“Hogarty decided not to complain to the authorities. He made up his mind he would let Leeds think him dead, that then, after Leeds had grown careless, he would track him down, and force an accounting.

  “Leeds went to Seattle, met Emily Milicant, told her Hogarty was dead, and married her. He married her under the name of Hogarty. Then, in some way, Leeds found out Hogarty was on his trail, and ran away—vanished into thin air, leaving his wife behind him. The real Hogarty found the wife. There was an argument, of course, a period of hot words and accusations, then they made up. They lived together as man and wife for some time, then finally broke up, but remained good friends. She wanted to find Leeds. Hogarty wanted to find him and force an accounting. They finally discovered him. Leeds had again taken his real identity when he thought there was no further danger. That’s the way Hogarty told the story to Harold, the way Harold told it to me.”

  Mason turned to Harold Leeds. “Is that,” he asked, “the truth?”

  “That’s the truth,” Leeds said.

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? My hands were tied. Apparently, it was a matter between Hogarty and Uncle Alden. Hogarty said that Uncle Alden was willing to make out a settlement.”

  “And you went down to see Milicant or Hogarty or Conway, whatever you want to call him, the night of the murder?” Mason asked.

  “Yes,” Harold Leeds said, in a voice which was almost inaudible.

  “What time was it?”

  “Right after Uncle Alden left.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw Uncle Alden leave the Conway apartment and walk down the corridor to the elevator.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was coming down the stairs. The stairs are back toward the end of the corridor. I’d just reached the foot of the stairs when the door of the apartment opened, and Uncle Alden walked down the corridor to the elevator. He was moving very rapidly.”

  “You didn’t speak to him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He seemed—well, nervous and upset—and I couldn’t explain to him about Inez. I didn’t want him to know I was . . . there in the building.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “After he’d gone down in the elevator, I went to the Conway apartment.”

  “Knock on the door?” Mason asked.

  “The door was slightly ajar, an inch or so. I knocked on it. There was no answer. I pushed the door open, and called Conway’s name. He’d asked me never to call him Hogarty, and not to refer to him as Milicant while he was there in that apartment. There was still no answer. The apartment had been searched. Papers were scattered about. There were some empty dishes on the table. Evidently, two people had eaten a hurried dinner, and . . . ”

  “Why hurried?” Mason asked.

  “Because places weren’t set at the table. The plates were placed just as they’d been left, with the knives and forks dumped on the tray. There was a pot that had contained coffee on the tray and two saucers. The cups were dirty.”

  “The dishes weren’t piled up?” Mason asked.

  “No, left just as though people had eaten hurriedly and dropped the dishes back into place.”

  “And the knives and forks were on the tray?”

  “Yes.”

  “You evidently looked that over pretty carefully.”

  “I did. I wondered if Uncle Alden had been eating dinner with Conway because—well, I thought Uncle Alden had broken in and stolen those papers Milicant—Hogarty—had.”

  “You say there was a pot of coffee?”

  “The pot had contained coffee. You could smell it.”

  “There wasn’t any left?”

  “No, not a drop.”

  “Any food left?”

  “No. The plates were slick and clean.”

  “No bread, no butter?” Mason asked.

  “Nothing, just the bare plates.”

  “Go on from there,” Mason said.

  “Well, I looked around the apartment a little, and opened the bathroom door.”

  “It was closed?”

  “Yes, it was closed but not locked.”

  “What did you find?” Mason asked.

  “The body.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I stood right there with cold sweat breaking out all over me,” Leeds said, talking more rapidly now as he warmed to his story. “Then I realized what a sweet spot I was in. I’d messed around there altogether too much. So I took my silk handkerchief, polished off all the doorknobs I’d touched, and beat it.”

  “Did you leave the door open?”

  “No. I wanted to delay the discovery of the body as long as possible so we could clear out. I pulled the door shut. The spring lock clicked into place.”

  “How long was it after your uncle had left the apartment when you went in?”

