gertie. She’s really steamed up about something.”

  Gertie, the incurable romanticist, came bursting into the private office, her eyes wide. “Mr. Mason, he’s here!”

  “Who?” Mason asked.

  “He didn’t want to give his name,” Gertie went on. “He’s terribly distinguished-looking, long, wavy, dark hair, that sweeps back from a beautiful forehead. Delicate features, and—”

  “Who the devil are you talking about?” Mason interrupted.

  “The man in the case,” she said, in a hushed voice. “Forrester Baylor!”

  “The devil!” Mason exclaimed.

  “I don’t care what they say, Mr. Mason. I know that he loved her. He’s been living years during the past few days. The lines of suffering have etched character on his face, and—”

  “Get your mind back out of the clouds,” Mason said brusquely. “Send him in, Gertie, and don’t go home. Stick on the switchboard. If any newspaper reporters call, lie like a trooper.”

  Gertie whirled with a swirl of skirts, showing a flash of well-rounded, nylon-clad legs.

  “Well,” Della Street said, as Gertie rushed from the office. “The plot thickens.”

  A moment later, Gertie was back. “Mr. Mason, Mr. Baylor,” she said in a hushed voice.

  The man who moved slowly past Gertie was tall, straight-backed, slim-waisted, and looked as though he hadn’t slept for a week. The dark eyes seemed lackluster, although the face had breeding and character.

  “Mr. Mason,” he said in a low voice, and his long, strong fingers gripped the lawyer’s hand.

  “My confidential secretary, Miss Street,” Mason said.

  Forrester Baylor bowed.

  “All right,” Mason said, “sit down. Let’s straighten out a few things. Who told you to come here?”

  “No one.”

  “Who knows you’re here?”

  “No one.”

  “Your father?”

  Forrester Baylor shook his head. “My father forbade me to leave Lansing.”

  “Your sister?”

  “Kitty is a good egg. She’d help me out, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”

  “Where are you staying?” Mason asked. “At what hotel are you registered?”

  “I’m not registered anywhere as yet. I checked my bag in a locker at the airport and took a taxi to the depot. Then I took another taxi here. I didn’t want to be followed.”

  “You’re traveling under your own name?”

  “No, under an alias, and I’ve taken great pains to elude the newspaper reporters in Lansing.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to tell you what I’ve found out.”

  “What have you found out?”

  “That my father, doubtless with the best intentions in the world, was responsible for Fern’s leaving. He manipulated things quietly behind the scenes so that life in the employ of his company became unbearable for her.

  “I also want to tell you that Fern was a decent, straightforward, square-shooting girl. She wasn’t pregnant.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If she had been pregnant, she’d have told me. And she didn’t tell me. She … she wasn’t that kind.”

  Mason watched the man narrowly. “Sit down, Mr. Baylor. Make yourself comfortable. Unfortunately, it’s easy to get fooled about women.”

  “But I’m not fooled about Fern Driscoll. I … I realize now how very, very much I loved her.”

  “It’s a little late for that now.”

  “Mr. Mason, I want you to put my father on the stand.”

  “Why?”

  “I want certain things brought out. He’s the one who gave her four thousand dollars to leave Lansing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know because I didn’t give her that money. I know because I was getting ready to ask her to marry me, and my father knew it. My father bitterly disapproved of Fern, not as an individual, but purely because of what he felt was her lack of social position. She was a working girl, a secretary. Dad wanted me to marry an heiress.

  “My father came up the hard way. He had to work for everything he got. He has known poverty. He’s known snubs. And now he’s come to know snobs. In fact, he’s in a fair way to become one himself.

  “I was interested in Carla Addis. She’s clever, in a brittle, highly artificial sort of way. She’s a sophisticated product of modern wealth. I’ll admit there was a fascination there, a glitter and a glamor, and it was easy to be swept along. There were times when I didn’t know what I wanted. I was badly mixed up.

  “When Fern left, I suddenly realized what she meant to me. I tried to find her. I searched in vain. I thought she was still in Lansing somewhere. Then my father told me about her death, and about the autopsy and I was … I was crushed! I can’t believe it. I can’t bring myself to believe anything like that about Fern.”

  “Autopsies don’t lie,” Mason said.

  Baylor shook his head. “Things just don’t add up. However, that’s neither here nor there. It’s too late to do anything now. But I do want you to know that my father must have given her that four thousand dollars, and heaven knows what he told her in order to get her to leave.”

  “You don’t trust your father?”

  “I admire him. I’m fond of him. I love him as a father and, in a matter of this sort, I wouldn’t trust him for a minute.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to put my father on the witness stand. I want you to make him admit that he is responsible for Fern’s leaving.”

  “And what good would that do?”

  “It would establish a lot of things.”

  “It wouldn’t help my client,” Mason said. “But I’m glad you came in. I wish you’d called several days earlier. As far as that’s concerned, I wish—”

  He broke off as Paul Drake’s code knock sounded on the door.

  Mason hesitated a moment, then said to Della Street, “Let Paul Drake in.”

  Della opened the door.

  Mason said, “Mr. Drake, this is Forrester Baylor.”

  Paul Drake’s face promptly became a smiling, wooden mask. His eyes completely concealed any emotion.

  “How are you, Mr. Baylor? Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking hands, his manner that of one who had just met a person who means only a new face and a new name.