  “Perhaps ten or fifteen seconds, just long enough for Uncle Alden to walk rapidly to the elevator and start down in the cage.”

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Not over two minutes.”

  “To whom have you told this?” Mason asked.

  “Not a living soul except Inez.”

  Mason glanced significantly at Paul Drake, then looked over to where Della Street, catching up with her fountain pen on the rapid-fire conversation, held her hand poised over the shorthand notebook.

  Inez Colton said, “So you see Harold’s position. He can’t help your client any, Mr. Mason, and his testimony would clinch the case against Alden Leeds.”

  “You think Alden Leeds did it?” Mason asked, staring steadily at Harold.

  “I don’t know,” the young man said. “I do know that Uncle Alden was raised in a hard school. If Hogarty’s claim was justified, I hope Uncle Alden would have done something about it. I like to think so, anyway. But if it wasn’t justified, and Hogarty was trying to hold him up, I . . . Well, I don’t know just where Uncle Alden would draw the line. I know one thing, I’d hate to have him on my trail. Any time you cross Uncle Alden, you have a fight on your hands. . . . I think Uncle Alden found him . . . No, I don’t know what happened.”

  Abruptly, Mason got to his feet. “Well,” he said, “that’s that.”

  “How about this subpoena?” Inez Colton asked.

  “Forget it,” Mason said. “As far as we’re concerned, it hasn’t been served. Tear it up.”

  Harold Leeds shot forth an impulsive hand. “That’s mighty white of you, Mr. Mason,” he said, “and you can rest assured that I’ll keep all of this under my hat.”

  “Sorry we broke in on you this way,” Mason said to Inez Colton. “Come on, folks. Let’s go.”

  Della Street closed her notebook, slipped it back into her purse. Drake glanced sidelong at Mason, then got to his feet without a word. Mason led the way out into the corridor. Inez Colton bid them goodnight and closed the door.

  As the three marched wordlessly down the corridor, the fat, blonde woman, who had stood in the doorway when Mason brought Harold Leeds back into the room, opened the door and stood staring, silent, expressionless, motionless. She was still standing there when the trio entered the automatic elevator.

  “Well,” Mason said, on the ride down, “I’ve played right into the D.A.’s hands. Apparently, Milicant really was Hogarty.”

  “I thought you knew he was,” Drake said.

  Mason twisted his lips into a lopsided grin. “I wanted the police to think that I thought he was,” he said. “Let’s get to a telephone where I can put through a long distance call.”

  “Want me any more?” Drake asked.

  Mason said, “No. Get to work and try to plug some of these other loopholes.”

  “Looks as though you’d bitten off a little more than you can chew, Perry,” Drake said, dropping a hand on the lawyer’s shoulder. “Take it easy this time. Remember this isn’t your funeral. If your client’s guilty, he’s guilty. Evidently he’s lied to you. Don’t throw yourself into the case and leave yourself wide open.”

  Mason said, “He isn’t guilty, Paul—at least not the way they claim.”

  Drake said, “Okay, Perry. I’ll take a taxi back to the office.”

  He walked over to the curb, gave a shrill whistle, and sprinted for the corner to stop a cruising cab.

  Della Street glanced at Perry Mason. “Well, Chief,” she said, “we seem to be taking it on the chin.”

  Mason said, “There’s a hotel in the next block, Della, with a switchboard and telephone booths. I think we can get a call through.”

  “Whom are you going to call, Chief?” she asked.

  “Emily Milicant,” he said. “There are some holes I want mended. . . . Evidently she knew there would be.”

  They walked to the hotel. Mason gave the switchboard operator his call and told her to rush it. “Mrs. J. B. Beems at the Border City Hotel, Yuma, Arizona.”

  They smoked a silent cigarette. Della Street’s hand moved over to grip Mason’s arm, a wordless pledge of loyalty. Then the telephone operator beckoned to Mason. “The hotel’s on the line,” she said, “but they have no such party registered.”

  “I’ll talk with whoever’s on the line,” Mason told her.

  “Okay,” she announced, snapping a key on the switchboard. “Booth three.”

  Mason entered the telephone booth, said, “Hello, is this the night clerk of the Border City Hotel?”

  “That’s right,” a man’s voice said.

  “I’m anxious to find out about Mrs. Beems.”

  “We have no one by that name registered here.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  Mason said, “I received a letter from her, stating that she was registered there under that name and would stay there until she heard from me. She’s heavy around the hips, thin in the face, with big, black eyes. She’s around fifty, although she could pass for forty-two or forty-three, medium height, with black hair, talks with a quick, nervous accent, and keeps her hands moving while she’s talking.”

  “She isn’t here,” the night clerk said. “This isn’t a large hotel. We only have three unescorted women, none of whom answer the description—and it happens we know something about all three. One of them has been here a year, one going on to three months, and the other two weeks.”

  Mason said, “Okay, thanks a lot. Sorry I bothered you,” and hung up. He crossed over to the switchboard operator, paid the toll charges, left her a dollar tip, and said, “Come on, Della. Let’s go.”

  Out on the street, she said, “Chief, what does it mean?”

  Mason, frowning, reaching in his pocket for a cigarette, offered no explanation.

  “Suppose the district attorney should get hold of Harold Leeds?” Della Street asked. “We found him, and why couldn’t the D.A. find him? After all, we’ve given them the lead by dragging Inez Colton into it.”

  Mason’s reply was an inarticulate grunt. He shoved his hands down deep into his trousers pockets, lowered his chin to his chest, and slowed his walk until it was a slow, even, regular pace. Della Street, accustomed to his moods, slowed her own steps and remained silent.

  Abruptly, Mason said, “Okay, Della. We stick in our stack of chips. If we hold the low hand, we’re wiped out.”

  “Chief, why mix yourself into it?” she asked. “After all, Leeds is just a client, just the same as any other client. If they can prove him guilty, it’s not your fault. He undoubtedly lied when he said he left Milicant alive. Apparently, Milicant really is Hogarty, and the sister’s given you a double cross. You’re certainly not called on to do any great amount of worrying. Let them come clean with you. Sit back and simply act as a lawyer, presenting a case.”

  Mason grinned. “I can’t,” he confessed.

  “Why not, Chief?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s the way I’m built. Come on, Della. We’re going to put in a call.”

  He took her elbow, piloted her into a drugstore, crossed to the public telephone, and dialed police headquarters. “Homicide Squad,” he said, and, after a moment, “Sergeant Holcomb, please. . . . Hello, Sergeant? Okay, here’s a hot tip for you. Harold Leeds, a nephew of Alden Leeds, was in Milicant’s apartment the night of the murder. He saw his uncle leave the apartment, and go down the hall to the elevator. He entered the apartment right after his uncle, and found Milicant dead. Inez Colton, his girl friend, knows all about it. She skipped out after the murder because she didn’t want to be involved. She’s living under the name of Helen Reid at the Ellery Arms Apartments. Harold Leeds is there now.”

  Sergeant Holcomb’s voice was excited. “You’re certain?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” Perry Mason said. “I know the whole business.”

  “Fine,” Sergeant Holcomb exclaimed. “If this tip proves on the up and up, you’ll get the thanks of the department. Who is this talking?”

  Mason said, “You know me well, Sergeant. I’m a short, fat guy with whiskers. I usually wear a long, red coat with a big black belt.”

  “I don’t place you,” Sergeant Holcomb said, his voice puzzled.

  Mason said, “Santa Claus, you damn fool,” and hung up.

  13

  THE LONG table ran the length of the visitors’ room in the county jail. On each side of this table, chairs were grouped. Dividing the table, running lengthwise along it, and from one end of the room to the other, stretched a meshed screen of heavy wire, extending from the ceiling to the floor. This screen was supported by steel frameworks which contained two doors. Access to the room was through a species of anteroom which was separated from the visitors’ room by iron bars. In this anteroom, two men were constantly on guard, a locker, containing riot guns and tear gas bombs, close at hand.

  Perry Mason entered the anteroom and presented a pass to the attendant. The attendant scrutinized it, stepped to the telephone, and said, “Send Alden Leeds up.” He stamped the pass with a rubber stamp, unlocked a steel door, ushered Mason into one side of the divided room, and locked the door behind the lawyer.

  Mason strolled over to one of the chairs, sat down, and lit a cigarette. At that time, there were no other visitors in the room. Morning sunlight, striking the barred windows at an angle, filtered weakly through to form oblong patches of barred shadow on the floor.

  When Mason’s cigarette was half consumed, a door at the far end of the room opened, and Alden Leeds stepped directly from the elevator into the visitors’ room. He saw Mason, nodded, and walked across the room to seat himself in a chair on the opposite side of the table and on the other side of the screen.

  Mason studied the other man’s face, a face which was within five feet of his own, separated by a table and a wire screen. It was possible, by leaning on the table, for a prisoner to get his lips within a few inches of the screen, possible for the lawyer on the other side of the screen, to place his ear within a corresponding distance.

  Mason, however, made no attempt to lean across the table. Lowering his voice so that it was inaudible to the deputies, who were busily engaged working with their books, Mason said, “Well, Leeds, in an hour court opens. In order to represent you, I ought to know where I stand.”

  Leeds sat quietly, with none of that nervous fidgeting which so frequently characterizes a prisoner. The morning sunlight showed the pouches under his eyes, the calipers which stretched from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth, the seamed skin which had been cracked in Arctic frosts, baked by tropical suns. His eyes were cool, steady, and cautious. “What,” he asked, “do you want?”

  “I want the truth.”

  Leeds said, “You have the truth.”

  Mason, hitching sideways in the chair, crossed his long legs in front of him, and said, “The way I figure it, you learned that Milicant and Conway were the same. You entered the apartment to find Milicant dead. You knew there was going to be hell to pay unless you could find the documents which you knew, by that time, Milicant had in his possession. You tried your best to find them, and finally had to give it up as a bad job.

  “It wasn’t a time when you were at your best. The thing had hit you right between the eyes. You knew what you were up against, and the knowledge didn’t help to steady you. When you realized you couldn’t find what you wanted, you became more frenzied in your search.”

  “Thanks,” Alden Leeds said.

  “For what?” Mason asked.

  “For not thinking that I killed him. I was afraid you would.”

  Mason said, “Your fingerprints are all over the place. A witness saw you leaving the apartment. He stepped into the apartment right after you’d left. He found evidences of a search and . . . ”

  “Where was John Milicant?” Leeds asked.

  “Apparently lying in the bathroom dead.”

  “This man didn’t look?”

  “No.”

  Leeds shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I’m not trying to tell you your business, Mason. You’re a lawyer. I’m not.”

  Mason said, “If you hadn’t lied to me at the start, I might have thought so, too. But I don’t think we can put that across with a jury now.”

  Leeds accepted the statement philosophically. “Too bad,” he observed.

  Mason nodded. “Isn’t it?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Mason said, “The warden up at San Quentin doesn’t care particularly about capital punishment. He carries out a death sentence when he has to, as part of his duties of office. He claims that new gas chamber is worse than the rope.”

  Leeds turned cold, frosty eyes on the lawyer. “Are you,” he asked, “by any chance trying to frighten me with the idea of death?”

  Mason, meeting his glance, said simply, “Yes.”

  “Don’t do it,” Leeds commented. “It won’t work.”

  Mason, watching the man’s calm face, let his own features soften into a smile. “I was afraid of that,” he admitted.

  After a moment, Leeds said, “All right. Let’s begin from there.”

  Mason said, “The way I figure it, Emily Milicant killed Hogarty. You were away from the cabin at the time. She must have dusted out in a panic. You tried to overtake her, and couldn’t. Then, you did the best you could to cover up evidences of what had happened and . . . ”